Unravel Me: The Juliette Chronicles Book 2

wallpaper is yellowed and peeling from age. The house is heavy with a strange, moldy smell that indicates the cracked glass windows haven’t been opened in years, and the carpet is forest green under my feet, the walls embellished with fake wood panels that don’t make sense to me at all. This house is, in a word, ugly. It seems ridiculous for a man so striking to be found inside of a house so horribly inferior.
    “Oh wait,” he says, “just one thing.”
    “Wha—”
    He’s pinned me against the wall by the throat, his hands carefully sheathed in a pair of leather gloves, already prepared to touch my skin to cut off my oxygen, choke me to death and I’m so sure I’m dying, I’m so sure that this is what it feels like to die, to be utterly immobilized, limp from the neck down. I try to claw at him, kicking at his body with the last of my energy until I’m giving up, forfeiting to my own stupidity, my last thoughts condemning me for being such an idiot, for thinking I could actually come in here and accomplish anything until I realize he’s undone my holsters, stolen my guns, put them in his pockets.
    He lets me go.
    I drop to the floor.
    He tells me to have a seat.
    I shake my head, coughing against the torture in my lungs, wheezing into the dirty, musty air, heaving in strange, horrible gasps, my whole body in spasms against the pain. I’ve been inside for less than 2 minutes and he’s already overpowered me. I have to figure out how to do something, how to get through this alive. Now’s not the time to hold back.
    I press my eyes shut for a moment. Try to clear my airways, try to find my head. When I finally look up I see he’s already seated himself on one of the chairs, staring at me as though thoroughly entertained.
    I can hardly speak. “Where are the hostages?”
    “They’re fine.” This man whose name I do not know waves an indifferent hand in the air. “They’ll be just fine. Are you sure you won’t sit down?”
    “What—” I try to clear my throat and regret it immediately, forcing myself to blink back the traitorous tears burning my eyes. “What do you want from me?”
    He leans forward in his seat. Clasps his hands. “You know, I’m not entirely sure anymore.”
    “What?”
    “Well, you’ve certainly figured out that all of this”—he nods at me, around the room—“is just a distraction, right?”
    He smiles that same incredible smile. “Surely you’ve realized that my ultimate goal was to lure your people out into my territory? My men are waiting for just one word. One word from me and they will seek out and destroy all of your little friends waiting so patiently within this half-mile radius.”
    Terror waves hello to me.
    He laughs a little. “If you think I don’t know exactly what’s going on in my own land , young lady, you are quite mistaken.” He shakes his head. “I’ve let these freaks live too freely among us, and it was my mistake. They’re causing me too much trouble, and now it’s time to take them out.”
    “I am one of those freaks,” I tell him, trying to control the tremble in my voice. “Why did you bring me here if all you want is to kill us? Why me? You didn’t have to single me out.”
    “You’re right.” He nods. Stands up. Shoves his hands into his pockets. “I came here with a purpose: to clean up the mess my son made, and to finally put an end to the naive efforts of a group of idiotic aberrations. To erase the lot of you from this sorry world. But then,” he says, laughing a little, “just as I began drafting my plans, my son came to me and begged me not to kill you. Just you.” He stops. Looks up. “He actually begged me not to kill you.” Laughs again. “It was just as pathetic as it was surprising.
    “Of course then I knew I had to meet you,” he says, smiling, staring at me like he might be enchanted. “ ‘I must meet the girl who’s managed to bewitch my boy!’ I said to myself. This girl who’s managed to make him lose sight of his pride—his dignity —long enough to beg me for a favor.” A pause. “Do you know,” he says to me, “when my son has ever asked me for a favor?” He cocks his head. Waits for me to answer.
    I shake my head.
    “Never.” He takes a breath. “Never. Not once in nineteen years has he ever asked me for anything. Hard to believe, isn’t it?” His smile is wider, brilliant. “I take full credit, of course. I raised him well. Taught him to be entirely self-reliant,