Stray
Page 100
I turned my back on Abby and concentrated, forcing my face to Shift back. The pain was worse without the rest of my body to sympathize with agony of its own, but it went quickly. When it was over, I verified the results with my hands and my tongue. Everything felt right. Sticky with blood but otherwise normal.
Turning, I wiped blood from my mouth with my arm, which real y wasn’t much of an improvement. “Abby, it’s me.”
She squinted at me in the dark and sighed in relief, as if she thought the shadows had been playing tricks on her eyes before. “Are you okay?” she asked, wrapping her hands around the bars again. It’s amazing how fast that becomes habitual.
“Yeah. Messy, but okay.” I glanced at my pile of clothing, then down at the blood drenching my chest. I’d have to clean up before I could get dressed.
“Eric?” Abby asked.
“Dead.”
She burst into tears for the second time in less than an hour, but these were tears of relief and I was glad to see them.
“Give me just a minute, and I’l have you out of there,” I said. She nodded, and moved down to the door to wait.
I sat on the mattress by Eric’s corpse, doing my best to ignore the blood staining his shirt and my own bare flesh. I stuck my hand in his right pocket and came out with a key. But only one. Mine.
My key clasped in my left fist, I dove into his left pocket, searching frantical y.
I turned it inside out in my haste to find the other key, but the pocket was empty.
No loose change, no lint, and definitely no key.
“There’s only one,” I whispered.
“Maybe it works on both locks,” Abby said, her voice shril with desperation.
I thought back but couldn’t rule it out. The first time, Eric had unlocked her cage but not mine. Miguel had unlocked mine but not hers. Sean and Ryan claimed not to have keys. And this time Eric had only opened my cage, so maybe she was right.
Key in hand, I stuck my arms through the bars and opened the lock. I pulled it loose from the latch and clenched it in my fist. Holding my breath, I pushed the door open. Then I stepped across the threshold.
I felt like something should have happened, like an alarm blaring or fresh air blowing my sweaty, sticky hair back from my face. Or maybe theme music playing from some cheesy prison-escape movie. But nothing happened. What a letdown.
Abby’s eyes were glued to the key as I pulled it from my lock. I tried it on hers, but it wouldn’t even go al the way in. The light in her eyes died, replaced by a look of confusion. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Where’s the other key? He had to have it if he came down here for me.”
I understood al too wel . “He didn’t come for you. Not this time.” Eric had set me up, and I’d fal en for it completely. Outsmarted by a Neanderthal. Faythe, you idiot! I wanted to smack my own forehead but settled for staring at my feet instead. Until the blood trailing down my torso caught my attention, and I had to close my eyes.
“What?” she asked. “What happened?”
“He used you to get to me. He didn’t bring your key because he wasn’t after you this time. He only acted like he was so I’d try to protect you and he could offer me his little trade.” Eric was a moron. A truly substandard intel ect. So what did it say about me, that I’d fal en for his performance? Not as much as his death at my hands said about him.
Back in my cage, I glared at his body. I would have kicked him in the head, if I wasn’t completely creeped out by touching a corpse, even one I’d created. So, I walked around him on my way to examine my clothes. I’d blocked most of the splatter with my own body, so my shirt and shorts were pretty clean, other than the thin, dry trail of Miguel’s blood. Best of al , the shirt stil smel ed like Marc.
Careful not to let it touch my soiled skin, I held the material up to my nose, inhaling deeply. Marc’s smel made my heart pound and my blood rush, not al of it to my head. For the first time, I realized that there was a chance, a teeny speck of a possibility—microscopic, real y—that sleeping with him might not have been a complete mistake. Because while a mistake might be fun, might even be worth repeating a couple of times, people don’t have physiological responses to a reminder of said mistake thirty-two hours later. That just didn’t happen. Did it?
I rolled my clothes up and carried them to the bathroom under the stairs.
“What are you doing?” Abby asked, stil clutching her bars.
“Cleaning up. Then I’m going to get dressed and go find your key. Or a hammer. If I go up there without cleaning off the blood, Ryan wil smell me the minute I open the door.”
“What are you going to do about him?”
Grinning, I shrugged. “I could take him as a kid, and I’m a lot stronger now.”
She smiled hesitantly, clearly skeptical. I nodded toward Eric, as a reminder, then closed myself into the restroom beneath the stairs.
The bathroom was nothing but a toilet and a low sink, crammed into a space too smal to hold two people. A damp hand towel sat on the back of the toilet, and it looked clean. I put down the toilet lid and set my bundle of clothes on it, then turned on the faucet.
I ran as little water as possible, afraid Ryan might hear it and know something was wrong. But I was determined to wash away al of the blood, in spite of the risk.
There was no mirror, so I did the best I could without one. I lathered my hands with the vanilla-scented soap and scrubbed my face over and over, until my hands came away clean. My body was easier, because I could see the blood.
Turning, I wiped blood from my mouth with my arm, which real y wasn’t much of an improvement. “Abby, it’s me.”
She squinted at me in the dark and sighed in relief, as if she thought the shadows had been playing tricks on her eyes before. “Are you okay?” she asked, wrapping her hands around the bars again. It’s amazing how fast that becomes habitual.
“Yeah. Messy, but okay.” I glanced at my pile of clothing, then down at the blood drenching my chest. I’d have to clean up before I could get dressed.
“Eric?” Abby asked.
“Dead.”
She burst into tears for the second time in less than an hour, but these were tears of relief and I was glad to see them.
“Give me just a minute, and I’l have you out of there,” I said. She nodded, and moved down to the door to wait.
I sat on the mattress by Eric’s corpse, doing my best to ignore the blood staining his shirt and my own bare flesh. I stuck my hand in his right pocket and came out with a key. But only one. Mine.
My key clasped in my left fist, I dove into his left pocket, searching frantical y.
I turned it inside out in my haste to find the other key, but the pocket was empty.
No loose change, no lint, and definitely no key.
“There’s only one,” I whispered.
“Maybe it works on both locks,” Abby said, her voice shril with desperation.
I thought back but couldn’t rule it out. The first time, Eric had unlocked her cage but not mine. Miguel had unlocked mine but not hers. Sean and Ryan claimed not to have keys. And this time Eric had only opened my cage, so maybe she was right.
Key in hand, I stuck my arms through the bars and opened the lock. I pulled it loose from the latch and clenched it in my fist. Holding my breath, I pushed the door open. Then I stepped across the threshold.
I felt like something should have happened, like an alarm blaring or fresh air blowing my sweaty, sticky hair back from my face. Or maybe theme music playing from some cheesy prison-escape movie. But nothing happened. What a letdown.
Abby’s eyes were glued to the key as I pulled it from my lock. I tried it on hers, but it wouldn’t even go al the way in. The light in her eyes died, replaced by a look of confusion. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Where’s the other key? He had to have it if he came down here for me.”
I understood al too wel . “He didn’t come for you. Not this time.” Eric had set me up, and I’d fal en for it completely. Outsmarted by a Neanderthal. Faythe, you idiot! I wanted to smack my own forehead but settled for staring at my feet instead. Until the blood trailing down my torso caught my attention, and I had to close my eyes.
“What?” she asked. “What happened?”
“He used you to get to me. He didn’t bring your key because he wasn’t after you this time. He only acted like he was so I’d try to protect you and he could offer me his little trade.” Eric was a moron. A truly substandard intel ect. So what did it say about me, that I’d fal en for his performance? Not as much as his death at my hands said about him.
Back in my cage, I glared at his body. I would have kicked him in the head, if I wasn’t completely creeped out by touching a corpse, even one I’d created. So, I walked around him on my way to examine my clothes. I’d blocked most of the splatter with my own body, so my shirt and shorts were pretty clean, other than the thin, dry trail of Miguel’s blood. Best of al , the shirt stil smel ed like Marc.
Careful not to let it touch my soiled skin, I held the material up to my nose, inhaling deeply. Marc’s smel made my heart pound and my blood rush, not al of it to my head. For the first time, I realized that there was a chance, a teeny speck of a possibility—microscopic, real y—that sleeping with him might not have been a complete mistake. Because while a mistake might be fun, might even be worth repeating a couple of times, people don’t have physiological responses to a reminder of said mistake thirty-two hours later. That just didn’t happen. Did it?
I rolled my clothes up and carried them to the bathroom under the stairs.
“What are you doing?” Abby asked, stil clutching her bars.
“Cleaning up. Then I’m going to get dressed and go find your key. Or a hammer. If I go up there without cleaning off the blood, Ryan wil smell me the minute I open the door.”
“What are you going to do about him?”
Grinning, I shrugged. “I could take him as a kid, and I’m a lot stronger now.”
She smiled hesitantly, clearly skeptical. I nodded toward Eric, as a reminder, then closed myself into the restroom beneath the stairs.
The bathroom was nothing but a toilet and a low sink, crammed into a space too smal to hold two people. A damp hand towel sat on the back of the toilet, and it looked clean. I put down the toilet lid and set my bundle of clothes on it, then turned on the faucet.
I ran as little water as possible, afraid Ryan might hear it and know something was wrong. But I was determined to wash away al of the blood, in spite of the risk.
There was no mirror, so I did the best I could without one. I lathered my hands with the vanilla-scented soap and scrubbed my face over and over, until my hands came away clean. My body was easier, because I could see the blood.
