Page 24 of A Touch of Dark
Scream!It’s the first lesson taught in every self-defense class I’ve ever taken. Scream. Flail. Fight.
I kick out with my legs and brace my hands against the floor of the lobby, crawling forward, but agony explodes between my shoulder blades, driving the air from my lungs. The stench of body odor betrays just what is pinning me down: my attacker himself.
He’s heavy, easily dragging me back. I feel that icy scrape again against my shoulder, biting deeper the more I struggle. A weapon.
Don’t look back,a part of me warns.Run!
I make myself deadweight, throwing my body against the floor, and his grip loosens enough for me to ram my elbow back, striking something solid. Then I’m stumbling to my feet, racing for the main entrance. I grab a handle and tug, but it doesn’t budge. Neither does the other. Shit! They’re both locked—only Gus has the key.
Don’t panic.
Move.
There!
The side entrance draws my notice again and I lurch toward it, desperate to ignore the shuffling sounds behind me. Air trickles in and out of my lungs as my few options flash across my mind. I’ll never outrun him.
So I let myself trip and go down hard. He rushes over, and I roll onto my back. I catch only a glimpse of an unfamiliar face beneath the shadow of a black hoodie. He’s tall. Young.
He doesn’t even see the kick coming, aimed squarely between his legs. Groaning, he doubles over, and I lunge to the door. It opens, depositing me into a narrow alley beside the office. Blindly, I race past an overflowing dumpster in a frantic race to the street. A lack of noise warns that there’s no one behind me.
Yet.
Surging traffic and the distant howling of sirens disguise most sounds, however. I won’t hear him until it’s too late. Lost in this sea of people, no one would ever notice me scream if he does catch up. They push past me, specters locked into their eternal routines, oblivious to me.
My shoulder throbs. My bottom lip is on fire, bitten in the scuffle. A limping gait carries me to the main street, but I keep going, right past the idling car. The driver is a shadow perched behind the steering wheel, waiting. Watching.
He could be Simon.
Hell, the man marching toward me carrying a briefcase could be Simon. Or the driver honking as he speeds by. Even the figure shoving me aside with an impatient shrug of his shoulder.
He’s everywhere.
Air seeps from my lungs, impossible to contain, but somehow, I keep walking. Staggering. Running.
I’ve never learned my lesson after all these years: I can’t escape him. The shadows converge on me as strangers stare. Their attention burns like spotlights, illuminating my path no matter where I go. How fast I run.
To where exactly? I don’t know. Not until I’m pounding on a set of glass doors while my hand paws at the silver button of an intercom. A voice laced with static says something from the speaker. Demands something. I should reply. Be collected. Be polite.
But I can’t seem to stop banging my fist on the door. A substance paints the glass with every blow. It’s dark, appearing almost purple until a passing car’s headlights ignite the color, revealing what it is: a bright-red liquid.
Bzzz!The door jolts against my palm, suddenly unlocked. No explanation comes from the speaker, and I don’t wait for one. I’m in the elevator before I know it, tracking something over the floor that glints like a morbid breadcrumb trail. The doors close, locking me inside, but I just stare at the buttons, unsure of which one to pick.
Tick. Tock.
Simon’s still watching. I can even hear him now, humming into my ear.Dada, da dum…
Ding! The elevator rises without me having struck a button. On the second floor, the doors open, revealing a trio of strange men who start inside before they notice me there. Shock alights their stern expressions, and one of them reaches for his breast pocket, his eyes narrowed.
“What in the hell?”
I lunge through the space between them and find myself in another hallway resembling the one above. This one branches into several rooms. The first I pass is narrow, darkened, empty. Light spills from another doorway up ahead. Voices drift out. Deep. Masculine. Accented.
“I’ve warned you,” a man says, his voice chillingly familiar. “Stay out of it. Understood?”
“Why?” Someone scoffs. “Don’t you trust me?”
“I don’t,” the first man replies. “You’re sloppy, Mateo, and I’d rather not see you in prison. Have patience. I will handle this.”
