I shut my eyes again and force myself to focus on what is real—the soft brush of cotton sheets, the comforting scent of lavender, the soft snores of Olivia. I focus and concentrate and—
A broad, cold hand covers my mouth before I can scream, and the weight of an intruder’s enormous body presses me into the mattress. The roughness of his damp clothing scrapes against my exposed skin.
I am not imagining this.
I know I couldn’t have imagined this, just as I know with unerring certainty that for as long as I live—however short that time may be—I will never forget how this moment feels. Like I am being pinned down by night itself.
I thrash wildly, trying to get away, but the intruder holds me easily, and then, pressing his face into the curve of my neck, he inhales—a sharp intake of breath—like an animal scenting its prey. When he exhales, his hot, fetid breath crawls against my skin.
Instinctively I jerk back, but his body cages me in, and his scent overwhelms me—he smells like the damp underside of old leaves, earthy and a little sour from decay. Like hunger and wanting. But as close as he is to my face, I can’t make him out. The room has grown so dark, there isn’t enough light for me to see him.
Without warning, something warm and wet traces the length of my exposed neck with excruciating thoroughness. He’s licking me. Tasting me. Bile rises hot and acidic in my throat, and I understand I am not going to make it out of this untouched. I don’t know if I’m going to make it out at all.
Olivia whimpers nearby as another rasp in the same unfamiliar language comes from across the room—there must be at least two of them. But the darkness refracts the sound, and her panicked cries surround me, teasing me with my own helplessness.
And I am helpless. Even as I struggle to get away, my legs are being secured, and then my arms. In just a few seconds I’m trussed up. That hot breath crawls against my neck again, and I flinch, trying to pull away. But he doesn’t lick me this time. With a voice like cracked parchment, he lets out a low growl.
When his hand eases away from my mouth, I take a breath to scream for help, but he lets out another rattling growl that makes me swallow my scream. I don’t want to die. Not yet.
The dry rasp of another string of unfamiliar words grates along my skin as he says something to his partner, and then he hoists me up as easily as a rag doll, flopping me over his large, broad forearm.
When cool, damp air rushes against my bare legs, I know he’s climbing out the window and onto the rickety balcony, three stories up. A guttural moan sounds from somewhere close-by. But it’s not Olivia, and it’s not the intruder making that noise. The sound, desolate and defeated, is coming from me.
I force myself to take a breath, to calm down, but instead I inhale the musty scent of him, and my fear spikes again. I have to force myself to focus—I need to think. I will never get out of this alive if I can’t think, but for a long and terrifying moment, it’s all I can do to breathe.
Outside, the night isn’t as dark as the inky blackness that saturated the room. I can almost make out my attacker. He’s huge, which I already knew, and dressed all in black, but I still can’t quite see him. There’s something wrong with him, or maybe he’s drugged me somehow, because no matter how hard I try to focus on him, he remains fuzzy and indistinct.
Once we’re outside, the steady London drizzle begins to soak through my pajamas, and it’s not long before more than fear causes me to shake. But I force myself to hold perfectly still, to think. To plan.
It takes everything I have not to struggle too soon. I want to writhe, to try to get away, but I know I need to wait. Because I know that if he drops me now, I’ll fall three stories to the cracked and uneven sidewalk below.
As soon as he climbs down, I will fight.
No. As soon as we’re close enough to the ground that the fall won’t kill me, I’ll fight. I’ll do anything I can to get myself free. I will not let him take me.
The buzzing suddenly starts again—the same low, metallic scraping I heard earlier in the streets. The same sound that woke me from my dreams with strange memories of a place I don’t recall ever being. Then the wind kicks up, making my skin go colder and my hair whip at my face. And then, without any warning at all, and before I can do anything else, my attacker leaps, and the air rushes around me as we fall to the ground below.
Of course his brother demanded the boy return and tell the other soldiers the truth—that he was not yet of age. He must return home. But the boy refused, for he was sure that his brother was not the only one who was brave. Not the only one capable of a great adventure. And besides, the challenge of the feather was still heavy in his pocket.
He would not be seen as a coward again. . . .
Chapter 6