"Road Runner," Eli mutters from the back seat, and I remember that weird shift in conversation during their English lesson. Wile E. Coyote was the one chasing Road Runner.
"I could be misinterpreting. It could be nothing," Atty argues.
"Or it could besomething."
I pull the passport from Atticus's fingers and throw up my hood, turning away from the road. If I only have forty-eight hours, I won't waste them.
63
THIS IS WHERE IT HAPPENED
AURORA
Everything hurts.
There's a stiffness in my limbs that's borderline paralytic and my shoulder aches with every echoing thud of my pulse.
The discomfort grows sharper as I wake, rooting me into a new reality that smells like cold stone and something musty and feels hard beneath my body.
My eyes burn when they open, crossing and blurring as they slowly discern the rectangle of light high above me.
The sun shines through it, bathing the space in an ivory glow that should bring warmth into the room, but there's only an icy chill where my body lies against a marble floor.
It takes longer than it should to bring awareness into my fingertips, then arms, then torso, and I groan as I force myself over onto one side.
I grimace when the movement sends a jolt of pain through my shoulder and head, but don't stop. My arm shakes when I press into my palm, pushing myself to check my surroundings.
Where the hell am I?
I remember being dragged into a vehicle by the fucker, Coyote. My forehead stings, and I prod the wound there withcautious fingers, finding it crusted over with a layer of dried blood, still swollen and tender.
My stomach lurches, but there's nothing to bring up when I gag, and I remember something else.
A boat?
I couldn't be sure because there were no windows in the close space where they stuffed me, but that rocking, heaving sensation…
My throat bobs. I was sick a lot. I do remember that. I was sick until I lost consciousness again.
And now I'm here.
Wherever the fuckhereis.
I clench my teeth as I work to get my stiff legs under me and stagger up to my feet, holding my fucked shoulder to stop it from aching so badly.
There's a bed, I notice.
A big one with a wooden canopy.
Next to it is a Persian rug. An empty nightstand.
The rest of the room is massive, with its walls rounded on one side and its ceiling domed so that the single skylight is enough to light the entire space—even without a single window on any of its walls.
There are two doors. One open, wooden. The other metal and shut.
It's somehow familiar even though I'm so certain I've never been here before.
The sense of familiarity crawl under my skin like something alive.
