Page 11

I shift my weight. It’s not just my wrists and legs that are hurting. My stomach has been growling for who knows how long and my bladder is about ready to explode.

I clear my throat. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Then go where you stand.” Pestilence continues to stare into those flames like he can read the future from them.

He’s making it easier and easier for me to not feel guilty about shooting and burning him.

“If you’re hoping to keep me alive,” I say, “I’ll need to eat and drink and sleep and shit and piss.”

Any regrets yet, buddy?

He sighs, then gets up. Pestilence strides over to me, his stature commanding; he’s hardly the monster who woke me this morning, and that bothers me like no other.

Wearing the flannel shirt, jeans and boots, he looks painfully human. Even his eyes, which had seemed so alien when I first caught sight of him, now look full of life. Life and agony.

He hooks his fingers under the duct tape binding my wrists, and with a swift jerk, he rips it in two.

Note to self: this fucker is strong.

He tears the rest of the tape away and unties the rope from the railing. Once he has it in hand, he leads me down the hallway, only stopping once we get to the bathroom.

Problem number one occurs as soon as he closes the door behind us.

I glance at the massive chest that blocks the exit.

“It’s called privacy,” I say.

“I’m aware of the term, conniving human,” he says, crossing his arms. “Why you think you deserve it is a question for a higher power.”

I huff and turn from him.

Problem number two occurs after I try to undo my pants. I barely have feeling in my hands, let alone the dexterity needed for the task.

Damnit.

“I need help.”

Pestilence leans against the door. “I’m disinclined to give you any.”

“Oh, for the love of—”

“God?” he finishes for me, raising his eyebrows. “Do you really thinkHeis going to help you?”

The scholar in me is instantly piqued by his words, but now is not exactly the time to learn all the mysteries of the universe.

I blow out a breath. “Look, if you’re regretting keeping me alive, then kill me, but if you are married to this idea of yours, I’d really appreciate it if you’d pull my goddamned pants down.”

“Would it make you suffer to mess yourself?” he asks.

I hesitate. He has to know this is a loaded question.

Which answer is likelier tonotscrew me over?

“Yeah,” I finally say, settling on the truth, “it would.”

He leans against the door. “As I said, I’m disinclined to help.”

He doesn’t move to leave, however, and now I’m simply grateful I have a toilet to pee in.