In a few minutes, my head clears a little, and I manage to sit up. The nausea worsens, a hot churn of pure nastiness deep in my gut. I bite the inside of my mouth, hard, and eventually the bile recedes. When I’m fairly confident I can stay upright without vomiting, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, swat the hanging fabric away from my face, and survey my surroundings.
The room is roughly oblong in shape, furnished with an eye for austere luxury that stands in stark contrast to the bare stone walls, the natural rock ceiling. It appears I’m in a cave, or a room made to look like one. Underfoot lies thick white carpeting. On either side of the bed are two plain white side tables. A chest of drawers and an armoire, both simple in style but with the subtle sheen and finish of expensive craftsmanship, sit opposite the bed. A full-length mirror leans against the rock wall to my left. To my right is a floor lamp, which provides the only light.
There are no windows and only one door, a solid slab of steel carved through the rock.
I stand, wobble like a newborn foal, and abruptly collapse back to the bed with a weak groan, my hand over my eyes to try to stop the room from spinning.
Soft, ghostly laughter fills the room. It comes from everywhere, all around me, a disembodied, supremely satisfied chuckle that echoes off the walls in waves before dying into silence.
S?ren.
He’s listening to me. Watching me. Of course. My reaction on waking to find myself this weak and disoriented would be too delicious for him to miss.
My shoulder throbs, but I can move my arm freely, and the odd angle it had has vanished. Dislocation, I surmise, fixed while I was deep in my drug-induced sleep.
I sit on the bed and wait.
To distract myself from any stray thoughts that could put me off the task at hand—thoughts of Connor, for instance, and what he’s doing right now—I start a list in my head. All the US presidents in alphabetical order by last name.
I’m up to Taft when the steel door slides quietly open to reveal a corridor beyond.
Holding on to a post for support, I stand. It’s risky business. The floor swims; the walls waver. When my head finally clears, I release the post and cross the room, careful as an old woman with brittle bones navigating a steep flight of stairs. At the edge of the corridor, I pause and look inside. It’s utterly black, black as midnight at the bottom of the ocean. Light from the room permeates only a few feet in. I see a few feet of floor, glossy as obsidian, and nothing more.
A twinge of panic sends my pulse into double-time.
You’ve come this far, Tabby. Nine years and not a single whiff of him, and now the bastard is within your sights. You can almost touch him. You can’t falter now.
I steel my nerves and step into the corridor. Instantly, the panel closes behind me. I’m engulfed in darkness.
Until I take another step forward.
When I do, blue lights blink on with a subtle electronic snick in the floor beneath my foot. I freeze, looking around. I’m in a tunnel about eight feet tall and six feet wide, stretching out perhaps one hundred feet in front of me. The walls and ceiling are the same bare rock as the room I woke up in. The only light is the blue glow beneath my left foot. I carefully take another step forward, and another square of light appears beneath my right foot.
“Pressure-sensitive LED lights,” I murmur admiringly. “Clever.”
“Thank you.” Clear and cultured, S?ren’s voice emanates through the walls.
Unnerved by the sound of his voice, I freeze. When I’m steady enough to speak, I say, “Let me guess. There are hidden cameras in here too.”
“The better to see you with, my dear.”
The laughter in his voice fans a spark of anger inside me. I pull myself to my full height, square my shoulders, lift my chin. “You’re not the big bad wolf in this fairy tale, S?ren. You’re the little bitch in the red cape who’s about to get eaten for dinner.”
Silence. Then, with distaste, “You know how much I dislike cursing.”
“Yes. Which is the reason I developed such a dedicated habit of it. I also remember how much you hate being mocked. You didn’t like it when I stabbed you either, did you?”
“Such bravado for a woman armed with nothing more than a vicious tongue.”
His voice is hard now. I’ve angered him.
Good. When he’s angry, he makes mistakes.
I move carefully down the tunnel. The LEDs flicker on and off under my feet as I walk, leaving a ghostly trail of light in my wake. “No armed guards to escort me? That’s quite the dangerous oversight, S?ren, considering the last time we saw each other I vowed to kill you. And I will, you know.”
“We’ll see.”
His voice has changed again. There’s a smugness to it that makes me uneasy, a secret in his tone. If S?ren has a secret, it doesn’t bode well for me.
At the end of the corridor, I encounter another steel door. There are no mechanics visible, no handle or keypad or optical scanner that might make it open.
So I say, “Open sesame.”
“Going with sarcasm, are we?”
“In my experience, it can crack almost anything.”
S?ren chuckles. “Say please.”