"Willow Grace, Willow Grace," a voice cut through the fog in my head. I let out a heavy breath, my body feeling strangely light, as someone's cold hands touched my cheek. The touch was clinical, not comforting.
My eyes flickered open, the world swimming into focus to meet a circle of curious gazes. They were all staring down at me like I was some lost artifact they'd dug up, their expressions a mix of annoyance and morbid curiosity.
I also studied them. About ten girls, all dressed in identical, shimmering ice-skating outfits, their hair pulled back into severe, perfect buns. I pushed myself up, my head spinning, and my mouth suddenly went dry when I noticed the fabric clinging to my own body. I was wearing the same dress as them.
My lip quivers as I scan my own form. I'm much slimmer, with long, slender, pale white legs that feel alien and end in a pair of professional-looking ice skates. I stare at my hands, turning them over. They're smaller, the nails perfectly manicured. My breathing quickens, a panicked rhythm in my chest. Wasn't I just bleeding out on a bedroom floor? Wasn't I supposed to be dead? What the hell is this? Where am I? I skim through the area frantically. It's a massive hockey stadium, all cold air and bright lights. I've been laid out on a hard bench right next to the edge of the ice rink.
"Move along, girls," a woman's sharp voice urges, cutting through the crowd. She drops a small first aid kit on the bench next to me with a definitive thud. "How are you feeling, Willow Grace?"
Willow Grace? The name means nothing to me. I can't answer her. My throat is tight, my mind a roaring static. I don't even know what to say.
She sighs, a sound full of practiced exasperation. "I told you not to try that routine today, didn't I? You just got back from the hospital. You need to take it easy."
Hospital? The word echoes in my mind, connecting to nothing. The last place I was in was my bedroom, surrounded by the coppery smell of my own blood.
Then, the voice is back in my head, clearer this time, less like a distant warning and more like a command spoken directly into my brain. It feels more natural, which is somehow even more terrifying.
[Leave here now. Get into the black car waiting outside if you want any answers.]
Before I can even process that, the whispers start, slithering into my ears from the girls who haven't fully moved away.
"Seems like her little suicide attempt wasn't enough, now she wants to get us all framed for murder if she dies on the ice," one of them muttered, her voice a low hiss.
"I really hoped she was gone for good this time. All she does is drag the whole team down with her drama," another one added, not even bothering to lower her voice.
"It's a shame the coach hasn't kicked her off the team yet after what she's done. She's a liability."
The venomous whispers swirl around me, each one a tiny, sharp needle adding to the heavy, confused weight in my heart and chest. Who is this Willow Grace, and what did she do?
[You have 90 seconds to leave this place, Willow Grace. The clock starts now.]
The voice is back, insistent and final. It cuts through the whispers and the confusion like a blade. That does it. I quickly rise to my feet, my new legs feeling wobbly but functional, and I start fumbling with the laces on the skates.
"Willow Grace, where do you think you are going?" the woman—probably the coach—questioned, her voice rising in alarm. But I don't have time for her. I kick the skates off, my bare feet hitting the cold, concrete floor, and I'm already sprinting, ignoring the shocked cries behind me, heading straight for the door labelled EXIT. This has to be some horrible, extended nightmare. I just died, didn't I? I felt the bullets. Why am I having this crazy trance?
As soon as I stepped barefoot out into the biting cold of the outside, a sleek, black car with tinted windows pulled up directly in front of me, purring like a predator. The passenger door swung open silently. The driver was an incredibly handsome man in a crisp black suit, his features sharp and perfectly composed. He didn't even look at me.
"Get in," he said. His deep voice came out as a clear order, one that brooked no argument. I find myself obeying without a second thought, like I've been automated, sliding into the plush leather backseat. He speeds off into the traffic the moment the door closes, his eyes burning with focus on the road as he paid no mind to me shivering in the back.
"Who are you?" I finally found my voice, though it sounded small and shaky.
"Samael," he says, the name leaving no room for question. "I work directly with the Corrupter, and I'm your new boss."
"The Corrupter? New boss? How?" The questions tumble out of me, a jumbled mess. None of this makes any sense.
"Yes, Willow Grace—"
"I'm not Willow Grace!" I interrupt, a surge of frustration breaking through my fear. "I'm—"
"Gianna Finn. I know." He cuts me off, his tone flat and utterly sure. "Let me put this straight for you. I'm only going to say this once, so keep it in mind. You were murdered by your fiancé. You also managed to murder him right back. That act of vengeance, while understandable, has officially brought you to hell. The Corrupter, however, has chosen not to condemn your soul to the general population. Instead, he has assigned you to a special mission."
I stare at the back of his head, my mind reeling. I can't believe I ended up in hell for killing that bastard after everything he did to me. My hand instinctively moved to my stomach, feeling the flat, firm plane where my baby used to be. A fresh wave of grief, sharp and debilitating, hits me. My child is gone. I can only hope she or he is in heaven; they didn't deserve any part of the life I was living or the death I suffered.
The car drives through a series of increasingly lonely alleys, the glamour of the city fading into grime and shadows, before pulling to a smooth stop in front of a sophisticated, intimidating building. It was tall, black, and sleek, with a neon sign and red-lipped accents highlighting a name written in a cursive, seductive script: "Jezebel's Den". It was a strip club