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One man, the Italian guard.
He locked the door behind him.
I waited tensely. My arms might be pinned to the wall, but I still had use of my lower body. He wouldn’t take my blood without a fight. He’d win, but at least he’d be hurting.
He stopped a couple feet away. Close enough to knee in the balls.
I showed him my fangs. “Stay the fuck away from me.”
He scowled. “You want to use the toilet or not?”
That’s why he was here? “Yeah,” I said before he could change his mind.
He undid the cuffs and stepped back.
My legs almost gave out beneath me. I stumbled, working out the cramps. But my arms were even worse. They’d gone numb, and moving them was sheer torture. I bit back a groan as I shook them out and brought them to my sides.
“Make it quick.” He jerked his head at the cell’s tiny bathroom, concealed behind a wall that didn’t reach the ceiling.
“Yeah, yeah,” I said.
The bathroom was bare bones—a steel sink and a toilet with no lid or seat—but it was a relief being able to move around and take a piss. I washed my face and stuck my head under the faucet to take a drink. The cold water eased my thirst, but somehow made the blood craving even worse.
I gulped down a few mouthfuls anyway, then stuck my wrists under the icy flow, wincing as it hit my raw, reddened skin. But the cold water helped, washing away the silver and easing the burn.
The guard rapped on the chest-high wall between us. “Back against the wall.”
I reluctantly obeyed.
As he put the first cuff around my wrist, I attempted a smile. “I don’t suppose you have a bloody steak in your back pocket?”
“No.” He snapped the other cuff into place.
“How about a glass of blood-wine?”
“No,” he said again, and left.
“A man of few words,” I muttered at his retreating back.
That was how the next forty-eight hours went. They released me from the cuffs twice a day to use the john and gulp down some water. Other than that, I was left alone in the dark.
I tried not to worry about Zoe. If they hadn’t thrown her in a cell, she was probably back in Montreal by now. I only hoped Victorine hadn’t banished her to the tower on Midnight Island…or worse.
The silver spread through my bloodstream, seeped into my muscles. I felt hot, then cold. My entire body ached, and my cuts and bruises stopped healing.
Near the dawn of the third day, the door opened, and a male’s broad-shouldered silhouette filled the doorway.
A familiar silhouette with short blond hair.
I squinted, trying to make out the man’s face. After being in near total darkness for so long, even the hall’s low lighting hurt my eyes. Maybe I was hallucinating again.
“Tomas?” My throat was so dry, it came out as a croak. I closed my eyes, looked again.
“Rafael.”
A rush of hope surged up in me. I broke into a grin and dropped my voice.
“How the hell—? Never mind. Just get me the fuck out of here.”
