David stood in his bedroom, having stripped off the stifling funeral suit. He changed into his normal clothes, a dark blue t-shirt and pants that were such a deep navy they were practically black.

  He stood there for a moment, hands on his hips, staring at the floor.

  *What was I thinking?*,he thought. *I expected that rope to actually talk? To answer me? Of course it wouldn't. It’s just a rope.*

  "But not just a rope, though..." he muttered to the empty room. "For some reason, I think that thing is haunted. Some kind of entity attached to it. Maybe... a ghost?"

  David shook his head, physically dismissing the ridiculous thought. He walked out of his room, down the hallway, and pushed open the door to the kitchen.

  He grabbed a glass and filled it from the tap. The water rushed out, unnaturally cold and strong.

  *I don't believe in the supernatural anyways,* he told himself firmly.

  He drank the freezing water, the chill a sharp relief against the hot day. As he lowered the glass, he looked through the open kitchen doorway. He could see the living room couch, and the golden rope resting innocently on the cushion.

  *But that thing might convince me otherwise,* he thought.

  The realization settled in, uncomfortable and sticky. *The worst thing is... it's almost as if it's trying to help. It’s trying to make my life better.*

  It was creepy to even think that, but he had to be sure.

  "Let me test something out," he whispered.

  He remembered the other night. He had complained aloud that his life sucked, and the TV had immediately responded: “I’ll take care of you.”

  That solidified it. Whatever it was, it was listening.

  "Ahem!" David cleared his throat loudly, staring at the floor tiles. "The water is kind of cold. It's making my sore throat hurt more. It might be great if it was just room temperature."

  He paused, feeling ridiculous.

  *Damn, I sound like an idiot,* he thought. *Oh well, let’s see if this works.*

  He reached out and twisted the tap. The water shot out with the same high pressure, filling the glass in an instant. But as the spray hit his hand, the sensation was completely different. The biting chill was gone. It was perfectly lukewarm. Room temperature.

  David’s eyes widened.* What the hell? It actually worked.*

  His heart hammered against his ribs as he shut the water off.* I don't know if I should be terrified or thankful.*

  This was supposed to be scary. This was supernatural activity. But strangely, he felt no hostility. The atmosphere wasn't oppressive; it was accommodating.

  Still, he looked at the water in the glass with suspicion. He poured it down the drain, not quite ready to drink it, and placed the glass upside down on the drying rack out of habit.

  Walking into the living room, the cool air wrapped around him. He decided to double down.

  A loud, fake cough echoed in the space. "Man, it sure is cold in here. I wish it was a little bit warmer."

  David stretched his hands out into the empty air, waiting.

  Seconds ticked by. Scratching his cheek, he gauged the temperature, but the air stayed crisp.

  It didn't change, he thought. Was that lie too obvious?

  Then, the air shifted.

  A gentle, pervasive warmth filled the room. The refreshing winter chill evaporated, settling into a perfectly regulated room temperature, distinct from the sweltering afternoon sun outside.

  "Oh shit," David whispered, staring at the golden coil. "It actually worked."

  He stepped closer to the couch, watching the rope warily. It sat there, completely still, looking deceptively ordinary against the worn fabric.

  *This thing is acting like some kind of smart device in a high-end home*, he thought.

  He grimaced.* Except Alexa doesn't take your clothes off while you sleep.*

  "There's no way," he muttered. "I need to get rid of this thing. But how?"

  His mind flashed back to the dying moments in the living room, James gasping about the wardrobe and the basement.

  "Why the hell did you leave me this thing?" David asked the empty air. "Some kind of sick parting gift? How the hell did it even stay down there all those years?"

  Then, his eyes widened.

  The red string.

  He remembered the bag. The warning note along with the red string he had untied. If he could find the string and the note with the chant, maybe he could put the genie back in the bottle.

  "Right," he said, slamming his hand into his fist. "Where can I find it?"

  He turned and marched down the hallway to James’s room. He scanned the floor.

  There it was, the leather bag, sitting in the corner beside the wardrobe where he had left it.

  David knelt down and ripped the bag open.

  It was empty.

  David blinked, digging his hand into the corners. "What the-?"

  There was nothing. The red string was gone. The note with the gibberish chant was gone. Even the dust seemed to have been swept away.

  "I'm sure I left it in here," he hissed. "I saw it."

  Panic spiked in his chest. He stood up and began tearing the room apart. He looked under the bed, lifting the heavy mattress with a grunt. He checked between the sheets. He pulled the wardrobe open again, checking the empty shelf.

  Nothing.

  He moved to the living room, checking under the sofa cushions. He checked the kitchen. He checked his own room, throwing clothes around in a frenzy.

  Time bled away. The sun began to dip lower, casting long shadows across the floorboards.

  Finally, David stopped. He was exhausted, sweating in the perfectly temperature-controlled air.

  He sighed, the sound heavy with defeat, and collapsed onto his bed. He stared up at the ceiling.

  *I'm screwed, aren't I?* he thought bitterly.

  The realization settled over him like a shroud.

  *This rope isn't leaving the house. It keeps coming back. And the only way i thought i could bind it is gone.*

  He closed his eyes. *And I can't even leave the house. I’m broke. I can't just run away and move in with Aunt Dorothy and be a freaking burden.*

  He remembered the call from earlier, right after he had tried to speak to the rope. Aunt Dorothy had suggested he move in with her, and Jonathan had chimed in, saying he would love that.

  David had refused the kindness immediately, trying to sound modest. He told her he would just be a burden. He insisted she didn't have to worry about him, that he would figure things out.

  He had even lied. He told her he found a slightly more promising job that he would switch to next week.

  She sounded glad, almost proud. She agreed to let it go for now, but insisted they stay in contact. She told him if there was anything he needed, she would help. That he wasn't in this alone.

  David sighed, staring at the ceiling.

  He felt even guilt press down on him, embarrassed by the lie. Hearing the pride in her voice stung because it meant nothing. It was all fake.

  "I might get killed by a ghost before I starve of poverty at this point," he muttered to the empty room.

  He pushed himself up, sitting straight on the edge of the bed.

  *How does it even get back in here?* he wondered. *Does it just slither back like a snake? Or does it just appear and disappear, like it's teleporting?*

  He looked down at his bare toes, wiggling them against the floorboards.

  *I never thought I'd ask myself these kinds of questions.*

  He paused, analyzing his own heartbeat.

  *The weird thing is, I'm slightly on guard, but I'm not really that scared. But I should be, right? I should be panicking and running away right now.*

  He sighed once more, standing up and stretching his stiff back. His eyes shutting tight.

  *But then again, it got rid of the rats. So I guess I could be slightly grateful.*

  David opened his eyes to a room bathed in deep amber. The orange light of the setting sun was filtering through the curtains, painting long, dusty shadows across the floor.

  His stomach gave a loud, empty growl.

  "I'm so hungry," he muttered, rubbing his eyes.

  He dragged himself out his room and headed to the kitchen. He needed to make something to eat.

  He approached the two-plate stove on the counter. It was a greasy, battered appliance that had seen better decades. The coils were usually black and crusted with old burnt spills, and it typically took twenty minutes just to boil water. It was a test of patience every single night.

  David turned the dial.

  Instantly, the coil flared a bright, angry crimson. Heat radiated off it in waves, shimmering in the air.

  David recoiled, blinking.

  "Whoa."

  He stared at the glowing ring. It usually just got hot while staying black, taking forever to cook anything. Now it looked like a jet engine.

  He looked over his shoulder, through the doorway to the living room. The golden rope was sitting on the couch.

  *Nah,* he thought, shaking his head. *It can't be. It couldn't have done even this, right? That’s just... electrical.*

  He turned back to the stove, grabbed a pan, and started cooking. He used the groceries he had bought with James's stash, frying up some meat and heating vegetables. The food sizzled instantly, cooking in half the usual time.

  Once he was done, he dished the food onto a plate and walked into the living room.

  He went to sit on the couch, but he stopped.

  The remote control was sitting on the cushion, placed perfectly parallel right next to the golden rope.

  David stared at it.

  "I could have sworn this wasn't..."

  He trailed off. He picked up the remote, giving the rope a wide berth, and sat down.

  The smell of the hot food filled the cool air of the room as he turned on the TV. He chewed slowly, scrolling through the guide, looking for something to wash the day away.

  His eyes widened.

  Danny 2.

  He pressed the information button.

  Plot: Following the tragic sacrifice of the legendary assassin, a new hero rises to take his place and finish the war.

  "What?" David muttered, a piece of meat falling off his fork. "But I thought he died. I mean, I saw him get buried. Was there some after-credit scene I missed?"

  He read further down the description.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  ...his estranged son, raised in secrecy, must now embrace his father's violent legacy.

  David’s expression died. He slumped back against the cushion, chewing utterly without joy.

  "Oh," he said flatly. "It's about his son."

  He rolled his eyes. "So the female lead must have been pregnant the whole time, of course.."

  One hour and forty minutes later, the credits rolled, and David sat forward, his heart slamming a rhythm against his chest.

  He felt a weird surge of adrenaline, joy, actually, mixed with a heavy, lingering sadness.

  "Wow," he muttered, "The movie was actually amazing. I didn't even think it would take that direction."

  He shook his head, impressed. "The assassins kept looking for him while he was protected by this other assassin chick who taught him how to fight. And they actually fell in love."

  He sighed. "Too bad his mom died at the end, though. That was rough."

  He stared at the empty plate on the table. He had finished eating minutes ago, but the movie had kept him glued to the spot.

  "Well," he groaned, stretching his arms. "I have to go take a shower. But... not now. I'm too tired. I'll take it in the morning. I'm just going to sleep for now."

  He gathered his trash, dumped it in the kitchen, and headed for the hallway.

  Before he entered the corridor, he stopped. He looked back at the living room couch. The golden rope was still sitting there.

  David pointed a finger at it.

  "Don't follow me," he commanded firmly. "And don't you dare take my freaking clothes off."

  He waited a beat. The rope didn't move.

  Satisfied, or at least hoping he was, David walked down the hallway and threw himself onto his bed.

  "Well, tomorrow's Wednesday," he muttered into the pillow. "I wonder when this month is going to end. I need to get my payday."

  He closed his eyes, trying to drift off. But even as his body relaxed, his mind wouldn't shut down. Thoughts of the rope kept resurfacing, pulling him back from the edge of sleep. Before, he was just confused. Now, he actually knew what was wrong. He knew it was the rope, an object he couldn't get rid of.

  He just hoped that he would wake up in the morning.

  Time passed. The house settled. The neighborhood grew quiet, the streetlights buzzing outside.

  But in that resounding silence, shadows moved on the front porch.

  Two men stood there. They were wearing black ski masks and covered in complete black clothing. One was massive, his muscles straining against his jacket, holding a heavy iron wrench. The other was scrawny, the same man from the morning, clutching his crowbar.

  The muscular man nodded at the door.

  The scrawny man crouched down, pulling a set of picks from his pocket. He slid the metal into the lock, working silently in the dark.

  The lock clicked, a sharp sound in the quiet night. The man pushed the door inward. It swung open on silent hinges, refusing to creak.

  They stepped inside, and the atmosphere shifted instantly. The living room was submerged in cold air, a sharp, unnatural chill that washed over them.

  "Right," the scrawny man said, his voice low. "The boss said we need to get the money."

  The muscular man remained silent. He eased the door shut behind them, sealing them in the gloom, and scanned the room.

  The scrawny man drifted toward James's room. He nudged the door ajar, peering into the shadows. Seeing the bed was empty, he slipped inside. The faint sound of drawers sliding open drifted back into the hall.

  The muscular man stood guard in the sitting room. His eyes swept the space, landing on a golden rope resting on the couch. He stared at it but dismissed it; it meant nothing to him. His mind was focused on the target:* Where is the kid?*

  His grip tightened around the handle of his iron wrench as he took a careful step forward.

  Unbeknownst to him, the rope shifted. It rippled against the cushion, sliding silently across the fabric like a snake uncoiling.

  The scrawny man stepped back out into the hallway, and the muscular man met him there.

  "Did you find anything?" he asked.

  "No," the man whispered.

  They looked down the corridor. Only two doors remained, facing each other across the narrow space. One was the bathroom; the other was David's.

  "Let's get in that one," the scrawny man said, raising his arm and pointing the tip of his crowbar toward the closed bedroom door. "I checked out their house the other day. That must be where the kid is."

  The muscular man reached for the door handle and pushed. The door swung open to reveal David sleeping on the bed, his head resting on the pillow facing the wall, wearing nothing but black boxers.

  The men entered, their boots silent against the wooden floorboards.

  The scrawny man moved to the side of the room while the muscular man approached the bed. He leaned down and pressed a cold, hard metal object against the back of David's neck.

  "Hey."

  David spun around, gasping. His heart hammered against his chest at the sudden voice.

  He scrambled back against the headboard. Two men stood over him, their faces erased by black ski masks.

  "Don't you fucking move," the muscular man growled.

  David froze, his eyes wide, chest heaving.

  "Give us the cash," the man said. "Right now."

  "Cash?" David stammered. "Alright. I'll... I can give it to you. It's right in that drawer."

  He pointed a shaking finger toward the dresser.

  The scrawny man moved to the drawer and yanked it open. He looked down at the neatly folded clothes.

  "It's under my clothes," David said quickly.

  The man shoved his hand into the drawer, shuffling through the fabric. He felt the bundles. He pulled out a crumpled black plastic bag from his pocket and started sweeping the money inside, a few thousand dollars in rubber-banded stacks.

  He reached back into the drawer, his hand feeling around the empty wood, searching for more. He stopped.

  He looked at David. "Wait. That's it?"

  The muscular man looked at his partner. "How much is it?"

  The scrawny man weighed the two bundles in his hand, flipping through the edges. "This is about... Two grand."

  "Two grand?" The muscular man’s voice rose, anger flaring behind the mask. He turned back to David. "Kid, where's the rest of the money? Where is it?"

  "That's all the money I have!" David cried, pressing his back against the headboard. "What are you talking about?"

  "Don't play smart with me."

  The man didn't hesitate. He raised the heavy iron wrench and swung it down.

  It struck David squarely in the shoulder. A sickening, wet pop crackled through the quiet room as the joint dislocated under the force of the blow.

  David let out a sharp, strangled cry. His body crumpled sideways, sliding off the mattress and hitting the floor with a heavy thud. He clutched his shoulder, gasping as a blinding, white-hot pain exploded in his arm. The shock was so intense that tears sprang to his eyes instantly, blurring his vision.

  The scrawny man stepped forward. "Shut up."

  He lashed out with his boot, kicking David square in the face. The heavy sole crunched against his nose and mouth.

  David’s head snapped back. He grabbed his face, scrambling backward on the floor, kicking his legs until his bare back hit the wooden wall.

  He pulled his hand away from his face. It was slick with red. Blood poured from his nose, rolling over his lips and dripping down his chin onto his chest.

  He looked up at them, his face wet with tears and blood, his eyes wide with pure, primal terror.

  The scrawny man crouched down, getting eye-level with David.

  "Kid," he hissed. "We're not playing around here. Tell us where the rest of the money is. Or else."

  David gritted his teeth, blood slick on his lips.

  *Shit,* he thought, panic clawing at his throat.* I knew this would happen. I didn't use all the money because I was afraid of exactly this. I only used a few hundreds to buy groceries and pay the bills.*

  *But... what do I say?* David gasped. *If I don't give them anything, these guys are going to kill me.*

  He looked up, desperate. "Under... under my pillow. There's a wallet. There's more money in there."

  The muscular man walked over to the bed and flipped the pillow over. He grabbed the worn leather wallet and ripped it open. He thumbed through the bills, a few twenties, some ones. Not even five hundred dollars.

  He stuffed the cash into his pocket and glared at David. "You have to be shitting me, kid. Do you think we're playing here?"

  He pulled his arm back and hurled the heavy iron wrench.

  David reacted on pure instinct, jerking his head to the side.

  The wrench slammed into the wooden wall right beside his ear. It hit with such force that the metal head tore halfway through the plaster and wood, burying itself in the wall inches from David's skull.

  David’s eyes widened, his pupils vibrating with terror. His whole body began to tremble uncontrollably.

  The scrawny man didn't give him time to recover. He slammed his boot hard against David's chest.

  There was no sound, just the brutal impact of the sole hitting the sternum. David felt his ribs creak under the pressure. The air left his lungs in a rush, leaving him gasping for oxygen that wouldn't come.

  The force knocked him sideways. He fell onto his injured side, his dislocated shoulder slamming against the floorboards.

  A sharp, blinding cry tore from his throat as the joint ground together.

  "I said shut up," the scrawny man whispered.

  He raised the crowbar high above his head, ready to bring it down.

  David squeezed his eyes shut and clamped his mouth closed, bracing for the skull-crushing blow.

  But the blow didn't come.

  *That’s it,* David thought, squeezing his eyes shut. *I'm going to die.*

  But the blow never came.

  He opened his eyes. The muscular man had caught the scrawny man's arm, stopping the crowbar inches from David's face. He shook his head.

  "No," the muscular man rumbled. "We can't injure him that much. We just need to make sure he doesn't forget."

  He looked down at David, his eyes cold behind the ski mask. "Alright. Stand up."

  "Huh?" David blinked, dazed.

  "I said, Stand up. God damn it."

  David gritted his teeth and pushed himself up. He kept his left shoulder raised, cradling the dislocated joint against his ribs, wincing as gravity pulled at the injury.

  The man grabbed him and shoved him forward, pushing him toward the bedroom door. "Move."

  David stumbled into the hallway, heading for the living room.

  *What are they planning on doing to me?*

  His heart rammed against his chest, a frantic, trapped bird. It was the middle of the night. These two men could kill him right now and be gone before anyone found out.

  He saw the open space of the living room ahead. The front door was just beyond that.

  *I need to do it,* he thought, panic overriding the pain.* I need to escape.*

  He didn't think; he just moved. He gritted his teeth and forced his legs to pump, bolting toward the exit.

  "Hey!"

  The scrawny man didn't chase him. He just pulled his arm back and hurled the iron crowbar.

  It spun through the air and slammed into the center of David’s back.

  It felt like a sledgehammer. The heavy steel struck his shoulder blade with a sickening, metallic crunch. The sheer force knocked the wind out of him and sent him sprawling face-first onto the living room floor.

  "Help!" David screamed, the sound tearing from his throat. "Hel—"

  The scrawny man was on him in a second. He grabbed David’s shoulder and flipped him over.

  David kicked out, shrinking back against the floor, scrambling to get away. "Get away from me!"

  "Shut up!"

  Suddenly, David froze.

  The muscular man was standing over him. In his hand was a black pistol, leveled directly at David’s forehead.

  Even in the dim light, David could see the detail on the barrel. Etched into the dark metal was a pattern of a black dragon, its body winding down to the muzzle.

  "We told you to be quiet," the man hissed.

  The scrawny man glanced nervously toward the window, looking across the yard to the neighbor’s house.

  "Yo, dude," he whispered urgently. "We need to hurry up. That old lady, Ms. Madison... she might have heard us."

  "She's gone," the muscular man grunted, glancing out the window. "Her daughter moved in today."

  The scrawny man snickered. "Yeah. I heard the boss is actually targeting her next."

  THWACK.

  The muscular man backhanded the scrawny guy across the head with the barrel of his gun.

  "Ow!"

  "What the hell are you saying?" the muscular man hissed. "Keep your mouth shut."

  He turned back to David, shaking the gun. "Hey. Get up."

  David tried to push himself off the floor. A lance of white-hot pain shot through his back where the crowbar had hit him, radiating out from his shoulder blade. It was immense, stripping the breath from his lungs.

  He forced himself up, his legs trembling.

  *I don't want to die,* he thought, tears blurring his vision. *I don't want to die like this.*

  He stood up, swaying slightly. His eyes darted to the couch.

  They widened.

  It wasn't there.

  He had left the golden rope right on the cushion. He had seen it there before he went to sleep. Now, the couch was empty.

  The rope, he thought frantically.*Where is it?*

  The muscular man kicked him hard in the backside, sending him stumbling forward. "Kneel over that coffee table."

  David fell to his knees, his chest pressing against the hard wood of the table.

  "Right," the scrawny man said, stepping forward. "We need to prove to the boss that we've actually been here. He told us to bring back a body part as proof."

  David’s eyes went wide. "A body part?"

  "No," David stammered, shaking his head. "No, please! I'm sorry, I'll pay up! I promi—"

  The muscular man slammed the butt of the gun into the back of David’s head. The metal bit into his scalp, stinging and sharp.

  "Shut up!" the man snarled. "When I tell you to shut the fuck up, you fucking do it!"

  He slammed the gun into David’s head again.

  David let out a small, broken cry, immediately biting his lip to force himself to stop, terrified of a third hit.

  The scrawny man reached under his black jersey and pulled out a knife. The blade gleamed dully in the dim light.

  David's heart hammered against his ribs, beating so fast it felt like a vibration in his chest.

  "Please," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I'll pay up. I promise. Don't."

  "Stop being a pussy about it," the scrawny man spat. "We're just going to take a finger."

  The muscular man grabbed David's wrist and slammed his hand onto the hard wood of the coffee table, splaying his fingers out. Then, he shoved the barrel of his gun into David’s mouth.

  David tasted the cold, metallic tang of the steel against his tongue. He froze. He didn't want to move. He didn't want to defy them. If he flinched, a bullet would blow his brains out across the floor.

  It was the last thing he wanted.

  Suddenly, an image of his parents flashed through his mind. They were dead. As a kid, he had always desperately wanted their protection. When he grew up, terrified of the dark corners of the world, there was no one to shield him. Uncle James was always too busy, too drunk, or somewhere else.

  He didn't have anyone to protect him. Not then, not even now.

  His heart stung with the realization that he was about to go out this way. Alone.

  Suddenly, a sound broke the silence, a sharp, strangled gasp, as if someone was choking on their own tongue.

  David and the muscular man froze. They shifted their gaze to the right.

  The scrawny man was standing rigid.

  A golden rope was wound tight around his body. It coiled around each of his legs individually, spiraling up to bind his wrists separately. The fiber crossed over his mouth like a gag, digging deep into his cheeks.

  The rope writhed against the scrawny man's form, moving like a snake and constricting tighter.

  "What the hell?" the muscular man muttered.

  The scrawny man tried to scream, but the sound was choked off by the gag, escaping only as a muffled, panicked noise.

  Suddenly, his right arm jerked upward. His hand, still gripping the knife, rose high above his head, fighting against his own resistance. Then, with terrifying speed, it plunged down.

  The blade buried itself deep into his open eye.

  "Hey!"

  His partner rushed forward to stop him, grabbing the man's wrist. The thief groaned in agony, his teeth grinding audibly against the golden gag.

  "What the hell is going on?" the muscular man shouted. He clawed at the rope, digging his fingers in to peel it off, but the golden fibers were immovable. They were tight against the skin, hard as iron.

  With a wet, tearing motion, the scrawny man ripped the knife aggressively out of his own eye socket.

  David watched in shock. He scrambled backward, his legs failing him, and fell onto his backside. He slid across the floor until his back collided hard against the TV stand. He stared in horror at the blood and the gold.

  *What?* he thought. *What is it doing?*

  The muscular man spun around, locking eyes with David.

  "Hey!" he roared. "Stop this! Stop this right now!"

  "It's not me," David stammered, pressing against the stand. "I can't."

  The man lunged toward David.

  David’s muscles tightened as he tried to force himself to stand, but he was too slow.

  Suddenly, the rope struck. It uncoiled from the scrawny man, whipping through the air and latching onto the muscular man. It wound around him instantly, tying up each and every limb individually, binding his arms and legs just as it had done to his partner.

  The scrawny man, suddenly released, collapsed to the floor. He landed on his knees, catching himself with his hands, blood pouring from his ruined face.

  He coughed and scrambled to his feet, his hand flying to his face. The knife hadn't gone deep, the bone had stopped it, but blood poured through the gaps between his fingers, slick and dark.

  He saw his partner being strangled by the golden coil, but he didn't help. He bolted for the door.

  He grabbed the handle and yanked. It didn't budge.

  "Come on," he screamed, rattling the knob. "Damn it, come on!"

  He slammed his leg against the wood, kicking it with all his strength, but the door held firm as a wall.

  He spun around and ran to the windows. He drove his boot into the glass, expecting it to shatter, but his foot bounced off. The glass didn't even crack.

  David watched, speechless.

  *What is this?* he thought. *What is happening*

  The scrawny man turned back to his partner.

  The rope was coiling tighter around the muscular man. Suddenly, the pressure mounted. The man’s forearm, right in the solid bone between the wrist and the elbow, snapped backward at a sickening ninety-degree angle, as if a new joint had suddenly existed there.

  The man screamed, but the sound was choked off by the gag, reduced to a wet, muffled vibration. The rope kept tightening. His flesh bulged around the golden fibers, swelling red and purple as if he were about to explode.

  "No," David muttered, sheer terror gripping him. The visceral horror playing out in front of him was too much.

  "Stop it," he whispered.

  The rope ignored him. It lashed out, extending itself across the room in a blur of gold. It caught the scrawny thief, coiling around every limb instantly, snapping him straight and securing him in place next to his partner.

  The room was filled with the wet sounds of tightening fibers and muffled groans.

  David blinked.

  For that split second, something appeared standing next to the thieves.

  Feet away from the scrawny man, there was a woman.

  She was wearing a long white nightgown. Her skin was deathly pale. Her hair was snow white, hanging loose around her face, and deep, dark bags hung under her eyes.

  She was chewing on the long nail of her thumb aggressively, her teeth grinding against the keratin, staring at the men with trembling anticipation.