Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 123575 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123575 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
“Thank you,” I manage, grateful for the dismissal despite knowing it comes from Patricia’s desire to network rather than any genuine concern for my enjoyment. “I appreciate you both coming.”
My gaze deliberately skips over Lilian again, though I can feel her attempted eye contact like a physical touch. The distance I maintain is automatic now, a reflex developed over years of necessary separation.
“Congratulations again, Aries,” Lilian says softly as I turn to leave.
I nod acknowledgment without looking back, clutching the pollen-ridden flowers as I make my way through the dispersing crowd. The minute I’m out of their sight, I drop the arrangement into a trash bin, but the damage is already done. Whatever was on those petals has entered my system. I’m snotty, itchy-eyed, and woozy.
What the fuck?
My vision swims as I navigate the parking lot toward my car. Beads of sweat form against my brow, the cap and gown I’m wearing suddenly stifling in the June heat. Or perhaps it’s not the heat at all, but whatever is increasingly affecting my coordination and thought processes. After reaching into my pocket, I tug out my keys.
They slip from my fingers and onto the asphalt. I barely manage to retrieve them, and the world tilts alarmingly as I straighten, forcing me to brace one hand against my car for stability.
Something is very wrong.
The Mill House party is nothing more than a distant thought now, a concern from another lifetime. My focus narrows to the immediate challenge of remaining upright and fighting off whatever is slowly shutting down my motor functions.
I need to call someone. Need help. Where the hell is my phone? I pat my pockets, but I can’t seem to locate it within my suit and gown. The prospect of tracing my thoughts back to the last time I had it is impossible. Not when it feels like someone took my brain and put it in a blender.
That’s fine. It’s going to be okay. Just make it into the car, I tell myself. Lock the doors. Call for help.
It’s such a simple plan, but success feels far out of reach. Dark spots start to fill my vision, and I can barely get my limbs to move. The world tilts and swirls around me as I struggle to press the right key on the fob.
My fingers tingle with numbness, disconnected from my brain’s increasingly desperate commands. When the button fails, I try to unlock it manually, but the key scrapes uselessly against the lock, missing its target by millimeters that might as well be miles.
This isn’t normal dizziness. Not stress, not exhaustion, not the aftermath of weeks of graduation preparation. Definitely not allergies. This is deliberate. The flowers. The faint powder on the petals. Not pollen.
I brace both hands against my car, forehead pressed against the cool metal while I try to center myself, try to fight against whatever drug was put on those flowers. The parking lot has emptied considerably, most graduates and families having moved on to celebration venues, leaving me dangerously isolated between rows of vehicles.
“Focus,” I mutter to myself, the word slurring slightly. “Just...focus.”
The sound of footsteps on asphalt registers somewhere in the distance behind me, careful and deliberate. Not the random patterns of another graduate or family member, but purposeful. The steps of a hunter. I try to turn, to face whatever threat approaches, but my body responds with agonizing slowness.
The movement only makes me dizzier, forcing me to lean against the car for support.
Through blurred vision, I make out a figure, my height, dressed in nondescript dark clothing, face obscured by what looks like a surgical mask and cap.
Professional. Prepared. This person is here for me.
“Who...?” I manage the single word requiring tremendous effort.
The figure doesn’t respond, continuing their steady approach. I try again to unlock my car, to create a barrier between us, but my fingers refuse to cooperate. The key falls from my nerveless grasp, landing with a soft clink on the asphalt.
“Help,” I call out to anyone within hearing distance. It feels like I’m screaming, but the words are nothing more than a whisper. Why did I opt to walk over here rather than using the valet service? The masked figure is on me now, moving with calculated efficiency.
A gloved hand grips my arm, steadying me with false solicitude that might appear helpful to any distant observer.
“Don’t fight it,” a voice murmurs, oddly familiar despite its deliberate softness. “It makes it worse.” My attempt at pulling away is useless, each limb moving in slow motion. My elbow connects weakly with my attacker’s midsection—a defensive move that should have created space but barely registers as an inconvenience.
“Always so predictable,” the voice continues in an almost amused tone.
What does that mean? The opportunity to make sense of anything disappears when the attacker wrenches my head back with unnecessary violence. I’m forced to meet the person’s eyes—the only feature visible between mask and cap.