Chapter Sixteen
Waking up to throbbing pain emanating from the lower portion of my face, I moan in complaint.
What did the cat do to me? Why?
Then I hear someone walk over, and memory floods in.
I’m not in my bed.
I’ve been captured by the chorts.
That moan was a huge miscalculation. It would’ve been much more advantageous to play dead.
“Finally, you’re back,” Woland says from a few feet away. “That is fortunate. I’m eager to talk to you.”
Without opening my eyes, I scan my body.
Something is hanging on my neck, and my arms are trapped at my sides. If I had to guess, I’d say I’m duct-taped to a chair—which is bad. That’s one of the hardest bindings to defeat.
“Please don’t pretend to still be unconscious.” Woland must be right in my face now, as I can smell the smoked fish on his
