Page 22 of Priest and his Anarchist

you.”

When I don’t move, he turns to me. “Fine. How about this.” His hand disappears in his pocket before he pulls out a gold chain with some sort of round pendant attached. “You’ve got thirty minutes.” He pushes on a button before tossing it at me.

I catch it mid-air, my fingers opening to find the stopwatch, and judging by the ticking

vibration over my palm, I don’t have much time to examine it.

He glares out to the forest in front of him, pointedly ignoring me. “Twenty-eight

minutes.”

I snap it closed and do exactly what he says I should do.

Run.

Even when the smooth wood of the patio transforms into the driveway and the gravel gnaws at the soles of my feet, I don’t stop. With arms flinging back and forward and my dark hair flying around my shoulders in soft curls, I ignore the burn in my lungs and pick up the pace. Raindrops land on my nose and the harsh taste of metallic creeps up my throat, but I force myself through tree branches.

I stop, listening for something other than the sound of my pounding heart rattling in my chest.

A twig snaps and I spin around, the ends of my hair whipping my face. I relax when the crow that’s perched on a tree replicates the sound. Priest gave me nothing else to go on. Where am I running to?

I flip open the cover. Nineteen minutes. I have nineteen minutes to find a hiding spot.

What the hell does this even mean?

Something is pulled over my head and everything goes black.

I stop at the bottom of the steps that lead to the front door. “What was the point of that? What was your intention?”

Priest ignores me, continuing up. “You’re not ready to know if you have to ask.” He widens the door and gestures inside.

I could fight him, but he’d only enjoy it. After being placed in random parts of the forest and told to find my way out, I’m hungry, tired, and in need of a bath.

With mud caked beneath my nails and blood-stained knees, dirt falls from my clothes when I continue up the steps.

My shoulder barely brushes his chest when his hand lands on my chin. He peers down at me from above, the muscles in his face tight. Is he going to say something else? Maybe shove another sack over my head and force me to run around the place like a damn animal.

He releases my chin. “Follow me.”

I fight the urge to say “yes, rabbit,” and do as I’m told.

He continues up the stairs and down the hall. Passing the art once more, I take a closer look. Drawn by hand, angry strokes of gray and black tease a story within. One I want to get lost in.

He closes my bedroom door and stops directly outside my closet.

“What’s this?” I don’t know why I bother asking, it’s not like I can trust a single word he says. It doesn’t have to be a lie to be lied to. Sometimes, the lie is told in the silence of someone’s words. He doesn’t soften or take pity that I’m bleeding out on his floor. He doesn’t give me grace because I’m injured.

With a press of his hand against the wall, a handle-less door pops open. His shoulders stiffen. “The torment you wondered that lives inside of me.”

That same ice fills my veins when I take the first step, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

Five steps in, and darkness swallows us whole. Even without the allowance of sight, I know he’s behind me. I’d be able to feel the weight of his presence in every universe and lifetime, but it’s not because I’m scared of him. Regardless of his blatant hatred toward me, fear isn’t an emotion I’m familiar with.

My movements pause. “I can’t see.”

“What do you feel?” His heavy footsteps draw closer, and I tilt my head to the side to try to gauge the distance. Too close.

“I don’t know.” There’s no point lying. I gave up the will to lie the second I followed Bishop to the car a year ago.

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