“Wake up, heathen,” a gruff voice barks over the intercom. The outer door beeps, then slides open, revealing my tormentor in chief—the asshole in charge here, wearing his usual suit and tie, as if he’s squeezing in business meetings between beating prisoners.
Two other guards file in behind him, meaty hands wrapped around their big-ass electrical prods.
“Bet you boys haven’t gripped anything that big in a while, huh?” I ask. “Just remember—stroke, don’t choke.”
“Shut it, slut.” Mr. Business taps a code into the keypad on the wall, and the electrical barrier keeping me inside vanishes. His face is even more dour than usual. “Attorney’s here to see you.”
I open my mouth to tell him I don’t have an attorney, but think better of it. Sure, it’s probably a trap. But whoever it is, they can’t be worse than the guards. Maybe they can even help me get out of this living hell.
Maybe it’s Jessa…
The thought is as fragile as spun glass, and then, right before it turns into hope, I smash it.
If Jessa were allowed to visit me, she would’ve been here by now, even if she had to borrow a car and drive all night. She’s probably going crazy, no idea where I am, no idea what’s happening, no idea if I’m even alive. She tried to get answers from the cops the other day in Kettle Black, but once they had me cuffed, they hustled me out of there pretty quick.
My only comfort was Kirin, who stood by Jessa’s side, gently holding her back from charging after me. He knew a losing battle when he saw one. His reassuring gaze—more intense and intimate than I’d ever seen it before—was the last thing I saw as the cops dragged me away. In his deep, calming voice, he promised me that he and Jessa would find a way to help.
It was a lie—we both knew there was nothing anyone could do for a witch ensnared in the human justice system. He only said it for Jessa’s benefit.
I appreciated it more than he’ll ever know.
Thinking of him now sends a little flutter to my heart, followed by a deep sadness.
We never got to go on that coffee date. Never got to talk about books or anything else.
All three guards crowd into my cell, the prods within striking distance as Business unlocks my restraints. He hauls me to my feet, then cuffs my hands behind me and shoves me forward.
He doesn’t issue any warnings or threats, doesn’t rattle off the rules. He doesn’t need to.
Outside my special room, the hallways are lined with regular cells packed with humans—female criminals from all over the region. Some of them don’t look a day over eighteen. Others look like they’ve spent their entire adult lives behind bars.
None of them are friendly—not to the witch accused of murdering an innocent human. The witch who now gets her own room.
“Dead witch walking,” they chant and whistle as I pass, throwing things at me from behind their cages. Balled up paper. A few shoes. Books. Halfway down the walk of shame, a soggy rag smacks me dead in the face, then slides unceremoniously to the ground.
It takes me all of half a second to realize it was soaked in piss.
Business remains unfazed, tightening his grip on my arm as we continue down the hall.
Drops of urine roll down my cheek, but I don’t complain. Just do my best to wipe my face on my shoulder, and keep on trucking. My visitor, whoever it is, represents a change in routine. And change? That’s an opportunity—however dim—to find a way out.
It’s the first flicker of possibility I’ve felt since I got here. I won’t risk it by starting trouble. Not now.
Cattle prods at the ready, they shove me down a few more corridors until we reach a steel door at the ass end of the complex. I don’t know whether to be relieved or afraid. Sure, there aren’t any inmates around to torment me.
But there’s no one around to hear me scream, either.
“Where are you taking—”
“Shut it, witch.” Business digs his bruising fingers into my arm, then turns to the other two guards. “I’ll take it from here.”
He waits until they leave, then punches a code into the keypad. The door beeps, then unlatches, and he shoves me on through, then down another maze of hallways. Our adventure finally terminates in a windowless, Easy-Bake oven of a room, the hot air inside hanging in a sour cloud as if the door hasn’t been opened in years.
There’s a table in the center, a chair on each side. He shoves me hard into the first chair, my teeth clacking together from the impact. Blood coats my tongue. My headache slides from dull throb into borderline migraine territory.
“Comfortable?” He grins at me, then jerks the cuffs behind my back, wrenching my arms up.
I press my lips together, taking the abuse. Waiting for the right moment. My eyes water.
