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The woman glances back at her fellow prisoners, then turns back to me, lifting her chin as she replies, “I asked you first.”
“Seeing as how it’s you who’s presently immured,” says Orson, “you ought to answer first.”
If we introduce ourselves and our motivations first, they might lie to hide what they truly are. We won’t know the truth until it’s too late, and we can’t afford to make that mistake right now. If we let them go, what will they do?
She turns her profile to us so that she can regard us with one squinty eye. “There are a dozen of us immured in this room and only two of you not boxed up in cages. Seeing as how you’re in the minority, you ought to answer first.” She sneers. “Who uses the word immured, anyway?”
I look at Orson. “She’s got you there.” I turn back to the woman. “You know, you and him have more in common than your vocabulary.”
“That so?”
“He spent time behind bars, too.”
This admission appears to soften her suspicion. “Really?”
Orson nods. “I’ve known what it is to be a captive, but never a captor. I’ve known the feeling of the ever-shrinking bars closing in around me, and the deep stirring of desire that comes at the thought of an open field and the beauty of the sky.”
Her expression is far away for the briefest moment, like she’s picturing that very sky and field, before she focuses back on us once more. “My name is Victoria. We are what remains of the once mighty Blood Pack.”
We suspected as much. “And if we free you, what will you do?”
Her dark gaze never leaves mine. “Get as far from here as we possibly can.”
It’s not enough. “To do what?”
She spreads her arms in annoyance. “To be free. To be people. To have homes and families and lives once more.”
The woman’s dreams almost sound like Asha’s. What’s more, I don’t detect any malice in her voice. There are no secret plots to suggest that she’ll go mad when we free her and go on a killing rampage.
My gut says she’s safe, and since I don’t have a lie detector, that might have to be enough. “Then we’re here to save you,” I say.
From the back, a quavering voice called out, “Is it another trick, Victoria?”
Orson and I exchange curious looks. “What does he mean?” Orson asks her.
Her features slump into a grimace, accentuating the premature wrinkles carved into her face. “The Blood Mages who’ve imprisoned us, they enjoy playing games. Teasing our hope only to strip it away again. Their torture is not merely of body and spirit, but of mind.” She says this last word through gritted teeth. She can’t even speak of it without rage chattering her teeth. Victoria teeters on the edge. I sense madness besieging her sanity.
And yet there’s a light in her, too. A spark of humanity that takes all but murder to steal. I’ve seen its glint in the darkest places. I know its resilience.
“This is no trick,” Orson reassures. “We are here to free you. We’ve been sent by one of your own. Asha.”
The name of our mate, their fellow packmember, engenders a curious effect. The imprisoned Blood Pack exchange looks with one another that I can’t quite discern. Are they dubious? Do they doubt we’re with Asha, or that Asha would return for them?
A memory replays of Asha blaming herself for their plight.
Might they blame her, too?
“Asha,” the woman says with a hesitant smile. “Is she truly alive?”
I nod. “She escaped and has been trying to find her pack members ever since. She led us here.”
“Then why isn’t she here?” she asks.
I hesitate, then decide the hell with it. “She’s taking on the Blood Mages above us.”
There are murmurs of concern. The woman shakes her head. “Asha can’t handle all of them alone.”
“She’s not alone.” She has Max, which may not be enough.
