Chapter 2
What followed was a burst of bitching so intense Gunnar’s migraine bloomed into a chainsaw. After about five minutes of that shit, Esquire Doe cut the protests about her safety off at the knees. She needed to interview her client— him. She pointed out the warden had bigger problems than her wellbeing if his triple-enhanced runic steel didn’t hold a duster, vileblood or not.
Quiet fell after the locks reengaged, leaving him alone in the room with his own personal lawyer.
Her heart raced like a rabbit’s.
He might have laughed, but he wasn’t sure his tongue still worked.
After a delicate throat clearing, she spoke in a hushed voice. “I can’t change the lighting in here, but I brought eye coverings that might help.” Sounded like she was fishing around in a bag. He heard her swallow a few times from across the room, a little quiver in her voice that hadn’t been there when she’d lectured the Rigid One on his prison policy. “I’d have to touch you to put it on, if that’s okay?”
Gunnar had little space to work with, chained by the collar and chest harness, but he managed a minuscule nod. He might not know her motivations yet, but he’d be an idiot to turn down relief.
She came to him with a tight stride. Tense all over, he mused, and he wished he wasn’t damn near blind so he could see what he was dealing with here. No helping his curiosity. He might as well have been in a coma for all the stimulation he’d had since they tossed him in that solitary hole.
She stopped on his left side. He inhaled to get a read on her scent but still couldn’t smell anything but his own filth.
“On your left,” Esquire Doe whispered. At first, he’d thought it was just nerves, but he realized she kept her voice low because of his overstimulated senses.
When fingers rested feather light on his shoulder, he jerked in his chains. Warmth through the thin coveralls, then gone as fast. The fabric ghosted along the bridge of his nose before tucking against his eyelids.
Gunnar exhaled at the instant relief the quasi-darkness provided.
“I’m so sorry,” she muttered as her fingertips brushed his scalp, catching on his oily, matted hair as she secured the blindfold in place. “The cuts in the fabric are tiny, but you might see shadows in a few minutes. The rest will come back in time.”
Gunnar made out a faint rubbing noise besides her hammering pulse. She must have been wringing her hands. After swallowing around his dry tongue a few more times, he managed a grunt.
“Oh, that’s right. They keep solitaries on sustains.” Esquire Doe bustled away from him, shuffling through her bag again. “It’s enough for basic needs, but for so long . . .” She trailed off with an angry huff. “I have water. Just water, they tested it. It was the only thing I could bring this time, but once we have the paperwork settled, I can—”
He managed a sharper grunt at the mention of water instead of that sticky fucking syrup and opened his mouth.
Her throat clicked when she swallowed, three times, before she whispered, “Can you lift your head a little?”
Gunnar did, as much as he was able, fighting back another twitch when her fingertips rested under his chin against his coarse beard. He didn’t really have time to process the sensation, because the bottle pressed to his lips and then the water came, cool and crisp, so cold it made his teeth ache. It tasted like she’d frozen it ahead of time, like she wanted to make sure it was cold when he got it.
Tasted like fucking bliss.
He groaned, urging her to pour faster, not giving a shit about dribbling down his chin and beard and filthy clothes, not until he noticed her fingers trembled. He willed himself down, controlled, careful.
Couldn’t afford to scare this opportunity away, not if she really meant to get him free.
Esquire, Gunnar reminded himself. She had an endgame, some sort of baby politician, maybe had her eyes on archivist status. No one wasted time with all that fancy training without a goal.
As he drank, savoring the cold spreading through his chest, his stomach, he wondered what her game was because everyone played, so he’d play along too. For now.
When he finished the water, she mumbled another gentle apology as he licked his lips, catching any spare moisture. Esquire Doe retreated, and after a bit more bag fishing and paper movement, she sat.
Gunnar worked his throat, his tongue, salvia slowly coming.
“John Dust 78102, you—”
“Nnn . . . Gu . . .” He coughed once, a dry rattle in his chest. Worked his jaw a few times, stiff from disuse, the single word tangled deep down with his past. Took a few more tries, but he got out, “Gunnar.”
“Your name is Gunnar?” His little lawyer caught on quick.
He nodded once.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know. That’s not anywhere in your file, just your assigned designation.” She sounded much more confident chatting about laws and policies. “Of course, Dust is a surname for duster orphans or unidentified corpses, or . . . well, victims like yourself who were taken as children.”
He didn’t know what she looked like, but he imagined her stiffening at the injustice of it all. He fought down a chuckle at the idea she viewed him as a victim.
“It’s awful no one bothers to come up with anything as a first name besides John or Jane and a number. I guess that’s because the naming convention comes from the human equivalent used before the Aperien Event.” She exhaled, almost scolding herself as she added, “I’m rambling. I’m sure you know all that.”
He did, which made him cock his head, desperately wishing he had better use of his senses right now.
Esquire Doe.
She was human.
The one thing in the world that had real reason to stay the hells away from a vileblood. Women especially. Two of the most powerful and dangerous Aperiens had designed his kind through a mutual hatred for humanity. Vileblood were a curse, released on the world to wipe out humans through rape and murder.
She interrupted his spiraling thoughts. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions.”
He coughed again when he tried to speak, rolling his neck a bit, forced to chew out every word like he was carving a damn monument. She waited in silence as he struggled through the entire sentence. “Fuck . . . do . . . you . . . want.”
“To get you paroled and released,” she answered primly, but she sounded uneasy now.
“Why.” He managed a smirk as he added, “Jane.”
“I’m not Jane.” That came lightening quick. She must have been used to making that defense. He’d bet his ass on it. “My name is Audrey.” When he didn’t give her anything, didn’t acknowledge her correction, she went on, “I can have your name legally changed as soon as you accept me as your counsel.”
“Why?”
He could hear her frown. “I assumed you’d want to change it?”
“Why . . . help . . . me?”
“Because I’m the girl you supposedly raped and almost killed.”