The Drinker of Blood

Chapter Nine

I woke up tied to a chair, which, believe it or not, was good news. When men tie a woman to a bed, it is for only one purpose. Not that such a thing terrified me—nothing ever did—but men have a wretched habit of murdering women after raping them. I would venture, in the history of the world, that more women have died from crying after sex (rather than thanking the bastards who had forced it upon them) than soldiers have died in all of humanity's wars.

No, that wasn't the case here. No one had even stripped me naked. Though I could not account for whether any of the five men with whom I shared the large warehouse room in which I now was held had copped a quick feel when I was unconscious.

On that note, my head still throbbed, but it was clearing. It took a lot to knock me cold, even during the daytime. Whoever had unloaded on me must have used a piledriver.

It no doubt is evident to you that my strength diminished during daylight hours. I wasn't completely powerless during that time. My bones, sinews, and skin still were quite tough, but my speed, strength, and senses were only a fraction of what they were at night. Certainly, I was stronger than the average human during the day, and were my hands not cuffed behind my back, I easily could have bested any one of the men who guarded me, perhaps even any two. But not all five.

Death seemed to be my ultimate fate.

That would be true if I were the kind who gave up. None of my captors so far had noticed that I'd regained consciousness, and that fact gave me a chance to regard them with care.

If my guess was correct, only one seemed aware of what I truly was, the one who sat farthest from me with a pistol in his lap. No doubt he was the leader of this crew, and he looked frightened. Two others huddled off to my left, some twenty feet away, regarding something between them. My FO notebook!

My senses were not as keen as they were at night, but they were sharp enough that I could overhear the men's whispers, even from that distance. They seemed convinced the tiny pad was some sort of cipher or code book, perhaps one that provided the usernames and passwords for bank accounts or offshore investment funds.

True, it was a cipher to a treasure of great value, but not the one they imagined. I'd have to kill them for having soiled it. But who am I kidding? I was going to kill all of them anyway if they didn't kill me first.

My last two captors seemed the most agitated. One sat regarding his phone, and the other fiddled with a deck of cards. If I wasn't mistaken, the one with the cards was a police officer or a former cop. He had that look about him.

All of them seemed nervous, to one degree or another, and none of them had the looks of hardened killers. Another thing to my advantage. I didn't have the strength at that moment to snap my bonds, and if my internal clock was any indication—there were no windows in this wretched place to give me any hint—it was a little less than two hours to sunset.

Why hadn't these men yet killed me, or at least tried? Perhaps they had special instructions or were awaiting orders of some sort? Were they waiting on the arrival of someone? There always was the chance they simply were trying to find their nerve, but men who do that tend to talk a lot. These men were not.

It didn't matter. I was alive, which meant I had a chance to get out of this. I just needed to keep those idiots from killing me until sunset.

That meant one of three things. One, win them over. A lofty goal, but not out of the realm of possibility. Two, just keep them talking and nervous about the consequences of their actions. Three, the one I liked least, goad them into shooting, stabbing, or smothering me in such a way that a spark of life yet remained in me. Once the sun set, all would be set aright.