Someone was here.
Someone had come.
I stilled, straining my ears to listen as footsteps echoed down through the floorboards overhead. It was difficult to hear over the sudden roar of my pulse between my ears. I felt a ticklish sprinkle of dust falling against my face. I couldn’t see it; I couldn’t see anything. The candles had burned out several hours ago. It was dark as a crypt in the basement and cold as ice. I shivered, regretting my choice of a fashionable skirt and tights instead of, say, a set of thermal footy-pajamas to ward off the chill.
The footsteps stopped their thudding. My heart skipped a beat as the door at the top of the half-rotted staircase creaked open on rusty hinges. For a second, nothing happened. Whoever was up there seemed to be listening for signs of life. Or signs of impending danger. But then, a narrow shaft of light spliced the pervasive dark — the beam of a flashlight, shining down into the basement, pooling on the dense earthen floor. It fixed for a long beat on my tan leather bucket bag, sitting with my coat on the bottom step.
I opened my mouth to call out for help, but clamped my lips together before a single syllable escaped. For all I knew, whoever was up there was in cahoots with the Bay Colony Coven biddies who’d left me in this rather uncomfortable position. Or worse! What if it was a Heretic? What if it was just your standard, run-of-the-mill serial killer?
A foot thunked down on the topmost step, then paused before continuing, as if testing whether or not it would splinter. I didn’t dare draw a single breath as the boots began to pound their way downward. The wood groaned precariously in protest. I kept my eyes on the bobbing beam of the flashlight as it reached ground level, wincing against the sudden flare as it swept sharply across the space and snared me in its glaringly bright crosshairs.
“Agh!” I yelled, slamming my eyelids shut. My retinas were searing. “Watch it!”
There was a terse beat of silence, and then a low voice growled, “Watch it?Really? I come here to rescue you, and that’s all you have to say to me?”
My eyes sprang back open. “Graham?”
He grunted in response to my low, incredulous inquiry. I blinked rapidly, adjusting to the brightness, and he came slowly into focus. He was dressed in all black from his boots to his jeans to his leather jacket to his stormy expression. His hands were crossed at the wrists — one gripped a flashlight, the other had a finger poised on the trigger of a sleek black handgun.
“Jeeze! Don’t shoot!” I yelped.
The gun lowered slightly. “Anyone else down here?”
“No, they’ve been gone for hours.” My voice was small. “It’s only me.”
With a short nod, he tucked the gun into the back waistband of his jeans. In two short strides he was there in front of me, crouched by my battered knees, which were bloodied from my fall in the alley — and, if I had to guess, from being dragged unceremoniously across rough pavement by three little old ladies. The tights were torn, the skin scraped away. Pain throbbed through me, a constant undercurrent.
“What are you doing here?” I whispered, half-convinced I was imagining Graham’s presence.
He didn’t answer. It almost seemed like he hadn’t heard me speak. He was staring at the dried blood on my knees, his eyes-far seeing. With aching slowness, he reached out and skimmed a fingertip across my right kneecap, his touch light as a feather on the wound. I sucked in a sharp breath at the contact. Hearing it, he pulled away instantly. His eyes finally lifted to lock on mine, the raw emotion in their depths burning bright even in the darkness.
“Who did this?” His voice was a low rasp of rage. “Who hurt you?”
“Um,” I squeaked, a little afraid of him in that moment. Much as I was annoyed at Eliza, Sally, and Agatha for their overprotective antics, their hearts had been in the right places. (For the most part.) I certainly wasn’t about to set Graham loose on them. Not when he looked fully capable of committing triple homicide. “I’m not hurt. A little freaked out, sure, but I’m fine. Really.”
His eyes narrowed. “Fine?”
“Fine,” I echoed, nodding. Because I was. Mostly. I mean, sure, I had to pee pretty desperately. Yes, I was so hungry I’d contemplated chewing through my rope bindings — not for escape, but sustenance. And, okay, I could admit to being a teeny, tiny bit scared that I was going to die down here, alone in the dark, forgotten by the world, never to be heard from again. But I wasn’t about to admit any of that to Graham, of all people.
“Gwendolyn.”
I blinked at his use of my real name. It was jarring, after months ofWizard of Ozmockery. Not entirely unpleasant, though, even if he was saying it in a rather intimidating, scolding manner. I wished suddenly that I knew him well enough to read his facial expressions, because the one he was giving me…
Wowza.
It was a doozy.
“Um.” I swallowed hard. “Yeah?”
“You’ve been missing for six hours. You’re tied to a chair. Your wrists are rubbed raw. Your knees are shredded. You look pale and shaken, not at all like your usual smartass self. So forgive me if I call bullshit on your claims to befine.”
“I’m not a smartass,” I grumbled, somewhat affronted. “I’m a sweetheart. Everyone says so.”
“I must be the exception, then.”
Rude!
“Are you going to proceed with this rescue mission or did you come here to insult me?”