Chapter 16
Chapter
Sixteen
M y quick footsteps seem to echo in the narrow, dim hallway of the slaughterhouse. When I look over my shoulder, I see the masked person following me, their fingers dragging along the wall as they run.
“Fuck,” I hiss, my heart pounding. I have nothing on me except my phone, and for some reason, I can’t find a single damn person on this end of the haunt.
On a second look around, however, I realize this must be the last part of the building still undergoing work. The walls are unfinished, with planks and sheets of lumber propped up against them or strewn across the floor. I trip over a two-by-four, stumble and hit my knees hard enough that a shockwave of pain shoots down to my feet. But I can’t exactly take the time to moan over it. Instead, I scramble to my feet, my bloody hand sliding against the floor, and carry on sprinting down the hallway while trying not to limp.
I scream. Over and over I scream, but realize pretty fast I won’t get anywhere with that. Not when my screams are just echoes fitting in with the chorus of shrieks from the other people walking through the haunt, and the scare actors’ yells as well.
Unless I can actually find someone, no one is going to know I’m back here and having a really rough time. On a lit table ahead, I see knives scattered in a pile and I stumble to a stop, reaching out and grabbing for the hilts. But they’re plastic, of course.
Everything here is fake except the knife that cut me.
Whirling around again, my chest heaving with desperate breaths, I scan the hallway I came from which led to this more open space.
“Can’t you just find someone else?” I snap when I see the hooded, masked figure prowling toward me. My words make them stop, and the person tilts their head at me once more, as if amused, while dragging the edge of the blade along the concrete wall. The ensuing noise makes my teeth ache, and I look around for anything that might not be fake.
Anything at all.
A new noise makes me look up, and as I watch, the masked stranger bends down to pick up a cord from the floor, twisting it between their gloved fingers. With slow, deliberate movements, they plug the cord into the wall, and immediately I have to close my eyes against the bright, flaring strobe light in my face.
I shriek and stumble back, covering my eyes in surprise and knocking over the table with the fake knives. But I know I can’t just not look at what’s happening. And I’m not about to let a fucking loser in a mask at a haunted house I only sometimes like stab me while my eyes are closed.
Forcing my eyes open, I look around the room, having to squint as the strobe lights blink and flare. “What do you want?!” I yell, turning in a circle to track any movement in the bright moments of light. “Why the hell are you chasing me in a haunted house with a?—”
I barely notice the person lunge at me from the shadows, and my words break off when I’m forced to lunge sideways to get out of their way. I fall into the overturned table, yelping as pain sears up my thigh. But when I push myself up, or try to, I realize that both of my hands are now slick with something that looks black in the strobing white lights.
More blood.
My stomach turns and I look around again, forcing myself to keep my eyes open even as the lights blink in a way that’s already pushing me into a headache. From the corner of my eye, I see the masked stranger against one wall, standing still even though in the strobe lights they appear to be constantly moving. But I don’t turn to face them. Not yet. Instead, I carefully search the walls, until I see the door I glimpsed when I came in here.
After all, the only other way out is the hallway, and I’d have to make it past the lights and the person with the knife for that.
I bolt, mentally crossing my fingers as I reach out for the door and yank on the handle. Expecting it to be locked, I let out a yelp of relieved surprise when it swings open and allows me to stumble out onto the ground behind the Slaughterhouse.
This area is apparently going to become something as well. Or it’s just the dumping ground for renovation equipment, I suppose. Either way, it doesn’t exactly matter as I search the surrounding area with the flashing light of the strobes inside, the sound of screams echoing in my ears.
Just as I hear footsteps behind me, my eyes find a pile of haphazard construction equipment. On another night, I would scoff and make a comment about unsafe storage practices of power tools. But this time, I’m thankful for their lackadaisical attitude toward things.
My hands are still slick with blood as I shove a piece of plywood away from the table. As my heart pounds so hard in my throat it might choke me, I look for anything that will be a suitable weapon for a knife.
Too bad I don’t know where the outlets are out here, I think almost ruefully as I shove a circular saw to the side. If I could plug it in, I’d feel a little better than I currently do. But finally I settle on a hammer, gripping it in my right hand.
I whirl around to face the door where the person had been heading a few seconds ago, only to meet the sight of the empty, strobe-lit doorframe. The lights, even this far away, push and prod at my headache, making me groan and press my left hand to my temple as if I can somehow convince it to stop hurting by sheer will alone.
But I back up in spite of the pain, until my shoulder hits the wall and I can stare at the only exit from the building on this side of the haunt.
It remains empty. As if there was never anyone coming through it, though the blood on my hands is proof that I’m probably not going insane.
My hands throb as I grip the hammer, and my thigh aches as if competing with the pain building in my head. I want to move, to find my phone and call for help or at least try to make it back to the other side of the building to reunite with Reagan.
But I’m too afraid to turn my back on the open doorway.
Suddenly footsteps crunch in the grass around the corner of the building, and my stomach twists, brain screaming that I’m about to get blindsided and feel the cut of the knife on somewhere probably a lot worse than my hand or arm. In an instant, I whirl around the corner, hand with the hammer raised as I search for the knife I know the person is holding.
“Whoa, whoa. ” Fingers catch my wrist deftly, stopping me before I can swing. “Winnie?”
With spots still dancing in my vision, Cassian’s face is a mix of blue eyes and black, winking spots that seem fuzzy in my eyes.
“Cassian?!” I gasp, stumbling into him. “Where’s—Did you see?—”
“Holy shit, Winnie.” His voice is softer, less panicked than mine, and takes the hammer from me while surveying his now-bloody fingers. “What the hell are you doing? Is this— Are you bleeding ?”
I don’t answer right away. I turn again, looking back at the open door as my muscles tremble in the hope of relief.
“Winnie?” Cass grips my wrist, tugging me away from the door and closer to his warmth and the safety of just him. “Winnie, you need to tell me what’s going on.”
“There was a person in the slaughterhouse,” I breathe. “I was looking for Reagan, and I—” My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I ignore it. “I thought they were just some actor.” Blinking to clear the spots from my vision, I try to take a step and stumble, suddenly lightheaded.
“Whoa, hey.” Cassian catches me effortlessly. “Okay. You’re not making much sense and I really think this is your blood. Fuck.” He moves, and without warning picks me up to throw me over his shoulder, making me yelp.
“What are you doing?” I demand, head spinning painfully as the ground is suddenly where the sky should be.
“Helping.”
“This doesn’t feel like helping.”
“Then close your pretty eyes, Winnie, because that’s what I’m doing.” He doesn’t stop, even as my phone vibrates yet again in the pocket of my denim shorts. It’s suddenly colder out here than I remember it being when we went into the slaughterhouse, and Cassian feels like a furnace under me, his arm like a warm steel band locked around my thighs.
“Aren’t you supposed to carry me like, in your arms?” I ask, only half paying attention to my own words. It’s hard to get a bearing on my surroundings, and I can’t find the door to stare at it, as if my gaze alone can keep the knife-wielding stranger at bay.
“You mean bridal style?” His steps change, crunching on gravel instead of rustling through glass. “You want me to carry you bridal style, princess?”
“Well, it would certainly be preferable to hanging upside down like a sack of potatoes,” I can’t help muttering.
“A very pretty sack of potatoes. Tell you what. When I’m sure you aren’t going to puke on me, I’m willing to open up negotiations on how I carry you. Until then—” Without warning, he leans over and pulls me off his shoulder, until I slide to my feet on loose gravel. Without his arm around me I would’ve fallen, and I curl bloody fingers into his shirt.
“Until then, my lovely sack of potatoes, I decide how we travel.” With his eyes still firmly on mine, he yanks open the passenger door of a dark colored, sleek car and gently pushes me onto the seat.
“What are you doing?” The question is probably dumb, but I’m blaming it on having a hard night.
Cass grins, his blue eyes meeting mine. “Kidnapping you,” he answers sweetly, and closes the door on me before I can say another word.