Angelic (Book 2)

Fifteen

It was a cellar, alright. Some dank room beneath the floorboards of the barn house that smelled of rat droppings and mold. There was zero light but for a candle burning in the middle of the room, and I had to wait for my eyes to adjust. There wasn’t much else to see when they did. The room must have been storage before, as it was lined with shelves of jars caked with dust and dirt that still looked like they held fruit preserves.

            Ugh.

            Even this game of chase was becoming old. Perhaps this round would have a more definitive ending.

            Movement from my right caught my attention, and sent my defensive walls soaring high. “Who’s there?” I demanded.

            “Ellie?” the female voice called through the darkness. “Is that Ellie Armstrong?”

            Wariness swept through me. “How do you know my name?”

            “So you are Ellie Armstrong?”

            “Possibly.”

            “Come here. I’m along the wall, in the back.”

            I followed the voice, genuinely curious upon what I would find. It ended up being a woman, probably in her late forties or early fifties, shackled to a wall. Her body was thin and her skin was ashen, but her eyes sparkled with a defiant spark I wished I could sustain. Her hair was black, curly, and long, draping along her body in dejected tangles. The ratty jeans and shirt she wore were holy and covered in grime.

            “It is you,” she breathed, eyes scanning my face, almost as if in recognition.

            Of course. More people than you could probably believe from here to kingdom come know who you are.

            That was an ill-fated truth.

            “I’m sorry,” I said, voice sounding rather small and weak in the oppressive darkness. “I don’t know who you are.”

            “That’s okay. That’s okay. I know you, and that’s what matters.”

            I sagged against the wall beside her, exhausted, mentally depleted, throat crying out for thirst and stomach rumbling with hunger. My wrists remained bound tightly behind me, so situating myself comfortably was nearly impossible. The woman’s eyes never strayed from me.

            “My name is Lucille,” the woman spoke. Her voice was raspy. I wondered how long she had gone without water.

            “Hello.”

            “I’ve heard so much about you, Ellie.”

            Great. “You must think me a freak, then,” I muttered, wincing as I shifted on the ground and the ropes burned harder into my wrists. “An abominable addition to nature.”

            “Not at all.”

            Her response was immediate, and I wasn’t expecting it. I turned to her in the dying candlelight, seeking her face, not sure if she was joking or not. “I’m sorry, I’m not the best at undertones,” I said. “Are you being sarcastic?”

            Lucille laughed. “No, Ellie. I am quite serious. You had no choice in who you became. You’re merely a victim.”

            A victim.