Fallen Stars (Stone Bay Series Book 3)

Chapter 8

Day One

Blinding,debilitating pain pulses in my skull. A persistent, breath-stealing torture bouncing in the confines of my mind.

I inhale, the action stilted as my ribs scream and scrape my lungs. A pungent smell wafts up my nose—a nausea-inducing mix of bleach, filthy bathrooms, mildew, and metal. Reaching up to cover my nose and mouth, weight tugs at my wrists. Metal clinks and grates the ground and I wince.

Confusion swirls with the pulsing pain in my head as I try to recall anything before I woke up. As I try to figure out what happened and where I am. But the harder I think, the more it hurts. All I feel, all I think, all I am is pain. Burning and screaming and paralyzing pain.

Easing my eyes open, darkness greets me as I survey what little I can see.

Lying on my side on the ground, I notice divots in the concrete floor. Damp spots not far from where I lie. Gradually, my gaze drifts to my wrists and the metal binds mottled with dark splatters.

My stomach churns and cramps.

Without hurry, I press my palms to the ground and push myself up to a seated position. I dizzy with the simple action and close my eyes, taking a deep breath, followed by another. When I open my eyes again, the room spins and wobbles less.

My gaze falls to my wrists once more and this time I notice the chains linked to the cuffs. Following the chains with my eyes, bile claws at my throat when I spot the large metal ring anchored in the floor. Fear crawls across my skin when I see a second ring with chains that lead in my direction. Before bearing witness, I already know where they go. I already feel the immeasurable weight around my ankles.

And when my eyes land on my bare, dirty feet, the reality of my situation sinks in further. I may have no idea what happened or where I am, but I’d be a fool not to accept what I see with my own eyes.

Someone has me locked in a basement or old, abandoned building.

Goose bumps pebble my skin as my limbs start to shake. The chill in the air blends with the bitter truth of reality and settles deep in my bones. Carving itself in my marrow and spreading like an uncurable virus to my soul.

I scoot away from the floor anchors, fantasizing the distance will turn the situation into one huge nightmare. Radiating pain wraps around my spine when my back smacks the wall. It’s a brief reprieve from the pulse in my head but doesn’t last the same.

A groan rattles in my chest and scrapes the inside of my throat.

Turning to face the wall, I run my hands over the surface. A softer stone. The tips of my fingers graze over small indentations, long and slightly spread out. When I run over them again with a finger over each, it dawns on me what they are.

Claw marks.

Someone in my same position dug at this wall often and hard enough to leave a lasting trace. An echo of who they were and the life they’d been robbed of. One final plea for the world not to forget who they are, who they were.

Is that what will happen to me? Will I go mad? Will I claw at the walls in the hopes of escape?

The notion has me moving faster around the room, my hands on the wall and mind racing as I search for a way out of wherever I am.

Muted voices hit my ears and I stop. Closing my eyes, I focus solely on my sense of hearing. I do my best to ignore the pain in my head and turn every ounce of attention to my ears.

The subtle sound of metal on concrete. A loud clap followed by a howl. Distorted laughter. Then it’s quiet a moment.

I feel my way around the room until I discover what feels like a doorframe.

Thrill spikes my bloodstream as my hands fly over the surface in search of a handle. But after feeling every inch within reach, I come up empty.

Then I hear it again. Someone speaking. It’s faint, but a voice filters through the air.

“Hello?”

Jerking the chains, I clutch my throat. Bewildered by the scratchy, unfamiliar sound of my voice, I swallow past the dryness and try again.

“Hello?” Stronger, but still so foreign. “I need help.”

The voices fade then disappear. With them, all other noise vanishes too.

I bang a fist against the door, feel it boom under my hand, but barely hear the sound.

What the hell?

Stumbling back, I stare into the darkness as my mind races. I reach for my ears, jab a finger in both, and wiggle. Still no change. So I slap my palms over my ears and hum. This I hear. This small realization brings me an inkling of comfort.

The second I pull my hands away from my ears, a discombobulated feeling washes over me. Swallows me. Drowns me. As though I am underwater.

On my next shuffle backward, I bump one of the anchors on the floor and fall down. A howl claws up my raw throat and spills from my lips as my tailbone hits the concrete. I roll onto my side and reach for the newly inflicted pain.

As the fire in my backside calms, it’s then that I register my missing clothes. All except my underwear.

Before I have the chance to question my lack of attire, the door swings open. I jerk back and squint as bright light filters into the space.

Lifting a hand to shield my eyes, I am met with the silhouette of a person. Tall. Muscular. As large as the doorway.

Boots thump the floor as he steps into the room. My eyes adjust slightly as I scoot away from him and crash into the wall. I ignore the stabbing fire in my back. Ignore the fact I still can’t hear properly. Ignore the way the room sways a little.

My gaze drifts up as I bring my knees to my chest. Dark fabric hugs his face and masks him from the neck up.

“Welcome to your new home, Two Sixty-Three,” the man says, his voice warped, distorted, robotic. And then he hooks a hand under my arm and hauls me up off the floor. “We’re going to have so much fun with you.”

I flail my arms and kick my feet but barely make contact. The weight of the chains keeps me from truly gaining any sort of momentum. Yet, still, I fight. I kick. I scream. I try to knee him between the legs.

The entire time, he laughs.

Then he fists my hair, yanks my head back, and looks me over. His extensive perusal of my face twists my stomach in unnatural ways.

“It’s not often we get pretty ones like you,” he says in the robotic voice.

He leans in close and the scent of cinnamon pierces my nose. It throws me off. Muddles my thinking. And then he drags his tongue up my cheek from my jaw to my eye.

Vomit hits the back of my throat a second before I drop onto the floor and my hip screams from the landing. I puke on the floor, on myself, in my hair.

Laughing, the man steps out of the room then tosses a bottle of water. It hits my head with a thwack, followed by a handful of loose crackers.

“Keep your strength up, Two Sixty-Three. Gonna need it.”

The door slams shut, and once again, I’m blanketed in darkness.