By the third day, it was as if the air itself had scorched us, each hour a trial of our endurance. Three days without food, three days without water, three days of sleeping on a cold stone floor that seeped into my bones as if they did not belong to me. The cut on my foot had closed, scabbed over with dirt and dried blood, and my throat was parched, my tongue sticking painfully to the roof of my mouth.
In a haze between half-sleep and fevered dreams, I was conscious of the harsh scrape of the outer door. I prodded Amelia in the ribs until she woke with a start. "Amelia, wake up. Please, wake up."
Her eyes fluttered open, her voice a weak whisper. "Huh? Wh—what?"
"Somebody's coming," I whispered, my throat scraping as I talked.
The iron door creaked open, and light slashed into the cell like a knife. Leonard stepped in first, his gangly form gobbling up the weak light. Lennon followed, wearing that infuriating grin I had grown to detest. Three men I hadn't seen before brought up the rear, their eyes glinting with a rapacious greed.
"Good," Leonard said, his tone level but with a tinge of malice. "I thought you two would be dead by now. Guess you're just too stubborn."
He did not often smile, but the look he wore just then was worse than a smile—it was a satisfaction that only a monster could feel.
The three strangers dragged us to our feet, and my legs wobbled beneath me. They dragged us to sturdy chairs anchored to the floor and strapped down our wrists and ankles until the leather bit into my skin. The metal was cold as a jolt through my thin clothes, and for some reason, it made me feel absurdly like a bird trapped under glass.
Leonard crossed his legs, as if he was settling in to watch a show. "So, what were you two doing in a location you had no business being in?" he asked, his voice falsely casual, which I knew was a sign of sadism.
He told us to look up.
We did.
For the first time, I had a good view of his face; the light struck him, bringing out the angularity of his features. He was younger than I'd imagined, probably in his thirties, with black hair down to his shoulders, a clipped beard, and eyes as black as oil—his eyes were the most dangerous thing in the room. They were like predators waiting, patiently biding their time.
Amelia trembled alongside me, her eyes filling with tears. Leonard leaned in. "Answer me," he commanded, and his voice tightened the air around us.
"W-we weren't doing anything," Amelia stuttered, her voice cracking like a twig. I wanted to tell her to be quiet, to save herself, but my throat was unable to form any words of appeal.
Leonard shrugged, as if her words meant nothing. He reached down, pulling a long dagger from his boot. My heart sank. I'd imagined this moment countless times in the dark, but now it felt both expected and unreal.
He approached Amelia, dragging the blade along her forearm. She screamed—a sharp, piercing sound—as hot blood welled where the metal met her skin, splattering the chair in dark, sudden bursts.
"Stop!" The word slipped out before I could catch it. Regret washed over me, like a shadow. I had wanted once to be brave; now my bravery was stupid and loud.
Leonard's eyes turned to me, his disgust slow and deliberate. "You wanted that," he sneered. "You are lucky that I did not kill you last time."
You're a monster," I spat, the words needing to escape my mouth. Leonard's lips curled, caught between a snarl and a chuckle, before he straightened and nodded at Lennon.
Lennon lifted a coarse cloth and forced it down over my face. The world grew distant, muffled. They poured buckets of water over the cloth, dumping cold into my nose and mouth. It was a repeated drowning, the world narrowing to the taste of metal and the sting of water cascading into my lungs. When I struggled, they would stop just long enough for me to gasp in air, then resume pouring.
Amelia's voice sliced through the material, begging from the outside. "Please, please! Don't—" Her voice was distant, as if I were hearing someone else's sorrow on a radio.
I coughed, tasting blood in my mouth, my eyesight narrowing to a glossy point. Then another sound interfered—a wet thud that didn't belong here: a heavy impact, followed by a muffled thump.
Something—a movement—fell in front of me. I gasped, and the cloth was torn off. Air slammed into my lungs so forcefully I thought I would burst.
What I saw next froze my heart.
Lennon's head was on the floor at his feet, rolled onto the cold stones. The picture was sudden, impossible; his face slack and eyes empty. For a moment, I could not believe it; my mind tried to fill in the gap with something less final. Blood sprayed—yes—but instead of the nauseating metallic scream of violence, there was a shocked silence that filled the room with a sense of huge change.
Lennon's body crumpled like a marionette whose strings have been severed.
I noticed movement in the doorway—great, writhing—then a form unlike any man I'd encountered in that prison. Something massive blocked the weak hallway light: grey skin that reflected the lanterns, so that he seemed to be smoke molded into form; broad shoulders; braided hair tied into a bun; eyes that smoldered with a fire like coal. For a brief moment, I thought of legends—of monsters, of gods. My mouth opened, but I did not make a sound.
Leonard's face went white in a matter of seconds. The three men behind his back started stumbling, one of them falling to his knees as if the air itself had forced him down. There was noise—guards shouting, feet shuffling, leather creaking.
The giant stepped nearer, his calmness disconcerting, a wind slashing through marrow. He had no need to speak; his presence engulfed everything else. I could smell him—salt, iron, and something untamed.
He looked at me, not with possession, not with desire, but with a certainty so overwhelming that for a single moment I forgot hunger, pain, the cut on my foot. All that was real was his look and the certainty that the world had turned on one keen edge: him.
Just before I lost consciousness, I was aware of muffled voices growing more urgent—a cry, maybe Leonard's, shouting a name, a command. The dark bulk moved, and yet another sound cut the air—this one lighter, softer, like a knife sighing.
The last thing I remembered was Amelia's face, pale and sweaty, reaching toward me as the room leaned into darkness.