face. Green leaves fanned out from the mask. Behind him was a cluster of men, rocking back and forth, some chuckling, and maybe it was the wind, or the drugs surging through her system, but their laughter seemed to come from somewhere else, from high up in the trees.
The world tilted. She squeezed her eyes shut, and blackness washed over her.
Seconds later—or was it hours?—she shivered awake, opening her eyes. For a moment she watched the men without them knowing she was watching. No one was dancing, and no one was wearing a mask; they were around the fire, their voices still dispersed by the wind. They weren’t looking at her but at another figure, on the other side of the fire, also on a chair. The scene came into focus, and Abigail knew where they were. It was the clearing in the woods behind the swimming pool, the place she’d been to earlier that was called Silvanus Woods. How many men were there? She tried to count and got to five before the figures blurred again. One of them was bending toward the woman in the chair—Jill, of course—and Abigail watched a man pull a hood from her. She was slumped, and Abigail thought—with a rush of terror—that she was dead, but then she tried to stand, and the man pushed her back down by her shoulders, laughing. The man was Alec, her husband, dressed in a puffy ski jacket and with what looked like a cigar clenched between his teeth.
All the men were looking at Jill, and Abigail scanned them again. Besides Alec and Bruce, there was Chip, a bottle of beer in his hand, Eric Newman, also with a beer and smoking a cigarette, and Porter, wearing only a polo shirt and jeans, his dark skin gleaming in the firelight. She also recognized the pilot with his blond hair, who had given her the shot, and one other man with a large gray mustache, its tips waxed. The bartender named Carl.
She moved her legs a fraction to find out if she was bound in any way to the chair. Not that she thought she could run, not with whatever drug was in her, making her heavy and confused, but she still wanted to know. She moved her legs about six inches and felt pretty sure that the only thing holding her down on the chair was the drugs in her system.
She breathed deeply in through her nose, filling her lungs. The world still spun a little, but the nausea was gone and her head was a little clearer.
“Put on the mask, put on the mask,” came a voice, not one she immediately recognized. More laughter, some of it seeming to come from behind her. She willed herself not to look around, lowering her chin slowly back to her chest, deciding to pretend that she was still passed out. I’ll just sit like this for as long as I can, she thought. The longer I delay what is happening, the more clearheaded I’ll be. I’ll fake it. It’s not like I’m even sleepy anymore.
A hand was tapping at her cheek, softly at first, then harder. She shook herself awake and swung out with a fist, striking a thigh. She heard loud laughter, then Eric’s chiseled face swam into her vision, his breath sharp with the smell of French cigarettes, his eyes looking into hers.
“She’s up,” he said, and straightened so that she was now looking at the crotch of his jeans, a wide leather belt, a half-tucked-in flannel shirt.
Abigail took deep breaths through her nostrils again. It made her feel better. She rotated her head on her neck, pain radiating down her shoulders and back, and the world stayed level. I feel better, she thought, but lowered her head back down anyway, not wanting anyone to know that she was more conscious than they thought she was.
“No, no,” he said, his voice oddly gentle as he tapped his fingers against her cheek again. “Stay awake for us.”
“Where am I?” she said, trying to make her voice sound slurred, although it was coming out that way pretty much on its own.
“It’s all just a dream,” Bruce said, stepping forward to stand next to Eric. She watched him turn back to the men huddled around the fire, gauging their reaction to what he’d just said. They were all grinning, and Bruce turned back to her, a smile of satisfaction now on his face.