her new tunic, she paused, noting the other woman’s horrified stare.
“What?” Quinn asked.
“We will have to work on your manners,” Lorraine said, blinking. “They’re appalling.”
Quinn shrugged. “I’ve hardly eaten in three days.”
Lorraine shook her head and reached for the empty tray. “Go rest. You will be moving again soon,” she commanded.
Quinn didn’t need to be told twice. As Lorraine left the bathing area, Quinn did as well, snatching her satchel up from beside the pool and retracing her steps to the room Lorraine had shown her before. She turned the handle and the door swung open easily, its hinges creaking. In the corner, there was a bed big enough to fit one body—and a small one at that. Quinn didn’t care. A bed was a bed. She fell face first into the mattress and was asleep within moments.
Rest, however, was a long way away.
The clanging of chains echoed in the near distance. The soft, constant drip of liquid brought Quinn’s consciousness rising to the surface. Opening her eyes, Quinn sat up and froze.
Stone pillars surrounded her. Ice beneath her. A blast of frosty air whispered along her naked spine. Slowly, mechanically, Quinn rose to her feet and turned in a circle taking in the familiar temple. It was a place she hadn’t seen in years, not since before she’d been sold.
Soft growls made her frown and without thinking, she turned. The sight that greeted her lunged into her chest, gripped her cold, black heart and squeezed. Outwardly, Quinn showed no reaction. Her eyes remained transfixed on the girl bound in chains, naked. Blood soaked the girl’s fingernails and dripped from her silver hair, now stained red.
The girl tilted her head back. Two small black horns protruded from the top.
Someone—a man—moved forward, laying over the girl and she growled again. The chains rattled and Quinn turned her head. Someone lay dead not far beyond the small light that illuminated the scene. In fact, there were many someone’s—all men. All dead.
“Stop.” The girl choked out. Her voice was hoarse, raw—shredded from endless screaming. Quinn felt a skitter of something violent ripple through her. A desire, a need to help this girl, though she couldn’t figure out why.
The man that hovered above her was pale-skinned and silver-haired. But the girl … she was different. While her hair was like moonlight, her skin was a rich smoky gray. The man moved against her—but the girl didn’t cry, didn’t scream.
Quinn was frozen in place, unable to move. She could feel it from where she stood. The harsh frenzy of her fury rising. The man atop her had fear running through him so palpable, so thick, Quinn could practically taste the vileness of it on her tongue, like sweat and mold.
Even for fear, though, something was off.
Something was different.
The chains rattled again, and the man froze. Then he was reeling back—away from the girl. Stumbling. Naked. Bleeding. Broken. He choked, his lips parting as blood poured from his neck. The girl’s mouth was painted red. The color messily smeared over her lips, dripping in thick, sticky streams from her chin onto the skin between her breasts.
The choking man fell dead, but at the very same moment, one of the corpses rose from the shadows and moved forward.
Chains rattled.
“Stop.”
She pleaded, but the reanimated corpse did not yield.
He moved forward, positioning himself over her, situating himself between her thighs. She struggled as much as the chains would allow, but it stopped nothing.
Without so much as a response, he entered her.
“Stop.”
Quinn felt it then. A new fear—sharper and deeper and more ingrained than any of the corpses, like being bathed in ice and blood. It washed over Quinn, sending her to her knees.
She kept her eyes open and the girl looked up, finally meeting Quinn’s stare. Something familiar reached her.
What … who …
“Stop,” the girl begged. “Stop.”
They did not stop.
They never stopped.
That’s what the girl was afraid of.
She was afraid that no matter how many times she killed them, these men would reanimate. They would come for her again and again, forcing themselves between her legs over and over, until sick pleasure found them—only to reanimate moments later.
For each she killed, another took its place.
Never tiring.
Never truly dying.
Never stopping.
When Quinn was shaken awake, she almost punched Lorraine as she stood over her. Startled, the older woman jerked back before Quinn’s fist could make contact. Panting, sweating, and blinking furiously into the small room, Quinn tried to catch her breath. Sweat soaked her new tunic, dampening her skin and making