6. Simon
I’m drowning in darkness.
Time passes by unchecked as I’m suspended in an inky blackness, but it gradually begins to fade. As I swim toward lucidity Tálstrom is there beside me, alerting me to the fact we aren’t alone, wherever we are now. I lie still, letting each and every hurt I’ve suffered register, some more evident than others. I know I’m not lying on that table any longer, because whatever I’m on has some give to it, even if it’s not much.
My senses of smell and hearing come back next, and I can hear the heartbeat and breathing of another person, although the pervasive stench of my own blood and excrement prevents me from smelling much else. I know I both shat and pissed myself on that table before they knocked me out. That kind of reaction is inevitable when you put a body through such trauma. However, my pants feel dry, so I’m hopeful that they at least cleaned me up in that respect. Besides, O”Hare and his cronies were elbows-deep in my intestines, and that shit stinks like nothing else.
I wriggle my fingers and toes carefully, before flexing my ankles and wrists. It doesn’t feel as though I’m restrained, although there’s enough constriction littered around my body to tell me that objects have been bound to my torso. I slowly lift one hand to my face, not wishing to alert the other person to my wakefulness, grimacing at the sticky stiffness of my beard. I scratch the dried blood and crud from my eyes, then cautiously blink them open. I wince at the bright, cold, fluorescent light fixed to the ceiling behind a metal grid and take a moment to allow my eyes to adjust. Once I can see without tears blurring my vision, I turn my head toward the side of the room where the other person is located. What I see surprises me.
The guy is slumped over on his mattress, his breathing deep and steady as he sleeps. His dark hair covers most of his face, although it’s not long enough to hide it all. He’s pale in the way that Aodhán was when he first turned up to Reficio, as though he hasn’t seen sunlight in a long time. His feet are bare and he’s only wearing a pair of worn scrub pants, and both they and his hands are smeared with dried blood. I shiver at the chilled air being pumped through the vents and glare at the goosebumps lining his body. He’s curled up in a ball to try to conserve heat, and fury surges through me once more at the cruelty of our captors.
I shift around until I can brace my weight on my forearms and lever myself up into a seated position, leaning against the wall. I bend my right leg and prop my right forearm atop my knee, resting my left hand on my outstretched left leg. Something tugs at the skin on my chest, and I look down to see strips of worn cloth holding bloodstained patches to the wounds littering my body. I don’t think that O”Hare or his minions would have given me such courtesy, so the material must have come from the other guy. I spot what looks like a torn sleeve covered in blood and gore crumpled on the floor and it hits me—this shifter must have torn up his only shirt to help me, even though there doesn’t appear to be anything he could have used as a replacement to keep himself warm.
Whoever this guy is, I owe him. He, like the other two shifters I’ve already vowed to protect, is now mine and Tál’s to defend and care for.
***
The cocktail of drugs O”Hare injected into my bloodstream has finally burned away, and I’m both grateful and regretful. Grateful, because Tál is now fully cognizant and has amped up my healing to the extent that my wounds are all closed, but regretful because I’m no longer numb to both the pain of my injuries, or the worry and panic I can feel coming from my bonds. Tál is helping me keep them smothered, because the last thing my friends and family need is to be in the clutches of Vieux Sang. But even so, feeling just how deeply everyone cares for me, even despite our shared pasts, tears at my heart.
I’ve removed my makeshift bandages, hiding them under my mattress. I have a feeling O’Hare wouldn’t appreciate my cellmate tending to me, and I’d rather not get either of us in hot water if I can avoid it. I don’t move from my seated position when the other guy stirs, unfurling from his spot on his mattress, and I finally get a good look at him. His hair tumbles over his forehead from a shallow widow’s peak, the dark brown strands curling around his ears and jaw to just above his shoulders. It reminds me of a mane, and if he isn’t a predator of some sort, I’ll be surprised.
His face is pointed, all straight lines and angles. His cheeks and jaw have a short beard covering them, the dark whiskers stark against the pallor of his skin. He doesn’t look healthy—his cheekbones are sharp due to the sunken nature of his cheeks. He looks like he could do with a month of sunlight and good food.
In fact, his entire body shows signs of starvation and abuse. There is very little fat on him, and his musculature doesn’t mesh with his build. He looks to be a similar height to me—although it’s hard to tell from the way he’s lying—and is slender, almost skeletal in places, which is at odds with his broad shoulders and chest. The dude would probably be similar to me in build if he wasn’t suffering in this place.
He blinks open his eyes, his gaze blearily scanning the room before landing on me. He startles when he finds me watching him, and for a moment his eyes flash amber before settling back into a brownish hazel. Yep, definitely a predator, and probably a big cat with eyes that color. I take a deep breath, finally filtering through to the dense petrichor and loam scent of his beast.
Tiger.
I lift my right index finger in a semblance of a wave, neither having the energy nor inclination for any other form of greeting. He watches me cautiously for a moment before nodding at me and pointing at my chest.
“You seem to be healing well,” he croaks out, his voice raw and scratchy from disuse. “I did what I could to help stanch the bleeding. Sorry if I overstepped any boundaries.”
I gawk at him with incredulity. What the fuck is he apologizing for?
“Dude, don’t fucking apologize for helping me out. I’m grateful to find someone in this shithole who isn’t a sociopathic asswipe. I’m Simon, by the way.” I introduce myself, and to my surprise the other guy shuffles over to my mattress and props himself against the wall next to me. He offers me his hand and I shake it.
“I’m Quintas Basset. Quin, to those who aren’t trying to kill me.”
I jerk as he announces his name, my hand gripping onto his instead of letting go.
“Quin? Tiger Quin? Friend of Aodhán, along with Nick and Luc? That Quin?”
My questions burst forth in a rapid staccato, my shock echoed in Quin’s face as he stares at me.
“How… how do you know Aodhán, Nick, and Luc? Have you seen them? How are they?”
His desperation for news on the others tears at my heart, and although I can’t answer for Nick or Luc, I know he’ll be relieved about Aodhán.
“Well, I don’t know Nick or Luc, seeing how I’ve never met them. I only know about you guys from Aodhán. He turned up in Wyoming a couple of months ago, and we’ve both been attending the same institution. He’s actually been doing really well and has found his mates. I was with him just before I was… taken. He’s my blood brother, and it’s because of him I know exactly who has us, and what they’re planning to do to us all. My name is Simon. Simon Gatto. I’m an Altered lion shifter.”
Tears well up in Quin’s eyes as I speak, and I can almost taste his relief on my tongue. I get it. One of his only friends up and disappears, and he’s bound to think the worst. So, to find out that his friend is alive, well, and thriving? It gives him hope. Hell, it gives us all hope that we can escape this place and regain our lives.
Tál suddenly perks up, and I hear someone approaching our room.
“Someone’s coming,” I whisper, and Quin scrambles back to his own mattress, dropping to the unforgiving surface like a puppet with cut strings.
“Pretend to be asleep!” Quin softly hisses, so I slump over and pretend to be unconscious. Just in time, too, as a moment later the door slams open, bouncing back against the tiled wall. Somehow, I manage to avoid flinching away from the violence, as does Quin. Neither of us give any sign of awareness, and Tálstrom writhes in fury at how I’m deliberately leaving myself vulnerable.
“Wakey wakey, fuckers. It’s time for yer daily hose-down, and if you behave yourselves, you can also have a playdate with the other losers. Doctor O”Hare is feeling generous today, so unless you want the stick instead of the carrot, get yer lazy asses up!”
Two guards enter the room. One is clearly human, while the other is a Mundane shifter of some kind. The human is slightly taller than average with thinning hair and a paunch and has the whole mall cop vibe going for him. The shifter is short and round, with limp brown hair and a receding hairline, beady eyes, five hairs acting as a mustache, a supercilious sneer on his thin lips, and exudes a weaselly aura combined with an inferiority complex.
The shifter strides over to Quin’s mattress and kicks at him while the human approaches me more carefully. He uses his foot to nudge me, but at least he doesn’t use me to practice his soccer skills, unlike the shifter.
I groan a little, pretending to wake up, and I watch as Quin does the same. The change in him from before is drastic. No longer does he appear aware of his surroundings, instead resembling a zombie with his slow, shuffling movements. I mimic his performance, acting as though I’m still under the influence of the drugs they’ve forced on me. Perhaps if they think I’m not in control, they won’t bother with doping me up again.
Once I’m finally on my feet, my guard nudges me toward the door, eyeing the healing wounds on my body. I’m glad now that I hid Quin’s attempts to tend to me, although the evidence will be easily discovered if they decide to toss our room at all.
Once I’m out of the door I follow behind Quin, smothering Tál’s angry growls at the way the shifter guard is manhandling the tiger. Now is not the time, I caution him, and to my relief he listens. We traipse down the corridor, doors lining either side, and then pass through a set of fire doors at the end. After a couple of turns we enter a room that’s empty except for a set of metal shelves bolted to the wall, a wall-mounted sink with a polished metal mirror affixed to the tiles above it, a coiled length of hose with a spray nozzle at the end, and a floor that slopes to the drain hole at the center of the room. The shelves hold a mix of clean scrubs, towels, pocket combs, toothbrushes, toothpaste, and industrial soap.
“Okay, assholes. Strip and leave yer clothes at the door, then stand over the drain. It’s time to get you feral fuckers clean.”
Quin and I follow the shifter guard’s instructions, neither of us really caring about nudity. We kind of lose any sense of modesty when our animals first make an appearance, as we can’t shift our clothes. The lucky shifters are the ones who are smaller in their animal form and can simply scramble back into their abandoned outfits once they shift back. The rest of us shred our clothes if we shift while wearing them, and that shit gets expensive.
The moment we’re standing where we’ve been directed, the shifter guard points the hose at us and presses the trigger on the nozzle. Jets of cold water pummel our skin, and I bite back a yelp as each frigid needle of water blasts against my flesh. Luckily it only lasts a moment. The human brings over the bottle of industrial soap, squirting it over our dripping hair and bodies, his voice a monotone as he instructs us to, “Lather up, and make sure you get all the blood and shit in your hair. You won’t get another chance to wash until tomorrow.”
I mechanically scrub at my hair, then beard, before rubbing the soap over my body. I take care around my injuries but still make sure that I get rid of the worst of the blood. We’re given no warning before the shifter blasts us once more, the water sluicing over our bodies and washing away the grime and gunge. We turn when told, bend over when told, and by the time we’re done I feel violated in a way I never thought I could be.
The human tosses Quin and I a threadbare towel each, and we make relatively quick work of drying ourselves. Scrubs come next, and then we’re permitted to use the sink to brush our hair and teeth. I also comb through my beard, glad to see that I managed to wash all the blood and gore from it. Once we’re done, we’re led out of the room and back through the maze of corridors until we reach a room that resembles a dining hall from a prison TV show. Metal tables and benches are bolted to the floor, and a barred window with a narrow slot at the bottom is manned by other guards.
Quin and I quietly go collect our trays of food, and I’m surprised to see they’re not serving us slop or gruel. No, there’s a thick slice of wholewheat bread; corn on the cob; a mix of green beans, peas, and carrot; a baked potato; side salad; and a two-inch thick cut of roast meat, pink with juices oozing from the middle. There’s also a smoothie of some kind in a tall tumbler, another full of water, and a bowl of fruit salad.
If this is what they’re feeding us, how the fuck is Quin so gaunt?