"It really takes a lot -especially in our line of work- for me to feel alive, but you do that for me, Vivienne."
When psychically gifted Vivienne Salvatore is forced to flee to London from her home up north, she stumbles upon a "prestigious" agency...
CHAPTER EIGHT ~ hold your breath ~ vivienne salvatore
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I open my eyes to an endless void surrounding me, not a wall or ceiling in sight, only pure darkness. The ground has a thin layer of water resting on top of it, which reaches just below my ankles.
"Lockwood?" I call out into the darkness, my voice echoing over and over. "Hello?"
"Let go of me," a voice whispers, seemingly directly behind my head. I spin around in an instant, startled. Standing about ten metres away is the girl from the house, except now she looks real.
Alive.
She wears the same long sundress, yet it is no longer tattered and torn at the ends. Her face has colour; a natural rosy blush to her cheeks and a dark shade of pink on her plump lips. Her hair is a fiery orange, and rests in loose curls reaching down to her waist.
"Let go of me," she whispers weakly, yet I can still hear her as if she were stood directly at my side.
"Who are you?" I ask.
She doesn't answer. My eyes fall to the few pieces of furniture around her: an old fashioned sofa, a mannequin dressed in a long white dress, and a boxy TV, which suddenly switches on, playing static.
"Tell me how to help you," I say.
She remains still for a moment before she turns around and begins to walk away. The space around me flickers, as if her presence were the only thing holding it together. I chase after her.
"No!" I shout. "Wait—"
It's too late. A moment later, it feels as if I'm falling through the floor, then I'm suddenly laying on hard ground without feeling myself hit the ground. I go to move, and my entire body aches. I choke on smoke, struggling for air.
It was fortunate Mr and Mrs Hope hadn't been gardeners. They'd let the bushes behind the house grow large enough to somewhat cushion the fall. Still, I feel branches poking at my limbs, but I'd much prefer a few scratches to a broken neck.
"Where is she?" A distant voice shouts.
I manage to pull my heavy eyes open, and they sting at the exposure to the smoke. I squeeze them tightly shut, and I feel tears cling to my lashes. My lungs burn, and I'm struggling to breath. I pull myself out of the bush, my clothes catching on branches, ripping when I fall back to my knees.
