40. Waking up in a Cult without the Hot Guy
40
Waking up in a Cult without the Hot Guy
You
No way are you drinking that! It’s probably poison.
After all, you’ve just been kidnapped and kept hostage in a windowless van for who-knows-how-long.
No matter how enticing it smells or how weak you are, you won’t give in!
At the last second, you turn your head, and the contents of the vial spill over the cracking seat cushions instead of into your mouth.
Beside you, the elderly woman swears.
She has quite the foul mouth for someone who sounds inches from death. Or maybe that’s why she has such a foul mouth.
“ Damn it all ,” she mutters after she finishes her more colorful string of expletives. “That was the last of it, and there’s no way to make more. Not in my condition. But look at her! Those fools. What did they do to her?”
“Think she’s gonna die?” the boy asks over top of you, and it’s rather frustrating the way they’re talking around you as if you can’t hear them.
You open your mouth to remind them that you’re still here—
Or, you intend to.
But, to your horror, you can’t even summon the strength to speak.
You used the last of your energy just avoiding drinking that vial.
“Listen, Chosen One,” the old woman says as she shuts her door, and the boy must be driving, because the engine revs to life and the truck peels out in a spray of crunching gravel. “I don’t know what those fools did to you, but that vial could have saved your life. Now it’s wasted, so you’ll just have to hang in there a while longer and hope for the best. For your sake— and ours.”
It was going to save your life?
You’re still not sure you can trust her, but you’re starting to regret not drinking the vial. At least a little.
Would it have given you your energy back?
You can’t see.
Everything’s gone dark, and not just because it’s night.
Even breathing takes so much effort, it’s hard to keep going.
If you could only speak, you might be able to tell your new captors what the problem is. That they could save you if they would just turn around and drive back toward Ziros.
That you’re tethered by magic to a hot dude who is now way too far away.
But you can’t speak.
So all you can do is sleep, giving into the deep, heavy darkness as it pulls you under.
And you just hope that against the odds, you’ll still wake up in the morning.
Ziros
The first rays of dawn are already cracking over the horizon when I wake up, nothing but dry, golden grass and rolling hills as far as the eye can see.
I don’t know where the hell I am, but at least I’m alive.
And I’m feeling a whole damn lot better.
The road is still rumbling on beneath the bed of the pickup truck where I lie, and I’m starting to think bed is a weird word for this thing. It’s one of those words that just came to me, but it can’t be right.
This is the worst bed I’ve ever slept in.
Still.
I’m alive.
And the fact that I feel better means I must be a lot closer to my human than I was when I fell asleep.
The question is…how do I find her?
You
You groan, rolling over.
Where are you?
You appear to be in some sort of bed. Taking stock of the situation, you note that your hands are not bound (that’s a good sign, at least), and there’s a glass of water on the battered, rustic end table beside the bed.
That’s when you see it—there’s the tiny sword, glinting like a beacon of hope on the scuffed, wooden surface.
A chair creaks behind you as you reach for it.
The old woman stands up from the far corner of the room, slowly making her way over to you.
“I plucked that from those buffoons before we left,” she says. “Figured you might be needing your weapon back, Chosen One.”
Chosen One .
You groan, rubbing your temples as you slip the sheathed tiny sword safely back into your pocket.
How did she know it was yours?
“I don’t know who you think I am, but you’ve got the wrong person.”
The old woman just laughs in response.
“Nonsense! I had a vision, young lady. Many, many years ago, a prophecy, if you will. And I have been waiting for this day—the day when you save us!”
You blink.
So she’s magical, too.
Or, at least, she thinks she is.
You don’t particularly feel up to saving anyone, let alone yourself.
The bright morning sun is streaming in blindingly bright rays through the open curtains, not at all helping the hungover feeling knocking around inside your skull.
But at least you’re alive.
That’s got to be a good sign.
Does that mean Ziros is on his way? You hope it does.
Ziros , you think as loudly as you can, hoping maybe he can hear you somehow. I’m at some sort of cult, I think. I hope you’re okay! Please tell me you’re alright.
You’re not expecting a response.
But to your shock, a low, familiar, amazingly wonderful voice growls inside your head… A cult? Where the hell are you, human?
Turning to the elderly woman where she stands near the door, you decide just to ask. Who knows. Maybe she’ll even answer!
“Where exactly is this?” you ask as politely as you can manage, hoping she won’t guess you’re actually planning to use that information to devise your cunning escape.
“Ah, wherever are my manners, dearie,” she says, sounding much nicer now than when she was streaming expletives as you passed out in the truck. “You may call me Grandma Elena. Welcome, dear Chosen One, to The Children of Tempest!”
Yep.
Just as you thought—you’re at the cult.
Goodie.
“And what, uh, exactly am I supposed to be saving you from?”
The old woman’s face darkens, wizened lines of worry deepening around her eyes.
“Are you familiar with monsters, oh Chosen One?”
You glance outside at the bright morning light streaming in through the window. And further out, to a line of black storm clouds rolling in across the golden hills.
“Yes,” you say cautiously, wondering if they’ve been experiencing problems just like in the alley behind the cafe where you work. Perhaps the world-veil is thin here, too. Maybe it’s skaddlers.
You shiver.
Can you take down a skaddler alone with just your sword, and no Ziros to back you up?
You hope so.
But first…
“Hang on,” you say, rubbing your temples. “Are you telling me you kidnapped me, dragged me near the brink of death, and now you’re trying to get me to save you?”
“Not just me, dearie,” she says, sounding older and more tired with every breath. And maybe a little bit sheepish. Good . She ought to. “Our entire community is depending on you.”
“Wonderful. This is getting better by the minute.”
“I really am sorry for the way those buffoons treated you. But we didn’t have a choice—”
Thankfully, the old woman’s apology is interrupted by a sharp knock at the door, so you don’t have to listen to her continue trying to tell you how they didn’t have any other option but to abduct you.
“Hey Gram,” comes a male voice from the other side of the door, and she opens it to reveal the teen boy from the truck. “Might wanna come out to the yard for a minute. Getting real stormy again.”
The old woman swears under her breath, giving you a hurried glance.
“Stay here. We’ll explain more later.”
The both of them vanish into the hall, the door shutting with a dull thud .
The previously bright sunlight flutters, already at the edge of the ominous wall of clouds.
The house where you’re standing must be old. Every step you take creaks as you cross the room to peer out the window.
There, dark clouds race across the sky, blotting out the sun over rolling, golden hills and a fenced community of maybe a few dozen homes. Small groups of people walk to and from little shops and clean, simple houses, carrying baskets of goods or toting farm tools over their shoulders.
Overall, it looks pretty idyllic. At least, for a cult, anyway.
You’re up on a little rise toward the center of town, a vantage that lets you see all the way over the fence and into the wide open farmland beyond.
There’s nothing but crops. Crops and rocks and bluffs, and the occasional dilapidated barn. And maybe a horse or two.
You really are in the middle of nowhere.
But based on how you no longer feel like you’re about to die or pass out, Ziros must have somehow got close.
You hope.
I seem to be at a cult called The Children of Tempest , you think to Ziros as loudly as you can, still feeling a little silly about it.
But it seems to work.
Sometimes.
It did before, at least.
This time, there’s no reply.
Maybe you’re still not good at using the magical link to your advantage.
And what was that vial the old lady named Elena tried to give you last night? Maybe if you’d drank it, it would have helped you feel better sooner.
Either way, you did survive. Barely .
Although…
Looking out the window, the sky has started to take on a very sickly, bright green color.
Goosebumps chase up your arms.
Even though you’re from Bridgeborough, a city in northwestern Washington where a couple claps of thunder count as a big storm, you’ve heard enough accounts of tornado weather to know this is a bad sign.
The people out walking on the street below stop, some gasping and pointing at the sky, others hurrying indoors. A few even scream.
Wind chimes tinkle eerily from below as the breeze picks up, and you frown.
This doesn’t seem good. Not good at all.
For a cult that calls themselves the “Children of Tempest”, they sure seem to be in for a heck of a storm. And so early in the morning, too.
You frown out at the sickly green sky, listening to the sounds of more people screaming and shouting in panic as they race past on the street below. If this is a magical storm, maybe you’d better see if you can help.