Page 54 of Blood Caged

“Hello?” I call out.

“May I come in?” he asks – as if I have a choice in the matter.

I push myself into a sitting position, smoothing a hand over my hair. “Sure,” I reply.

The locking mechanism makes a series of beeping sounds, and the door swings open. He stands on the threshold, looking awkward. He has one hand behind his back.

“Is something wrong?” I ask.

“No.” He shakes his head. “I was just…checking your files.” He walks into the room, still looking awkward.

“Yes?” I press, wondering where the hell he’s going with this.

“Well, I saw that it’s your birthday today, and I know that these things are important to your kind…” He’s speaking quickly. “So I brought you this.” He extracts a hand from behind his back and holds out a cupcake.

My mouth drops open. It’s jumbo-sized and covered in swirls of pink, frothy icing that’s sprinkled with some kind of glitter. I stare at it as if he’s just presented me with an alien artifact.

“It…” My lips are dry, so I lick them. “It’s my birthday?”

He nods. “Happy birthday, Mia.” His voice is soft.

I swallow hard. “Thanks,” I say past a lump in my throat. I don’t know how to respond.

“I’ll leave this here,” he says, setting the cake on the table by the wall. Without another word, he leaves the room.

I stare at the door after he shuts it behind him. I only realize that I’m crying when I feel the tickle of tears as they stream down my face and drip off my chin.

My birthday.

If it’s my birthday, that means I’ve been here for eight months.

Eight fucking months!

I choke out a sob, then sink back onto the bed and curl into a ball.

How? How did it happen? How did I let so much time go by without fighting to get out of here?

You got complacent, Mia.

I let the days blend into each other, morning and evening blurring by while I’ve done nothing.

Nothing!

Aside from letting my life pass me by.

I spring out of bed, my bare feet slapping against the floor. Fury burns through me, hot and searing. How could I have letthis happen? Eight months since they took me. Eight goddamn months I’ve been sitting here, playing nice, waiting for my captor to arrive like some lovesick teenager.

My eyes land on that ridiculous cupcake. Without thinking, I snatch it up and hurl it across the room. It explodes against the wall in a spray of pink frosting and crumbs. The satisfying splat does little to dull my anger.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I mutter, pacing back and forth. My gaze falls on the notepad on my bedside table. The one I’ve been using to scribble down verses about moonlight and shadows. As if I’m on some writer’s retreat instead of being held captive by bloodsucking monsters.

I grab the pad and flip to a blank page. My hand shakes as I start jotting down notes. No more flowery words or wistful musings. This is war, and it’s time I started acting like it.

I scribble furiously, my handwriting barely legible as ideas pour out of me. Coded messages, anything that might help me or the other witches trapped here. I’ll need to be careful, of course. Subtle. But there has to be a way to communicate, to organize, to fight back.

The garden. That’s where I’ll start. I can leave notes there, hidden in plain sight. A pebble placed just so, a leaf turned at a certain angle. Small things that won’t raise suspicion but might catch the eye of another witch. There must be a way I can gather enough magic to cast a tiny concealment spell or two.

My mind races with possibilities as I fill page after page. I’ve wasted so much time, but no more. I’m getting the hell out of here.

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