Heretics book 3 - The Apocryphile Press

152 :: JOHN R. MABRY
Susan nodded and grabbed Richard’s phone from his outstretched
hand. Content that Susan had things under control
again, Richard wandered back to the room where the chair
was calling to his aching feet like a furniture siren.
It wasn’t until he sat down again and allowed himself a
relieved moan that he was seized once again by panic. The
bed was empty.
:: 30 ::
Mikael awoke, sick and disoriented. His head felt thick
and woolly, and no sooner had he gained consciousness than
the contents of his stomach chose that very moment to seek
release.
That was when he noticed that his wrists were bound, as
well as his ankles. Unable to turn his body, he whipped his
head around as far as it would go and heaved. He grimaced
as the vomit ran down his cheek. He could see the steam rising
from it, his first clue as to the cold that surrounded him.
As soon as his throat was clear, he began a more careful
survey of his environment. It appeared to be a stone room—
Perhaps a cellar? he thought, seeing tiny tendrils of roots
worming their way through where the ceiling and walls met.
He was lying on something not soft, but not stone, either. He
decided it was probably an old mattress thrown on the floor.
Iron rings affixed to the wall at his feet provided security for
the ropes that held his feet, and he assumed that a mated pair
held his hands.
To his right, the room extended a good eight to ten feet.
Yellow light flickered and guttered at the whims of the draft,
throwing unruly shadows on the ceiling.
Not long after coming to, Mikael found himself fading in