102 - A Message Made From Bones

11

"Slayer."

That voice...

It rakes a claw down my eardrums and makes that spot on my temple throb harder, bringing me out of consciousness. When I reach to touch it, cold metal digs into my wrists, and there is a biting near my left elbow—tiny, like an insect.

I know before my eyes can open that I'm strapped to a heavy wood chair; that I have no major injuries—no big bite marks—but my body feels sluggish, and my lids feel heavier than hell. Not swollen, just... tired.

My boots shuffle on the floor, and chains clink and pull taut between my ankles. Three inches—I have three inches to work with. The chain is secured to the floorboard—one that I can rip out, given the leverage.

So, wrists and ankles tied. Nothing I haven't been in before.

I force my eyes open, wincing at the patch of bright yellow light on the wood floor: sunshine. The late afternoon sun, to be exact, judging by the heat on my back, the shade of it. From windows over my shoulder.

And in my left arm... My hoodie is gone, and there is a needle in my vein, a cord of crimson snaking to a nearly empty blood pack in a small cooler a few feet away. A full pint peeks out from the ice.

Too much—they've already taken too much.

I've been around enough blood to know I have ten minutes maximum—less if the alcohol was enough to thin it before I won't be strong enough to fight back. Not even with all my slayer-strength.

A snicker has me dragging my gaze from the cooler to meet the Doctor's morphed vamp mug. His slimy grin exposes wide, crooked fangs that make him look part-goblin, or even troll. My lips twitch downward, unable to stop the grimace pulling on my face.

He runs a finger up and down my dagger, the daylight glinting off its blade. Every flash pricks a small spot right behind my eyeballs.

The sunlight stops short of illuminating the center of the room; the Doctor has strategically positioned himself just outside its reach, leaning against the door frame. But it doesn't matter that I'm in a pool of sun when he now has vampires that can walk right through it.

The rest of the room appears hazy, not from smoke but possibly from a concussion I may have gotten from Triple H. It looks like a storage room; there are wood crates stacked along the walls to my left that I can smash into stakes—once I get free. And I will get free. The walls themselves, bathed in a bluish hue and draped in cobwebs, are bare and missing planks: More material I can splinter and use to my advantage.

The only thing about my hostage situation that feels pre-planned is the built-in cuffs on my chair's armrest; otherwise, the placement decision seems hasty. The eyelet on the ground that tethers the chain around my ankle appears freshly drilled in, judging by the rather fresh-looking sawdust around it that no one's bothered to sweep away to at least attempt to look prepared.

My pulse is so slow, so thick in my ears, even as my adrenaline begins to rise up. I force my breath to stay steady, my face a mask of stone behind my hair.

"Where'd you get that?" I ask, my voice void of concern and expertly filled with indifference. Taunt me with my weapon, jackass. We'll see who's laughing when it's severing your vertebrae.

The Doctor is silent long enough that he's purposely making me wait—a game I know well and will gladly play if it gets me information. I know not to expect the truth, but vampires are known to be stupidly haughty. If I'm patient, I may glean something useful.

The Doctor shrugs pridefully. "Pulled it out of Quinn before I drained him," he confesses, his eyes glittering with the thrill of the memory. Another slimy snicker whispers out of him. "That was a high."