“Wha…what happened?” I mumble, fighting whatever sedative was in the needle that had managed to puncture my skin. Musta been pure silver, I think groggily. I fight the buzzing in my head to pull myself into a sitting position but immediately fall back down. Fucking strong sedative. I struggle to remember the events that put me here.
I’d already made coffee (yes, werewolves drink coffee, you specist prick) and the 9:00 news was on. That philanthropist’s kid, the one who’d been attacked by a wereboy, had just died. The attack happened a few months ago and me and the other Supernaturals had been hoping things would calm down as the kid healed…guess not. His death wasn’t good for any of us. I hadn’t waited around to find out just how not good it was. Instead, I headed out to grab the mail.
I don’t think I even made it to my mailbox. There were a shit ton of trucks up and down my street and … I think I remember a scream? And turning toward it? Then … nothing. Some sunnavabitch musta snuck up behind me. Takes alotta nerve to sneak up behind a hairy mother like me still in their bathrobe. I guess the “peaceful coexistence” we were promised by the humans all those years ago is over.
Outlining the edge of the circular room I now find myself in are simple black cages. Cages like the one I’m in right now. One I might not be getting out of anytime soon, I begin to realize. Most are empty but one holds an unconscious young woman, species unclear, crumbled on the floor.
“That garlic elixir was a little stronger than I intended.” I jump at the voice just outside my cage and my eyes struggle to focus on the form. It’s oddly familiar. “She’ll wake up soon, though,” she continues and I realize how I know her. She was on the news every few days, dedicating buildings, opening new foundations, and most recently because of her son…
Alexa Winters: rich bitch and mother of the boy that had just died. She was grinning from ear to ear.
Suddenly I wonder if I’m grateful I woke up or wishing I hadn’t.
“This some sort of perverted zoo?” I mumble.
She laughs. “Close.” She flips a switch that illuminates signs on the front of each cage. The unconscious girl’s sign says, “Vampire.” There’s an empty “Shape Shifter,” and beside me, glowing neon in the dark basement, “Werewolf.”
I push myself to the back corner of my cage as it slides into place beside the sign. She holds her arms out wide and grins. “Welcome,” she gives a half spin, “to my collection.”
For more about Alexa Winters and The Purge, check out The Problem With Humans.