Page 22 of Whispers of the Dead

He stops beside me. I can’t feel the weight of his gaze like a physical thing. Then my pulse slams against my ribs when I hear the voice I’d rather die than hear again purr through the room.

“Still as pretty as I remember.”

Eugene’s hand brushes my cheek in a featherlight touch that feels like a brand. My stomach twists with a violenceI’ve never felt. Every muscle screaming for me to jerk away, but I don’t. No matter how much my skin crawls.

I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood in my effort to remain still. There’s a sharp knock at the door and Eugene mutters a curse before stepping away. “What now?”

The door opens and shuts, and then there’s silence. My eyes snap open and I let out a shaky breath when I see I’m alone.

My gaze darts around the room. It’s small and dimly lit, with shelves lining the walls. A single door leads out into the hall. No window.

This is my chance. I slide off the table and move fast. I creep to the door and crack it open. When the coast is clear, I bolt down the hall at full speed, but I’m not fast enough. A door swings open ahead, and I duck into a random room.

The sharp scent of burned coffee fills my nose. I’m in a kitchen. My gaze lands on a knife block on the counter in the corner next to the fridge, exactly as Damon described.

I sprint for it, grab a knife, and grip it tight. The knife is one of the smaller ones. The metal glints faintly in the dim fluorescent light, and I consider grabbing a larger one. Before I can, footsteps pound out in the hall, and I press myself against the counter. Panic flares. I could attack and end this once and for all. The thought is intriguing until three more voices join in. There are too many of them. I whip my head around in search of a place to hide. The pantry is missing its door. The cabinets are too small. Shit.

My eyes land on the industrial-sized fridge and I don’t give it a second thought before shoving myself inside.

This space is cramped, freezing, and I’m definitely sitting in someone’s leftover tuna salad that I’m positive has gone bad. I can tell that from the smell alone. Rotter stench might be preferable to this. I shift, and my left elbow smashed into a half-eaten cake. Are there not any food storage containersin the apocalypse? I’m sure I’ve seen some around. This is ridiculous.

The voices draw near, and I hold my breath. I can’t make out what they’re saying, not until one of them yanks the fridge door open and I freeze. Before he can look inside and see me, someone interrupts him, and he glances behind him at whoever is speaking.

“The girl’s gone.”

“How?” the dreg standing in front of me snaps.

“I don’t know, but she couldn’t have gone far.”

The dreg holding the door open sighs. “Damn it, I just wanted a sandwich.” Then he slams it shut, sealing me in the darkness.

The voices grow faint as they scatter, and I’m alone once again. Not for long, though. Now they’re all looking for me, and I can’t stay inside this refrigerator forever. My fingers tremble against the cold metal shelves.

I wait another ten agonizing seconds before pushing the door open. I tumble onto the floor, covered in leftovers. Gross. They really need to scavenge some proper containers. They’re all menaces.

After tucking the small knife into my bra where the sharp edge presses uncomfortably against my skin, I grab a second knife from the block. It’s larger and sharper. Now this one I can succeed with. The floorboards creak behind me and I whirl around.

The dreg with the busted lip stands in front of me. His sneer stretches wide, all the way to his eye that’s a really pretty shade of dark purple now. “Well, well,” he drawls. “Looks like the little mouse found herself a toy.”

My grip tightens on the knife, my breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. “Stay back,” I warn, my voice trembling despite my best efforts.

He takes another step forward, his smirk widening. “Or what? You gonna use that? Go ahead.”

I don’t wait for him to get closer. With a burst of adrenaline, I swing the knife toward him, aiming for his arm, but he’s faster than I expect. He grabs my wrist and twists hard enough to make me cry out. The knife clatters to the floor. I stumble back, clutching my wrist.

His laugh is low and cruel when he picks up the knife. He twirls it lazily in his hand. “Nice try, sweetheart. You’re gonna have to do better than that.”

My mind races. I glance around and search for a way out, but he’s blocking the only exit. I’m trying to think of a way to get around him when a second dreg enters the kitchen and his voice cuts through the tension. “We found her,” he calls out into the hallway before turning to the busted lip man. He smacks him on the back of the head. “Eugene wants her unharmed, you idiot. Back off.”

The busted-lip dreg glares at me. His sneer falters for a moment. He spits on the floor, then shoves the knife into his belt. “You’re lucky.”

Then he pulls out a needle, lunges forward, and stabs it into the side of my neck. The room blurs and then darkness swallows me whole.

The first thingI notice is the pounding in my head. It’s a deep, throbbing ache that pulses behind my eyes.

The second is how heavy my limbs feel, like they’ve been filled with lead. A hoarse and dry groan slips from my lips and I blink against the dim light. My vision swims with gray shadows and distorted shapes.

A voice cuts through the fog. It’s low, smooth, and unnervingly amused. “You’re awake. Good.”

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