Tangled in Moonlight: Unshifted novel Chapter 228

228 Lisa: Rescue? 

An odd scraping has me waking in the middle of the night, when even the faint light from the high–up window has disappeared. 

The sounds are irregular, not at all patterned, which I’ve come to learn means that there’s either a person or animal behind it. 

I hope it isn’t a rat. 

Sitting up, I strain my ears, past the thudding of my heart against my ribs. More odd sounds echo around me. A soft scuffle comes > from outside the wall where Marisol usually appears with my 

meager meals. My breath catches in my throat. 

That mysterious note comes to mind. 

Could it be? After all this time, has someone finally come for me? 

Hope surges through my veins, making me dizzy. I press a hand to my chest, trying to calm my racing heart. Slow, deep breaths that expand my ribs and reduce my pulse rate to a level that doesn’t have me woozy with the rush of blood. 

My muscles are weak, despite the squat and other stretches I work on daily, trying to keep myself as in shape as I can. 

How long have I been in this hellhole? Days? Weeks? It’s impossible to tell without windows or any sense of time passing. I’m not even sure my meals arrive daily; sometimes, I think it’s two or three times a day. Other times, it’s as though a day or two passes between them. 

The cycle of night and day here seems different, too. Which is an 

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228 Lisa: Rescue? 

odd thing to think, but time just doesn’t seem right. 

The scraping sound comes again, closer this time. I take a tentative step forward, then another. My legs shake beneath me, 

threatening to give out at any moment, and it’s only three steps before the manacles yank against my wrists and ankles, keeping 

me where I am. 

I know these stones intimately, the boundaries of what little movement I have. 

“Hello?” I whisper, my voice hoarse from disuse. “Is someone 

there?” 

Silence greets me. I hold my breath, straining to hear any 

response. Nothing. Maybe I imagined it all, my mind playing cruel tricks after so much isolation. Disappointment threatens to crush me, but I refuse to give in to despair. Not yet. 

A muffled thud makes me jump. It’s definitely coming from beyond the wall. My heart races even faster, hope and fear warring within me. What if it’s not a rescue? What if it’s something worse? 

Images of my captor flash through my mind, but I shove them away. I haven’t seen him since he first brought me here, and I don’t want to somehow summon his presence with my thoughts. 

No, I can’t think about that now. I have to focus on the present. 

The scraping sound comes again, more insistent this time. It’s as if someone’s trying to pry something open. Could they be working on the mechanism that opens my cell? 

“Hello?” I call out, a little louder. 

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228 Lisa: Rescue? 

Still, nothing. 

The thought of getting louder makes me cringe. What if I alert Marisol? 

No, better to be quiet. 

To wait and see. 

“Please,” I whisper, not sure if I’m talking to God or whoever might be on the other side. “Please let this be real.” 

My legs tremble beneath me, threatening to give out. I slide down, my eyes fixed on the wall in front of me as I sink to my knees. The cold seeps through my thin clothing, but I barely notice. I’m always cold, anyway. It’s nothing new. 

All my attention is focused on that sound, willing it to be my salvation. 

The noises continue, sometimes loud, sometimes so faint I wonder if I’m imagining them. I dig my nails into my palms, the pain keeping me anchored in reality. 

Suddenly, there’s a loud click. I scramble to my feet, heart in my throat. The wall moves, sliding open just as it does when Marisol brings my meals. But it’s not Marisol on the other side. 

A figure stands in the doorway, backlit by dim light from the hallway beyond. I can’t make out their features. 

“Lisa Randall?” a voice whispers. Male, I think. 

And as the figure steps closer, his height shrinks dramatically. A trick of the light, perhaps? But by the time he’s standing in front of fod in a dark robe, he’s perhaps as tall as my hip. 

220 Lisa: Rescup? 

“Who are you?” 

“Never you mind. Is your name Lisa Randall?” His words are snappy, even rushed. 

“Yes.” 

“I have an order for extraction. You coming, or what?” 

Holding up my hands, I rattle the chains holding me to the ground. 

“I can’t. I’m stuck.” 

“Ah.” Shoving the hood of his robe back, I’m shocked to see a weathered face and short, spikey white hair. He’s old. Ancient. 

And so, so small. 

“Iron. Rusted. Easy enough to fix.” Reaching forward with one hand, I notice nails so long and curved that they are best described as claws. With one tap of his index claw–nail, the manacles open, falling to the ground with a loud clatter. 

He does the same to the ones around my ankles. 

The absence of their weight has me a little off balance, used to fighting against them.