Chapter One #2
She was so light that she felt as if she might have hollow bones like a bird, and she seemed delicate, more akin to the Eldritch than the Gols.
In this light, he could barely make out a tangle of pale hair and eyes too big for her face.
Yet when she steadied herself and stepped away from him, he detected steel in her spine, determination in the way she widened her stance.
The bruises all over her attested to the wretched treatment she’d received, but she made a point of keeping to her feet, even as the asshole barked orders at her, all related to her work assignment.
Though his first instinct was to rush the guard, it would get him nowhere.
The first few months of captivity, he’d tested all the boundaries, tried to escape until they couldn’t bleed him fast enough to keep up with the punishments he accrued.
They stole samples too, blood and flesh that they’d used in monstrous experiments.
Using creative techniques, acid, and specially treated black iron blades, the torturers even managed to give him a few scars, unusual among the Animari.
Healing the constant wounds wore him down, until he feared he might die without ever getting a chance to tell Pru that she’d been right—that he was sorry.
I should’ve fought for her.
Should have told my mother I didn’t give a shit about bloodlines.
Should never have sent her to Dom, letting her think I didn’t give a damn if she came back or not.
There were so many words he’d left unsaid, because he didn’t think he needed to speak them.
Because Pru would always belong to him, right?
She’d waited for ten years, and they were meant to be together.
He bit back a sharp laugh, wondering why he was thinking of Pru, now of all times.
Maybe because he hadn’t touched another person without trying to fight them since he’d last held her.
He’d wrapped his arms around Pru, begging her not to leave him, and then she broke his hold, so strong and implacable about putting him behind her, like he was something she’d stepped in, not the man who’d loved her as best he could for his entire damn life.
Silently, Slay admitted that wasn’t fair.
Because it was true; he’d let her wonder while he worked on persuading his mother.
He’d limited his time in Pru’s bed and he didn’t realize that she took that to mean he considered her disposable, a warm body that could easily be replaced by someone who had his mother’s approval.
It had been self-defense more than anything, not wanting to form a mate bond before he had his mother’s blessing.
Lorelle had raised him on her own, and she had impossibly high standards.
Slay had believed that Pru would hang in there, as she always had, until he got the situation sorted.
Yeah, well. You were wrong. You were a good son and a terrible partner.
With unending remorse, he recalled the meeting of their families, when he’d said, “Sorry. I need a stronger partner. Someone who can fight by my side.” He’d only stepped in to keep his mother from saying worse.
What was the truism, cruel to be kind? Slay had thought it was better that the rejection came from him, just a temporary one, and he’d tried to smooth it over—to make Pru understand that he didn’t mean it, only she wouldn’t let him raise the subject ever again, wouldn’t hear his explanations.
That’s when it fell apart. We fucked after that, but she never forgave me. And I had no idea how she felt. I thought I had all the time in the world, but that’s when she wrote me off. Afterward, I was a habit she couldn’t quit.
Until Dom gave her a reason.
Fucking Dom. Some best friend.
Slay might’ve taken solace in the fact that he’d done right by his mother, who had sacrificed a great deal for him, but Lorelle Slater died in the bombing of Ash Valley.
Before the conclave, he’d lost Pru, and after the bombs went off, he lost the mother who’d kept him from the woman he adored, all in such a short span that his head spun.
Hell, he’d tried to bury himself in work, make himself useful to Ash Valley, but he’d fucked that up too, getting captured while on mission to take out the C-TAK shelling the walls.
Now, he was marking time, making mental notes about Gol routines and recovering from the last round of interrogations.
So far, they hadn’t gotten shit out of him.
Stubbornness might well be his defining characteristic, and frankly, at this point, any intel he gave up would be out of date.
If they knew that, it explained why the rounds of questioning were tapering off, interest reduced by his reduced relevance. Soon he’d just be another drudge.
“I won’t bother giving you the tour.” The guard raised his arm like he’d hit the newcomer one last time, but she didn’t flinch. He spat again as he removed the transport chains. “Be ready to work tomorrow at six bells.”
That was how they kept time down here, where shadows fell too deep for the sun to mark the days and nights.
He suspected that prisoners slept for shorter periods, forcing them to work more, so he wasn’t sure if a “day” below would be the same as one above.
Slay hadn’t appreciated how precious it was to be born in Ash Valley.
Not until he spent countless days in a Gol prison, wondering if he’d end his time in this hellish hole.
Nobody said a word, hardly daring to breathe, until the security officer stomped away, fearless despite the numbers that surrounded him.
Everyone was thin and worn, like a shirt washed until the fabric showed skin.
Slay wondered, at first, why they didn’t rebel, but the same channels that let the upper city fill the cisterns would also let them flood the place.
Everyone down below could be drowned with the toggle of a lever, and he doubted the assholes in the higher tiers would give a damn.
There was no fighting when they didn’t need soldiers to do their killing.
No, this was a permanent slum, bonded to hopeless servitude for crimes their ancestors committed in some cases.
In others, they were prisoners of war. Like Slay and maybe the new woman who’d slowly turned to face him while he was lost in thought.
“Thank you,” she said, low.
His eyes widened with poorly concealed surprise. She had a husky voice, deeper than he expected from her slight frame, a glass of old whiskey and a crackling fire, or someone who’d just tumbled from bed. All three, possibly.
“For what?”
“Catching me.”
“You’re welcome.” It had been pure instinct, not a conscious decision to help, not that the woman seemed to be listening anymore.
Instead, she peered into their collective bedroom.
The stone alcove where they slept had been cut into the rock and there were pallets laid side by side, forcing ten people to squeeze in where five should fit.
Slay had woken up more than once with strangers reclining on him, arms and legs everywhere.
Sometimes he went cat because the Gols were less likely to encroach on his space that way, and it was easier to keep himself clean in that form too.
Guards didn’t like it when they showed up and had to wrangle a jaguar, though.
The first time it happened, he got extra time in the box—what prisoners called solitary confinement.
It wasn’t so bad in the beginning, but after a while, he started hearing voices.
Pru, sometimes. Why didn’t you love me more? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?
His dead mother, quite often. It burns. I can’t breathe. Help me, please. Please…
With a deliberate shake of his head, he wondered if the woman they’d dumped practically on top of him had news of the outside world.
Despite evidence of a recent beating, she’d clearly eaten better than everyone else and when he drew closer, her skin glimmered in the rushlight, showing signs that she’d been in the sun recently.
He tried not to come across as deranged or desperate; in truth, he was both.
“Sounds like you’ve been to the undercity before,” he said then.
“I was born here.”
And she escaped? There must be a way.
Slay tamped down the frantic wave of hope. “How did you get out? Can you find the route again?”
A flicker of a smile curved her mouth. “If only I could. Prince Alastor paid the blood debt for a whole platoon of us. I served with him and now I’m a prisoner of war. The tyrant will torment me until he gets bored and then execute me as a traitor.”
Slay stilled, unable to process the matter-of-fact way she made that declaration.
Not with dramatic flair or hyperbole, just a quiet assessment of her situation and its inevitable outcome.
For some reason, it did something to him, knowing that she— like him—stood in a shadow so deep that she couldn’t imagine the light ever getting back in again.
He had no explanation for his next words. “Not if I can help it.”