Free Captivate by Carrie Jones Page A

possibly a king, judging from how quickly he healed, and she almost died because of it.” She takes a corner and even though she’s mad at me she takes it slow so I don’t bounce around too much. “You get that, don’t you, Zara? You could have died today.”
    My bruised ribs hammer home her point. We pull into our driveway. All the windows in the Cape are dark. The sky is dark. Everything is dark. The woods are just pieces of shadow. You can’t tell what’s back there. You can’t tell who might be watching.

8
Pixie Tip
    A pixie’s true skin color is blue. Cookie Monster, Grover, and other lovable Muppets are also blue.
    Do not confuse the two. Muppets don’t kill you. Usually.
    “Wake up. Zara! Honey! Wake the hell up.” Betty shakes me.
    I swat at her, hit her flannel pajama top. The soft plushness of it is so different from Betty’s hardness. The lights are on in my room. Huh? My eyelids flutter, but I manage to open them, sit up. My voice is a frantic mess. “What? What is it? Pixies?”
    She holds my arms up by the shoulders, but her grip loosens. “You were having another nightmare.”
    I flop back onto the pillows. My chest aches from all the movement. “Again?”
    I’ve had one every night since the accident. That makes a week’s worth of nightmares.
    “You remember it?” Her hand touches my forehead, soothes away some hair.
    “Yeah.”
    “You want to tell me?”
    “Gram, nobody likes to hear about other people’s dreams. It’s like watching PowerPoint presentations of somebody else’s vacation in St. Croix or something. You hear about the beach but you aren’t really experiencing the beach, so it’s just not that interesting.”
    Her eyes close a little bit as she examines me. Her hands work at soothing out her pj top, which features frolicking lions and lollipops. Then she stills herself. She is so solid and good and crusty, the best kind of grandmother. “I’m sorry I woke you up,” I finish.
    “Not a big deal, sweetie. I’m up all the time.” She leans over and kisses my forehead.
    She straightens up and walks stiffly across the hardwood floor to the open door of my bedroom and hesitates by the light switch. “You want me to shut this off?”
    My pulse speeds up. It hits against my skin, like blood is trying to beat its way out of my veins. “No. Light is good.”
    The door clicks shut and I stare up at the Amnesty International poster that hangs over my bed. There’s an image of a candle wrapped in barbed wire, a flame that still burns.
    There were flames in my dream. They flickered around my feet and I was running through them, running up the stairs of a house, running toward someone. Every single part of me needed to get up those stairs, deeper into that fire. The hallway was just like the one in the big pixie mansion that we’ve trapped my father and the rest of them in. I thought for a second that’s who I was looking for, but I suddenly realized that it wasn’t him. Nick called my name from the bottom of the stairs, but I ignored him, rushing deeper and deeper into the flames where the blond pixie was waiting for me.
    Then Nick screamed. I turned around and he was surrounded by pixies, feeding pixies ripping at his clothes, his flesh. I hesitated and that’s the worst part of the dream—me hesitating. The flames were so tempting, the pull to go farther into the house so great.
    But then I ignored my need and started to head back toward him. And when I did? Bam.
    Something grabbed me from behind. I shrieked. And Betty woke me up. That’s it. End of dream.
    Man, I hate dreams. How is it they can make you feel guilty when they aren’t even real?
    Worry keeps me from sleeping. I get out of bed to use Gram’s laptop, which she’s letting me borrow until we go up to Bangor and buy a replacement. I open up my e-mail to read Amnesty’s current Urgent Action paper. It’s about Fidelis Chiramba, Gandhi Mudzinga, and Kisimusi Dhlamini, who are in a jail in Zimbabwe just