Mysterious, deadly, kittenish, purring, murderous. Arabella looks like a gypsy and wields her knife like she uses her tongue. . .
The girl laughed at that, pleasantly enough, he thought.
She didn't speak again for some time. There was nothing to think about, nothing to sense, but the soft brush-brush of his eyelashes, and the occasional variations in the car's motion. Eventually, in the silence, he raised his hand to the back of his head to untie the blindfold.
Before his fingers could even touch the knots, the cold steel of her knife blade was pressing into the skin under his ear.
"I'm not far away, not now, not ever," she whispered. "You just leave that alone. I'm right here." Then she laughed again, that same friendly, girlish sound. The metal slid away, the flat of the blade drawing itself crisply across his throat.
He hardly dared to breathe in the new silence. When the air began to move into his lungs again, he was light-headed. A whirring sound began, somewhere over on her side of the car. Listening, he identified it. She was sharpening her knife. Good, he thought, a girl who takes better care of her cutlery than her guests.
