I decide to toss her across the room just to be safe, but when I slip my hands inside her coat she takes a sharp, startled breath and nearly stumbles. I grab her on instinct, holding her steady without thinking, but I’m thrown by the feel of her—a waist so small it seems almost dangerous. I study her face, my eyes narrowing in confusion, and she stares back at me with a flare of emotion so intense I swear to God I feel it in my chest.
“You smell like apple,” she whispers, and I’m actually about to smile when she slits my throat.
I see the flash of metal, but the blade moves fast and the pain doesn’t hit me until she’s backed away. I lift a hand to the wound as my vision deteriorates, blood seeping against my fingers just as I realize I can’t speak.
Motherfucker.
She’s cut my trachea, too.
Doll Hands has clearly done this before, and done it well. I sway slightly, making a strangled sound as I land badly on my knees. She looms over me, watching, expressionless.
As if from outer space I hear her say, “He’s ready for organ extraction,” just as I slump to the floor.
She swipes the gummy wrapper from my pocket before she disappears.
James
Chapter 4
Sounds bleed in and out: a smear of voices, the clangor of metal.Pain.Light flares in electric bursts behind my eyes. I feel hands on my body, cold steel, my thoughts slurring. A blind assessment of the situation seems to indicate that I’m lying on a gurney, being wheeled down what I can only assume is a hallway. I have to hold on to my mind, force it to focus before I pass out, because if I pass out I won’t wake up until my throat’s healed, which means I might wake up right as they’re cutting the kidneys out of my body.
Or worse.
It’s not common knowledge that I have healing powers, but it’s not exactly a secret, either. The Reestablishment must’ve really gone to shit out here if they’re this bad at their jobs. You’d think one of the most technologically advanced fascist regimes in history would’ve done a little digging on its prisoners. You’d think they would’ve known that they couldn’t just slit my throat and toss me on a gurney in the bowels of some top-secret location on a top-secret island without serious consequences. You’d think they would’ve bound my hands and legs before releasing me from my cell, that they might’ve given me some kind of tranquilizer or at least sealed my eyes shut—
Yeah. Never mind. Now that I think of it, no way they’re that stupid. This is more likely some kind of a trap.
Time to pivot.
Luckily, my head is beginning to clear. My breathing has begun to stabilize. A sentence I never thought I’d think: I’m grateful for the mess of blood all down my throat, because it’s hiding the fact that my wound is healing.
I slit my eyes open.
Doll Hands is a blur beside me, but there seems to be someone else, too. My hearing is improving, my heart rate picking up.
“—was hoping to get home in time for dinner,” some guy says, then laughs. “I guess I should’ve known better. All of them back-to-back, huh? I’ll be working through the night processing your new dump of bodies.”
Wow, great.
Doll Hands is a serial killer. My pants were getting tight over a serial killer. Kenji is going to love this.
“Did I tell you my wife is making lasagna?” The guy laughs again, but now he sounds nervous.
Can’t blame him. Serial killers tend to make people nervous.
“She makes great lasagna,” he’s saying. “Actually, she’s good at everything. I mean, I always knew she was talented, but man, every day she surprises me. Oh, and we just got our wedding photos back—”
Without warning we crash into something, and my head lifts, then slams back onto the steel gurney so hard I nearly wince.Silently, I revisit every foul word I’ve ever known.
“Whoops, didn’t see that wall there!” More panicked, high-pitched laughter from the guy, then the shuddering sound of wheels, the vibration of metal, and we’re on the move again. I have to be careful not to lift my chest as I inhale, but I’m feeling strength return to my body, which means it’s about time to make a move.
“You know,” says the nervous guy, “you don’t have to come with me all this way—”
“Yes, Jeff, I do,” she says softly. “Soledad’s orders.”
Something stirs in my chest when she speaks, and mentally I punch myself in the crotch. Her voice is silky smooth—the voice of a sociopath or a siren—and I’m worried Jeff and I might piss our pants if she keeps talking.
“Oh,” he says. “I—I didn’t realize.”
