Page 106 of Hush, Little Baby

I thought he was supposed to meet me in here.

I frown, then dig out my phone from the back pocket of my jeans—the one Nikolaus got me the day after my birthday as a “birthday week present.” The model is the latest and most expensive on the market, and it still feels absurdly extravagant in my hand.

A notification glows on the lock screen.

I pull up my messages and see one from Constantine that came in five minutes ago.

Had to step outside for a call. Parked on the left side of the building. If I’m not back when you finish, come out to the car.

Makes sense. Business intrudes everywhere in Nikolaus’s world. I send a quick thumbs-up, tuck the phone away, and step through the doors into the warm afternoon light.

I head left, following the line of the building. The cultivated shrubs give way to a narrower service road. A few nondescript cars are parked near the curb, but I don’t see Constantine yet. I keep walking, expecting to see him leaning against a car any second.

Everything happens too fast.

An arm snakes around my throat, fingers digging in and restricting my air. Another crashes over my mouth and nose.

My mind shuts down for a second, refusing to process what’s happening, but then I’m thrashing, kicking, trying to bite at the hand suffocating me. I scream, but my voice is stifled and hardly loud enough to draw attention to this corner of the lot.

My attacker hauls me backward, grip tightening like steel bands. Pressure blooms behind my eyes, my ears ringing. I claw at the arm choking me, my feet scrabbling for purchase on sunbaked asphalt.

No—no, no, no—

My lungs burn. Dark spots blossom at the edges of my vision.

I don’t want to die. Don’t let me die. Please, I—

I—

Ni…ko.

…I promised.

22

Charlie

Everything feels wrong the instant consciousness claws its way back into my head. My skull pounds as if wrapped in cotton, thoughts sluicing in and out like they’re wading through muddy water.

My throat and chest feel scraped raw.

Cold seeps through my shirt and jeans.

I don’t understand any of it.

But then I look down at myself and see that there is duct tape tightly binding me from my wrists almost to my elbows. My ankles are lashed together equally merciless, the adhesive biting into my flesh in time with my pulse.

I start to hyperventilate, which is only made worse by the horrifying realization that I have more tape encircling my head, covering my mouth, stuck painfully in my hair, and cutting into my cheeks.

The floor beneath me is coarse concrete, flecked with dark stains. I lie on my side, immobilized, staring at a mottled patch of gray as terror burns the last haze from my mind.

The parking lot. The hand on my mouth. The arm around my throat.

No, no, no, no, this has to be a nightmare. It has to be.

I clamp my eyes shut, willing myself to wake up, wake up, WAKE UP!

Acid crawls up my throat, making it burn even more, but it has to be a bad dream. It can’t be real. It’s just… really, really vivid.