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Prologue

I have never run so fast before.

The woods are thick and impenetrable to the eye, and I stumble through, desperate for a hint of light.

Trees reach out with long branches to impede my path.

Rocks shift and make me skid. Bushes appear from nowhere, sharp things scratching me open.

More than once, my ankle turns, sending searing pain through my body.

But I cannot stop. If I stop, I will be dead.

Maybe here, under the sky and moon. Maybe there, in the vast darkness.

I have to get away. This is my only chance.

I’m panting, but I must be quiet, breathe through my nose, and pray he can’t hear me crashing through the trees.

I have a head start, only just, but his footsteps come anyway, their rhythm a corrupt heartbeat.

I veer off to the right, then to the left, following no discernible path, trying to throw him off.

He is hunting me, I know he is, back there with that look on his face—the twist of his lips, the shine in his dark eyes, the perverse joy in being the cause of my fear.

The trees open into a meadow, and now I can pour on the speed, but my lungs are about to burst. I trip, fall, rolling. Scramble back up. My palms sting; wetness and gravel. I can smell the blood, and other, darker things.

In the deep of night, without much moonglow, the field is not easy to traverse. I stumble again, and again, skin knees, shins, shoulders, but there is darkness at the end of the meadow. A cleaner view. Not light, but infinity. The cliff is ahead. If I can make the cliff ... then what?

A choice.

I check the bandage wrapped around my chest. It is warm and wet.

Blood still seeps from the deep cut. He likes to watch me bleed.

Can he follow my path by the scent alone?

Am I simply a wounded deer, dragging itself to its inexorable end?

He will find me. He will take me back to that hell .

.. Panic flows through me anew, and I start off again but can feel the weakness in my legs.

My lungs hurt; my body is fighting me. It was not meant to run this far, this fast. But I stay upright, push on, because not to is worse.

A fate worse than death, isn’t that what they say?

If he catches me ... I don’t want to think about that.

I don’t know how long he’s had me captive.

Weeks, certainly. Perhaps months? The gentle swell of my belly should tell time better than any watch, but without a calendar, without scans and blood tests, there’s no way to know for sure.

Long enough to mark me, inside and out. Too long.

The darkness expands, and I realize I’m closing in on the cliffside.

To my left, round twin lights appear, bobbing in the darkness. A car. A car is coming. That means there is a road. There is another escape. I turn and run toward freedom, forgetting all the pains, all the fatigue. There is nothing in me now but hope. A car means a road means a town means help.

The hand on my arm appears from nowhere, yanking me to a halt, almost pulling my shoulder from the socket.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks, dark amusement in his tone. He isn’t even out of breath. As if he’s flown here on dark wings, like the demon he is.

Hope vanishes with his closed fist against my jaw.

Pain explodes, and I fall to the ground.

I try to cry out, but nothing comes. My mouth won’t work.

Won’t open. He covers me with his body, his hand tight against my throat.

His weight, his horrible weight, pushing me down to the dirt, hiding me in the long grass.

The car whizzes by, and with it, my last chance.

The woods are silent and hungry, waiting, listening. There is nothing now except the panting of my breath and the singing joy of his black heart. I can hear it pounding above my ear. That, and other things. Arousal, to start. As if he’s enjoying this. Of course he is. He’s won.

He pulls me to my feet and starts the long, slow march back.

I don’t help, make him drag me. The pain in my face makes tears flow down my cheeks.

I think my jaw is broken and I know my tongue is cut; I’m gurgling blood.

I spit and dribble and stay limp until he jerks me upright and in a low, menacing voice explains to me in detail exactly what he’s going to do if I don’t cooperate.

By the third sentence of description, I’ve found my feet and stiffened my spine.

It’s not about what he’ll do to me. It’s what he’ll do to them.