Chapter 35 #3
Returning to the tunnel, I tug on the light, urging it to follow. The orb zips down ahead of me, and I glance back at the small alcove now smothered in darkness, the eeriness of it crawling across my skin.
There’s a clang against stone up ahead, and my attention snaps forward, my guard rising with my knife. I flood my veins with my father’s magic—for no specific reason aside from it feeling like the right choice.
The orb of light has stopped, illuminating a fork in the tunnel about thirty paces in front of me. Both the right and left are pitch dark and silent. I’m not sure which one the sound had come from.
So, I don’t move. I listen.
A few seconds later, there’s a groaning sound, like the settling of a house or the movement of water through an old pipe. I press my palms into the walls on either side of me, feeling for the vibration. The sound strains, stretching until—
Another loud clang reverberates through the tunnel, and the stone beneath my left hand resonates. I glance at the tunnel on the left, exhaling a deep breath before I move forward, keeping my steps quiet as I approach the orb.
I don’t risk sending it ahead, snuffing the light before moving into the smaller tunnel. I’d rather navigate it in the dark than shine a bright beam onto whatever’s making that sound.
This section is narrower, fit for only one person to walk through. Any less room and I’d feel claustrophobic. Keeping one hand on the wall, I make my way down, a stream of faded light coming into view, pouring from a small grate on the right-hand side of the wall.
My steps slow as I near it, a pair of voices growing louder the closer I get.
“Must we do this every time, Grey?” Something slams against the wall. The same sound I’d heard all the way down the tunnel, but it’s even louder than before.
Saturating my skin with magic, I tug on nearby shadows, gathering them around me until I’m covered enough to step in front of the vent without being seen.
At first, I don’t even understand what I’m looking at—the grid in the vent obstructing most of my view.
It’s a decently large room, with very little light, and there’s a man whom I quickly place as a member of the Countesses’ inner circle.
His black hair is roused, golden, feline eyes sharp and angry.
He has something pressed up against the wall, his fists curled in ripped fabric.
“What. Happened. To. The guard?” he hisses into his victim’s face.
Silence.
His lip curls. “I can do this all day, and you know it.”
More silence. Not even a grunt or a groan of pain.
The Rogue snorts. “Always the martyr, aren’t you, Grey?” He releases his grip with a shove, and I hear a body slump to the floor. “Still playing the fucking Captain after all these years.”
I stiffen, forced to watch as he swings his leg back, his boot connecting with what I can only assume is a ribcage.
“Always.” Kick. “A fucking.” Kick. “Martyr.” Kick.
I’m going to be sick.
The Captain. Not my Captain—not Callan. The former Captain.
Shock gives way to impulse, and Salem might call it reckless, but screw him. He isn’t here. He isn’t witnessing what I’m witnessing, and it’s all my fault. The guard, the dungeons…Callan’s father is being punished for it. For something the Hound did that I was very much a part of.
An illusion is the first thing that comes to mind. It pours out of me before I can second-guess myself, and a pounding fist bangs on the door to the room I’m looking into.
“What?!” The Rogue whips his head around. “I’m not done!”
“You’re done.” I mimic the Countess’s voice, careful with her accent, making sure it bleeds through the exterior door at a realistic level. “Take him back.”
“But he hasn’t—”
“That’s an order!”
The Rogue goes silent, glancing once to Callan’s father, who is still just out of my eyesight. There’s anger on his face, frustration that he won’t get to finish what he’d started.
Come on, I beg silently. Leave.
My heart pounds as his searing gaze drifts up the wall—towards the grate.
Bang, bang, bang. Three more loud pounds of a fist on the door.
The Rogue snarls, baring his teeth in the direction of the exit. “I’m coming!”
He charges forward, reaching down to haul Grey to his feet, and I wince at the sight of him. Bloodied from head to toe.
As he turns, I note the bruises under his eyes, down his neck, and more purple and blue splotches on his arms and wrists.
Arms shaking, Callan’s father holds his chained wrists out to the Rogue, allowing him to check his restraints.
It’s unprompted, like he’s done this enough times that he’s familiar with the procedure.
I’m still smothered in shadows, nothing but a dark void beyond the vent, but I swear he sees me. I swear the former Captain looks right into my eyes, and instead of a painful expression, he’s wearing a grateful one. He’s still adorning it as the Rogue tugs on his arms, forcing him towards the exit.
At the sound of the door shutting, something stirs inside me, a beast in its own right. I have too many to deal with as is, but this new monster creates room. It buries itself deep in my chest, churning and searing its own path. I’ve felt anger before, true anger, but nothing like this.
Nothing like this.