Page 44 of Striker

Cora.

My stomach drops. Did I hear Cora screaming? I swing my feet over the edge of the bed and grab my sweater, slipping it on over my silky nightgown as I walk to the window.

Wind howls outside, rattling the panes of glass. The moonlight casts a haunting glow on the ocean below the cliffs, illuminating the crashing waves along the shoreline. The distant scream cuts through the night again and my blood chills.

Without thinking, I run to the open door and cross the hall to peer out the window overlooking the gardens. Other than the empty planters and spindly trees, the garden is empty.

The scream rips through the night again, but this time, it’s cut off.

Gathering my sweater around me, I run back to my room to grab my boots before heading for the stairs, but remember, as my foot hits the top step, to be quiet. Moonlight slants across the stairwell from the row of windows that wind down the stairs, turning the cracked and peeling walls ice blue. I creep down, thewooden steps creaking under my weight, trying to control my breathing.

Did they let her out?

Images flood my mind, my overactive brain flooding with terrible scenarios: Cora trying to escape, running and getting lost or worse, hurt by a wild animal. Striker warned me there are dangerous animals out there. What if she’s hurt and screaming for help?

I don’t know where the men are, or where they spend their time in this giant mansion. Most of the house is blocked off, doors locked, so I don’t know what lies beyond the library and the few rooms where they’ve let me roam. And since I can’t go outside, I don’t know what lies beyond the library and the few rooms where they’ve let me roam.

Halfway down the stairs, I freeze, terror gripping my lungs. Silvery moonlight spills through the opaque leaded glass windows framing wither side of the front door, which stands wide open, like someone left in a hurry.

Or fled in fear.

I rush forward and stumble through the door, the frigid night air nearly sucking the breath from my lungs. The cliffs are to my right, a long dirt road a slash of white along the cliffs edge. In the center of the large circular drive sits a broken fountain and beyond that lies the gray tree line below a dark, star studded sky. My toes curl in my boots and I bite my lip, debating.

It may not be her.

Another distant scream breaks through the night like splinters of glass. My fingers curl into my sweater. I cast a look over my shoulder, to the dark, empty foyer, then break into a run.

Every step takes me further from the mansion, Striker’s threat echoing in my head. But then the scream slices throughthe cold air and I pick up the pace, my boots hitting the earth, barely audible on the soft grass.

By the time I reach the tree line, I’m panting, panic scratching at my insides, making each breath scrape in my throat. My step falters and I stop at the edge of the dark woods, pressing my hand to a thick tree trunk, my breaths bursting out in white puffs in the cold night air. Now that I’m here, I hesitate, common sense returning with each ragged lungful. I have no flashlight. No weapon. I don’t even know if it’s Cora.

What if this is part of some game and they’re luring me out here?

The scream cuts through the woods, sending a sliver of terror down my spine. Without even the slightest hesitation, I bolt past the tree line and run toward the sound, using the bright moonlight filtering through the skeletal tree limbs to dodge roots and sticks.

The shrill scream seems to travel further and further away the deeper I get into the woods, moving from my left to my right. It rings out again, this time even farther away.

It’s not her. It can’t be her.

Freezing, I glance around, realizing I have no idea which direction I came from. I think I went straight, but every time the sound shifted, I changed my path slightly and now I’m turned around. I glance up to the moon, trying to determine east from west, but everything I learned in Girl Scouts flees my brain.

“Fuck,” I hiss.

Instead of being murdered by four men in masks for leaving the house, I’m going to die of fucking exposure.

“Delilah!” The distant, terrifying sound of my name being called sends dread up my spine and I stumble forward, catching myself on the exposed roots of a massive tree.

Oh god.

My knees hit the dirt.

“Deli-lah!” he yells again, this time closer, his voice slicing through the night as dangerous as a switchblade.

They know I left the house. They know I disobeyed.

Striker’s threat rings in my head again and terror creeps up my throat.

Scrambling backward to a large tree, I kneel between thick, twisted roots, my breath catching in dread, snagging in my throat.

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