Gritting her teeth, she straightened out her right leg. Stiff muscles protested the movement, and her stomach churned. Head swimming, she gritted her teeth and slowly straightened her other leg. Her arms were almost as difficult to move, stiff and leaden with cold. Her whole body felt numb with it, her skin icy to touch. But for the first time in ages, she felt stirrings of life in the void that had been her psychic gifts. Massaging her legs with stiff fingers, she glanced warily at the bed. Monica and Jasper lay still and silent, naked limbs entwined around each other. If they breathed, she couldn't see it. But what interested her more was the door next to the bed. Until now, she hadn't even realized it existed. She bit her lip, then rolled over onto her hands and knees. The effort sent the room into a swim. She took several deep breaths, her gaze never leaving the figures on the bed.
They didn't stir.
Slowly she turned and put her hands against the wall, using it for support as she stood. No movement on the bed.
Sweat trickled down the side of her face. She turned around until her back was braced against the wall. Sick tension churned her stomach, but she ignored it, focusing instead on the padlock chaining the door closed. She lacked the time and energy for finesse; she hit the lock with all the psychic energy she could muster. It literally exploded, the noise reverberating around the room. She held her breath and watched the figures on the bed
Still no sign of movement. Maybe they were playing with her, toying with her hopes like a cat with a mouse. She had a sudden vision of reaching the door only to have Jasper reach out and grab her, destroying her last hope of freedom.
It would be the ultimate trick. The last straw. And there was nothing she could do but take the risk. Her legs were like rubber. Every step she took felt like a mile. She kept her gaze on Jasper and prayed he didn't move.
She reached the door and pushed it open. Beyond lay the steep ascent of stairs. Her prison, and their home, was a cellar of some kind.
Gripping the handrail, she dragged herself upward. The ache in her leg muscles became a scream, and it seemed to take forever to reach the top. When she reached the final step, she collapsed, bruising her knees and battling to catch her breath.
After a few precious seconds, she rose and staggered on, finding herself in a kitchen. Dust covered the mess time and vandals had caused. If the thickness of the dirt was any indication, the house had been abandoned for years.
Her hopes of quick rescue plummeted. She walked on, skirting shattered glass and smashed floorboards, seeking an exit. She had to hurry. Exhaustion was a huge wall threatening to topple her over. In the next room she discovered her clothes and shoes, thrown haphazardly in a corner. Her cross wasn't among her clothes—not that it mattered. Jasper had shown no fear of it when he'd ripped it from her neck.
She stopped long enough to throw on her jacket and jeans, and slip on her shoes. The rest she left. Time was moving, and so must she.
Panic crept past her guard and filled her limbs with energy. She ran down the corridor, no longer caring about the noise she made. The front door loomed before her—locked. She pushed with kinetic energy. The door exploded outward with enough noise to wake the dead.
She felt the urge to laugh insanely, and she clamped down on it hard. Madness was no escape—and of no use to her now.
Her eyes watered against the sudden glare of bright sunlight. She threw up a hand to protect them and staggered on. It didn't really matter where she ran, as long as it was away from the house and its occupants.
Stones scurried from under her feet. The harsh sound of traffic assaulted her ears. Blinking rapidly, she recognized shops, a mall milling with people. Safety. Jasper wouldn't find her in such a crowd. Wouldn't dare kidnap her with so many witnesses.