After about a zillion stairs, I'm rolled off a familiar shoulder and dumped to the floor like I'm a sack of dry goods. The floor shrieks beneath me like I weigh a ton. In truth, it's probably so old and neglected that it's about to give way.

The tape around my wrists is cut indelicately with a blade. I remove the patch over my eyes and mouth with my own hands.

I can see why I was allowed to do so. There's nothing to see. No one to hear me scream except for the monsters who kidnapped me. The shadow of a "man" who brought me here is about to close and lock the door. Only because of some far-off flicker of candlelight can I see anything at all.

He's wearing a ski mask, but he has a certain build, a recognizable scent, a dark leer I'm pretty sure I've been the object of before.

"Please, Rollin," I guess correctly. While he's shutting the door in my face, there's the tiniest flinch. "Tell me what this is about. If there's anything I can do..."

I crawl closer to him, stopping on my knees in a begging stance just shy of the doorway. The towel around me—all I was given to wear—tugs out of the fold. It slips to my stomach. He's not above looking as I readjust it over my chest.

What's a glimpse worth to him when he's already seen me naked? It isn't much, but it's something. There's a note of pity and desire in his sigh. It won't get me out of here, but it may provide a penny for his thoughts.

He doesn't seem to have any, though. Nothing he's willing to share without careful consideration. Half of his attention is consumed by the stairwell.

I force myself to keep rambling, while he's still here and undecided. "If you can't tell me, could you do me one small favor? Tell Jay. . ."

I bite my lip, not knowing where I was going with that. I'm confused. At a loss for words. I'm not okay.

Does Jael know I'm here? Is he even alive? Will I be for long?

Rollin's grunt makes his opinion of "us"—whatever it was Jael and I had for like five minutes—perfectly clear.

"What could you possibly have to say to him?" he snarls. "He didn't carry you up here, but he's more to blame for this than I am."

He's right. I have no response for that. Nothing to say to either of them.

Still, the tears speak for themselves. I've held it together this long, but that smidgeon of hope just shattered. It was the only thing keeping them contained.

"That's what I thought," Rollin answers in my place, his sympathy pretty much nil. If he hadn't been so handsy on the couch at Bryony's Halloween party, I might have the capacity to accept that.

"Get some sleep," he barks again, like it's an order. "Take care of yourself. Do as you're told. That's the only advice I can offer."

In other words, be the perfect little prisoner and fulfill my "purpose" with as little effort on their end as possible.  

"What . . . am . . . I going . . . to be told . . . to do?" Through violent sobs, I can barely piece the sentence together. If he understands me at all, I'd be very surprised.

I have no money, skill, or information. There's really only one thing left...

"I have to go." He glances warily in the direction of the stairwell again. "I've been here too long already."

His fear is telling. And terrifying. I am so screwed.

The door slams in my face. I thought it was dark before, and now I realize how wrong I was. It's pure black, except for the dim sliver of light coming from beneath the door and the blue-black square behind me. There's one window, but the sky doesn't have much to offer. The surrounding trees are tall and dense, and it's a cloudy night. The room itself feels small, enclosed, like a closet, but I can't get a good sense of the actual size. Just the age. It creaks with every movement, and I can feel the dust in my eyes and sinuses already.

I've also lost track of time. If I had to venture a guess, dawn is probably a couple hours off. There's no trace of it yet. No relief from it. No hope...

I catch the sound of keys dangling. The lock rattles, a bolt clicks, and then there's just darkness and silence.

As stupid and pointless as it may be, I launch myself at the door and check the knob. As old as it may be, the contraption is solid metal. The wood of the door seems inches thick. I probably couldn't break it down if I had an ax. Still, I pound on it until my fists can't take it anymore. And I scream until my voice gives out.

No one comes to scold me or save me. I stumble toward the window as a last resort. I'm in an attic, it seems. Three stories off the ground, at least. After about ten yards of overgrown grass, the rest is just untouched forest as far as I can see, which isn't far. There's no lamp, light, or road anywhere nearby, and a dark mist skims the treetops.

Even if I could escape through the window, where would I go? How far could I get in a towel with no shoes? By now, it isn't more than a few degrees above freezing. I can feel that chill indoors. 

I tug on the frame and fiddle with the lock anyway. Until I prick my hand on something. With a sharp intake of breath, I pull it back. Within moments, I'm pretty sure there's blood running down the front of my hand.

Stumbling backwards, my legs hit something. I collapse on what must be an old cot. It has no sheets or blankets, shrieks like the devil, and barely withstands my fall.

There may be something else I can do, while they're assuming I'm at my weakest, but the truth is, they're right. I'm blind to almost everything, and I don't have the will to get up.

So, I cry myself to sleep instead.

***

I must have checked for daylight at least twenty times throughout what remained of the night. When I finally see the first trace of it, it's not on my terms. The door whips open and I awaken with a jolt.

Someone comes tramping inside the room like I'm not here, trying to sleep. It's still very early. Only within the last hour have I been capable of sleep. I spent too much time fighting it and now the chance seems gone. 

The door slams and locks. My "visitor" pockets the keys and goes about her business.

With my vision blurred to near uselessness, I sit up, the towel clutched to my chest. I went from wearing it, to using it as a blanket, legitimately concerned I might wake up with hypothermia. Or not wake up at all, for any number of other reasons.

I blink a few times to clear the grime and turn my gaze to the sharp sting on my right hand. There's a sizable cut on my index finger. I didn't imagine it this time. There was something sharp by the window lock. The wound is scabbed over, and it won't be life-threatening if I can keep it clean, but still, how? Why?

It's hard to pick out what's "real" from the nightmares—based on memory, warped by dread.

The woman's face doesn't sharpen my awareness. Although there's something familiar about her, I don't think I've ever seen her before. She doesn't bother to introduce herself and I try not to stare.

From the glimpses I manage to steal, her coloring and features are common and unremarkable. If I called her ordinary, it would be a compliment. She looks and dresses like the schoolteacher you'd never want. The kind, you can tell, at first glance, hates children with every fiber of her being. Hates everyone, really, if you remind her of your existence, something I hesitate to do.

Not too concerned about the dust that flies everywhere, she plops a pile of laundry on a small dresser I didn't previously see. It draws my eye to a doorless passageway to the next room, something else I failed to notice. There's a sink in view with no mirror. It's an adjoining bathroom—something that resembles one, I should say.

The mean old lady goes in there and doesn't immediately come out. She flushes the toilet. Checks the sink. The bathroom seems narrow, much tinier than the room I'm in. The sink looks too rusty to suggest the water is drinkable, and it doesn't inspire confidence about the toilet and tub I can't quite make out from where I'm sitting. It's probably foolish to assume the bathroom is fully operational by modern standards.

From what little I can tell, it's a spooky old house in the middle of nowhere. I'm probably being kept in the servants' quarters, what remains of them. Dust, rust, warped furniture, splintered floors, dingy yellow curtains that may have been beige or white a hundred years ago. I wish that was an exaggeration.

I sneeze and resist the urge to rub my eyes. My contacts are still in, and they shouldn't be. They're biweekly disposables, at the end of their term before I got here. In the near future, I'll have to make a hard choice. For now, I just hope to get through the day with my vision somewhat intact. If I keep crying as much as I have been, maybe I'll get a few extra days out of them. It's hard to believe that this is the bright side of anything, but these are my new set of circumstances. I can already tell, I'm supposed to feel grateful for the "generosity" they bestow.

In two quick, deliberate strides, the woman comes out of the bathroom.

She's a broad woman, coated everywhere in a layer of bulk that is only to my disadvantage. There isn't quite enough of it to stymie her strength or hinder her movement, and she's glowering down at me like I'm a puppy who just peed on the rug. "When does your monthly cycle end?"

The question is so random. Forget about why. It takes me a second to figure out what she's asking me, and how I might go about answering her, if at all.

"Uh," is just about all I can get out before she slaps me across my left cheek. Everything shifts toward static, like my vision and cognition. My sinuses and tear ducts. My extremities. The pain is the only thing that registers, and I lurch backward, the towel be damned, when her arm seems to be charging up for a brutal, backhanded return journey.

My reflexes do not betray me. Though this woman does not seem to hold back, the second swipe just grazes my hair. "I asked you a question."

I get hit with a drop of spittle below my eye and make a point to wipe it away with the towel that has collapsed to my lap. I'm normally discreet, even in front of other women, but there comes a point where you just don't care anymore. Forget today. Thanks to one incident or another, I was there last night. All night. Except for those few minutes it actually felt special. Except that it wasn't, if I believe Rollin...

"Do you think I could get some clothes before we get to know each other?" I inquire, politely rude, which is more scathing than I would have predicted for myself. "I'm not really in the mood for girl talk without them. Oh, and by the way, my name is Sam, but I'm sure you know that already. What I don't know is your name and why I was brought here against my will."

She glares down at me, seemingly as resentful of my presence as I am, but she has no immediate reaction, physical or otherwise. And then she breaks into a smile that keeps widening. Honestly, I prefer the glare. It's far less terrifying.

"Yes, Samantha, I do know you, quite intimately. So does everyone else in this household." Her mouth pinches into this awful sneering smirk. "If it makes you feel more comfortable, then sure, we can get our introductions out of the way, officially. I am Ms. Prue Fowler, mistress of this manor," she informs me, her knobby chin jutting out proudly. "You can call me mistress, but that's only when I grant you permission to speak. Yes, mistress. No, mistress..." To mock me, she makes a poor attempt to "sweeten" her voice. "I will ask, and you will answer. And then we'll get along well enough. If you refuse, however . . . don't ever assume these accommodations are a given." She alludes to my attic prison with a lazy twirl of her hand while she's walking away. "Or that your vitality is yours to keep, in full." She removes a white garment from the top of her laundry pile and tosses it beside me upon her return.

I shake out the fabric. It's an old-fashioned nightgown—billowy, long, and scratchy enough to grate at my skin. At least it looks warm, I try to convince myself, pulling it over my head.

There's a small, cast-iron radiator beneath the drafty window, but it looks like it hasn't worked in half a century.

Any underwear? I squint at the pile across the room, and can't tell for sure, but it looks like there are only sheets left, so I assume not. Good thing the nightgown is long...

"I'm surprised you bothered to request any clothing," my mistress goes on. "You've made quite the fool of yourself parading around without them—"

"And whose fault is that?" I ask, fiddling with the tangled, confusing tie at the neck.

Everyone I've met in Jael's circle is probably more responsible than I am. If my nudity is so offensive, they could have thrown me a bathrobe or had the courtesy to abduct me after I was done showering. I did live there for two weeks. Why the sudden hurry?

Prue's eye's flare and it grabs my attention. It doesn't matter. It's my fault. And I should have kept my mouth shut. I don't know what came over me. Do I have a death wish?

They go from a muddy brown to a swirling, vacant black. She doesn't even have to lift a hand to block the air from my lungs.

"I wasn't finished," she informs me, eerily slow and calm, while I choke for breath. "Didn't I warn you? I speak, you listen, with few exceptions. Your innocence isn't one of them."

The squeeze intensifies, silencing me. Only the fear of dying can compete with the conviction behind the rest of her promiscuity sermon. I'm sure I will get the gist. It may come from the other side of the morality spectrum, but the underlying message will be more familiar to me than my own reflection.

"You may have turned a head or two with your wiles, but I find pickled bullfrogs to be more enchanting, so don't bother being cute with me. And since I've resumed control of this hullabaloo, thank His Infernal Majesty, there's no sense strutting around like anyone cares to see that filth." Prue's attention flicks to the corner of the room by the ceiling. With eyeballs that are astoundingly free to wander, I follow her gaze there. Whether she means to or not, she points out the lens of a video camera. "I will know, and it will end horribly for anyone you happen to ensnare. Am I making myself perfectly clear?"

Swap in the devil for the lord, add a camera and a hex to the isolation and abuse, and yes, I get it. It's another chapter of the same old story. And it undoubtedly has the same unhappy ending—manipulation, slow torture, and a boy who can't or won't intervene on my behalf. Some risks are not worth taking.

All at once, Prue releases her hold on me. "Now, how would you like to answer?"

A sob and gasp burst forth. The tears and stomach cramps immediately follow. "Yes, mistress," I choke out as soon as I'm capable.

"Good," she states like a mean teacher giving a rare compliment. "You aren't as dumb as you look. And if you stimulate that painfully average brain of yours a little further, you may even remember the first question I asked you. The time has come. I demand an answer. And there's no sense lying about it. I will, of course, be in charge of your laundry, and everything is white for a reason..."

Even with my dumb, traumatized, oxygen-deprived brain, I do, in fact, recall. She wants to know when my period starts.

"I'm not sure," I tell her, and it is the truth.

But Prue doesn't seem to think so. While I'm trying to come up with the specifics, she lunges for my hair and pulls, forcing my face closer to hers. I'd rather have my windpipe crushed again; I wouldn't have to smell her breath.

"I. Don't. Know," I grind out. "I'm not regular and have no pressing reason to keep track."

The cheerleading season affects it, too. It's the first day of November, and I've only had to deal with it once while at school. It was still warm out, but the heat didn't taper off until the end of September. I guess I'm overdue no matter what, but that could mean another week or a whole month, or more. I was a late bloomer and it never really settled into a rhythm.

Should I try to explain all that? I'd like to make this as painless as possible, but I have a feeling, it won't matter in the end—whatever that end may be—if I cooperate or not. The blood will come. Unless it's a continuous requirement, things will change, and I doubt they'll be for the better.

After a harsh tug and twist, Prue lets go of my hair and resumes towering over me with her hands on her wide hips. "I have to feed you, or there will be further delays. And you will eat. We have things to plan for. There are arrangements to be made. And time is of the essence. So, if you'd like anything beyond food on your plate—hot water and toiletries, for example, or a blanket for your bed—you'll give me a better estimation. If not, well, I could always get one of my dogs up here. You will strip down naked—the way you're already so well-accustomed—and they will ferret out a better timeline."

Who's a "dog" and who isn't? Besides Jael and Bryony, who was portrayed as something repulsive and "other," I have no idea. Jael wasn't particularly forthcoming.

Rollin? Faolan?? Ivy??? Dog or not, I can't say I'd want any of them to come up here and get a "whiff" of my shame. 

"That won't be necessary," I reply. "It should be any day now if I eat nutritious food and stop exercising."

She doesn't comment, but she gives me a curt nod.

With keys jangling in her pocket and then her hand, she moves toward the door. "Someone will return to tend to your needs within the hour. It will be a show of kindness, one I'm sure you will appreciate and reciprocate. You will say please and thank you and clear your plate. And while you're here, we will see you, if we so choose, but we won't hear you, or be reminded of your unwelcome presence while we wait for your curse to commence. Is that clear as the new day?"

It's still dreary out, but whatever.  

I wipe my eyes dry with the ruffles of my ridiculous sleeve, and say, "Yes, mistress. I won't disappoint you."