Everything began with a throb. Not just a headache, but a rhythmic, punishing vibration that seemed to originate from the base of her skull and vibrate outward through her jaw. Along with the pulse came the smell, bitter, sharp, and distinctively metallic. It was the scent of old pennies and unwashed machinery, a grime-laden odor that felt like it was coating the inside of her throat.
Amara opened her eyes, or at least she tried to.
Total, suffocating blackness. For a split second, she thought she was still at the hotel, maybe in a closet, but then she tried to gasp for air.
The sound that left her was a pathetic, muffled grunt.
