“What the fuck?” I blurt, sitting up suddenly and feeling an icy chill take over me. My first thought is that this is a dream because, like, what the actual hell? The night is pitch-black and freezing-cold, so cold that my skin is pebbled with goose bumps and my teeth are already chattering.
As I scan my surroundings, I try to figure out if this is a dream or … not. A quick pinch on my arm hurts like hell, and when I close my eyes and try to will myself awake, nothing happens. Opening them again, I force myself to my feet, staggering slightly and cursing as pine needles and small rocks dig into my bare feet.
My first reaction is to assume that the boys dragged me out here. How they managed to move me from my bed into the woods without waking me is a mystery for another day. But really, what else could this be but a prank?
“Alright, you got me,” I mumble, brushing leaves and pine needles from my ass. “Really funny, I’m highly amused.” I stand up straight, the wind digging cool fingers into my hair and tousling it around my face. The night is as black as they come, an ebony jewel stretched across the sky and dotted with the faintest twinkling diamonds, as if the stars are smiling at me.
Only, if they are, it feels like an endless sea of mocking smiles. Something doesn’t feel right out here. The hair on the back of my neck stands straight up as I wrap my arms around myself and squeeze tight. Just like that night after the party when I thought I heard someone creeping around outside the gate, I get that same feeling now.
“Probably just reporters,” I murmur aloud, just to keep the night from seeming too cold, too empty. I’m not panicked, but maybe I should be? I fell asleep in my bed and woke up outside. Even if the boys concocted this scheme, I should probably still freak out, right? How messed up would that be? “You can come out now; I’m ready to go home.”
I make my voice as firm as possible, a feat not easily accomplished with chattering teeth and absolutely zero sense of direction. I could get lost inside a cardboard box. My grandmother always said it was because I was a dreamer, just like her, just like her mother. Except none of that is true, is it? I guess if I am a dreamer, it must’ve come from Tess or from the mystery father she won’t tell me a damn thing about.
“Guys, fucking seriously? I’m not with this shit. I won’t tell Tess, but I want to go home now.”
When nothing happens, I roll my eyes and start walking. Frankly, every direction looks the same to me, but I figure if I walk far enough, Chasm and Parrish will appear and call out to me. They’re brats, no doubt about that, but they aren’t total monsters.
Ten minutes later, I still see nothing but trees and shadows, and I hear nothing but for the gentle rustle of pine needles and leaves above my head. Every once in a while, there’s the sound of something scurrying through the underbrush, but this is Seattle, right? Not the middle of a South American rainforest. Mice, squirrels, opossums, and raccoons are pretty much the only animals out here. I keep walking, focusing straight ahead, looking for something—anything—in all of that silky blackness to help me find my way. Looking up, I can see the canopy and a sprinkling of stars and not much else. Where it is that I am, I have no idea. Clearly this isn’t Medina proper; there’s not enough nature left there for me to get lost.
But twenty minutes later? That’s when I start to feel the first surge of panic. I don’t have my phone, I don’t know where I am, and it’s the middle of the freaking night in a wooded area near a big city. Every footfall, every snapping branch becomes a man stalking me.
That’s my worst fear: being kidnapped, being raped, being murdered. And on top of that, there’s a fucking serial killer offing teenagers in the Seattle area. It’s a very real terror that’s digging its icy claws into my skin, my heart, my head.
I breathe a sigh of relief when I come to the edge of the woods and emerge into a well-manicured park. There’s even a jungle gym, some swing sets, and a small skate park attached. That’s where my relief ends. How much better is it to be in a dark and lonely park in the middle of the night than in the woods? Animals aren’t the danger here: people are.
My eyes dart around the shadowy playground, my senses on hyper alert.
That’s when I hear it, that sound that I’ve been dreading but also that I’ve been waiting for.
The sound of footsteps.
A windchime sounds nearby, and I start to run. If there’s a windchime, there’s probably a house, right? Because people don’t often put windchimes in public parks. My breath comes in panicked gasps, but I don’t let the fear control me. What good would that do but get me killed? I put all of my energy into running, sprinting for the edge of the park and the row of houses I can see just beyond the quiet suburban street that runs alongside it.
I’ve never been much of a runner, but adrenaline gives me that extra edge to keep going, to move faster, to ignore the bleeding of my feet as I stumble into the road at the same moment my attacker catches up to me.
A gloved hand covers my mouth, stifling a scream, while a muscular arm wraps my waist. I’m kicking and fighting, clawing at the black fabric of the man’s jacket. His breathing is even and calm, and there’s the vaguest hint of some spicy aftershave lingering in the air around him, almost like he tried to scrub it off and failed.
Rather than go for his hand, I jab a thumb back in the spot where I figure his eye must be. I’m rewarded with an awful squishy feeling that turns my stomach. It does the trick though, and the man loosens his grip just enough that I’m able to throw myself forward.
I end up on the ground, scrambling to my feet as I hear slow, easy footsteps behind me. He isn’t running, just strolling after me. That’s the part that freaks me out the most, how calm this person is. It’s a calculated sort of stalking, a following, a predation. Part of me wants to scream, but I need the breath to run, and I’m choking on it.
My bare feet slap the ground hard, a sound that, when mixed with the harshness of my breathing, creates an elegy that foretells a very unfortunate ending. If the guy isn’t chasing me then …
Another man appears from behind a parked car in a strange mimicry of my attack on Maxx, buried inside the safety of a video game. But this … is not a game. And it’s not a dream.
What the fuck is going on?!
I skid on the pavement, stumbling as I do my best to avoid the second attacker, some rando dressed in black with a balaclava on his face. That’s never good. Never good at all. I’m up and running again before he grabs me, darting into the yard of the house with all the windchimes.
They’re swaying now, catching the breeze and adding melancholy notes to my dirge.
Just three feet from the front steps, I’m wrenched violently backward. I end up on my back, struggling to catch my breath as my hands search the ground for a weapon. Luck must be on my side because I find one right away, fingers clamping around the wooden handle of a small planting hoe. It’s half-buried in the grass, but it comes out easily enough when I tug on it.
Without thinking, I sit up and swing my right arm back, wincing as it makes contact.
My attacker lets out a grunt as I wrench the weapon forward, splattering blood across the walkway. But then he’s on me, using his bodyweight to push me into the cement.
I’m wrestled to the ground, the asshole kneeling on my back, and every instinct I have inside of me turns to fire. Never leave the first location: that’s self-defense rule number one. Except … all the fire in the world can’t push a two hundred plus pound man off my back. All the fire in the world can’t stop the sharp prick of a needle going into my neck. A small snarl escapes me just before everything goes black.