Awake (Book 3)

Twenty-Four

"Don’t even try to use your freak mind thing, because you’re drugged. Heavily.”

            Awareness slowly seeped through the cracks as I blinked, gradually refocusing the world. The bulky outline of Rex became apparent almost immediately, and as I remembered the slew of events leading up to my capture, I groaned. There was August passed out on my bed, drunk. Him telling me some cryptic nonsense that I wanted to investigate further. And then Rex coming out of freaking nowhere, continuing the endless cycle of ambush and capture that constituted my life.

            Perfect.

            And to top it off, my head was bleeding.

            I was seated in some kind of horribly stiff chair, with my ankles and wrists bound. Rex solidified before me once my vision quit swimming and swirling around. His face portrayed strict neutrality. I had no idea where I was—some kind of depressing, greyish box—and the temperature was stifling. Sweat matted my hair and slicked my skin. My head throbbed.

            “The great escapist returns,” I drawled, wincing at the increased throbbing in my temples.

            Rex smirked. “Flattery will get you nowhere

            Struggling was useless, so I didn’t even try. “Where am I? The only reason I can conceive for you to capture me would be to kill me, and you haven’t done that yet, so I’ll be honest; I’m dumbfounded.”

            He scooted forward in the chair, and the grating sound against the linoleum flooring made my skin crawl. “We didn’t bring you here to kill you.”

            “Obviously.”

            “But we also don’t have to send you back in one piece, so watch it.”

            There was something different about the situation and his attitude. Something . . . off. I just couldn’t put my finger on what.

            Rex didn’t say anything after that, just kind of stared at me—or stared through me. There seemed to be a lot on his mind. In fact, looking at him, he appeared just as worn and torn as the rest of us. The fatigue in his eyes. The bags underneath them. The week-old beard sprouting over his chin. Signs of nothing good, because I knew those signs frighteningly well.

            “You’re going to do something for us,” Rex continued, folding his thick forearms over the back of the chair.

            I frowned, wishing I had the awareness to utter an effective, derisive snort. “Is that right?”

            “Yep.”

            “Why should I?”

            “Because I know torture,” he quipped. “And I know you know torture.”

            A chill raced down my spine, racked with memories of Lucille’s brutality. I knew more than torture. I knew inhumanity.

             “I had to escape, Ellie,” he said. “It wasn’t just me I was concerned about, either.”

            “Right. I forgot you love my demonic sister.” Drugs had an apparent tendency to make me exceedingly snippy.

            “I do love her. And she loves me.”

            Whatever you say.

            “Which is why we had to capture you.”