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I come to in the trunk of a car, lungs aching. I'm woozy, but doesn't feel like much time has passed. I can still taste the storm on my tongue, and spot the trees of Coleridge in the distance. The two figures are standing over the trunk, wrapping my legs in rope, just like they've wrapped my wrists and ankles.

I try to scream, but my mouth is gagged.

Noticing that I'm awake, one of the men mutters, "Well, shit. Guess we'll have to chloroform her."

"Hold on—let me get my kit."

Terror makes my heart beat like a rabbit's. I find myself wishing for one of the Elites—any one of them—to show up and stop this from happening. I'd even take Georgia at this point.

But no one comes. Instead, as a cloth has acrid-smelling liquid poured on it, one of the men muses, "I wonder if she's as good a dealer as her brother."

"Does it matter? The boss doesn't like the trouble. She's done too much sniffing, so she has to go."

"Yeah, but it's always nice to use the tools you've got."

I try to struggle again, but they lazily reach out and grab me, then push me back into the trunk. There's nothing I can do.

The cloth descends on my face, and though I hold my breath, I know eventually I'll have to inhale through my nose—at which point, this will all be over.

My lungs are burning within seconds.

Instinct takes control, and I breathe in, even as my eyes dart around the parking lot, looking for my savior. But this isn't a fairy tale. No one is following me to save me from the dragons.

As I'm passing out, I hear one last thing.

"What should we do with her?"

"What else? What we did with her brother. I'm sure we've got enough rope in the trunk to do the job."

50It continues…