“Right this way,” he says, a bounce in his step as he takes us over to a very specific casket and begins to explain the life and times of the surgeon that’s buried there. While he’s talking, I get that feeling again, putting a hand on the back of my neck and glancing over my shoulder to see if maybe there’s an animal peeking out from the shadows or something.
But there’s nothing there, nothing at all.
My breathing quickens up just a tad, and Spencer notices. He’s attentive like that. I bet he’d make a good dad one day.
I freeze up like a deer caught in the headlights.
“Are you okay?” he whispers, trying not to interrupt our tour guide’s enthusiastic speech.
“I’m not having kids until I’m thirty,” I blurt, and Spencer gives me the weirdest look known to man before bursting out laughing.
“Aww, Chuck-let,” he says, doubling over with laughter as the others glance back to see what all the fuss is about.
My random foot-in-mouth disaster drops my guard for just a little while, making me forget about the creepy feeling.
What a mistake.
We continue our tour through the brick-vaulted gallery, and then head back to the entrance. I’m in the back of the group with Spencer, trying to avoid his teasing about all the babies he’s going to give me, when I hear the sound of a scuffed shoe behind me.
A hand wraps around my mouth, and I’m yanked back into the darkness. The iron gate in front of me is slammed shut by two people in hoodies, and while one of them slaps a deadbolt on the door, the other turns toward me and I see the fox mask underneath his hood.
“Chuck!” Spencer screams as the other boys turn around and spot me being dragged through the darkness. Our poor tour guide looks like he’s about to have a heart attack.
The person holding me drags me around the corner and into the shadows as the other two approach, each one taking a leg the way they did before, at the Valentine’s Day incident. I’m pulled into the vault, kicking and screaming against a warm, sweaty palm.
They’re going fast, too, running full-tilt down the shadowed walkway.
They followed us all the way here, all the way to a different country.
I mean, I knew they could and would follow me, but this? This is next level.
There’s a door at the end of the hallway that leads to a set of steps and out into the woods again. I see it all in a blur as the three psychos bounce up the stone staircase and take off into the trees.
Panic is taking over me, but I struggle to fight through it, pulling up memories of practicing with the twins. I’m no ninja, believe me, but I come up with a plan on the fly. The person holding my top half has to keep one hand over my mouth to stop me from screaming, so they’ve only got one of my arms locked down.
With the other, I swing my fist down and nail my attacker right in the crotch.
Luckily, it’s a dude holding me up there this time, and my swing finds purchase. The man stumbles briefly, just briefly, but it’s enough that the forward momentum of the other two brings my legs toward my chest, allowing me enough power to kick out.
We come to a bit of a stumbling halt, a tangle of arms and legs on the ground as the boys’ shouts for me ring out across the woods.
“This is so not my job,” one of the hoodie-dicks growls, and it’s definitely a male voice, but not one that I recognize. Trust me: I’ve heard Mark’s irritating little quips enough times to know what he’d sound like.
“Just sort it out,” a whispered female voice responds as they try to get ahold of me again. But the second that palm slips off my mouth, I scream. And maybe it’s all the, like, orgasms I’ve been having lately, but I swear I’ve amped up my screaming game.
The sound echoes across the cemetery as my attacker moves his hand from my arm and back to my mouth. Unfortunately, the group quickly regains control, and we take off again.
We’re on our way out an open side gate now, where a limo’s waiting, the door open, engine idling. If I get into that car, and it takes off, I’m dead. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.
They shove me inside, and I panic at the sight of another person in a fox mask, but this one isn’t wearing a hoodie: he’s wearing robes. I kick out my left foot and hit them square in the face, knocking the mask loose just enough that I can see the person’s scowling mouth. When I kick out again, I manage to make them bleed before they’re grabbing onto my ankle.
