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“We’re perfect for the job!” Helga Bee grins, her cheeks blemished with swatches of maroon.
And that settles it. Departing into the shrill stadium for Fun House Night, the plan is set. Dessin will likely go up in flames over my deceit, but enough is fucking enough. I want out of this torture chamber. I could handle the beatings. I could endure the starvation. But I cannot fathom staying in here any longer with the soul sister who betrayed me.
I thought you sent her to me, Scarlett.
Is her name even Ruth?
Was any of it true? How much of what she said was a lie?
It doesn’t matter anymore. We’re getting the hell out of here. Dessin has worked out a route of escape in that complex mind of his. I need to do my part.
Once we gather around the stage, listening to the Ringmaster introduce the night’s events, I slip away to the exit designated for inmates who would rather save themselves the trouble of a Fun House Night and entertain the higher-ranking soldiers in another way.
The distance that separates Dessin and me is like the warmth being sucked out of my being. It’s watching hot water swirl down a drain in the bathtub, feeling the cold chill in the air kiss your bare skin. I shudder at his absence.
I’m doing this for us. I’ll come back to you unharmed with what we need. I love you.
My head still throbs and pulses from the concussion-induced migraine, but the void swims closer to my consciousness. The depth and shape of its existence helps me breathe normally again.
Down a vibrant corridor of black brick walls glimmering with wild flames, I follow a line of inmates, dragging their feet across the gravelly floor.
Use every tool in your arsenal. You can do this.
Cloudy rooms are scattered along the path, each one holding windows so that the soldiers may still enjoy watching Fun House Night. I watch with growing hesitation as men and women stray from the line, filing into the rooms of their choice.
Strange face after face. Scarred. Burned. Tattooed. I have to ensure the room I pick doesn’t have Kaspias in it.
Poking my head in the fourth room I pass, a group of three soldiers chug from their bronze chalices as if competing in a race. Brown liquid drizzles down their chins, seeping into their beards. I study each of them as quickly as possible while they remain unaware of my presence.
The first soldier is shorter than me, not an inch of hair on his body, not even eyebrows. His matte black uniform is without any accessories.
The second soldier looks similar, but with a long brunette ponytail.
The third has black liner around his eyes, piercings that run in a long, neat line over his jaw bone, and silver bangles with jewels covering his black breast plates. He’s bigger than the other two, both in width and length. Thighs that resemble Warrose’s legs and a beefy chest that reminds me of Dessin.
He looks positively terrifying.
It stands to reason that he must hold important information.
They’ve finished their drinks and shift on their heels, rotating toward me. Three sets of eyes trace over my neck and chest like carnivores assessing their next meal. I stand up straight, confident, and deviously, unassumingly strategic.
The bald one says something in the foreign tongue I don’t understand.
“I don’t speak Old Alkadonian,” I say calmly.
The two soldiers without jewels or silver bangles swing their focus to the tall, hefty male leaning against a blazing torch. The orange flame only illuminates half of his shiny face. Those black-rimmed eyes bore into me, trailing slowly up the length of my legs until he reaches my hip bones. The small optic movement feels like a league of cockroaches sneaking up the length of my ankles to my thighs.
Something about him strikes me as off. He uses the nail on his index finger to scratch the inside of his upper lip. He holds his hands outward, like he wants to say something, but doesn’t know how to express himself. And his stare is directed at me, yet not focused on anything in particular. It’s as if he’s seeing right through me, visualizing a scene I’m in with a different conversation entirely. The sum of his body language makes my nerves recoil with caution.
“You’re not supposed to be up here,” the leading soldier says, accent compact and uneven. His tone reminds me of a child trapped in a grown man’s body.
I lower my lids to give him a once-over. “Says who?”
“Commander Kaspias.”
That fucking name curdles my blood.
With a single swipe of my tongue across my bottom lip, I tilt my head to the side, gazing up at the man in charge from under my lashes. My gaze shifts between his lips and his eyes. Over and over again. I force myself to imagine Dessin, picture his clenching hands, the width of his shoulders. It forces my pupils to dilate wide.
