Chapter 31
WINNIE
Half the time when Bash ties me up, I pretend to struggle with the ropes and the knots. I like him fucking me while I’m tied up and he likes fucking me while I’m tied up, so really it’s for both our benefit.
I don’t know how to get out of all of his knots. He is the expert, after all, but it’s clear the Witch Killers do not have the experience of Bash, the fae king.
Because this knot takes me no time at all. Both my wrists and my ankles are free, and I move quickly to the ropes binding Mom.
“Where did you learn how to do this?” She asks as I unravel the last length from her wrists.
“It’s a long story.”
“Bash,” she says quickly, and I can feel the blood rushing to my face.
“Yes.”
“He and Kas were my favorite. Did I ever tell you that?”
“No. I don’t think you did.”
“Sweet boys.”
“They’re like, several hundred years old.”
She shrugs. “Age is meaningless with men from the Seven Isles.”
She’s not wrong.
To make it still look believable, I reposition the ropes around Mom so when someone comes in, from a distance it’ll still look like she’s tied up.
I lean into her, whispering through her hair to her ear. “I’m going to see if I can get someone to come in here. I just need you to stay where you are, just like this. Okay?”
She nods.
I take up a length of my rope and wind each tail tightly around my hands, getting a good two-foot span between them.
“Help! Something is wrong with her! Please help!”
There’s a rustle beyond the door.
I position myself behind it, rope ready.
A lock clicks open.
The door is thrust open.
A man steps into the gloom, checking Mom from a distance. “What’s wrong?”
I wish I had the Shadow so I could land on the man’s back from above like a fucking bird of prey.
But I can be resourceful without it.
I leap, getting the rope around him. It tightens over his throat, and I drop all my weight. He starts choking immediately, scrambling at the rope. When it’s clear that’s a dead-end, he staggers backward, ramming me into the wall.
The wind gets knocked out of me, but I’m not letting go. I’ll fucking choke, too, for all I care.
He spins, tries to throw me off.
Teeth clenched, I hold on tightly. All I have to do is HOLD ON. That is my only job. I don’t think about anything else.
He sputters and pitches forward.
We land with a crash, him on his stomach, me on his back.
Still, I hold.
I hold and hold.
“I think he’s dead,” Mom says. “Winnie. Come on.”
I finally let go.
Mom and I scramble up and peek around the doorway.
There’s a hallway that runs straight ahead, and another to the left. I spot a few more doors, all closed.
We have a fifty-fifty chance of guessing right, so I grab Mom’s arm and tug her forward, straight ahead. When we get to the end of the first hall, it turns to the right, but here it opens up to a larger room.
Together, we edge along the wall until it comes to an end. Voices filter out, echoing in a large space. I think we’re in an old warehouse, judging by the feel and layout of the place. There’s still the smell of oil and grime in the air.
I duck down and check around the corner.
Witch Killers are gathered in the center of the large receiving area.
Several folding chairs are sitting in a loose circle.
There’s a table shoved up against one wall piled high with books and stacks of paper.
Tackled and taped to the wall above are pictures of me, along with grainy, blurry pictures of Vane and the twins.
There are images of Pan too, but all of them are pencil sketches, as if no one has been lucky enough to capture him on film.
The hallway ends on a window, but there’s no coverage to give us time to open it and shimmy out. There are what look to be several exit doors on the receiving area, but the Witch Killers stand between us and them.
Gesturing to Mom, we backtrack.
“Let’s try the other way,” I whisper to her when we pass our holding room again.
At the other end of the hall, we following several twists and turns until we emerge into a large shipping and receiving area. It’s dark, quiet. There’s a closed garage door down a ramp, but next to it is a man door.
Relief wells up, but I try to keep it tamped down. Not until we’re free. Not until we’re in the open night air.
We quietly make our way across the smaller receiving room, but right before I reach out for the doorhandle, Gretel steps in front of me.
“Impressive,” she says. “If you weren’t tainted by Myth Maker power, I might even be willing to train you, Winnie.” And then she punches me in the face.