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Back The Art of Exile Save as PDF
Chapters (51)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Map
  4. Dedication
  5. GENESIS INSTITUTE GUILDS
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  50. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  51. IMAGE DESCRIPTIONS

“Quickly,” Michael urges, tugging me by the arm, and I follow, every cell in my body wanting to flee from the people on the other side of that door. The ones who knocked me out and put me in a crate.

The interior doorknob rattles with the sound of a key as Michael lifts the garage door—the lock has already been busted open—just high enough for us to scuttle through into the cool night. He pulls the door down with a bang and then takes my hand and starts to run.

“I’ll bring you somewhere safe,” he says over his shoulder. “I’ll explain everything once we’re there.”

His long strides are too fast for me to keep up, but the mechanical sound of the garage door rising behind us convinces me I really don’t have a choice. I clutch tightly to his hand and run until my chest is heaving, my thighs are burning, and my bladder feels like an overfilled water balloon.

This safe place better have a bathroom.

3

Earlier in the evening, the thought of us ending up at Michael’s place, panting and hearts racing, had been a tempting outcome.

Fleeing kidnappers isn’t quite what I had in mind.

We’d kept running long past when Michael thought we’d lost our pursuers. Now we fumble our way into his building. I’m sweaty and shaky and still trying to catch my breath as I follow him through a cramped hallway to his door. My eyes dart around, and it sinks in how very alone we are and just how difficult it would be for me to escape if I’ve made a terrible error in judgment.

We enter a cozy studio with only enough room for a kitchenette, a desk, and a bed. I do my best to ignore the intimacy of the space as I dart into the tiny bathroom.

Finally peeing is oh so satisfying, but the walls feel too close. The drip of the sink causes my gut to clench, and I want to get the hell out of here.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

It’s just a bathroom.

Once the panic has subsided, I feel around my head with my fingers. There’s no pain where I was hit, but there is some dried blood. The lump must have healed along with my palms. My long brown hair is wild and full of snarls. I comb through it with damp fingers and twist it into a knot at the base of my neck. I splash my face with water and wipe off the bruises left by tired makeup.