Chapter 6 #2
“Has anyone ever told you”—he pauses, gasping for breath—”that you hit like my grandmother? And she’s been dead for twenty years.”
I press my hand over my mouth to muffle any sound. Kier is being tortured, and he’s still making jokes. I’m impressed.
The interrogation continues for what feels like hours. Every time they demand information about his accomplices, Kier deflects with sarcasm. Every blow they land, he answers with mockery.
“You know,” he says after a particularly vicious hit, “I’m starting to think you boys have anger management issues. There are therapists for that.”
“Shut up,” Jim snarls.
“Shut up? I thought you wanted me to talk.”
I jump at a loud crash, followed by vicious sounds. It goes on and on until finally they stop, pulling away to allow Prudence to move in.
“Deal with this one,” Bob orders. “And make it bad.”
There’s silence, the kind that makes my skin crawl. It’s unnatural and oppressive, a pause of fear rather than peace.
I strain to listen, hearing only the soft shuffle of movement. Then a sharp intake of breath. Followed by another.
“No,” Kier whispers, his voice barely audible. “That’s not… you’re not real.”
The silence stretches again. I can picture Prudence’s pale hands on his temples, her dark eyes boring into his mind, forcing him to see whatever nightmare she’s crafting.
A whimper escapes him. Low and broken, the sound of someone trying desperately not to break.
“No,” he gasps. “Stop.”
But it doesn’t stop. The whimpers become more frequent, punctuated by sharp breathing and whispered denials.
“They’re not real,” he keeps saying. “You’re not real. None of this is real.”
Then the first scream tears from his throat.
It’s raw and agonized, the sound of a soul being flayed alive. Every muscle in my body tenses as if I could somehow absorb his pain through the stone wall.
Another scream. Longer this time, dissolving into broken sobs.
“I’m sorry,” he cries out. “No. Don’t!”
My chest tightens, and I bite my fist to keep from screaming at them to stop.
Think of all the ways they’ll pay, my wolf says. Think of all the ways they’ll die.
The screaming goes on for hours. Sometimes words emerge through Kier’s anguish—names I don’t recognize, pleas for forgiveness, desperate apologies to people who might be dead or imaginary.
By the time Prudence finally stops, Kier has gone silent again. But it’s a different silence now. Broken. Hollow.
I hear the guards leave, laughing and joking as they walk down the long echoing corridor. The door to our area slams shut with finality.
Minutes pass. I wait, listening for any sound from his cell.
“Kier?” I whisper through the hole.
Nothing.
“Kier, are you there?”
A rustling sound, then his voice, distant and confused. “Adelaide? Is that you?”
My blood runs cold.
“I’m here,” he continues, but he’s not talking to me. “I know you’re angry. You have every right to be.”
“Kier, it’s Lithia. I’m in the cell next to you. Remember?”
“Lithia? The bear seer wants to know why I failed her parents,” he says sweetly. His saccharine tone chills me to the bone. “I’m sorry, Adelaide. Your parents died because of me.”
Gods, he’s talking to hallucinations.
“Kier, listen to my voice. You’re in a prison cell alone. There’s only you and me.”
“Lithia of the sexy voice,” He laughs, but it’s empty, brittle. “My imagination is getting creative.”
I frantically squirm my arm into the hole between our cells. “Kier, come here. Come to the hole in the wall.”
“The wolves are here,” Kier continues, his voice growing more distant. “They want to know why I left. Why I chose to leave instead of staying to protect them.”
“Kier!” I wiggle my fingers. “You need to touch my hand. Feel that I’m real.”
“More hallucinations. They always feel real at first.”
I stretch further, ignoring the sharp edges that slice into my shoulder. “Kier, come here. Please.”
My fingertips brush fabric. He jerks away with a sharp gasp.
“It’s me,” I say firmly. “It’s Lithia.”
Silence stretches between us. Then slowly, tentatively, I feel him move closer.
“Lithia.”
“Yep, I’m here. Touch my hand.”
His fingers find mine, trembling violently as they make contact. I grasp them firmly, anchoring him to reality.
“You’re real,” he whispers.
“I’m real. You’re real. We’re both here, and we’re going to survive this.” I squeeze his hand tight, desperately trying to draw him back.
“How long was I out?”
I swallow, closing my eyes. “They held you for hours. I don’t know how you survived.”
We sit in silence, my hand clasping his through the wall. I feel him slowly returning to himself, the trembling gradually subsiding.
“Thank you,” he finally says, running a thumb over my knuckles.
“For what?”
His grip tightens on my hand, and I feel that electric current between us, stronger now after witnessing his vulnerability.
“For being real when everything else is madness.”
I don’t have a response to that. There’s nothing I can say to make this better. Nothing I can do that will wash away the horror of this place.
How long before I break? How long before I’m the one Kier needs to pull back from the brink? How long before they move him or me?
“You know,” he drawls dryly. “It’s nice having an emotional support glory hole.”
I splutter out a laugh. “Geezus, Kier. Way to ruin a moment.”
“I live to surprise.” He squeezes my hand. “In all seriousness, you can let go now. I’m okay.”
Despite the pain in my shoulder, I keep holding on.
“Well I’m not. So don’t let go.”
And he doesn’t.