Captive #3
“I do.” He tugs me to the right. “This way.” We head toward the Sovereign Tuath Hall, but we don’t use the main entrance.
Instead, he leads me through the rear grounds, across a small courtyard garden where trimmed hedges border cracked stone paths.
We descend a narrow stairwell that ends at a large metal door.
He produces a key from his vest pocket and unlocks it.
The air shifts immediately—cooler, heavier.
The worn charcoal stone walls are darkened by age and moisture. The foundation looks older than the building itself. Voices murmur somewhere deeper within. We move through several hallways before reaching another reinforced metal door guarded by two sentries.
“One more?” one guard asks, lifting his chin toward me. “We’re pretty full as it is.”
“Yes. This one is special. I want her in her own cell, the one at the end, away from the other inmates. Put some of the males together if you have to, but clear it out and clean it up. New bedding.” He meets each guard's gaze. They stand ready to do his bidding.
The Horseman’s voice is stern, and his gaze unmoving. “No one is to touch her.”
“Understood, sir. But, uh… it will take some time to accommodate that request.”
The Horseman gives a put-upon sigh.
“We’ll work as fast as we can, sir.” At once, they move. Orders are barked. Doors clang open and shut. More guards emerge from side corridors, mobilizing with sudden urgency to carry out his command.
From where I stand, I can see prisoners behind thick iron bars. Faces press forward. Eyes follow me critically. A few call out jeers and taunts—some aimed at me, others at him. They are ignored as though their voices carry no weight at all.
A guard steps forward and grips my other arm. “I’ll take her, sir. Leave her with me, and I’ll place her in the cell once it’s ready.”
The Horseman doesn’t immediately release his hold. His gaze drifts slowly around the dungeon, then returns to me. He studies my face, his brows drawn together as though wrestling with this decision.
Then he shakes his head slightly, dismissing whatever thought he was having.
“Fine. But if anything happens to her, I will hold you personally accountable. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you will be the only one with access to her cell. You and only you go in and out. Feed her three meals a day, and see to it that she has clean clothes.”
“Yes, sir.”
The guard goes to pull me toward the hallway, but the Horseman stops him.
“Sir?”
A long silence follows, during which my gaze darts between them, and I see it. The moment the guard's eyes glaze over, and his body loses some of its tension.
“That is all, Micah. We understand each other, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then I’ll be on my way.” To me, he winks. Winks! The mighty White Horseman seems to find this all genuinely amusing somehow.
My mouth pops open as if trying to utter the outrage boiling inside me, but nothing comes out. He just dove into that man’s mind and planted who knows what kind of thoughts.
And as if he finds nothing is wrong with that whatsoever, he says, “I must get back to the meeting your little stunt interrupted. I have a full calendar for most of the day, in fact. When I can spare a moment, I’ll return, and we’ll finish our discussion.”
“Don’t rush on my account. I’m sure I’ll be just fine in your dungeon.” Sarcasm leaches from each word.
He smirks devilishly at this. Then turns to leave and calls out, “I’ll be seeing you soon, Dove. Try not to miss me.”
“Oh, I won’t.”
He stops and slowly spins back around. “You might want to use the time wisely and think about how to work yourself back into my good graces so you can earn a stay of execution. I am, after all, the one with the power to grant you such a thing.”
“I’d rather spend an untold number of days in a cold, dank cell. But thank you, oh gracious one.”
His gaze swivels around the room. “You sure about that?”
Instead of responding, I give him a dead-eyed stare.
“Hmm. Perhaps a few days down here will change your tune.”
“Doubtful.”
“Another test then for us, yes? A test of wills to see how long it’ll take before you break.”
“I don’t break.”
“I guess we’ll see, won’t we, wee one.”
A shrug is my only answer.
He shakes his head, smiles, and turns to leave. “Micah, cut it back to one meal a day, and eighty-six the clean clothes.”
“Yes, sir,” Micah responds like the good little puppet he is.
Bastard.
“I heard that,” the said bastard shouts as he strides away.
Good, I wanted you to.
Micah pulls me in the opposite direction. Before the door seals shut with the white Horseman on the other side, his voice again filters back to me.
Be a good little prisoner, won’t you, and don’t give the guards any trouble.
I mentally flip him off with two fingers. Something I have never done in my life, but the act is almost instinctive. It’s as if the brimming anger needs an outlet, and this is the only one that comes immediately to mind.
His laugh reverberates through my skull for the longest time. I swear, even hours later as I sit in the corner of the chilly, bare cell that smells of mildew and some other person's waste, that it still echoes through my thoughts.
His voice, his laugh. It has my body rioting in weird, uncomfortable ways that I don’t entirely understand, nor do I want to.