Blood and Fire (McClouds & Friends #8)(154)

She glanced up at the screen at the wrong moment and caught the come shot and the camera’s long look at the wet mess on her wadded panties. How absolutely disgusting. She had to clench her guts and concentrate to keep from tossing that miserable lunch they’d provided. She was going to need every last calorie. Not for a bid for freedom—she didn’t aim so high or presume so much. Just for a chance to change the cards on the table. To see if she could shake loose of doom for a minute or two. Even that would be a victory.

She’d been glad to have something to do with her hands while she tried not to watch that video montage. She’d found a manufacturer’s label on the mattress frame, peeled it off, and hunched in the corner, taking care to look defeated, terrified, and pathetic. In that position, she’d rolled the gummy adhesive off the back of the papere m into tiny, grayish globs of sticky rubber and attached them to the insides of the first joints of all her fingers. Sixteen little balls of goo.

When that was done, she hunched lower, shook her hair down over her face for that classic madwoman-in-the-attic look, working with the card full of red dots with extreme care. The drug would kill her, if Zoe spoke the truth. Lily had no reason to doubt her. Not about this.

It was hard. Her hands were clammy and stiff, and it was difficult to peel the spots off without touching the drugged adhesive side. She attached the protective paper side to the balls of rubber so that they clung, lightly, to her fingers, drug side out. No direct contact.

When that was done, she crossed her arms and dangled them off her knees in a loose, casual way that hopefully looked natural.

The door lock rattled. Terror exploded through her synapses, jagged and stuttering like paparazzi flashbulbs. This was it.

The door swung open. It was Melanie. She had a strange, bugged-out look in her eyes, a misty glow, as if she were high.

Lily’s brain was in lock mode. Her stomach lurched, a speed elevator plummeting to hell.

“Get up,” Melanie ordered.

Instinct took over. Lily hunched, hiding her face against her knees. A pitiful, huddled ball. Helpless. Destroyed. Poor me.

“I said to get up!” Melanie’s voice cracked like a whip, but Lily just wailed incoherently and rocked, curling tighter.

The woman made an impatient sound. “Oh, for God’s sake.” Her sneakers squeaked as she strode over to Lily, grabbing a handful of hair at the nape of Lily’s neck. She jerked it up, brutally hard. Lily let out a high-pitched yelp, flopped, kicked as Melanie lifted her—

And grabbed both of Melanie’s wrists. Held on, hard. Squeezing.

Time froze, and in that eternal instant, Lily felt the woman’s shocked realization through the hand that was wound into her hair. A split second of disbelief, and then a tremor, but her grip did not loosen. Lily pulled against it, gritting her teeth against the pain, to look up into Melanie’s face.

Melanie’s jaw sagged. Her hand in Lily’s hair tightened into an unrelenting claw. Her eyes bugged. Her mouth began to work, her tongue to protrude. Her face turned purplish. Lily let go of the woman’s arms, tried to unwind Melanie’s fingers from her hair. Little red dots were stuck all over Melanie’s wrists. She did not attempt to remove them.

She toppled. Lily’s weight tugged her to the side. She thudded to the ground, jerking Lily down by the hair, and oh shit, that hurt ...

Melanie began to twitch, convulse.

Lily struggled to loosen the woman’s fingers from her hair, but it was a literal death grip. She pulled free with a muffled shriek, leaving a generous handful of hair still wound around Melanie’s clenched fist.

Melanie was jittering, jerking. Foamy pink saliva came from her mouth, twin streams of blood from her nose. Her feet drummed the floor. Her eyes were frozen wide, spotted with red.

Lily struggled to her feet, staring at the woman for about ten blank, completely stupid seconds before her brain jolted into action. They were both wearing jeans. She could buy some time.

She dragged Melanie into the corner, propping her where she had been sitting. The woman had lost control of her bladder. Blood poured out of her ears. Jesus, how horrible.

The shoes. Melanie had shoes. Her fingers shook so hard, it was almost impossible to unknot the laces of Melanie’s high-top sneakers and pry them off her feet. She fell back on to her ass as the second one came off and prayed that no one was watching as she tried to tug them onto her own feet. She left them unlaced, rummaged feverishly through Melanie’s pockets. She found a cell phone, which she slid across the floor to the far side of the room. A bunch of keys, yes. A utilitarian knife attached, excellent. Too good to be true.

It took endless, fumbling minutes at the door to find the right key. She tumbled out into the corridor, looked up and down the deserted hallway. It was eerie. Dusty and mildewy, like a grandma’s attic. No one in sight. No alarms. No voices. No footsteps. She darted toward a glow of light and came to a wide open space where the corridor became a balcony with a curving double staircase leading down to a great hall with a domed ceiling that towered two stories above her head.

And below, an enormous door, with greenery beyond it, glowing through the window glass. Freedom. She stared at it. She could run, like a rabbit. She might even break free.

But what about Bruno? She knew he was here. She’d heard King’s orders. He could be behind any one of these doors. He’d come here freely, letting himself be captured to keep them from hurting her.