Dresden twisted Vica's wrist until she could no longer hold onto Constantine's dagger. It fell to the ground, slapping onto the wet mud that had formed under their feet from the persistent rain. She kicked at his shins with savage desperation, but he seemed no more perturbed than Constantine would have been in his position. Seemingly out of thin air, a short coil of rope materialized in his hands, and Vica found herself struggling with her wrists bound behind her back.
The man tightened the rope and cinched it firmly, leaving no slack in the knot to exploit. This felt frustratingly familiar. Vica thought back to the night Constantine had found her in the farmhouse; he had restrained her this way too. Her memories proceeded to remind her what Constantine had done next, and Vica promptly th
