Unsurprisingly, the Noctryns target their opposers first with the interrogations. Even less shocking is the fact that they lumped me in with them. To say the Veils are pissed would be an understatement. How do we know it wasn’t one of the interrogators who committed the acts in question?
I pull the cap over my ears as we enter a lower level of the academy, one that sits far below the first floor and definitely wasn’t mentioned in any of the brochures. It’s deep into the foreboding catacombs. If I thought the living quarters were cold and damp, I sadly overestimated the ability of the academy to surpass them.
I take slow, measured steps as I follow my guide downward, the stone stairs slick with age. Somewhere in the distance is a steady drip of water. It’s musty, bleak, and the last place I want to be. Griffin had the honor of escorting me and currently leads the way. He’s been quiet thus far, which is perfect for me. I havezero desire to converse with someone taking me into the depths of depravity. He carries a heavy torch that outlines his silhouette as we make our way through the long, winding passageways.
Crumbled stones and rubble are pushed off to the sides, and we pass a few empty cells that look to be forgotten. The catacombs seem endless. It’s understandable why they have someone escort us. Perhaps it isn’t so much a show of force as I originally thought, but more so to make sure we reach our destination. Although I’m not sure which would be worse at the moment. Becoming lost in the dark passages or having my mind manipulated and invaded.
After a few more turns, we come to a large wooden door. Griffin pivots and stops in front of it, turning to face me with a bored expression. I quirk my lips, lean against the wall, and sink to my heels, resting my head against the cold stone. Neither of us makes any effort to speak.
I close my eyes and pretend I’m alone.
I’ve heard firsthand what these interrogations can be like. Ambrose didn’t cut corners when explaining how uncomfortable they are. How intrusive it is to have someone poke into the deep walls of your mind. While there’s no way for me to mentally prepare for what’s about to transpire, I can at least try to calm my thoughts beforehand. I’m obviously innocent and know nothing about either disappearance, but I’m still nervous about a stranger peering into my personal memories. I don’t care for the idea of someone being in my head.
Sometimes I don’t even like being in there.
The minutes slowly tick by before the door creaks open, causing me to crack my eyes slightly. A first-year walks out, eyes glossy and chin slightly trembling. She looks down at me before quickly averting her gaze and gaining her composure.
Griffin signals for me to rise before placing his hand on my back and pushing me none-too gently through the door. The minute I’m all the way in, he shuts it with a loud slam of finality.
Fuck you very much, then.
I glance around the small room as my chest rises and falls with rapid breaths. Chains hang from the ceiling with cuffs dangling at the ends, rusted and stained. The feeling of terror and unwilling confessions are etched into every corner and crevice of this interrogation room. In the center of the room sits a table bare of anything but two chairs. One of them is currently being occupied by none other than the king of interrogations.
Kingston fucking Adair.
He’s leaned back completely at ease, both legs sprawled wide with his hands resting behind his head. This is just another day in the office for him.
I walk over stiffly and place both palms on the table, standing in front of the vacant seat. I never take my weary eyes off him.
“We meet again,” he says in a deep, rich voice that I would recognize in my sleep. The brown hues of his eyes shine like burnt amber in the torchlight.
“Unwilling on my part, as usual. It seems we’re obtaining a theme.”
He inclines his head in a gesture for me to sit, ignoring my barb.
I take a seat. It’s not like I have any other option at the moment.
I’m a pawn, and he’s the king on the board.
In the end, we’ll end up at the same place, but I have to play the game.
The muscles bunch beneath his dark, long-sleeved shirt as he sits forward and rests his elbows on his knees. His black hair is slicked back from his face, allowing every hard angle and sardonic expression to fuel the deviant aura he cloaks himself in.He’s dressed in black from his shirt down to his combat boots. It’s as if the moment he enters a room, you can feel the warmth leave.
It’s absolutely frigid in this cell.
He gives off the distinct expression that everything around him is a nuisance and vastly beneath him. Apathy being a main weapon in his arsenal. He’s beautifully detached in the most ruthless way possible. And somehow, I’m constantly on his radar.
I cross my ankles more out of the need to do something while sitting under his intense scrutiny than anything else. He’s staring at me as if I’ve already been found guilty of a crime, and this whole charade is more of a formality than an actual interrogation. I do my best not to fidget while pinned beneath his dark glare, full of accusations.
The torches on the walls flicker in unison with my erratic heartbeat. Resignation seeps from the walls, cold and slick with age, the faint scent of iron and blood clinging to the air. This room was built to devour sound. To hide secrets and relish pain.
Kingston pushes off his knees and sits back a little, slightly crossing his arms and tapping his fingers against his lips. “Do you have anything you want to share with me before we start?” he asks, clearly knowing I won’t be sharing anything with him. At least not willingly.
“You mean besides the fact that I don’t want to be here?” I answer with the perpetual scowl I wear around him. “I haven’t done anything wrong,”
“I’ll determine that,” he replies curtly while holding that unwavering eye contact he seems to favor.
Without warning, he grabs the front of my chair and pulls me toward him, the legs scraping loudly against the stone floor. I grip the edges tightly, so I don’t fall right out of it. “Was that necessary?” I hiss.
