Page 190 of Ravaged Soul
The gentle touch grows more urgent. “I need you.”
“Who…? I don’t understand.”
“Wake up!”
A firm yank on my hair causes fire to race over my scalp, interrupting the dream world with the cold, harsh bite of reality. My eyes fling open, but I’m no longer sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor.
Mum isn’t here. Neither is a young, sad-looking Warner. My childhood home doesn’t have rusted bars or a low ceiling. It’s warm. Dusty. Full of framed photographs and dog-eared TV magazines.
Not blood.
Not a used bedpan.
Not two terrified blue eyes locked on mine.
I must still be in a dream. Or a nightmare. She features in them regularly enough. My Gracie doesn’t look like this—bony, blood-splattered and dirt-streaked. She’s smiling. Healthy. Living a happy life at home with her parents.
“Ember. Are you with me?”
Another hair tug. Crap, that hurts.
“Wake up, we don’t have much time.”
“G-Gracie?”
“In the flesh,” the girl drawls with a sad smile. “Snap out of it.”
“You’re not… Where? Where am I?”
“You slept through the car ride. They must’ve given you the strong stuff.”
Attempting to lick my lips, I can’t quite clear the acrid, chemical tang from my mouth. It’s the same furry grossness that covered my tongue each time we were shot with sedatives then hauled around like branded cattle.
Fuck!
This is very real.
The ghost hanging over me with a concerned frown isn’t some manifestation of my worst nightmares. She’s breathing. Blinking. Lips wrinkled in a hopeless kind of smile.
“Gracie,” I gasp. “You’re here.”
“Didn’t we already establish that?” She scrapes a fleck of dried blood from the back of her hand.
“Oh my God.”
My limbs feel leaden, but I still snag her elbow to haul her into a tight, awkward hug. Gracie has to bend down to hug me back, hiding her face in my loose braid. She trembles with each inhale.
God, she’s little more than skin and bones. I can practically feel the blood swimming in her veins, her skin is stretched so tight over her skeleton. Uncontrollable tears well up and spill over, causing me to hiccup.
“Hey.” She sniffles.
“Hi.”
“You came back.”
“That was the plan.” I push her back so I can wipe my face. “Although not the part about getting drugged and kidnapped too.”
With those choked words, it all comes flooding back. Nolan Madden’s house of horrors. Welded cages and a ghostly child behind bars. The audio recorder. Gunnar. Gunshots… And Axel.
