Daire Meets Ever (The Immortals)

things along, but my supply is so depleted, my second attempt isn’t much better.
    “Untie me,” I croak, yanking hard against my restraints, hoping the action will convey what words can’t.
    But if Jennika understood, and I’m pretty sure that she did, she chooses to ignore it and reaches for a bottle of water instead.
    “Here, drink this.” She shoves a long red straw into the bottle and wedges it deep between my lips. “You’ve been asleep for so long—you must be dehydrated by now.”
    Despite my mounting frustration, despite wanting to turn away, deny myself the drink until she unties me, I can’t help but guzzle it greedily. My mouth locked around the straw, my cheeks sucked in as far as they’ll go, overcome with relief when the cool, welcome liquid washes over my tongue and soothes my dry, scratchy throat.
    The moment it’s drained, I nudge it away, my gaze narrowed on hers when I say, “Jennika, what the hell are you doing to me? Seriously!” My arms and legs flop crazily as I try in vain to break free.
    Watching in frustration when she turns, abandons me for the other side of the room where she takes her sweet time consulting with the old Moroccan woman, murmuring something I can’t quite make out, then listening intently when the woman shakes her head and murmurs something back.
    Finally returning to me, she takes great care to avoid my gaze when she says, “I’m sorry, Daire. I really, truly am, but I’m not allowed to do that.” She runs a nervous hand over the front of her black tank top—correction, my black tank top—and I don’t remember telling her she could wear it. “I’ve been given strict orders not to untie you, no matter how much you plead.”
    “What?” I shake my head—sure I misunderstood. “By who ? Who instructed you to bind me like this? Her?” I nod toward the old woman. With her plain black robes and matching headscarf that covers all of her hair and most of her face, she looks just like every other woman I’ve ever passed in the souk. She hardly looks official enough to lay down the law. “Seriously, Jennika, since when do you follow orders outside of work? Is this some kind of joke? ’Cause if so, I’m telling you right now, it’s not funny—not funny at all!”
    Jennika frowns, fidgets with the silver etched ring she wears on her thumb—the one I gave her last Mother’s Day on location in Peru. “Do you have any idea how you got here?” she asks, the mattress shifting when she perches beside me. “Do you remember anything?” Her long, silk skirt swishing as she crosses her legs and her gaze pleads with mine.
    I close my eyes and sigh, pretending to lose all my fight as I force my body to settle into the cocoon of pillows she’s placed all around me. I have no idea what she’s talking about—no idea what’s going on—how I ended up being held prisoner in my own hotel room, by my own mom. All I know is that I want it to stop. I want her to untie me. I want my freedom back. And I want it now.
    “I have to use the bathroom.” I pop one eye open and sneak a quick peek, confident she’d never deny me such a simple courtesy. “You think you can untie me for that? Or would you prefer I go right here in this bed?” I open the other eye, shoot her a challenging look, only to watch her bite down on her lip, take a quick glance at the woman standing guard in the corner, then shake her head firmly, refusing to oblige me.
    “I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. You can either hold it or use the bedpan,” she says, and I can hardly believe my own ears. “I’m not allowed to untie you until the doctor returns. But not to worry—it shouldn’t be much longer.” She nods toward the cruel-eyed sentinel in the corner. “Fatima called him just after you woke. He’s on his way.”
    “Doctor? What the—?” I try to sit up, it’s a reflex, I can’t help it—but just like the last time, I slam back again.
    So frustrated, so completely over this insane situation I find myself in, I’m gearing up to do something drastic, scream—cry—demand she untie me or else—when the memory ignites, and fragmented pieces spark in my mind.
    Images of Vane—the square—the transvestite belly dancer—the incessant throb of the gnoua drums…all of it coming in pulsating flashes—a dizzying flicker of snapshots that pop in and out of my head.
    “Untie me,” I say, voice full of venom. “Untie me right now, or so help me, Jennika, I’ll—”
    She