Page 1

The Reckoning

The saying goes: 'Lightning doesn't strike the same place twice.'

That was something I used to believe, but now . . . It didn't mean shit.

I had been stolen twice; once for pleasure, and once for gain.

Both hurt, both had shattered me into unrecognizable pieces of myself.

But only one would keep me alive.

Who am I?

I'm Ivy . . . And I was about to be saved by the enemy.

* * *

The air surgedthrough my lungs like the electric snap of a battery against the tip of your tongue. Inhaling a deep breath, I gasped to keep the oxygen flowing. I wasn't sure if I had died and was awakening to the force who had placed me on the earth to begin with.

My eyes were open, but everything was still black. I was in a deep pit that had no bottom, no top, no walls, only blackness. Trying to move my arms, a stabbing pain scaled over my shoulders then raked down my spine.

I wasn't dead.

Death would've been nicer.

A shred of fear kept me motionless, the pain holding me suspended like a statue.

Where am I?

I could feel the ground against my cheek. It was cold and damp, small grains of sand scuffed against my skin. And in that one second, all my other senses went into overdrive.

The world around me was gone, but I could smell the thickness of old air. It was musty, and I wanted to cough, but I forced my body to hold it in. I couldn't remember how I ended up here, and my silence might have been the only thing still keeping me alive.

Just listen.

My sight might have been stripped away, but I could still hear. My ears turned into megaphones, zeroing in on every noise that echoed. Water was dripping from somewhere near me, I could hear it pinging off of something metal. The normally quiet and easily bypassed sound rang like a bell inside my head. The dripping was slow but constant, coming every few seconds.

Pipes, cold hard floor, moldy scent . . .

A basement?

An old factory?

I wanted to scream in frustration. This couldn't be happening again,not again.

Straining to listen, I tried to figure out if I was alone, or if someone else was in the room, watching, observing, waiting . . .

But I didn't hear any hard breaths, or shuffling of feet across the floor. There was nothing. Complete silence enhanced the torture of the dripping water. Complete silence made my heart pound like a drum inside my chest.

For a brief moment, I wished I could halt the intense thumping of the muscle. I didn't want to give anyone—if they were watching, listening—the realization I was alive.

Because I still wasn't sure if I was supposed to be.

Wiggling my fingers gently behind my back, I felt the rope trapping my wrists. Shifting my ankles ever so lightly, I felt the coarse fibers digging into my flesh. It burned, buzzing up my calves, making me quietly cringe to myself.

This is not happening.

I won't let it.