60
Some Call it Paranoia,
But I Call it an
Evil Bitch Trying to Use
You as a Human Sacrifice
“Don’t say a fucking word,” Lia continues as she grabs me by the hair and starts dragging me up the tunnel. Pain—excruciating, overwhelming, maddening—explodes inside of me, and I clutch at my head, trying desperately to get some relief from the searing, tearing agony of being yanked around by my hair.
It doesn’t work, and for a second the pain is so sharp that I can’t even think. But it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Lia’s dragging me to my death. If I let her get me back into that room with the blood and the altar, I’m going to die—in what I’m pretty sure is the most awful, most gruesome manner possible.
So, to hell with her warning and to hell with staying silent. Sucking in a huge gulp of air, I let loose with the loudest, most hysterical-sounding scream I can manage while at the same time digging my nails into her hands hard enough to draw blood.
Lia curses and slams my head into the wall she’s been dragging me alongside. Which dazes my already not-functioning-so-great brain but doesn’t get me to shut up. Nothing is going to do that, I promise myself as I scream and scream and scream, even as I struggle to free my hair from her viselike grip.
Lia’s not having it, though, because this time she turns around and kicks me in the face. Not hard enough to fracture my jaw, but more than hard enough to have me reeling backward—which has the added benefit of shutting me up despite myself as everything around me starts to go black.
“Oh, no you don’t, you bitch,” Lia hisses at me. And this time when she hits me, it’s a sharp slap on my cheek. “You are not going back to sleep. The whole reason we’re in this mess right now is because I need you awake for this.”
That’s the best incentive I can think of to make myself pass out again. But unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to be in the cards, since the pain of being dragged along by my hair is definitely keeping me awake. I just hope if I survive this—or even if I don’t—that I’m not completely bald by the end.
We’re about halfway up the tunnel now, and Lia pauses. At first I think it’s to take a break—in the grand scheme of her vampire strength, I’m pretty sure I’m not making her strain much. But with her normally impeccable clothes ripped and her bloody hair matted to her face, she’s not looking so good right now. Which means, maybe she’s more hurt or worn out than I think.
The idea gives me hope, and I start to struggle again, but she’s got something else planned, because she’s definitely not resting. Instead, she tightens the hand in my hair until I stop moving, then she puts the other hand against one of the stones about halfway up the wall and pushes as hard as she can.
The wall shifts and groans, but eventually a whole section of it opens up, revealing a super secret passageway in this maze full of secret passageways.
It’s narrow and dark and there is nothing in the world I want less right now than to be in this stuffy, airless corridor with Lia. But as she drags me to my feet, her hand still fisted deep in my hair, it’s not like I have much of a choice. Especially when she shoves me inside first and then frog-marches me down this new alleyway.
We’re only a few steps in when the secret door closes behind us. As it slams shut, I have a moment of overwhelming anguish when I realize this is it. I’ve exhausted all of my options, and now I’m going to die here in this crazy labyrinth of tunnels, the victim of a vampire who has gone totally and completely around the bend.
And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.
The realization hits me hard, and for a moment it takes me to a place beyond despair and beyond hope. Because unless something changes fast, all I can do is pray that whatever’s coming is over quickly. Well, that and to make sure that I don’t give Lia the satisfaction of seeing me break down, no matter what she does to me.
I have a sick feeling that’s going to be next to impossible, but I’m still going to try. Because if I came all the way to Alaska to die, I want to do it on my terms, not hers.
And so, even as exhaustion sets in, I continue to put one foot in front of the other. Continue to walk closer and closer to the site of my own demise. And with each step, the hopelessness deep inside me turns to anger and the anger turns to rage. It fills up the emptiness, fills up the aching, until all that is left is a fire in the pit of my stomach. A white-hot flame that wants nothing more than it wants justice.