He drags me up a flight of stairs and down a corridor. The air is drier up here, and a fraction warmer, but after several hours in that cell, the cold has sunk so deep into my bones I’m not sure I’ll ever feel warm again.
I’m thrown into a large, airy room. Ancient floral wallpaper hangs in damp strips, echoes of a time when this would have been a ballroom, or perhaps a dining room.
When I make the mistake of looking up, I see black mold creeping across the ceiling. A dusty chandelier hangs from the center of a decorative ceiling rose, while a few rickety velvet chairs sit around a vast stone fireplace. Sadly, nobody has bothered to light a fire, and I’m not the onlyguestshivering.
There are several women in the room, some dressed in little more than undergarments. The ones wearing the least are blue with cold. Barely conscious. One girl crouches against a wall and stares at the floor with a blank expression.
Who the fuck are they and why are we all here?
While I stare in horror, someone shoves two more women through the door before locking it behind us. A tall brunette wearing a thin, sheer dress rubs her arms. There are tear tracks down her grubby cheeks, but she seems more alert than the rest of the women.
I walk over to her as she stares out through the only window not covered by a metal grille.
“Why are we here?” I keep my voice low, unsure of who’s listening.
“I know why I’m here,” she replies in a flat voice. “Not sure about you, girl.” From the way she cocks an eyebrow, she thinks I don’t belong here. I’m desperate for information, so I try again.
“Okay, so why are you here?”
Her shoulders sag. “My father sold me to pay a debt. The old bastard couldn’t stop sniffing the product. He had to give Monroe something or lose his life.”
“Monroe?” I frown. That name means nothing.
The woman huffs out a sigh. “Monroe. The man in charge of distribution up here.”
“Distribution?”
“Jesus fuck, are you thick, girl? Drugs!”
The words are loud enough to attract the attention of a petite girl nearby.
“Monroe is a cunt,” the younger woman hisses. “He had me on the game when I was fourteen. Now he reckons I’m too old.” Is she joking? She looks so young.
“Yeah, he’s a monster,” the brunette agrees. “But he’s Barrington’s right-hand man, so we’re fucked because he’s protected.”
Barrington. That name also means nothing. I scrub my eyes and pray for divine intervention. Nothing makes sense. I have no clue who any of these people are or why I’m here.
Since I’m getting nowhere with this line of questioning, I change tack.
“What’s going to happen next?” The women glance at each other as if debating how much to tell me.
“This is The Hunt.”
Well that doesn’t sound at all ominous.
“What are we hunting?” I’m not a fan of blood sports.
“We’re not hunting anything, girl. They’re hunting us.”
5
Chiara
Aman with a buzz cut and wearing head-to-toe camo gear strolls in with a box. He drops it on the floor, triggering a dust explosion that makes me cough.
“It’s time, ladies. You have five minutes to get dressed.”
Get dressed?
