When its turn signal began blinking, Chad flicked on the Lexus’s blinker and glanced at Allyson. She looked disheveled and tired. They’d talked very little during their three hours on the road, with Allyson sitting very still the entire time and staring straight ahead at the unfurling highway. He supposed he couldn’t blame her for not wanting to talk. She was a young woman from the suburbs used to a life of relative peace and quiet. Chad, however, had some experience with sudden, shocking violence, mostly from his time in the place called Below, the cavernous underground prison beneath the House of Blood. Even now, three years later, nightmares of that time still occasionally jolted him out of sleep. And now Allyson, who had swept into his life like some divine angel of mercy, had likely been condemned to years—and perhaps a lifetime—of similar nightly tortures. The thought of it made him grip the steering wheel harder as his anger began to build again.
