Chapter 18
Chapter eighteen
One by one, we’re pulled from our classes.
Unsurprisingly, the Noctryns target their opposers first with the interrogations. Even less shocking is the fact that they lumped me in with them. To say the Veils are pissed would be an understatement. How do we know it wasn’t one of the interrogators who committed the acts in question?
I pull the cap over my ears as we enter a lower level of the academy, one that sits far below the first floor and definitely wasn’t mentioned in any of the brochures.
It’s deep into the foreboding catacombs.
If I thought the living quarters were cold and damp, I sadly overestimated the ability of the academy to surpass them.
I take slow, measured steps as I follow my guide downward, the stone stairs slick with age.
Somewhere in the distance is a steady drip of water.
It’s musty, bleak, and the last place I want to be.
Griffin had the honor of escorting me and currently leads the way.
He’s been quiet thus far, which is perfect for me.
I have zero desire to converse with someone taking me into the depths of depravity.
He carries a heavy torch that outlines his silhouette as we make our way through the long, winding passageways.
Crumbled stones and rubble are pushed off to the sides, and we pass a few empty cells that look to be forgotten.
The catacombs seem endless. It’s understandable why they have someone escort us.
Perhaps it isn’t so much a show of force as I originally thought, but more so to make sure we reach our destination.
Although I’m not sure which would be worse at the moment.
Becoming lost in the dark passages or having my mind manipulated and invaded.
After a few more turns, we come to a large wooden door. Griffin pivots and stops in front of it, turning to face me with a bored expression. I quirk my lips, lean against the wall, and sink to my heels, resting my head against the cold stone. Neither of us makes any effort to speak.
I close my eyes and pretend I’m alone.
I’ve heard firsthand what these interrogations can be like.
Ambrose didn’t cut corners when explaining how uncomfortable they are.
How intrusive it is to have someone poke into the deep walls of your mind.
While there’s no way for me to mentally prepare for what’s about to transpire, I can at least try to calm my thoughts beforehand.
I’m obviously innocent and know nothing about either disappearance, but I’m still nervous about a stranger peering into my personal memories.
I don’t care for the idea of someone being in my head.
Sometimes I don’t even like being in there.
The minutes slowly tick by before the door creaks open, causing me to crack my eyes slightly. A first-year walks out, eyes glossy and chin slightly trembling. She looks down at me before quickly averting her gaze and gaining her composure.
Griffin signals for me to rise before placing his hand on my back and pushing me none-too gently through the door. The minute I’m all the way in, he shuts it with a loud slam of finality.
Fuck you very much, then.
I glance around the small room as my chest rises and falls with rapid breaths.
Chains hang from the ceiling with cuffs dangling at the ends, rusted and stained.
The feeling of terror and unwilling confessions are etched into every corner and crevice of this interrogation room.
In the center of the room sits a table bare of anything but two chairs.
One of them is currently being occupied by none other than the king of interrogations.
Kingston fucking Adair.
He’s leaned back completely at ease, both legs sprawled wide with his hands resting behind his head. This is just another day in the office for him.
I walk over stiffly and place both palms on the table, standing in front of the vacant seat. I never take my weary eyes off him.
“We meet again,” he says in a deep, rich voice that I would recognize in my sleep. The brown hues of his eyes shine like burnt amber in the torchlight.
“Unwilling on my part, as usual. It seems we’re obtaining a theme.”
He inclines his head in a gesture for me to sit, ignoring my barb.
I take a seat. It’s not like I have any other option at the moment.
I’m a pawn, and he’s the king on the board.
In the end, we’ll end up at the same place, but I have to play the game.
The muscles bunch beneath his dark, long-sleeved shirt as he sits forward and rests his elbows on his knees.
His black hair is slicked back from his face, allowing every hard angle and sardonic expression to fuel the deviant aura he cloaks himself in.
He’s dressed in black from his shirt down to his combat boots.
It’s as if the moment he enters a room, you can feel the warmth leave.
It’s absolutely frigid in this cell.
He gives off the distinct expression that everything around him is a nuisance and vastly beneath him. Apathy being a main weapon in his arsenal. He’s beautifully detached in the most ruthless way possible. And somehow, I’m constantly on his radar.
I cross my ankles more out of the need to do something while sitting under his intense scrutiny than anything else.
He’s staring at me as if I’ve already been found guilty of a crime, and this whole charade is more of a formality than an actual interrogation.
I do my best not to fidget while pinned beneath his dark glare, full of accusations.
The torches on the walls flicker in unison with my erratic heartbeat. Resignation seeps from the walls, cold and slick with age, the faint scent of iron and blood clinging to the air. This room was built to devour sound. To hide secrets and relish pain.
Kingston pushes off his knees and sits back a little, slightly crossing his arms and tapping his fingers against his lips. “Do you have anything you want to share with me before we start?” he asks, clearly knowing I won’t be sharing anything with him. At least not willingly.
“You mean besides the fact that I don’t want to be here?” I answer with the perpetual scowl I wear around him. “I haven’t done anything wrong,”
“I’ll determine that,” he replies curtly while holding that unwavering eye contact he seems to favor.
Without warning, he grabs the front of my chair and pulls me toward him, the legs scraping loudly against the stone floor. I grip the edges tightly, so I don’t fall right out of it. “Was that necessary?” I hiss.
“Very.”
He leans toward me again, his black-rimmed eyes mesmerizing in their intensity. “I can hear your hatred loud and clear. Do me a favor and try to tone it down a bit so we can get started,” he instructs, like I should have known to do this.
I forget he can dip into my head whenever the desire strikes him. I try not to think anything negative about the infuriating man sitting across from me, but it’s impossible. It’s like telling someone to try not to breathe.
Don’t think anything bad.
Don’t think anything bad.
I. Can’t. Stand. You. Adair.
“So how exactly does this work? You can already just dive right in and violate my thoughts, so what’s the next step in proving my innocence?”
“I can hear what most people are thinking, currently, depending on how loud their thoughts are. Yours are obnoxiously loud. Delving into memories is a bit more complicated,” he answers. “I have to have a tether to your energy, a type of connection.”
“You have to touch me,” I state without premise.
“Unfortunately,” he drawls, appraising me like I’m a petulant headache.
Without warning, he closes his eyes and reaches out, putting a hand on each side of my head.
At first, I jolt from his hands on me, but then the pressure is immediate, as if someone is ripping out threads of my existence.
I’m forced to close my eyelids from the incredible tension permeating through my head.
Vivid images of the past forty-eight hours rapidly appear behind my eyelids.
A bird’s-eye view of my writhing form on the ground during the Blood Ritual Ceremony, being carried to my room while unconscious, and the trip to Moorechester with Ambrose.
I get to watch Ambrose’s rejection play out in front of my eyes again in stark detail before I’m at the bookshop picking out a few titles.
Suddenly, the books blur into the academy doors opening, and I’m walking into the chaos that’s transpiring in all directions before the image abruptly vanishes, and the pressure subsides.
I carefully peel my eyes open.
Kingston stares at me, hands on his knees, but the accusation that was previously buried in those depths has lessened.
Slightly.
Checkmate, asshole.
“He’s always been an idiot,” he says, his tone lower than I’ve heard it.
I’m embarrassed but even more angry. “I’m sure you enjoyed that part the best,” I seethe. “That was private and not for you to witness.”
It’s bad enough to live through a rejection, no matter how softly it was delivered, but to have to relive it with an audience? Sheer agony.
He doesn’t laugh or mock me. But he is tense.
“Why the interest in dark objects?” he asks, swiftly changing the subject.
Shit.
That little tidbit certainly doesn’t help me not look guilty in some regard. Thank fuck I was at Moorechester when the abductions presumably took place.
“It looked interesting,” I say flatly.
He raises a dark brow.
I take a deep breath. This entire charade of being civil is exhausting. “I have no idea where I fit in the scheme of things, as a Liminal. At this point, nothing has manifested, neither light nor dark abilities, so I figured, why not look into both?”
“Curiosity is an essential aspect of wielding. It’s also critical you’re familiar with facets of the Noctryn ideology since we don’t yet know where you fall in the scheme of things,” he states, rolling his sleeves up and exposing his corded forearms. “Dark objects are crucial for Noctryns. Do you know anything about the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“They are created. More specifically, they’re made for a Noctryn who wields deep levels of dark magic with the potential to burn out.
Without a way to stabilize themselves, that amount of dark power can lead to madness.
An elite dark wielder paired with a dark object is a reputable force.
” His lower lip pulls between his teeth, just enough for the point of his left canine to show.
“But a Noctryn who delves too deep without the proper tools is a hazard to themself. And everyone around them.”
“How are they created?” I ask, suddenly very curious.
“By the very few who can. Unfortunately, only Noctryns have access to learning the process, and since we don’t know exactly where you fall on the spectrum, we’ll have to save that for another day,” he answers.
Secrecy upon secrecy. The layers are abundant.
I rub my temples to try and ease some of the residual tension from the surprisingly quick interrogation. I’m thankful he only probed into the necessary timeline. He could have taken full advantage and gone back as far as he deemed necessary.
He pushes back and away from me. “It will subside as the day goes on. The human mind isn’t used to being probed and dug through by intrusive hands,” he assures me.
I give him a sarcastic thumbs-up.
His usual impassive face breaks into a slight smirk. It only amplifies his regal beauty. Perhaps it’s a good thing he doesn’t smile. It’d probably be detrimental to the female population if a mere smirk is this lethal.
I smack my thighs with both hands and stand up. If this meeting is adjourned, I’d very much like to get the hell out of here.
I glance toward the door. “Are we done here?”
“We’re done here.” His eyes track me as I push the chair in. “Oh, and Caderyn,” he says, holding my gaze, “It would most definitely be detrimental to the female population.”
I narrow my eyes on his smug smirk before turning on my heel and leaving.
I might be going insane because I swear I hear deep masculine laughter weave its way through the door after it shuts.
Shaking my head, I follow Griffin out of the damp catacombs.