The More Things Change

Nine

I sat on smoothed concrete that had chilled my jeans and worked into my thighs. My arms were pulled back and locked behind me. Voices drifted from high above, muffled by a barrier overhead. The air was perfumed with melted wax and sandalwood incense. Soft light glowed behind my eyelids, tinting the darkness the slightest bit red. I breathed into a vast and hollow space filled by the stillness of controlled air. It was humid and cool around me, the sort that came from being cradled beneath the earth.

Plastic sweetness lingered on my tongue, like I'd drank juice from a melted bottle. My arms and legs were trapped together by something rough and wound in layers.

Where was I?

Only one way to know. That said, the last time I wasn't sure and woke up, it didn't leave the best impression. I'd rather keep my eyes shut and pretend it all away. Unfortunately, that wasn't a realistic option.

Hoping for the best, I cracked my eyelids until I could peek through the blurred darkness of my lashes. All I saw was a floor, dark and grey, interrupted by a smear of white. All lit by the steady gleam of candlelight. Focusing, I realized the smear is a line, two ninety-degree angles joined in a curling point. Not drawn with precision, but by hand. Opening my eyes a little further, I saw the gritty residue chalk had left behind.

Flexing my wrists caused the bindings to rub and scratch at my skin. Rope? My legs, slightly bent at the knees and stretched off to the side, were tied together.

So much for the best.

Smacking my tongue against the roof of my mouth, I'd hoped to rid myself of the taste clinging to the back of my throat. Didn't work. So I lifted my head just a little higher. The chalk lines went further out, forming other angles and geometric patterns. There were symbols drawn in the spaces between lines. Tall, fat candles, the sort that cost a couple of dollars at super-centers were arrayed along the outer dimeter of a circle. The candleflames stayed relatively still. A few bowls released a serpentine tendril of incense-scented smoke that twisted and curled towards the ceiling before dissolving into the air.

Given this was Mystic Falls, sitting in the middle of a mysterious occult circle couldn't be good.

Looking around, I saw a room of brick and concrete. No windows, only four walls of brick and mortar. Elsewhere stood exposed wooden pillars stretching up to floor joists. It was one of these two by four beams I was tied to. Some industrial sized shelves set along one wall held various boxes, all shut. Turning my head as far as I could off to the side revealed a staircase leading up to a soft glow.

I was in a basement.

Above me were voices drifting through the floor. The last thing I remembered was John grabbing me outside the Grill, but there wasn't near enough noise for this to be the restaurant's basement. John couldn't have taken me far. Not unless he managed to sneak me to his car.

The fine hairs all over my arms and neck raise at the thought.

Do I stand up, try to find a way out of the ropes on my chest and arms? Do I stay sitting and pretend to be asleep?

Before I had time to consider, footsteps thumped across the floor overhead. I had to decide now. Given the elaborate set up, I didn't think it'd matter if I was awake or asleep for them to do—whatever they intended. Better to try to find a way out, whether by escaping or talking.

Bending my legs under me, I pushed myself up. It was rough going as the rope tied around my chest, arms, and hands had little to no give. It took most of my strength, but I managed to worm my way up the post by the time feet stomped down creaking steps.

Angling my head to watch, I wasn't surprised when John appeared.

The woman he led shocked the hell out of me, though. "Sheila?"