Page 82 of Hercules

That she’d done more backstepping and been too weirded-out to recall? Or in this case, the shuffle forward again?

Or…

Had Natasha somehow compelled the movements?

And if that was the case…

Oh God.

“Join me, Lois Lance.”

In any other circumstance, from the woman’s famously plush lips, the words would be considered swoony…or in the minds of crazy fanboys, sensual. But right now, with her vacant glower and her streaked strands resembling a girl stuck in a well for seven days, all Lois could hear was an equally creepy decree.

All she could now feel, in every fiber of her limbs and pound of her heart…

The macabre mandate…ordering her forward again…

“Natasha?”

After the strength she’d summoned to speak it, there was an avalanche of sickening glop still attached to the syllables. All the uncertainty that turned her into a horror joint caricature. The stupid wench who was always hacked up first.

No.

Not going to happen.

A secret but magnificent force called the creed into her senses A force bigger than her—so much bigger—that refused to leave. That now, her muscles were helpless to bypass…

“Natasha.”

Even if her throat and lips still couldn’t make it past a pathetic rasp.

“I don’t want to do this, Natasha.”

Or that equally ridiculous demand.

“Oh, honey. You will. Soon enough, you will.”

In the last moments that her senses were still aware enough to see…

Exactly what her captor was using to dice her up.

Nat didn’t have a machete or a meat hook or a claw hand. It was a clear string, barely over a foot long. Ancient enough to have been made from stretched sheep or cow gut, but for the exact same reason, shouldn’t have been glowing between Nat’s dangling fingers. The reason struck with painful clarity. As each section of Lo’s autonomy gave in to Nat’s will, the string gained another pulse of power.

“No. No. Please!”

Useless appeals. She had to accept it. Had to realize how helpless she already was, her feet pulled forward to follow as Nat turned and made her way toward one of the terminal’s service halls. Though every synapse in her mind screamed in protest, her bones and muscles were listening to a different tune—played by that single, cruel string.

When the tune began to resonate in her head, a protesting moan spilled from her shivering lips. As if Natasha were listening—or caring. The woman kept strolling, steps perfectly timed to the deceivingly happy tune. Lois glowered, certain the bitch was purposely emulating the steps from the Dirty Dancing finale.

But anger was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

Especially as soon as Nat led her right past Uncle Ito and his posse. While every man in the bunch turned and lowered into ninety-degree bows, there were enough seconds to observe their faces before the genuflections: taut masks with gritted smiles and haunted eyes. Their backs were like matched crayons in a multipack, snapped into place by an impatient child.

Or a guileful goddess wannabe.

Holy shit.

This was why none of them, even her imposing uncle, had interrupted Nat’s little presentation to her.