Mac smiled at her. “Ah, okay. I see how it’s going to be. You’re mad because I figured out your little secret, so now you don’t want to talk anymore. I get it. Luckily, I brought a friend with me. I figured she might do a better job at loosening your tongue.”

Mac stepped to the side, and Dorothy’s attention slid away from him and landed on the woman in black, who was standing in the doorway.

Her breath caught in her throat. “You,” she said, numb.

“I thought it was time the two of you meet,” said Mac. “Quinn Fox, I’d like you to meet my new associate, Regan Rose.”

Regan moved past her, shadowlike. Her feet didn’t make a sound as they sunk into the faded carpet, but her coat flapped back with the movement, and the fabric released a soft whiff. It was an old-fashioned coat, Dorothy saw, something from before the flood. It was long and made of heavy wool, with drooping sleeves, and a fairy-tale-witch hood to hide her face.

Dorothy eyed Regan. “I don’t know you.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” Regan seemed unconcerned by this admission. There was blood on her hands, Dorothy noticed. She didn’t hide it. In fact, she pushed her sleeves up, leaving a slick of red along the pale skin.

So. It was going to be torture then.

Dorothy had to work hard not to shudder.

11

Regan peered into the duffel bag sitting on the hotel room bed. “Would you like to see my collection?”

She didn’t wait for an answer before she began pulling ancient-looking tools out of the bag and placing them on the bed. Watching, Dorothy understood that this was part of her torture, the anticipation of what was to come.

First, there was a set of handcuffs. The cuffs themselves were vises attached to thin, metal levers and Dorothy knew, in a glance, how they would work. She could already picture Regan twisting the lever so that the vises would slowly crush the bones in her wrists, rendering her hands useless. She swallowed a shudder.

An iron mask was placed beside the cuffs. Spikes ran along the inside of the mask, made to dig into cheeks and skin and lips.

A leather whip came out of the bag next, and then chains and other tools Dorothy didn’t entirely understand—crude, metal objects covered in jagged edges and points. A thin wooden stick. Clamps. Screws.

The fear Dorothy had been fighting against hit her in a wave. She tried to breathe, but her throat closed up and the oxygen shot right into her head, leaving her dizzy.

Stay calm, she told herself, lips pressed tight. She forced herself to breathe steadily through her nose. Don’t let them see your fear.