tape along one edge of its blade, but it rocked and I caught my breath and froze, afraid it would roll back and totally out of reach.
Tentatively I caught hold of the blade with one hand and tugged at it until I heard it scrape and roll forward over the wheel. I grunted. Yeah. Niiice. Right into my back. That’d bruise.
I grabbed it again and gave a little shake, but it stayed still. Adjusting my position, I stroked my wrists along the old blade’s length, rubbing and rubbing until I heard the duct tape begin to give way, threads popping as I continued, layer by layer, chafing metal against my wrists in order to free them.
My shoulders began to ache, but my hands—my hands began to move farther apart by increments of millimeters as I sawed through the tape.
Adapt to survive. I could do this.
With one last pop, the tape tore loose and my hands fell limp at my sides.
I shook my shoulders, urging life back into my limbs. I stood up and stretched.
I tried the door and heard chains rattle outside. No good going out that way.
I picked up the shovel and swung at the hole in the roof. It puckered with a horrible creak and groan—as loud as the noise the Titanic probably made when it split. More snow fell in, but I’d barely made a dent. And the last thing I wanted to do was alert my captors to my attempts at escape.
I was trapped.
Dammit.
Looking at my red and worn wrists, I nearly started to peel the tape free of them, but I thought better of it. Better to maintain appearances.
Better yet to find a weapon so that reality was far from what it appeared.
I rooted around the tilting shelves of the shed, nudging baby food jars filled with rusting nails and screws of all sizes out of my way as I looked for an easily concealable weapon.
I was faced with only two viable, but grim, options: a flathead screwdriver (like a distant cousin of an ice pick) and a trowel with a long and narrow point, its edges sharp for masonry.
Decisions, decisions …
Shrugging, the pain in my shoulders and arms made me want to yelp. I bit my lip, scrunched up my face, and rolled my shoulders until the pain was just another part of me. A very angry, motivated part of me. And the whole time I held the screwdriver in one hand and the trowel in the other, weighing my decision. Which was the best weapon?
I finally decided on both .
I sat back down, grabbed the discarded blanket, and prepared to wait for my rival for Pietr’s attention.
Or Gabriel.
I didn’t really have a preference.
Alexi
“Shit.” Max’s single exclamation summed up the sentiment in the truck as I slowed at the sight of a line of brake lights up ahead.
“Language,” Cat said.
“Can you see what is going on down there?” I asked him, slowing the truck down and bringing it to a stop so we had plenty of space between us and the car immediately ahead.
“From the lights…” He leaned forward and stared out the windshield. “It looks like a tree fell. Wires are down.”
“Ah. Country living,” I surmised. “Do we know another path to the motel?”
“I would use my phone’s GPS, but…” Pietr held his cell up, moved it around, and even touched it to part of the truck’s metal frame in hopes of getting it to act as an antenna. He growled—a weak sound in a boy who used to be a wolf. “No signal.”
We all tested our phones.
“Nothing,” I concluded.
“Bad traffic is not something that should hamper a rescue,” Max muttered.
“ Pravda . That is true,” I reported, swinging the truck’s nose into the opposite lane and performing a less than elegant K-turn on the narrow road. “We shall not allow it to hamper our efforts for long,” I assured him. “Jessie will just need to hold on a bit longer.”
Marlaena
Outside his door I bent over and tried to catch my breath. Oh, sweet Jesus in Gethsemane, I’d really done it this time. I’d let him reject me outright. I’d given him the upper hand. And even after that—after he’d all but drawn
Tentatively I caught hold of the blade with one hand and tugged at it until I heard it scrape and roll forward over the wheel. I grunted. Yeah. Niiice. Right into my back. That’d bruise.
I grabbed it again and gave a little shake, but it stayed still. Adjusting my position, I stroked my wrists along the old blade’s length, rubbing and rubbing until I heard the duct tape begin to give way, threads popping as I continued, layer by layer, chafing metal against my wrists in order to free them.
My shoulders began to ache, but my hands—my hands began to move farther apart by increments of millimeters as I sawed through the tape.
Adapt to survive. I could do this.
With one last pop, the tape tore loose and my hands fell limp at my sides.
I shook my shoulders, urging life back into my limbs. I stood up and stretched.
I tried the door and heard chains rattle outside. No good going out that way.
I picked up the shovel and swung at the hole in the roof. It puckered with a horrible creak and groan—as loud as the noise the Titanic probably made when it split. More snow fell in, but I’d barely made a dent. And the last thing I wanted to do was alert my captors to my attempts at escape.
I was trapped.
Dammit.
Looking at my red and worn wrists, I nearly started to peel the tape free of them, but I thought better of it. Better to maintain appearances.
Better yet to find a weapon so that reality was far from what it appeared.
I rooted around the tilting shelves of the shed, nudging baby food jars filled with rusting nails and screws of all sizes out of my way as I looked for an easily concealable weapon.
I was faced with only two viable, but grim, options: a flathead screwdriver (like a distant cousin of an ice pick) and a trowel with a long and narrow point, its edges sharp for masonry.
Decisions, decisions …
Shrugging, the pain in my shoulders and arms made me want to yelp. I bit my lip, scrunched up my face, and rolled my shoulders until the pain was just another part of me. A very angry, motivated part of me. And the whole time I held the screwdriver in one hand and the trowel in the other, weighing my decision. Which was the best weapon?
I finally decided on both .
I sat back down, grabbed the discarded blanket, and prepared to wait for my rival for Pietr’s attention.
Or Gabriel.
I didn’t really have a preference.
Alexi
“Shit.” Max’s single exclamation summed up the sentiment in the truck as I slowed at the sight of a line of brake lights up ahead.
“Language,” Cat said.
“Can you see what is going on down there?” I asked him, slowing the truck down and bringing it to a stop so we had plenty of space between us and the car immediately ahead.
“From the lights…” He leaned forward and stared out the windshield. “It looks like a tree fell. Wires are down.”
“Ah. Country living,” I surmised. “Do we know another path to the motel?”
“I would use my phone’s GPS, but…” Pietr held his cell up, moved it around, and even touched it to part of the truck’s metal frame in hopes of getting it to act as an antenna. He growled—a weak sound in a boy who used to be a wolf. “No signal.”
We all tested our phones.
“Nothing,” I concluded.
“Bad traffic is not something that should hamper a rescue,” Max muttered.
“ Pravda . That is true,” I reported, swinging the truck’s nose into the opposite lane and performing a less than elegant K-turn on the narrow road. “We shall not allow it to hamper our efforts for long,” I assured him. “Jessie will just need to hold on a bit longer.”
Marlaena
Outside his door I bent over and tried to catch my breath. Oh, sweet Jesus in Gethsemane, I’d really done it this time. I’d let him reject me outright. I’d given him the upper hand. And even after that—after he’d all but drawn
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