The Puppet Master (Puppets & Property #1)

Luna

There are many reasons to believe I’m not a sentimental person, but perhaps the clearest is my utter hatred for fate.

It hasn’t mattered how coincidental the events in my life have aligned themselves—the thought of a future outside calculations is so cowardly avoidant it’s hard to give credit to anyone who even utters the word fate or destiny or soul mates, or anything else along those nonsensical lines.

In the end, our life is our own, decided by the choices we’ve made and by the way we’ve responded to the choices of others and the happenings of the world around us.

So then, when my groggy eyes pop open, lashes brushing thick material that blackens my world, the first thought that pops into my mind is…

What have I done?

The gasp that rips through my lungs echoes as I jolt up, hands digging into something hard and damp. The jagged edges of rock, metallic and moist, the scent so strong it coats my mouth.

Or maybe it’s something else. Copper coiled around a sandpaper tongue.

Blood?

A whimper breaks through the dark: thin, strained, unfamiliar yet somehow mine. I reach for the blindfold, but my hand feels heavy and weak. I smack myself in the face, disoriented, worse than I should be.

Not blood.

Drugs.

I claw the blindfold off and slam it down with a fist, stripping myself of a pause I wish I’d taken.

Candle-light licks up damp rock encaging me in a tiny cell. I scoot backward on rough earth until my back bangs against stone.

“Hello?” I call out, unease reverberating off the walls of what can only be a cave. Deep, dark, no outside light to hint at how far the tunnel extends past the metal bars.

No response. Not a sound other than the thump in my ears.

I shuffle to a crouch and dart my eyes like an animal searching for predators. The cell looks made for two, but it feels crowded. Stale air hangs with particles of threat that cling to my skin and settle in my throat.

I can taste it, feel it, smell it, and it’s almost enough to send my survival instincts into full gear. A fatal mistake—not only a waste of adrenaline, but a reveal of cards. A flare announcing my readiness to fight, attack, survive.

I’ve never woken up in a cave, but I know predators. What they crave, how they see, what excites and what soothes. The worst thing you could do is look anything but weak.

I close my eyes for half a breath.

Don’t react.

Tune.

“Who—Who’s there?” When my elbow scrapes jagged stone, I jolt. Gasp. Turn.

I rise fast, hands folding over my stomach.

“Hello?!” I yell, my voice loud and sharp. Intentionally scared. A lioness disguised as a mouse.

No response. Again.

Regroup.

Where am I?

I look around as if it’s necessary. It’s a cell deep within a cave, already established. But I still let my eyes study the sleek, metal bars—all black with minimal dust. Not a trace of rust, despite the damp air.

It’s new.

Probably made for me. A small comfort knowing there isn’t a dark history to wonder about.

He/they drugged me.

Why?

To transport me. Or disorient me. Or both.

What’s my last memory?

My fingers dig into my arms as I try to think. But my memory is so fogged by the drugs, it’s hard to recall anything about yesterday. Was it day? Was it night? Was I studying?

I dig harder, my long nails scraping flesh, forcing my mind to sharpen with the pain. When the image clears, I release.

My bed. I was definitely in my bed.

Cinder was curled on my chest, my collarbone vibrating with her steady purr. It was half-past midnight when I last looked at the clock. My eyes were crossing after hours of studying and scrolling Reddit, yet my mind was wired.

I took a pill.

My vision blurred before the white ceiling faded away, Cinder’s paw on my neck the last thing I remember before I slipped into sleep.

An echo sounds from deep in the cave: a rock dropping in water. Maybe a small animal. Maybe a sociopath.

“Is somebody there?” I call, quieter now. I watch the pitch black of the tunnel and wait for a movement, a shadow, a person to appear.

Nothing.

Stepping up to the bars, I search for an opening or groove. For some indication of a door.

Nothing.

Did he build this while I was unconscious, lying steps away?

What’s the plan—keep me locked in here forever?

I grab the bars and yank. Cold metal sears the soles of my feet as I brace for leverage. My groans travel the tunnel as I jerk and pull, body leaned back, arms straining. It doesn’t even rattle.

“What the fuck is this?!” Curling my hand into a fist, I slam one of the bars. The only answer is an ache in the side of my hand.

I spin to seek out a candle and settle on the first I see. A long wax stick burned down to inches, held in a metal base bolted into the rock. Who knows how long ago these were lit—or what I would’ve done if I’d woken up in darkness.

Careful not to snuff out the flame, I push the candle through the bars and scan for anything outside the cell. Not a person, but a sign.

This is starting to feel like a game.

Something round and wooden draws my eye to the cave floor. I sidestep in front of the object, kneel, and extend the candle through.

A shovel. Wooden handle toward me, steel blade lost in shadow but unmistakably hopeful.

I return the candle to its holder and lie flat on my belly, the bar bruising my cheek as I reach through. I can barely graze it. Whoever placed it there either measured the distance with surgical precision or gambled on my escape. Playfully evil or incredibly stupid.

“Come on,” I moan, extending my arm until my ligaments scream for mercy. Pain lights up my shoulder as my longest two fingertips pinch the splintered wood and try—unsuccessfully—to drag it closer.

I close my eyes, let my arm relax. Inhale wet dust.

Then plunge into the bars, fingertips catching the shovel in a loose grip—just enough to drag it a centimeter.

The next centimeter comes more easily than the first. Then an inch. Then my whole palm is grasping the handle and pulling the shovel through, a splinter catching in my thumb.

A victorious pop leaps from my mouth—half laugh, half cry—as I stand and sling the shovel over my shoulder. Weapon first, tool second.

“I get what you’re doing!” I yell. Though I’m not sure who I’m talking to.

My eyes search the black beyond the bars. Silent. Still. But I picture eyes watching me from the darkness. Or a computer.

“Show yourself, you coward!”

The shovel jerks as I pivot. Shadows dance in the candlelight and pull my attention toward nothing, imagined threats as disorienting as the drugs.

I wait a minute.

Then another.

But, of course, no one comes. And no one will. That’s why they left the shovel.

Another splinter stings my palm as I grip the handle and slam the shovel down, metal clanging against rock and dirt.

“I’m not playing your fucking games!”

This time, I don’t wait for a response. I find a spot by the wall and fold myself down, arms cinched around my knees. Heartbeat thudding in my ears.

Here’s what I know.

Whoever built this cell didn’t bother with a door. They lit candles but left no lighter.

There’s no food basket in the corner. No jugs of water anywhere.

I woke up on rock that fades into loose dirt near the bars. A shovel left just within reach.

There’s no room to question what I’m supposed to do.

But is this a game? Or a test?

If it’s a game, I’m designed to lose. If it’s a test, I’m not sure I want to pass.

So I just wait—part pride, part stubbornness pinning me to the cave floor. Maybe a half hour passes while I watch a candle burn. Maybe longer. Maybe less. Every minute stretches, contracts, distorts itself until time is only measured by the melting wax.

Occasional sounds come from down the cave, but I’m not convinced they’re human. Just the slow drip of water into a puddle and the skitter of rodents.

I try not to imagine what my father would say if he saw me now. Cold and pathetic and cowardly. He spent years drilling bravery, strength, intelligence into me, preparing me for a day as dark as this. And here I am again, wasting adrenaline.

I try not to hear his voice… but it comes anyway.

Why are you just sitting there?

I stand, pace the cell, spiral through every scenario that might be waiting outside this cave. The longer I think, the faster my heart beats, the shorter the candle burns.

Cold sweat clings to cashmere and vacuum seals it to my chest. A sweater I know I wasn’t wearing when I fell asleep.

I try not to think about what that means, who might’ve been the one to undress me out of my night shorts and top as I slept, then had the foresight to redress me in warm clothes.

I pause, close my eyes, tilt my head back.

“Screw it.”

Today my captor gets what he wants.

I pick up the shovel and plunge it into dirt too soft for a cave—a hole dug, then filled in. Then get to work digging beneath the cell door.

My heavy breaths ping off the walls and mingle with the scrape of metal against earth. Everything sounds so loud I’m certain I’ll hear anyone approaching. Every shift, every breath ricochets down the tunnel.

I try the hole too soon. Twice. The first time, I throw the shovel down and cry out when my body doesn’t fit. The second, I make it halfway before a metal bar stops me cold.

Panic sweeps my chest. I rock back and forth, my hips wedged between dirt and steel, going nowhere. After a torturous minute of pushing, my hips give, and I work my way into the cell.

I attack the dirt with the shovel—wild, frantic—and fling clumps against the wall in sharp, ugly jerks. When a candle snuffs out in the chaos, I force myself to slow down. Each jam of the blade turns sharp, precise, punishing. As if Mother Earth put me here.

Once I’m confident the hole is big enough for one of my brothers, I drop the shovel and cringe at my raw hands. Angry red, blistered and split.

I wipe my hands on my sweater, drop to my back, and shimmy beneath the bars.

This time, it works.

I’m free.