“I’m done with playing. Come on, you.” Chief Oliver dug his fingers into my arm, and I gasped, the pain reverberating through my body. He sunk a skeleton key into the lock, and my cuffs snapped open. I tried to squirm away, but his hands were over me immediately. He lifted me up easily and tossed my whole body over one shoulder as though I were a sack of potatoes. My ribs crunched against his shoulder, and I let out a pained, “Ooaf!” My forehead snapped against the chief’s spine, and in one fell swoop he tossed me, flat-backed, onto the table and clicked a new set of cuffs around my ankles. The breath left my body as he whipped off my sweatshirt, and before I could react, he clipped a new set of cuffs around my wrists.
I could hear my heart thundering in my ears, my blood hot and pulsing through my veins. My throat started to close, but I didn’t think I even had the will to cry anymore. My eyes were raw and painful. I glanced to the left, seeing the jeweled handle of the Sword of Bethesda on the table next to me.
The chief pulled off another velvet cloth, this one covering a small table lined with thick black candles and a large shallow metal bowl. A wave of nausea washed over me as I spotted two glass jars on the table as well—one containing a semi-fresh set of eyeballs, the second, the bloody remains of a human heart. My gag became a wail as I felt myself being jerked by the ankles off the table, my head thunking with each lurch of my body. The chief was hunkered on the other side of the table, turning a large crank. My body slid with each turn, and soon I was completely upside down, my red hair skimming the tabletop, my arms dangling over my head.
“Oliver, please!” Mr. Sampson said as I hung from my ankles. “Please don’t do this to Sophie.”
The chief’s eyes, now narrow slits, went to me and then to Mr. Sampson, chained and pleading in the corner.
“You don’t have to do this, Oliver, please. We can work something out.”
“Don’t worry, Pete. There’ll be time for you. Once our little half-breed here”—Chief Oliver poked my chest with his index finger—“is bled dry, you’ll be up.” He smiled jovially. “Of course you’ll be a dog by then. But not to worry; I’ve always been an animal lover.” He snatched up the sword he’d been fingering all night. “The Sword of Bethesda will make quick work of skinning you”—he frowned—“unfortunately. I was, in fact, hoping it’d be a little rougher for you. Oh well, can’t win everything.”
“This will never happen, Oliver,” Mr. Sampson snarled.
“Because of you darned kids? Get over it, Scooby Doo—it’s done.” He tapped the jar of eyeballs with the tip of the sword. “Things are already set in motion. Now—” Chief Oliver positioned the metal bowl just under my head and then softly poked my collarbone with the knife. His tongue darted over his lips, and he eyed me. “You ready for this?”
I started to tremble when the chief laid the cool blade against my jugular. I tried to angle away, but my body went leaden as I felt the pressure build against my skin. The chief eyed me and licked the edge of his tooth as he angled the tip of the sword against my vein. I saw the muscle in his arm flex, felt the cool, tingling prick of metal on skin—and then saw him frown. He used the tip of the sword to poke at me again, this time hard enough to send my body swinging.
“What the hell?” he muttered, staring at the blade. He poked the tip with his hand, pulled back when a velvety cap of blood surfaced on his index finger.
I swung from my ankles closer to the chief and his sword, and he reached out with it, this time poking me in the ribs.
I giggled freakishly, the cold blade tickling me.
The chief blinked, his caterpillar eyebrows crawling together. He looked at his sword and then up at me and then eyed Sampson.
“What is this?” he snarled.
Sampson sat back on his haunches. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I swung back once more, and again the chief poked the sword into my flesh. Again, it bounced off.
The chief stepped forward and in one fell swoop, sliced the blade over the top of Mr. Sampson’s head.
“Sampson!” I shrieked, watching a cascade of newly shorn dark hair flutter to the ground.
“Why won’t this work on her?” the chief asked, ignoring me.
Sampson shrugged, the tiniest smile playing on his curled lips. The chief held the blade to Sampson now, and I could see the chief’s knuckles pale as he pressed the blade hard into Sampson’s flesh, thin streams of blood rushing over the blade.
“It won’t work because the blade is charmed!” I yelled. “Leave him alone!”
The chief turned to me now. He looked at the blade and then at me. “It is charmed. And you are?”
I smiled weakly. “Unaffected by charmed objects. And most magics.”
The chief crossed his Snuggie-clad arms in front of his chest. “Well, I’ll be. That’s a new one.”
“So …” I said, my eyes scanning the chief’s table de horrors. “You might want to let me go. I’d probably mess up your whole little operation here. You know”—I tried to shrug—“since the magic won’t affect me, my blood is probably useless for you.”
The chief cocked his head. “Or that much more powerful. Magical immunity,” he mused, “I hadn’t thought of that. This is really my lucky day!”