GRAYSON'S CONSCIOUSNESS RETURNED in fragments.
Cold metal beneath his cheek. Vibrations running through his body in rhythmic waves. The smell of diesel and something else, something chemical that burned the back of his throat.
Moving. I'm moving.
Grayson tried to open his eyes. His eyelids felt like they'd been weighted down with iron, each blink requiring monumental effort. Blurred shapes swam in his vision—darkness punctuated by thin strips of light that bounced and swayed.
A vehicle. He was in the back of a vehicle.
He tried to move his arms and discovered, with distant surprise, that they weren't bound. No ropes, no chains, no supernatural restraints. His hands lay free at his sides, fingers curled loosely against cold metal flooring.
But he couldn't move them.
Couldn't make his body obey even the simplest command. It was as if someone had severed the connection between his brain and his limbs, leaving him a passenger in his own flesh.
What did they give me?
