She struggles with a few more kicks before hanging limp like the prey she has already accepted herself to be.

Possessed.

Keep your chin up. You already know . . .

Its eyes smile. A grin filled with sharp teeth appears inches from her face.

“Why must you always run from me? You know it is no use by now,” the grin says through a sinister voice. Its tongue snakes out from between its lips as it speaks. “Ever since you were young, you would always try to run. Oh, don’t look at me like that. Don’t look at me with those bulging eyes, so surprised to see me!”

Tiffany can feel herself fainting. The slow loss of consciousness. Darkness coils around the edges of her vision.

. . . you’ve always known . . .

“Hush, hush, foolish girl. I know it has been a while since I’ve come to visit. And look how much better you are doing! No one could ever tell you were so sick! Hmm? What is that? Oh, yes. I have missed you too. But let’s not waste time on such glib emotions.”

. . . that dying . . .

Tiffany gargles on the clump of thick mucus and terror building in the back of her throat.

“Now, listen. Do your dear life-saving doctor a favor, will you? I need you to find someone for me. This is very important, so listen carefully. Are you listening?”

Tiffany’s body jerks for life.

“I need you to find someone for me, someone very specific. I need you to find her and I need you to kill her.”

. . . that dying is pain.

Those fangs glisten and Tiffany blacks out.

PART ONE

CHAPTER I

Fourteen years earlier

A little girl with golden-blond pigtails wearing nothing but a dirty white dress sits on a cold concrete floor. Her toys are scattered in front of her: a stuffed blue dog, a stethoscope, and a syringe. She picks up the stethoscope, wraps the black rubber cord around her neck, and picks up the dog. She places the eartips in her ears, wincing at the icy touch of the metal bars against her collarbones, and presses the steel drum against the dog’s chest.

She hears nothing.

She lets the drum drop from her hand and picks up the syringe. It feels heavy and rough but not as cold as the stethoscope. It’s the same temperature as the palm of her hand. She guides the needle to the stuffed blue dog’s neck and pierces it deep through the fabric. The stuffed blue dog does not protest or cry out in pain and she knows it never will. She presses on the plunger, injecting a dose of air into its cotton-filled body, her own body shaking with anticipation. She slides the needle out, places the syringe back down, and re-collects the drum in her tiny, porcelain fingers. She presses the drum once again to the dog’s chest.

Still, nothing.

She sighs, lets the drum drop, and picks the syringe back up, repeating the same steps over and over again. Press, nothing, inject, press, nothing. It is the only thing she has to do in this concrete room. There are no windows for her to look through to admire the scenery, no clock for her to watch, no television, and no book for her to read—if she could read. In this room are only a lumpy mattress shoved into the corner—complete with a lumpy pillow and a lumpy blanket—her three toys to play with, and a heavy, dark metal door. On that door is a deadbolt lock.