The Merciless III by Danielle Vega

Author:Danielle Vega
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2017-05-19T13:40:53+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I wake up with my head hanging forward, my chin resting against my chest. Long, slow waves of pain crash over me. It’s like slamming into a wall, or falling, or both at the same time. Something hard presses into my back, forcing my spine rod straight.

I lift my head and open my eyes. Everything blurs. I can just make out white carpet beneath my bare feet and white curtains pulled closed over a window on the far wall. The room is dim, lit only by a single lamp, and hulking furniture casts deep shadows across the floor. Duct tape binds my wrists to a chair. I try to wriggle my hands free, but that twists the tape into a skinny cord that digs deeper into my skin.

A hand drops onto my head. “Keep still, my child,” Pastor Joe says. He stands directly behind me. I can’t see him.

Stay calm, I tell myself. Think. Pastor Joe might be a fucking psychopath, but he’s not a big guy, and he doesn’t seem to have thought this out too well. I can take him.

Pastor Joe removes his hand from my head, and I hear the muffled sound of footsteps. I crane my head around to look at him, but he stands just outside my line of vision. I catch a glimpse of white hair, the frayed edge of a T-shirt.

The rest of the room spins—the ketamine rushing through my veins—then comes slowly into focus. White dressers. White bed, covered in fluffy white pillows. Angels crowd every available surface: fat cherubs holding harps, and beautiful women with golden curls and soft, feathery wings. Tall angels and short angels, all watching me with glassy, unseeing eyes.

Hope’s guitar case leans against the wall next to the closet, stickers plastered across it. One of them shows a tiny ghost holding a sign that reads FEAR ME, I’M CUTE. It’s the only thing in the entire room that looks like her.

“Look,” I say, swallowing. My mouth feels like it’s stuffed full of wool. “I was just dropping Hope off—”

Pastor Joe begins to hum, cutting me off. It takes me a moment to recognize the tune.

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound . . .

The humming grows louder, until it’s directly behind me. I twist in my chair, pulling at the duct tape around my wrists. The twisty cords bite into my skin.

Pastor Joe walks around to the front of my chair and kneels. His mouth is a hard line. His white hair is mussed and sticks up at strange angles. In the dim light, his eyes look almost black.

I blink, and his face goes fuzzy, then comes into focus again. He’s holding an angel statuette in one hand. This one isn’t pretty. She has an unforgiving expression on her tiny porcelain face. Each feather in her wings comes to a sharp point.

“It’s okay, Brooklyn,” Pastor Joe says. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Like hell, I think. You don’t drug a teenage girl and tie her to a chair if all you’re looking for is a little chat.

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