I sigh, folding in half with relief.
Leo hurriedly flips through the pages, and a slow smile stretches across his face. But only moments later, a frown turns down his lips, and he snaps the book closed.
“What is it?” I ask. “Is there something wrong?”
Leo casts a glance around. “Well, I suppose this place is as good as any.” He skirts around me, holding the Bible against his chest. “Lock them in separate rooms. Remove everything—I mean everything—from their rooms. I don’t want them doing anything stupid before the ceremony.”
Armando snags Bishop’s arm and tugs him forward. He stumbles along lazily, and I know if I could see his expression he’d be wearing that same casual/bored one I saw on him at the theater when he was tied to the chair. Jezebel, on the other hand, predictably kicks and fights against her captor, but doesn’t conjure any of the impressive magic that I know she’s capable of. I’m very tempted to tell her that she’s going to get us caught if she doesn’t amp up the acting job a few notches.
Other Priory minions shuffle in to remove the table, surgical tools, and trays, until it’s just me and the X-rays in the room. A very small part of me is relieved to see the sharp tools go, though a larger part knows it’s probably not because they plan to be really kind to us.
Leo pokes his head back inside. “Try to escape and I send a unit over to see your auntie.”
I stumble forward. “How long? When are you coming back?”
A wicked grin pulls up his marred cheek. “Just until you starve.”
The door slams shut with an echo of finality.
32
The first hour passes by quickly. Jezebel screams in the suite next door and Bishop yells for her to shut up from down the hall, which both occupies my thoughts and reassures me that they aren’t dead or worse. I wish I could discuss the plan with them, but Leo or one of his goons is probably stationed outside the door.
In the second hour, after their conflict peters out and the immediate fear of the Priory dissolves, the boredom sets in. I count the tiles on the wall until my eyes cross and I give up.
It’s not until it’s bordering on the twelfth hour that hunger gnaws at my insides, twisting and churning my stomach so that I’m doubled over in pain, wishing I’d eaten more than a few bites at the banquet. The thought that Bishop’s probably gnawing on a chicken leg he conjured makes me panic, and I cry until my throat is hot and my voice is harsh and raspy.
I don’t know how many hours have passed when I become acutely aware of my parched mouth, of my dry and cracked lips and racing heart. Water is the only thing I think about. I imagine chugging a cold glass filled with clinking ice cubes, and it’s so painful in my gut I have to pace the length of the room to distract myself. I know I’m panicking, that people have survived much longer stretches without food or water, but after so long without a word from Leo, I’m worried about just how long he plans to leave us here.
Finally, I give up and lie down on the cold concrete floor.
I think of Mom. I remember her easy smile as I entered the Black Cat after school. I remember her hiccupping laugh, her scent, the feel of her hug after a bad day. I remember her, and it makes the pain worse. In my mind, I ask her to help me. After more hours pass, it becomes painfully clear I’m not getting any beyond-the-grave assistance, and I give up on that too. My thoughts melt away and I stare into nothingness. Exhaustion pulls at my eyelids.
And then the hallucinations begin. They’re only tiny spots in my field of vision at first. Then the spots turn into colors—cherry-red, lime-green, ocean-blue—blooming and flashing in front of my eyes like a Technicolor kaleidoscope.
Metal clangs somewhere in the room. And then a voice. “They’re ready.”
Leo? Was that Leo?
“You sure?” an unfamiliar voice asks.
“Yes, I’m sure. Bring her to the car.”
The realization that it’s definitely Leo, and he definitely has plans for me, snaps me out of my hallucination and back into reality just as two meaty hands snag my arms and tug me to standing. Blood rushes from my head, and I nearly collapse but for the man who stabilizes me.
“The bag,” Leo says.
At the mention of the dreaded bag, I use my last ounce of energy to try to wriggle free, but it’s too late. The fabric whips over my eyes, blocking all the light like a blackout curtain.
“Tie her up,” Leo says.
I yelp as my arms are painfully twisted behind my back. To my surprise, I don’t feel rope against my skin, but barbed-wire needles of pain shoot up my arms at my slightest protest.