Page 39 of Stolen Faith
“Barry, is this enough water?”
This whole time, as Rowan and Brennon tried to keep Camo Cast’s attention off her, Tweedledum had been staring down at the metal basin, which was half full. Had it taken him that long to string words together? Or was he deliberately refocusing Camo Cast—Barry’s—attention?
Whatever the reason, Barry turned to her. “Tip her.”
Izabel braced herself, pushing her bare feet against the floor.
“Wait,” she snapped as Tweedledee and Tweedledum grabbed the back of her chair.
But there was nothing she could do to stop them. She was helpless.
Barry turned on the video camera, and a red light blinked and glowed steadily.
“Wait for what?” one of the men asked.
“What…what do you want?” Izabel’s stomach was fluttering, her blood pounding so loud in her ears she almost couldn’t hear.
“Stop fucking around,” Rowan barked, “and tell us what you want.” There was an unmistakable note of command in his voice.
“You’re going to tell me everything I want to know,” Barry said. “But first, let’s show her how God-fearing people take care of witches.”
Tweedledee and Tweedledum tipped her chair forward. Izabel bit back a yelp. The floor rose toward her, and she gripped the arms of the chair, holding her breath and turning her face away, sure she was going to hit the floor.
Her knees cracked against the wood, but she didn’t fall any farther. The men were holding the back of the chair parallel to the floor. Her upper body weight pressed painfully into the strap around her ribs and the zip-ties on her arms.
She was kneeling on the floor, but with the chair bound to her back and legs she couldn’t balance herself. Maybe if she’d been free of the chair, she could have held that position, but with the weight of the chair on her back, there was no way. If they let go, she’d fall forward, head and face smacking the floor.
She tightened her core and thigh muscles, trying to hold herself up so she wasn’t resting on the restraints. It worked to some degree, and it no longer felt like the zip-ties were going to slice through her arms at the elbow.
Barry slid the oval metal basin, the short, curved end pointed at her knees. He pushed it until she was staring down at the water.
Slowly, Izabel looked up, meeting first Brennon’s horrified gaze, then Rowan’s flat, hard expression.
“Deep breaths,” Rowan barked. “No, don’t panic. Inhale. Good.”
Izabel held his gaze, clinging to his words. He breathed, and she breathed with him. She inhaled, held it, exhaled. Inhaled again.
“Put her in.”
The men released the chair. Izabel tipped forward into the water.
Her face went under, her shoulders hitting the metal sides of the basin. She held her breath, eyes squeezed closed. She could do this; she could do this. She’d seen this movie scene. They’d dunk her, pull her out, dunk her again. She wasn’t an avid swimmer, but she’d been on the swim team in high school. She could hold her breath.
Her diaphragm hitched with the need to breathe. She slowly blew out the deep breath she’d just taken in a stream of bubbles.
Any second now they’d lift her out.
Any second.
Her lungs burned. Oh God, she needed to breathe. She clenched her teeth to keep from opening her mouth and inhaling.
Panic screamed through her. Oh God. Oh God! She thought she could hear yelling, but the water and her own frantic heartbeat muted the sound.
She had to breathe, she had to. She couldn’t do this anymore.
Izabel thrashed, trying desperately to sit up. For a moment she thought she was doing it, that she’d be able to raise up enough to get her face out of the water—
Pressure on her back slammed her down again.