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A smile spread across Cletus’ face, but he was either too stupid to recognize the coldness emanating from Dante, or he was too greedy to care.
Dante calmly but swiftly reached beneath his silk shirt and pulled out a golden pistol, engraved with ornate scroll work, and leveled it at Cletus’ face. It happened so fast Cletus didn’t have time to react. His smile had just started to fade when the gun went off and a bullet caught him between the eyes. The back of his head popped open as the shot rang out, and he collapsed to the ground, his blood and pink chunks of brain staining the dirt.
A gasp rose in my throat, but I clamped it down.
Dante lowered the gun slowly and looked at me. “Welcome toPalacio de Sangre.”
The Palace of Blood.
Fuck.
Chapter 29
Dante’sbrown eyes raked over me, lingering on my face and then my arm with the bandage from my knife wound.
Without a word, he grabbed me by the hair and yanked me forward. I cried out in pain and reached up to try and pull his hands off, but it only made him tighten his grip as he hauled me down the road.
Even though tears leaked out the corners of my eyes, I was still able to look around and take in my surroundings. Faces peered through ratty curtains hanging on stained, dirty windows, but no one ventured outside. Their curiosity would not get in the way of their safety, and it became clear this was in fact still a ghost town.
People didn’t live here, they survived here.
I tripped and almost fell, but Dante reached down and grabbed my wrist, relentlessly holding on to me to prevent me from crashing into the dirt. His fingers clamped around my slender bones, and I bit my lip to stifle my cry of agony.
When we came to the outskirts of the town, he stopped. We stood outside an old, faded pink adobe structure with iron bars rooted in the cement of the windows. He dragged me toward it, opening the cracked wooden front door, and then shoved me into the building.
The town jail.
I nearly choked on the scent of death that lingered in the air in the small front room. Piles of old rodent droppings in the corners mingled with the reek of decaying flesh and blood emanated from the building.
Dante pulled me down the hallway, revealing four rusted old jail cells, two on each side, and then he removed an iron skeleton key from his pocket and jostled it into the iron lock of the first cell on the right. The iron gate groaned in protest as he jerked it open against its will. He pushed me inside and I fell to the ground. He closed it, locking me in. The sound resonated with finality.
“Enjoy your accommodations,” he said, smiling slightly before he padded back down the hallway, out of sight. A moment later, I heard the front door creak open and then shut again.
I was alone. Without food. Without water. Not that I had an appetite for anything.
Something furry scuttled across my feet. I cried out in surprise and backed up until I hit a stone wall. I curled my knees up to my chest, as if making myself into a small ball would somehow protect me.
I inhaled a deep breath, instantly gagging on the stench in the air. I stood up, suddenly aware of how filthy my surroundings were and not wanting to touch anything on the floor. The sound of buzzing flies caught my attention and drew my eyes to an old rickety bucket in the far corner. I walked to it to see what was inside. I peered into the bucket and almost lost the meager contents in my belly. The excrement of the person that had come before me was still there.
My eyes ping-ponged around the jail cell. I realized how dire my situation truly was. There were details I would never be able to unsee. Streaks of brown marred the walls near the bucket, clearly from someone defecating and having to use their hand to clean themself. The floor was made of crude stone but was stained with various brown splotches.
Dried blood.
Death thrived here. Misery flourished, and despair prospered.
Palacio de Sangre, indeed.
I wondered how I was going to die. Because there was no doubt in my mind that Iwasgoing to die. How long would he string this along? What violations would I endure before the pain and suffering ended?
I went to the iron gate of the jail cell. I gripped the bars and with my limited energy, gave them a hearty tug. They steadfastly refused to budge. I clawed at the pins in the hinges that connected the gate to the walls to remove them, but they were rusted through, and the task would be impossible without tools.
The walls were tall and smooth, and the only window in the room was above the reach of my hands. There was no way to climb up to it and look out. Even if I turned over the metal bucket and used it as a stepping block, I wouldn’t be able to see. No doubt the iron bars were secure there too.
I was trapped. And no one was going to save me.
It had been hours since I’d had anything to eat or drink. I was terrified, injured, and exhausted—but the idea of closing my eyes in this place meant that I’d wake up far too soon in another nightmare.
Reality.
