Mary tried to catch herself as she hit the bed but the drug was already too strong in her system and she fell awkwardly to the side, hip bruising again the edge of the frame, hand draping off the side, hair splaying across the pillow. “No,” she whispered, voice sluggish, even that one syllable slurred.
It had all happened too fast, one second he'd been her father, she'd been sick, and then his eyes had flashed, he'd whispered about the powder, and the last strength had gone out of her legs. In her mind she'd suddenly been in her son's nursery again recognizing that yellow flash, being thrown against the wall before she could do more than scream and she'd been planning her next move, the kick that would give her time to get to the gun she'd hidden there. Then she'd felt herself rising onto her toes thought what? as a sudden interlude to her frantic need to get between this thing and her son. Her feet had left the ground and she'd been too confused to be scared because this wasn't a fight and then...
And then he'd had his arm around her, transporting and dragging her through a series of locations and she couldn't have said if he was using his powers or if she was blacking out, she'd slowed down and the world had sped up. All she was certain of was that thing's arm around her waist in a parody of the way her father had helped her up the stairs when she was hurt, from hunting, once from a fall from her bike, too old to be carried but never without support. The demon's arms couldn't quite replicate it. Too much steel she thought, and when he kissed me there were too many teeth.
Then he was speaking again and she found the strength to turn her head, to curl her fingers up into a fist. She didn't answer, he didn't need the satisfaction, just narrowed her eyes into a glare and tried to concentrate, to take in everything about the room she was in. Because she was going to get out of this, and when she did she was going to be ready.