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“A trial,” I repeated before realization dawned. “The trial? Wait, don’t I get a lawyer or a phone call or something?”
“No,” she said, uncuffing me. I sat up slowly. She was across the room and out of my reach in a glimmer of movement.
Where was the trust? “You’re accused of immolating two of your own kind. The Bill of Rights no longer applies to you.”
She turned toward the door, then whirled back on me. She stood by the cot, peering down at me with those glowing black eyes.
“I regret this. You seem to be an interesting vampire.”
“Then don’t do this!” I yelled. “Stop making an example of me for other young vampires. I’m a terrible example. More weird stuff happens to me in a week than is foisted upon the average person in an entire lifetime.”
“I regret this,” she repeated. “But I also regret the loss of Dick Cheney. Once upon a time, we were…close acquaintances.”
“Am I the only person in the Hollow who hasn’t slept with Dick Cheney?”
“Possibly,” she admitted.
“Sorry,” I said. Shrugging my shoulders was a painful gesture that let me know there were bits of glass embedded somewhere near my shoulder blade. Gabriel was right, it itched.
Gabriel.
“My sire, Gabriel Nightengale, does he know I’m here?” I asked as she opened my cell door.
She nodded. “You’re not allowed visitors,” she said, shutting the very solid door behind her.
And for the first time since being shot and left for dead, I was truly frightened.
Whenever those horrible “women in prison” movies were played on Lifetime, I thought, what’s the big deal about prison? I could handle solitary. Even if I couldn’t read, I could daydream. I could write. I would take naps.
Well, like many of my predeath preconceived notions, that one was destroyed. There was no window, so I couldn’t tell whether it was night or day. There was no clock, so I never knew what time it was. I couldn’t sleep, because the healing burns on my arms itched like crazy. And my daydreams were interrupted by pesky questions such as, “Where is Gabriel?” “Why does this keep happening to me?” “Am I going to die for real this time?”
I spent half my time trying to figure out where the hell I was. When I pressed my ear against the wall, I could hear traffic. I heard voices at least twenty feet above my head, but I couldn’t make out any actual words. And there was a rat somewhere in the plumbing.
The only good thing I could say about the clink was that the blood (served in a paper cup shoved through a slot in my door) was fresh and tasty. It was also of an indeterminate origin, but I decided not to ask questions.
I was halfway to drawing “LOVE” and “HATE” on my knuckles, when Ophelia returned. She was wearing black silk pants and a top that may, at one point, have been a handkerchief. I stood up, grateful for any sort of interaction, even if it could mean I was facing a spookily titled punishment.
“Are you comfortable?” she asked, not sounding as if she actually cared.
“Bored, mostly. How long have I been in here?” I asked. “Two days, three days?”
“Nine hours,” she said, looking as if she were suppressing a giggle.
“Well, that’s embarrassing,” I muttered, scratching at my arms.
We sat there and stared at each other. It was like a staring contest with a really hot statue.
Finally, she said, “The tribunal has voted against a trial.”
I sat up, feeling something like hope rising. “Really? That’s good news.”
“They voted against it because Missy has challenged you to trial by battle, which is her right as Dick’s consort.”
“You guys are just making this up as you go along! ” I cried. “Dick and Missy weren’t even in a real relationship. Hell, if everyone he slept with could challenge me to a duel, I’d be fighting half the county. You could challenge—”
She crossed her arms and glared at me. Probably not good to give her ideas.
“Never mind,” I said. “Is it going to be pistols at dawn? Swords at sundown? How does this trial-by-battle thing work?”
