* * *
I lay on the mattress, staring up at a crack on the cement ceiling. Roza’s words rattled around my brain. There was no possible way I could kill Wren. It was absurd.
Then again, when the needle was pressed against my own neck, would the survival instinct take over? Would my life necessitate the destruction of hers?
I rolled over on my side. It was almost nine at night and Wren was still writing, hunched over her laptop. We hadn’t really spoken since our brief escape. Chitra was feeding us nearly nothing. We were already starting to die.
Had Roza given the same offer to Wren? Had she told her how special she was, how she wanted Wren to be her protégée? And if so, how had Wren replied?
The offerings on the table: money, power, prestige. All the things that I’d wanted so badly for so long. Things that I’d tasted with Wren and her fabulous lifestyle but had never fully swallowed.
And neither had she, really. No book deal. No fiancé. She’d needed Roza and the retreat just as much as I had.
Tomorrow would be the end. Tomorrow, all would be revealed.
And as we headed into the last day of the retreat, I reminded myself that I still had two secrets from Roza.
One was the tiny vial of wolfsbane in my bra, waiting under my right breast.
And the other was the end of the story.
The ending was really my only leverage, even if I didn’t yet know how to use it. I lay on the futon, considering it, hovering between wakefulness and sleep. The ending glowed inside me, hidden like a small pearl. Sure, Roza could try to finish the novel herself. And she would, if it came to that. But it wouldn’t be the ending. The one that already existed, buried underneath the surface, regardless of whether it was uncovered.
Only I had access to that.
Excerpt from The Great Commission
Daphne crouched behind a rocking chair, trembling like a newborn lamb. Her matted hair stuck to her sweaty face and she pushed it impatiently to the side.
The attic was huge, stuffed with furniture, boxes, and piles. It would take a while for Abigail—rather, Lamia—to find her. But she would. Daphne clutched a glass pitcher in her left hand; it was the only heavy object she’d been able to find. Abigail had turned on the lights, but they were a few bare bulbs, few and far between.
“Come out, come out,” Abigail sang. “Daphne, why are you so afraid of me? Aren’t we friends?” She cackled, a horrifying sound.
Focus. Grace’s voice was fading in and out, and had been out for some time, but she suddenly came in sharp: You need to kill her.
And how do I do that, dear sister? Daphne gritted her teeth.
I don’t know, but you don’t have much time.
Daphne wanted to weep. How had she ended up in this nightmare?
Think of her weakness. Grace’s voice waned again. Where is she weak?
Lamia wasn’t weak. That was the problem. She was strong, too strong. She’d overpowered Daphne in her bed and it had terrified and pleasured her in equal measure.
Abigail was getting closer, her slow footsteps creaking against the wooden floor. Daphne cursed under her breath.
“He was the sacrifice.” Abigail’s voice was suddenly a low growl. “You are the Great Commission. Your body will be the doorway. Your blood will be the key. You will die but be reborn. My right hand. My lover. My daughter. I will teach you the new ways. You will die a mouse, but you will be reborn a god.”
The boxes in front of Daphne were suddenly swept away as if by a giant’s hand.
Daphne shrieked.
Lamia towered above her. Dried blood streaked her naked torso and breasts. She was too tall and Daphne realized she hovered nearly a foot off the floor.
Lamia’s eyes glittered, red like rubies. She grinned.
“Boo,” she said in Abigail’s sweet voice.
Chapter 38
“Wake up, babies!” Taylor’s voice cut through my sleep. I sat up slowly.
“Happy Last-Day-of-Retreat! You disgusting bitches get a special treat: a nice little bath.” Taylor set down a small water-filled tub in front of the door slot and pushed it through, following it with a handful of shampoos and soaps.
Chitra stood close behind, holding a second tray. Her skin was drawn and pale, almost gray. Her dark eyes were like pebbles at the bottom of a murky pond. She was utterly unrecognizable from the cheerful chef of a few weeks ago.
Taylor, on the other hand, glowed with good health. She wore her LET ME LIVE sweatshirt and had artfully mussed her cropped hair.
“Wash up,” she directed. “We’re all going to have dinner upstairs.”
My stomach growled, reminding me that we hadn’t been given any food all day. The clock on the floor said it was almost six. That morning, Taylor had shared via the speaker that Roza wanted us to wait to write the final scenes until that night. Maybe it was weakness from hunger, but Wren and I had managed to sleep through most of the day.
“Wash your hair near the drain,” Taylor now ordered. “Chitra’s going to bring down some more water for you to rinse with.”
I took my clothes off carefully, keeping the glass vial wrapped in my bra. It felt almost sexual to lather up my greasy hair. I shampooed twice, a third time. Wren and I soaped ourselves up without shame. Taylor pushed through more things in baskets: fluffy white towels and a fresh change of our clothes.
“Hurry up, ladies.” She snapped her fingers, scrolling through her phone. “We don’t have all day.”
Naked, I brought the fresh clothes towards the pile of dirty. Glancing back, I saw Taylor was still occupied. I hooked my bra and slipped the vial beneath my breast. Wren gently patted a white towel to her injured face, leaving traces of pink.
“No time for makeup or anything.” Taylor made a face. “But at least you guys don’t smell like shit anymore.” She tossed in one set of handcuffs. “Wren, you cuff Alex. Then come to the bars and I’ll cuff you.”
She ushered us out like sheep. And we were like sheep. I felt so weak—from lack of food, the constant fear, and now this fun surprise—that it was all I could do to keep upright. Moving through the kitchen and hall, smelling clean, wearing clothes, reminded me of the early days. When all that mattered was winning the contest. When Wren had been my biggest threat.
Taylor directed us to the dining room. There, a table had been opulently set for five. Roza waited at the head, sipping from a glass of wine. Her eyes lit up and she stood, radiant in her long oxblood gown. “Hello, my beautiful darlings!” She grinned. “You look better than you have in a long time.”
I wondered if Roza was in a good mood because this was almost over. Keeping people imprisoned must cause a lot of stress, even for her.
Taylor motioned for us to sit at the two furthest seats from Roza.
“No, dear.” Roza patted the seats near her. “Let the guests sit by me.”
With narrowed eyes, Taylor pulled out a chair for me, as Chitra did the same for Wren. We were close enough to Roza that I briefly imagined sinking my teeth into her bare arm.
Chitra poured red wine into our glasses. Since I was still handcuffed, Taylor held the glass to my lips, purposefully pouring too much. I almost choked.
“Careful.” Roza glared at Taylor. “And not too much. I need everyone clearheaded for our final game.”
Wren and I locked eyes. Was she fucking kidding? Hadn’t she tortured us enough?