47 Rhona
Rhona
As the sun set, Rhona strapped on her leathers and her cloak, her lips still tingling from her kiss with Maeve earlier that
day. It was a misstep, a line she’d crossed, but she couldn’t find it in herself to regret it.
It was approaching midnight, and Rhona found herself against a wall beside the rubble of the city guard’s barracks waiting
for Dr. Balet to retire for the night. She tossed up her hood, covering her hair, grown longer now than it had been in years,
and obscuring her face just in case anyone walked by.
As if on cue, a lantern moved out of the archway, the silhouette of Dr. Balet pacing slowly behind it as he walked toward
the palace where he kept his apartments.
Rhona watched as the lantern’s light grew smaller and smaller, the light of the moon all she needed to be able to see where she needed to go.
She deftly stepped through the rubble, making it through the archway and to a large wooden door with a lock.
Thankfully, Rhona had come prepared. She wasn’t proud of this part of her life, but when she had been particularly .
. . in need, Rhona had gotten very good at sneaking into places she shouldn’t be.
She’d fled home with nothing but the clothes on her back to avoid being married off to a farmer she hated who had only looked at her as strong breeding stock, and in the times where she’d struggled to find work .
. . well, she had needed to find other ways to eat.
She slid the lockpick in, gently moving and jiggling it until she heard that oh-so-familiar click. It was like riding a horse;
some skills never left you, even if you wanted them to.
Rhona looked around before slowly opening the door, slipping inside and closing it behind her. The stairs leading down were
lit with sconces, a winding stone staircase that went significantly farther belowground than Rhona had expected. The air chilled
as she reached the bottom of the tight staircase, the area opening into a domed hallway, filled with . . . What was Rhona seeing?
Horror filled her as she stepped forward and saw the first gurney. A sheet half covered the body of the man who was otherwise
naked and completely dead, strapped onto the slab like a prisoner. Rhona stepped forward and saw it was the Corisian who had
been caught after the fires, his lifeless milky eyes staring blankly up at the stone ceiling of the cold room. Rhona investigated
the alcove, syringes of black ichor and something else lining a metal tray beside the cot. Her foot squelched and slid as
she stepped in a sticky puddle of dark ichor.
“What the hell is going on here?” she whispered, lifting her foot up and examining the disgusting liquid. Which was when the
bodies started to speak.
“Help me,” one said from a gurney across the hall, a hand reaching out to her.
“Please,” another moaned from down the hallway.
Rhona walked toward the one across the way, recoiling as she saw the woman.
Her eyes were clouded as well, but her legs .
. . were gone. The flesh was unbleeding and nearly black, and it was as if the woman didn’t feel her exposed nerves and raw, jagged stumps.
Rhona looked to her chest, seeing that her horrible gut feeling was right—not a single breath in or out.
“Help us . . .” the woman croaked.
Rhona backed up, knocking over a tray with syringes on it, the sound of glass smashing echoing around the damp stone room.
She stopped, waiting to see if she could hear anyone at the top of the stairs, hoping no one was there.
Next, she headed down the hallway, peeking into each of the alcoves. Each and every one of them was full, and the hallway
stretched farther than Rhona could see. There were dozens, no, at least a hundred beds in this hall.
She walked on, seeing more men and women alike strapped to cots. Some of them were very much alive, screaming for help as
they saw Rhona slink by. Others were silent, their empty eyes following her.
Halfway down the hallway her stomach plummeted as she spotted a familiar tuft of red hair.
“No,” she whispered, turning into the alcove.
Sir Jack looked up at her, eyes clouded and unfocused. Rhona tapped his arm.
“Jack?” He didn’t respond, his chest unmoving.
“Jack!” Rhona shouted, shaking him slightly.
The milky eyes blinked and turned to Rhona.
“Sir Rhona?” Jack said, his voice barely audible. “Have you come to help me?”
“Yes.” She heaved a sigh of relief that he was still alive. “How did you get down here?”
“Commander Bartholomew told me I was ready for my promotion,” he said slowly, each word a struggle for him, as if he had to
think hard to get it out of his mouth. “They injected me with it, Sir Rhona, and I feel so strong. So, so strong, but—”
“Yes?” Rhona pushed.
“Sir Rhona, I don’t feel much else.” His dead eyes watched her, unblinking.
Rhona backed up, feeling sick. What were they doing to these people?
A cane clicked as Rhona heard footsteps shuffle down the hallway.
“They’re not meant to feel much else,” Dr. Balet said.