Page 20 of Resurrect Me

I scream again. “Fuck you, asshole! Let me go!”

I shimmy my shoulders from left to right and make one last effort to escape when something heavy knocks into the side of my head…and I black out.

I wake up with a pounding headache and heavy eyes. I squint and look around. I’m in a dimly lit, dusty basement. The only light is pouring in from a tiny window on the far wall. There’s a dryer, washing machine, and refrigerator to my right. Garbage bags filled with something soft to my left, next to stacked boxes that have “Yule” and “Ulfblot” written on them with black marker. I’m in someone’s basement. Someone heathen. Most people don’t celebrate Yule or Ulfblot. I know that because of my time in Washington. My time with the cult. It even seems like a family lives here. This is fucking bizarre. I have a gag in my mouth and my hands are tied behind my back. The zip tie is digging into the skin around my wrists. I could scream, or try to, but whoever put me down here is probably right above anyway.

Who fucking did this? Was it the stalker? He promised me he’d never hurt me. It must be the same fucker who broke into my house. How did he know the power had gone out? That he could break in and avoid the alarm? Then I remembered…the alarm system was supposed to have a back-up battery in case of power outages. It should have gone off and alarmed the police when he broke in. The cameras should have recorded the struggle. So, when I turn up missing, they can review the footage and go from there.

I search the basement for something…anything. A way out. A weapon. Something to cut through the tie. My mind goes to my kids. They’re in school…or at least that’s where I last left them. I have no idea what time it is. They’ll be so scared when I don’t show up to pick them up. It’s still daytime, but who knows for how long.

“Mfff uhh kerrr!” I let out a muffled curse. I’ll kill this psycho.

I notice a pair of rusty garden shears hanging from a wall next to an unfinished staircase made of wooden planks. Bingo.

I stand from the bucket he sat me on and give myself a mental high-five when I realize the dumbass didn’t tie me down to anything. Ha! I shuffle quietly past the black bags and appliances, careful not to knock into anything. I’m struggling to get a good breath with a plastic ball filling my mouth. My nose is stuffy from the trauma to my head. Or from the dust and mold in this basement. I pause and take a deep breath. Okay. I have to be quiet. I start my trek towards the garden shears again when a door above creaks open. Fuck! A heavy footstep hits the first stair, and someone descends the steps as I bolt for my original position next to the washing machine. I crash down on the blue bucket and close my eyes. Hoping my captor didn’t see or hear me crossing the floor. But I’m sure he did.

I watch as a man wearing jeans, a jean jacket with a gray hood and a bald head plods onto the concrete floor and heads towards me. He’s chuckling. Like someone just told him the funniest joke and he can’t help but grab his stomach to keep from laughing hysterically.

I’m straining to make out his features, since there’s barely any light down here and I don’t have my contacts in. I must’ve lost them in the shuffle. I squint and, as he comes closer to me, his features turn from muddled to clear. He kneels and laughs again as he stares into my eyes. My heart is thumping and scraping against my ribcage, like a wild animal clawing its way out of captivity. I’ve seen this man before. His eyes. They’re dark, almost as black as a shark’s, and there’s a scar above his right eye.

“Wow, they said it would be an interesting job, but I had no idea it would be this interesting,” he says as he reaches up to check the strap on my gag. The same scent of tobacco and chemicals floats off him and invades my nose. I nearly gag again…but tell myself not to puke. If I did that, I would literally choke on my own vomit. I swallow hard and grunt at him. I look at him, and then the steps, debating whether I could outrun him. Could I escape? The problem is, I don’t know who’s at the top of those steps. And I’m not a fast runner. I tried to outrun him in my own house and was instantly taken down. And that was with my arms free.

“Tickk..ithh…outttt,” I try to demand for him to remove the gag.

He understands me and says, “you have to promise not to scream, Tacy. You have to be quiet. You can do that, can’t you? That is, after all, what your name means, right? To be quiet?”

I nod. How the fuck does he know what my name means?

His clammy fingers work to unbuckle the strap, and as soon as it loosens, I spit the ball out of my mouth and inhale.

“Why the fuck am I here? And who the fuck are you?” I ask through grinding teeth.

He’s still kneeling in front of me, crotch exposed. I could kick him square in the balls and make a run for it. But before I can do that, his slimy words catch me.

“Don’t you remember me, Tacy?”

He sticks his tongue out. A tongue ring with a Celtic knot shines in the dim light. The symbol of the Belenos Coven…the cult I ran away from years ago.

My muscles tense and I open my mouth to scream, but he slams his hand over it and clamps another hand around my throat. A move I was once all too familiar with.

“Don’t fucking scream, I said,” he hisses as he pulls a knife from his pocket. The shiny steel glints as he moves it from side to side, threatening to cut me if I try anything.

It’s Orion. The High Priest. My ex-boyfriend. And likely my stalker. And burglar. The realization hits me, and I’m disgusted with myself. For believing my stalker might have been a good guy. Of course, stalkers aren’t good guys.

I straighten on the bucket and bear my weight down on my feet. Stabilizing myself. Trying to gather my thoughts and think up a plan to escape.

Orion Starkey releases me, and I spit at him. “You’re a piece of shit.”

“And you’re fucked, Tacy Bear,” he bellows and holds the knife out in front of him. He stands and bends over, taking in a deep whiff of the top of my head. “Mmm. I don’t know who you pissed off, but they have plans for you.”

“Don’t call me that,” I growl. “It’s Tacy Rountree.”

“Oh, I know your new name. I saw you talking about your dead husband on the news. Too bad he was elected then offed the same day,” he smirks as he sheaths the knife. “Ain’t that about a bitch.”

“What do you want from me? And why are you here? I thought you lived in Washington.”

“I need you to be quiet for another twenty-four hours until I can deliver you to them. I move where the job requires me to move. There’s plenty of business here, so here I am.”

“What happened to the cult? Disbanded? Did you finally go to prison?”

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