Page 115 of Death and Do-Overs

“Hold my muffin?”

I took it and sipped on my coffee as I waited for Imogen to return.

As I took a big drag of caffeine, a sharp prick stabbed into my neck.

I tried to turn, but everything went fuzzy and I collapsed into darkness with nothing but confusion swirling in my head.

CHAPTER 25

MARNIE

My entire body felt like it was attached to the ground, like a gravity ride that suctioned its riders to the walls. My limbs were too heavy to move.

I’d woken up just like this—on a surface harder than the Mournmore’s rocky mattresses, caught in a cloud of confusion.

I was pretty sure my eyes were open, but I couldn’t see anything. Upon further visual investigation, specifically attempting to blink and then reaching for my face, I poked myself in my closed eye. So, they were still closed.

With concentrated effort, I forced my lids to lift ever so slightly. Light poured through and seared my irises.

A very masculine groan came from way too close by. Suddenly I was much more awake. Was it fear that had paralyzed me? Exhaustion?

I quickly scrambled to a sitting position and took in my surroundings.

Every surface was gray, with a rough uniform texture, like it was made of concrete. A sickening glow of yellow fluorescence was the only source of light.

I was underground.

Bodies littered the floor around me, between fifteen and twenty of them. As I watched, each began to move.

Events replayed through my head—I’d been with Imogen, having just finished talking to the cat-fox.

Then the needle pierced my neck.

I’d been drugged and brought here, wherever here was.

A bead of sweat trickled down my back, my skin clammy and cold. I could feel every beat of my heart in my throat, a painful reminder that I was still alive.

If I had to guess, based on how little movement was occurring around the room, the same thing had happened to all of us.

I did a quick search for Imogen, but found no one dressed in colorful garb. She wasn’t here.

I was glad she hadn’t been drugged, but I could really use a superpowered friend right about now.

The woman sitting right in front of me was holding her forehead. She had blue hair and an eyebrow ring. I recognized her.

The man next to her had porcupine spines sticking out of his cheeks. I recognized him, too.

I recognized all of them—the people from the photographs in the hidden room. Most importantly, I recognized the man beside me.

His eyes were gray, hazy from the sedatives. His nose was sharp. Golden hair covered his head and his jaw. My jaw tightened at the sight of him, muscles clenching so hard I thought my teeth might crack.

Otis, the man who murdered me, was sitting a foot away, cradling his head.

He scanned the room until his gaze reached me. He took a sharp breath.

“You’re alive,” he said, in a tone that almost sounded like relief.

He had no right.

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