Chapter 22

Iawoke in a hole in the ground. And, in case you’re a Hobbit fan, let me assure you—it was a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell. Plus, my prison was as dark as the grave. Perhaps it was my grave. The image of dying there, with no pack mates around to mourn me, filled my mind. I’d rot alone in this hole, my bones jumbling together as carrion beetles rolled my flesh into tiny balls to feed to their offspring. Snakes would slither down to capture the tiny critters drawn to feed upon my decomposing flesh and tree roots would eventually invade the pockets of fertility left behind. At least then I’d be good for something. I shuddered, my head pounding as I tried to push through the drugged fog and remember what had happened back in that farmer’s field. The turncoat, the needle prick, the car doors slamming...I’d obviously been captured, but surely Lia and Savannah had gotten away?