During our walk, they played games.
They’d trip me, then let my body pitch forward, only to yank me back before I smacked into the ground.
Their every word and move was meant to torment me.
To show me I had no control over anything.
They cupped me under my armpits and lifted me off the ground entirely. My feet no longer felt dirt. Instead, something cold and hard met my skin.
It had to be stone or concrete.
The vomit started to make its way back up, and I struggled to swallow it down.
I was being dragged straight into hell.
The Devil didn’t rule the underworld.
The Night Sons did.
The bitter taste of chemicals coated my mouth, numbing me like a drug and making me dizzy.
We took more steps.
Made more twists and turns.
They continued their taunting as they forced me forward, leading me down what felt like a set of narrow steps. Their hands stayed on my arms, but their assistance wasn’t out of concern for my safety.
It was all about control. Nothing more.
When my forehead slammed into what felt like a concrete wall, neither man apologized. They only laughed.
It grew colder with every step, and a draft swept through the fabric covering my head.
Somewhere ahead, a door creaked open.
The energy turned even more sinister. Colder. Suffocating.
Lights blurred through the cloth, just faintly, not bright enough for me to see anything clearly.
I grew lightheaded. Their voices echoed as they spoke, but I couldn’t make out their words.
When we stopped, I dramatically choked on the rag stuffed in my mouth, hoping it’d convince them to remove it. My tongue felt thick and swollen from whatever they’d soaked it in.
They shoved me down, my knees slamming into the cold floor as they forced me onto them. One man shoved my head forward. The other yanked the cloth from my head, and I blinked, adjusting my eyes to the sudden light. I winced when he ripped the tape off my mouth. I gagged, spitting the rag onto the floor and coughing from the chemical taste.
I looked around, seeing the man in the white mask in front of me.
No,Enzo.
“Welcome to the show, Blair,” he said smoothly. “You’re about to get an Oscar-worthy performance.” He waited a second, tilting his head, as if wanting to taunt me. “And guess who’s the star of the show?”
He stepped aside, moving out of my line of sight, and my blood turned cold.
I suddenly wished the chemically soaked rag had killed me.
Seven
Blair
