Elijah Long sat curled up in a corner in a cold, dark room. He wasn’t sure room was the right word for it—prison cell was more suitable. He believed he was in a stable or some kind of industrial building. The concrete floor was cold, and the wind found its way in through the walls.
His tongue was sandpaper-dry and his head floaty. He suspected he’d been drugged, but he wasn’t sure. Had he been overwhelmed and blocked everything out? He didn’t think so. And even if he had, he would’ve come to as soon as he’d stopped blocking.
When he changed position, a chain rattled. The cuff around his wrist didn’t hurt, but waking up in a strange place with one of his hands cuffed to a wall wasn’t his idea of a good time.
Biting the inside of his cheek, he tried to remember. His heart was banging hard
