Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
FOX
F ox had lost track of time in the never-ending darkness. His captors fed him, gave him water and took out his bucket every couple of days. It was the politest captivity he could have expected, but it made him wonder all the more what their plan was. There had been a steady stream of rebels, and they were always masked, which he kept reminding himself was a good sign for his odds of survival. Still, it made him uneasy every time he was forced to look into the cold eyes of someone he couldn’t see, save for the barest hint of their mouth and chin. That and those icy, hateful eyes.
What was their plan?
Why was he here?
How long would they leave him in the dark alone?
His hands had been retied shortly after they’d allowed him to change into dry clothes, but they were at least in front of his body now. It still made it difficult to do much more than eat and feel around the small cell, hoping to come across something useful. Other than the cold stone walls and the bucket he didn’t like thinking about, there was nothing. He’d even spent a good few hours scratching at the corner of the room, wondering how long it would take to dig himself out, only to find the dirt gave way to stone a few inches down.
He hadn’t seen the woman who initially lured him in since she’d thrown the clothes at him. Those he had seen were a mix of women and men, their ages varied from what he could decipher.
He mulled over the information he’d be able to bring back to the chief commander upon his escape, trying to ignore the coldness of the ground beneath him and the rock wall behind him. Numbers? Maybe. Locations? Possibly. Plans? Not yet. He was still counting up the different rebels he’d seen when the door gave a squeal. He hadn’t even heard the key in the lock.
The shadow that stalked through the doorway wasn’t holding a lantern. They were a silhouette against the light behind them, tall like many of his male captors. But the curve of their hips and the sway of their walk was plenty familiar. When the small hand wrapped around his throat and thew his head hard against the stone wall, he knew exactly who was crouched over him, face in shadows.
“Fox Ocon,” she spit out, the words wet against his face.
“Nice to see you again,” he said, the pressure on his throat painful, but not overwhelming. Her eyes looked nearly feral in the shadows and her hair stuck up in every direction, curls haphazard in their shape. She looked even more wild than when he’d first captured her. “And your name?”
“You don’t have the power here,” she said, letting go of him and stepping back. He resisted the urge to massage his throat. It would only show weakness. He noticed then that they weren’t alone. The fiery red angel that had saved him from drowning was standing a few feet behind the other woman, a lantern swinging in her outstretched hand.
“Hello, gorgeous lady.” He flashed her a crooked smile over the glaring woman’s shoulder. His red-haloed angel only sneered back at him.
“So tell me, Little Fox,” the woman still crouched over him snarled, “how many Dragonborn lives do you think yours is worth?”
“I’d say at least ten. Why do you ask?” The snarky words had left his mouth before he could stop himself, so the hard slap that followed wasn’t exactly a surprise.
“You are worth less than nothing, yet four people died for you today.”
Was he supposed to feel guilty?
“Sorry, I’ve been locked in a cell for the past week, so I’m a little out of the loop of current events.”
“The chief commander just executed four innocent Dragonborn in your name.”
“I doubt they were innocent.”
Her hand came down, clenching around his throat once more as she leaned forward, their noses nearly touching.
“Sari’s crime was trying to get a message to her friend. She was sixteen.”
“If her friend was a treasonous rebel, she deserved what she got. Just like the rest of you dragon-filth.”
He knew he had probably taken it too far, but he enjoyed seeing her face flush. And it did so with such a crazed passion he wondered if she might explode. Still, he wasn’t expecting the punch that followed. His head snapped back, hitting the wall behind him with a crack. He let out a curse and bent forward, hands reaching for his face. There had been no snap of cartilage, but even touching his nose sent a shock of pain through him.
He cursed, looking up at her through watery eyes. “Impressive right cross.”
“Sofia,” the other woman hissed from behind her. It was under her breath and perhaps she didn’t think he’d hear her, but he smiled widely.
“Sofia, huh? Nice to finally meet you, oh captor of mine.”
“Get out of here, Flor ,” Sofia hissed back.
“Why? So you can kill our best chance at—” this time she had the forethought to not finish. Fox was only a bit disappointed. He was too focused watching the emotions flying across Sofia’s face.
With only a flash second of movement, there was a dagger pressed against his throat, her hand steady where she gripped it.
“You had that and you punched me?”
“It was satisfying.”
“So why bring knives into it?” He gave a pointed look down at the cold metal against his skin. “Scared of me?”
“I just want to see you bleed.”
“Sof, the others are going to hear something. We’re going to get caught.”
Fox tilted his head, careful to not press the blade any deeper into his skin. “You’re not supposed to be here, oh captor of mine? I’m honored you wanted so badly to talk to me.”
The tip of the dagger pressed in, drawing blood, and he bit back the hiss that crawled up his throat.
“Let’s start from the beginning,” she said. “You’re going to help me get into the chief commander’s house unseen. Then we’re getting the rest of the innocent Dragonborn out of that prison.”
“That is a fascinating assumption. Especially for someone who just punched me while I was tied up.”
“You’re going to help me. Whether it’s now or after I cut off each one of your fingers and toes is up to you.”
“Sofia,” Flor said again, this time moving as if to stop her. But she didn’t grab for her, didn’t physically restrain her, and Sofia didn’t move.
“Leave unless you’re going to help.” The words came out in a hiss between her teeth.
Fox felt the first trickles of fear when Flor listened, setting down the lantern, eyes wide as she backed out of the room.
Sofia looked at him with cold eyes, the dagger held delicately in her hand. She moved slowly, stepping on either side of his legs where he was seated against the stone wall before lowering down to straddle him. If she’d been any other woman, the position would have boded well for some entertainment, but she didn’t look interested in that. Even still, the warmth of her body was a shock after days in his icy cell and his breath caught in his throat.
She leaned forward, brushing the blade across his cheek in a gentle caress.
“Where should I start? Pinky? Middle finger?” She glanced between his legs. “Or perhaps I should start lower—take something more precious?”
“I don’t know what your plan is, captor of mine, but even with that dagger between us, you won’t get a chance to take my finger. It’s not my fault you handed yours over.”
He looked pointedly down at the missing ring finger, obvious in its absence around the knife hilt.
“Screw you.”
“Not a chance.” He smiled, shifting his hips slightly, if only to remind her that she was the one straddling him.
She didn’t bother dropping the knife as she pulled her fist back and punched him again. He turned his head in time to send the hit wide, her knuckles skimming across his cheekbone, but the blade of the knife glinted inches from his eye. When she moved to take another swing, he ducked under her arm and bucked up his hips. She was already off-balance from her attempted punch and she fell sideways with a grunt as he stumbled to his feet. Hands still tied, he reached down for the knife clutched in her hand.
He just managed to grab the dagger, feeling her fingers begin to loosen on the hilt when her other hand jabbed forward, directly between his legs. He fell back with a groan, the knife dropping from both their hands as she lunged forward, tackling him.
“You feral b?—”
She shoved an elbow into his gut and the air left his lungs in a gasp. He hooked his leg around her ankle as she moved to get up and rolled to the side. She let out a squeak as she went flying, followed immediately by a crack and a curse.
For a moment, he thought she might have fallen onto the lantern, but the light remained, dim but steady. He pulled himself up, using the wall behind him for support and saw what had caused the crack. Perhaps he should have felt ashamed, but his smile was stretched wide as Sofia let out a string of curses and pushed herself away from the bent bucket and the pile of excrement that she’d fallen into.
“You look cleaner than when I first saw you,” he said, not hiding the glee in his voice.
She let out a growl and lunged at him, but before she could get her hands around his throat, two pairs of arms were on either side of her, pulling her back from him. It was Flor and the young man they’d been with. His mask wasn’t even in place and he looked like Flor had pulled him directly from sleep.
“Be careful with her,” Fox said, “she’s gone wild.”
“What in the gods’ scales is going on in here,” a voice said from behind them all. Even Fox froze with the others, smile dropping from his face. Sofia had gone rigid, Flor and the young man’s faces gray in the lantern light.
The older rebel Fox recognized by his voice alone, stepped forward, his own lantern held in his hand. He wore his mask, making it all the more obvious the others were standing with their faces uncovered. The extra light only highlighted the brown streaks across Sofia’s tunic and pants. He even thought he might have spied some in her wild curls.
“You three, out,” he said with the same authority Fox often heard from the chief commander. No longer needing to hold her back, Flor and the man scurried out of the room, followed by a slower and more reluctant Sofia. “You and I will being having a very long talk after this.”
The man closed the door in her face before she could retort and then turned back to Fox, examining the room slowly. Fox’s heart gave a small jerk when the man’s eyes fell on the dagger lying between them, but the man moved quickly to pick it up, frowning when he saw what it was covered in—what the ground was covered in.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, his scowl likely more a reflection of Sofia and her friends than Fox. He left the lantern and for a brief moment, Fox thought of breaking it and using the glass as a weapon. But before he could act on the plan, the man was back, holding a small pile of rags. He tossed them on the ground, and gave Fox a long look before moving forward. He had to resist flinching as the man took his dagger and sliced through the ropes binding his wrists.
“I’m sorry about that,” the man said, already turned toward the door. He picked up the second lantern without looking back. “She’ll be disciplined and won’t be a problem again. She doesn’t reflect our movement.”
“Your movement? Is that what you call mass murder?”
“It’s what we call our only chance at freedom,” he said, the door snapping closed a second later and leaving Fox in darkness, untied and smelling of his own shit.