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My gaze shifted, floating over the many, many faces—young, old, male, female, fair and dark-skinned. Each one of them wore an iron collar.
I looked at the boy. “How did you end up here?”
“My sister worked as a scullery maid, mostly in the royal kitchen, washing dishes. She loved to bake and decorate desserts, but she couldn’t do that when the rest of the staff wasthere, so sometimes, she would stay late in the kitchen, when everyone had gone home, just so she could bake. There was this soldier, with an eyepatch, who would often come to the kitchen to see her. He wished to court her, but she turned him down. One night, when I was playing behind the curtain under the sink, he stumbled into the kitchen. He smelled of ale. He struck her and then he tried to force her to do something . . . something she did not want to do. She begged him not to. She was too scared to use her Curse for fear of what might happen to us. So I used mine. I knocked him out and we took off running, but his friends were waiting out in the hallway. Next thing I knew, they brought me down here.” The boy swallowed so harshly, I heard it. Sadness filled his voice, his gaze falling to the floor. “I haven’t seen her since . . . and I don’t know what happened to her.”
“I am so sorry,” I said, at a loss for words. I took his hand. “Was she your only family?”
He nodded somberly.
I gave his hand a squeeze and did as Ezra would have done. “Well, kid, looks like I’m your family now.”
He grinned softly and gave me a quick nod. Water dripped from above, landing just above his left brow. He wiped it away with the back of his sleeve, smearing it. But it wasn’t thin or clear like water. It was thick and red, like blood.
I watched another droplet as it fell, tracing it to the ground. I gasped.
The ground . . . it was covered in blood.
A torturous scream emitted from above, choked out through the thick floor, but still audible.
The room fell silent.
When the scream died out, there was a brief pause. And then there came another, just as bloodcurdling as the last. This same process repeated, over and over again.
The boy fell into the fetal position, his hands covering his ears, his eyes closed tight. I moved closer to him, my hand rubbing his trembling back as he lay on the bloody floor, rocking back and forth.
“It’s going to be okay,” I said, unsure about the words coming from my mouth, but saying them anyway. I continued to rub his back, continued to listen to the horrific sounds coming from above—the hair on the back of my neck stretching higher with each bloodcurdling scream.
As they persisted, the droplets of blood changed to a steady trickle. And then to a constant downpour.
The worst part? It was still warm.
Bile stung the back of my throat.
I crawled over to the wall, propped my forearm against it, and vomited.
A hand rubbed my back. I stole a quick glance over my shoulder to see who it was—it was the boy, conquering his terrors so that he could comfort me. If another wave of nausea hadn’t overtaken me just then, I might have found it heartwarming.
When the screams finally stopped and I had nothing left to expel, a chorus of pounding boots descended a set of stairs. Keys rattled before a large, iron door swung open.
I was wrong thinking the screams had stopped, because now they spread to the prisoners down here. Pure horror painted the air as the prisoners scattered like mice, scrambling away from the door, as two dozen guards filtered in.
One of them barked orders, pointing at one of the Cursed, a middle-aged man who was little more than bones and skin. Two guards grabbed him and dragged him, kicking and screaming, out the door and up the stairs. The one giving the orders set his sights on a little girl, no older than five, who was nestled in hermother’s arms. With a flick of his head, he motioned for another guard to take her.
“No!” I screamed, my anger rippling through me, turning the blood in my veins to boiling lava.
The boy tugged my hand. “Don’t make a scene or they’ll take you too,” he said, desperate eyes pleading with me. Goddess divine, those doe-like eyes looked familiar.
When one of the guards tried to grab the little girl, a man sprung forward, his fist colliding into the side of the guard’s head. Another guard withdrew his sword and plunged it into the man’s torso. Streams of blood rivered from the man’s mouth, his head dropping as he looked at the blade now stuck unnaturally in his body.
“Anyone else?” the guard yelled, feeling every ounce of his power trip. He ripped the blade free, and the man crumpled to the ground.
The woman with the little girl let out a horrified scream, tears staining her cheeks as she tried to crawl over to the man while still holding her child. But she never made it to him because two guards stepped in, grabbed the man by his wrists, and began to drag him out. Another guard reached for the girl. Both child and mother screamed as they were pried from one another’s arms.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Someone needed to do something—anything. I tugged my hand free from the boy’s, pleading with my Curse to break free of its iron suppressor. But it did not answer. I begged the goddess part of me, but she was nowhere to be found. All I had right now was the limited abilities of my battered body.
It would have to be enough.
Leaving the boy behind, I moved as quickly as my black and blue legs would carry me, my hand pressed over my aching, wounded side as I chased after the guard who had taken thelittle girl. But the crowd didn’t part for me like they did for him, making the gap between us wider with each passing moment. At this rate, I wouldn’t make it. I needed to think of something to get his attention and fast.
