Page 69 of Make Me Hunt
Him: Which you ignored.
Him:And it will get you punished.
Me:Is that a threat or a promise?
Him:BOTH
Me:I’ll be waiting for you to put them to practice.
Him:Give me two days, my little curse, and I’ll bring every dark fantasy you ever had to life.
I don’t reply mostly because I don’t know what to write back. We don’t have two days. We don’t even have a moment.
And that makes my lack of sleep a chronic condition.
I start Googling everything I can find about the old opera house downtown. I even dig up some old blueprints, but according to the articles, most of the chambers are severely damaged, and some of the walls have been torn down.
Still, I try to memorize as much as I can before morning. Including hidden passages and chambers that could work as a hideout. I don’t know what I’m walking into, so I need all the leverage I can get.
First thing in the morning, I return to the makeup artist and make sure he gets me looking as close to Cynthia as possible, especially since I’ll be carrying her ID.
My guy outdid himself, and the resemblance is so strong this time, it almost disgusts me. But I must get over it because this isn’t about me. This is about my dear Elias.
I go to the motel listed on the note. The place is practically a dump, and I perfectly understand why. No one pays attention to it.
I ask for the key to room 207 at the front desk, and as soon as I give her my name, she hands it over. No questions asked.
I walk into the room and immediately spot a note on the bed, along with a neatly folded stack of clothes. The same kind Elias was wearing when I found his corpse.
Change and take this pill at exactly 13:00.
I inspect the pill. It’s something purple with no markings whatsoever. Then I look at the clock in the room. 12:03 I’ve got almost another hour to burn.
I place the box on the bed next to me. The sword I bought, along with Cynthia’s house keys, phone, and ID, are placed in there. Then I change into the black cargo pants and a matching T-shirt. The number twenty-four printed on the front. Funny since I’m only a few months away from turning twenty-four—if I live to see that day.
This is the most agonizing hour of my life. My pulse is so high I feel like I’m having a heart attack.
I keep checking the mirror to make sure the makeup is still in place. You can’t tell I’m wearing almost a full silicone prosthetic, not even from up close. Maybe more like some heavily caked foundation, but I’m a woman, so no one would think twice.
My wig is in place. Besides, no one looks exactly like in their IDs. It’s like they’re trained to take the worst photo of your life every time you go update the damn thing. And for the file, I just hope 404 already swapped Cynthia’s photo with mine.
I take the pill at exactly the time mentioned on the note. For a while, nothing happens. I pace the length of the room so many times I’m sure the rug’s about to wear through. Then suddenly I feel weak, like I’ve lost control over my own body, and collapse onto the bed.
It’s dark from there on.
I also wake up in total darkness with a cloth bag on my head. Panic surges through me, trying to take it off, but my hands or feet won’t move. I fidget against the restraints for a few moments before I realize there’s someone else next to me.
“Who’s there?” I ask, feeling dizzy from the pill, or probably from the motion, because we’re definitely in a moving vehicle.
“The fucking Sandman, who do you think?” snaps an annoyed male voice I don’t recognize.
“I think they’re taking us there,” another male voice says, this one much calmer. “To the game. We started moving half an hour ago.”
So, we should be close.
I don’t say it out loud, though, not ready to divulge that I know anything. But the motel is only about a half-hour's drive from the opera house.
“Are you all contenders?” I ask, trying to figure out if they’re in the same situation as me, or if they’re just guards. I still can’t see a damn thing.
