“Unlock that cuff. Get it off,” I shout, my voice wavering.
“Pretty skin,” he says. “No scars yet.”
More cold metal hits my throat. I try to move to one side, thinking he’s putting some sort of neck cuff onto me, but when it pushes against my skin I realize I’m wrong.
He’s holding a knife to my throat.
The sharp end pushes against the side of my neck just a little, enough to draw a tiny drop of blood from me.
He pulls it back and looks at it, frowning at the blood on the tip.
“Jesus,fuck,” I whisper.
“Don’t worry. It’s sterilized,” he says, bringing out a packet and ripping it open. He takes out an alcohol wipe and the astringent smell fills my nostrils as he wipes the tip clean. “Would rather keep it that way, wouldn’t you?”
Cold fear slips down my spine and I realize I’m no longer just out of place. I’m petrified, like I took one wrong turn and ended up behind the walls of a prison.
My eyes dart down the staircase, but everyone has moved further into the house, past the bar.
Even for a club like this, there have to be some lines that people don’t cross. Right?
I don’t think people getkilledin Zenith.
But could it be possible? If someone was determined enough? What kind of people are attracted to a place like this? Who the fuck is this stranger, and does he even go to Crimson College?
“Hey! Somebody fucking get over here,” I call out, hoping someone will listen downstairs. But everyone is off in groups, and over the thrum of the music, no one seems to respond.
Shouts like mine might be commonplace here.
“Anybody upstairs?” I shout. “Get me the fuck out of here?—”
I’m cut off as the stranger’s hand comes down hard at the front of my mask. He punches me right on the mouth, the hard plastic of the mask absorbing the brunt of the blow as his fist makes my lips smash against my teeth.
“Shut. Up,” he says.
Adrenaline surges through me.
Bad.
Very bad.
I can taste blood instantly.
The punch caught my lips and the bottom edge of my nose, and I must have bitten down hard on my tongue. My skin is overheating behind my mask now, and the fleece hood is far too much.
“Stop. I don’t want this.”
“You’re the one who showed up here. Quit whining,” he says.
I can see the slightest hint of a scar behind his mask, right below one of his eyes. There’s something ugly and harsh about him, from the way he looks to the way his voice sounds. A bitter sickness fills my veins.
He pushes the blunt side of the knife against my skin as he uses his other hand to rustle for something else in his pocket.
It’s some sort of metal… thing.
It has prongs and a big ball in the center, and for a second terror passes through me as I think he’s going to shove it down my pants.
But it’s a gag. He moves my mask just enough to expose my lips, then pushes the gag against them, metal sliding onto my tongue and beginning to warm up in the heat of my mouth.