Page 143 of Nemesis

“What a sight.” He touches my face. “You sit tight, Reese. I’ll be back when reality returns to you.”

The lights go out. The door shuts.

The dark holds me close, though, and even that is agonizing on my skin.

Slowly, my mind comes back to me.

The reality of my position—on my knees, with my wrists above my head—filter in. How long I’ve been like this, I couldn’t say. Time seems to have stopped moving entirely. I use the hook my wrists are locked on to stand, but as soon as I get a leg under me, my body fails.

I fall.

My wrists and shoulders catch me, and my joints scream.

I might let out a noise, too.

The door opens, and the man who took me appears. He’s silhouetted from the hall, and it takes a long moment for the light inside the room to flicker back to life.

“Your friend is going to rescue you,” he says. “But I need you to promise me something.”

I stare at him.

“We didn’t get to finish our talk. When I come back and revive you, you’ll tell me where you went. Promise me that.” His gaze hardens. “If you don’t, I’ll just leave you asleep forever. Your muscles will atrophy and your skin will wrinkle, all while you’re caught up in a mental cage…”

I lick my lips. There’s no saliva in my mouth—I can’t remember the last time I had water or food, don’t know how long I’ve actually been here—but I run through the motion all the same.

“I promise,” I mutter hoarsely.

He smiles.

“This shouldn’t hurt,” he adds. “But… if I’m wrong, please let me know.”

He brings the chair over and lays out a hard-shell case. Inside are glass bottles, capped syringes.

“A few injections to make it stick,” he says. “A paralytic, of course…”

That fear is back, but it’s not as potent. It’s like the drug he gave me earlier still lingers, even though I can think more clearly. It holds on to my muscles. I want to thrash and kick and fight, but I can’t seem to move.

I just stare at him.

“Why are you doing this?”

He sighs and rubs at his eyes. “We talked about this.”

“We did,” I agree. “But why me? Why?—”

“No more talking,” he interrupts. “This one might burn.”

He comes close and injects me. Straight into my neck. The liquid is cold. My heartbeat is slow, it has been steadily thumping since the initial rush wore off, but now it drops again. He watches me, and I watch him.

My anger—hot and bubbling—fizzles as dread takes over. I’m so cold, but it’s coming from the inside. Like he put straight iceinto my veins. And with the ice comes the freezing of my body. I try to move. To ball fists, to shift my weight. Even blinking, after a long moment of silence, becomes difficult.

It’s all I can do to keep my eyes open.

And then… well, is it better to watch him or close them?

“This cocktail was developed by a friend of mine,” he says, filling the next syringe. He taps at it, pushing the plunger until there’s no air left in it. A little spurt of liquid comes out and runs down the long, tapered needle. “It’s similar to how hospitals put patients into comas.”

Similar.

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