Page 140 of 10 Days to Surrender

“S-stop?—”

Dragan feigns shock. “But we’re just getting reacquainted!” He yanks her head back, exposing her throat. “Tell me,nevjesta—doyou still wake up screaming? Still check the locks a dozen times before bed? Do you dream of me, little one?”

She can only whimper.

Dragan presses closer, lips grazing her ear. “You should’ve stayed dead, Jasmine. At least then, you were interesting.”

Her knees buckle. The Serbian goons hold her upright like a doll.

My muscles coil, ready to spring. I’m almost there. Almost close enough. Almost. Almost…

Dragan pulls a knife from his belt. The blade catches storm light as he presses it to Jasmine’s jugular. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it quick.”

Her breath stops.

So does mine.

Now.

54

ARIEL

When did the walls start breathing?

The whole world shudders with inhales and exhales. Everything in it, living or not, sucks in a breath and releases it. Sucks in a breath and releases it.

It’s all hazy—the faces hovering over me, the stone beneath my back, the burning ache between my legs. My babies’ cries echo strangely, as if filtering through water.

“Ariel…Ari…”

Hands pin me down when I try to sit up. A hundred hands. A thousand hands. Soft hands. Gnarled hands.

One of those many, many hands holds a cup to my lips. I swat it away. Ceramic shatters.

“Ariel, you need to lie down. Your babies are okay. Everything is?—”

Nothing will stay still. My mother’s face melts like Dali clocks—chin dripping onto Gina’s shoulder, eyes floating in Lora’s coffee cup.

Am I dead?

I look into my mother’s arms. The twins aren’t crying anymore—they’re singing in Sasha’s voice, harmonizing. They have angelic voices.

“Ari! Ari! You can’t get up?—”

I leap up, fly up, levitate up from the pile of blankets. I’m weightless.

Am I dead?

A monster with too many faces—Lora’s, Gina’s, Zoya’s, Pavel’s, Marco’s, Mama’s—chases me. I run.

All around me, shadows rise from the floor as I run. They lengthen, stretch, become fingers reaching for me. Baba’s ringed fingers, Dragan’s scarred knuckles, Sasha’s tattooed palms. I run away from all of them.

The stairs spiral up into darkness like a serpent’s coiled spine. At the top, the cellar door yawns. Moonlight pours through its throat.

I fly up the stairs. My hand finds the cellar door. Or at least, it dreams it does.

The wood is solid beneath my palm. Or maybe it’s mist.

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