Page 14 of The Initial Insult

It’s dank in the basement, two hundred years of mildew gathering together like a blanket in the air. Tress coughs, and it almost turns into a gag as she gets to the bottom of the steps, the bells on her little slippers jangling merrily as she wanders out onto the dirt floor.

“Tress?” she says again, her voice small and lost, trusting, like it had been when we were kids. “I don’t feel so good.”

She’s got her arms crossed in front of her, goose bumps rising even though I can see bright spots on her cheeks. She hasn’t seen what’s behind her yet; the hole in the wall and the pile of bricks beside it, the chair facing it, or the pail of mortar.

Felicity hasn’t seen any of that because she’s looking right at me, eyes wide. “Did you say Gretchen puked? Was she . . . like from drinking, or was she sick?”

I shrug.

“Because there were some people upstairs, just kind of lying there. I thought it was a little early for them to be passed out but . . . oh my God, Tress. What if everyone has the flu?”

Then more importantly, she adds, “What if I’ve got the flu?”

“It won’t be what kills you,” I tell her.

Then I hit her with a brick.

Chapter 10

Felicity

I wait for the boy’s voice.

It’s always there, after. A nice low, soothing thread that I follow up to consciousness. He’ll talk about his grandma, who he lives with, and how he does this with her, waiting patiently for her to come back around after a seizure. I sometimes can’t remember his name, and he’ll tell me, pinging my memory until I say his name back to him, and he’ll help me up, brush my clothes off, and smooth down my hair.

He is a nice boy, that boy . . . Hugh.

Memory is slippery for a few minutes after, and I’ll wander, confused inside my own head, not knowing where I am or how I got there, who I am with or if I am safe. But when I hear Hugh’s voice I know that I am okay. But this time, something is different. I don’t hear Hugh, and there’s something wet running down my neck. I move to brush it away, but I can’t. My arms won’t move. There’s a jangling noise, the sound of tiny bells but also something lower, more sinister.

“Hugh?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer, and something is very wrong. My head hurts terribly. My hands, too. There is a heavy smell in the air, and I’m slumped forward, hung by my arms, wrists straining against . . . chains.

I open my eyes.

I did not have a seizure.

Hugh is not here.

And I am not safe.

Chapter 11

Tress

“Hey,” I say when Felicity opens her eyes.

I’m glad she came around. Not because I was worried that I hit her too hard, or that there was more blood than I expected; I’ve seen plenty of blood in my life and know that head wounds always look worse than they actually are. The McCaffrey Ranch gives us any cows that die unexpectedly, with the caveat that they come to Amontillado Animal Attractions as they left there—in one piece. I’ve been cutting up dead cows with chain saws since I was thirteen, so, no, blood doesn’t bother me one bit. Especially not Felicity Turnado’s. But I’m glad to see her come around, anyway. I’m glad she’s conscious because I need her talking.

She shifts in her chains, her wrists already chafed as she comes to her feet, dazed and a little woozy. A ribbon of blood winds around her neck from where I hit her with the brick, bright red against the gray pallor of her skin. Felicity does not look good, even for a girl with a concussion who is chained to a wall.

“Tress?” she asks, but that note of trust is gone. Now she’s scared. As she should be.

Felicity rattles her chains again. Her first instinct is to tug at them, but I anchored the manacles into the stone foundation of the Allan house. She’s not getting out of those unless I let her out.

“What the fuck?” Fear turns into anger quickly, her eyes bright under her jester’s cap, which was knocked sideways when I wrestled her body into the badly lit corner. There’s a naked light bulb above me now. While she was out I ran a wire along the beams up the stairs, connecting to Ribbit’s electrical contribution to the party. A little illumination for our long night.

I haven’t answered her yet, and Felicity moves to the next logical emotion—panic. I planned on this, turning the volume up on the music in the kitchen before I followed Felicity down the stairs. She’ll scream herself hoarse long before the party winds down.