Page 29 of Whispers of the Dead

I can’t go back to the cold, empty days before her. I wanther freedom more than anything, but not without me there by her side to protect her. They could be doing anything to her right now. All the worst-case scenarios fly through my mind.

“Where the hell is she?” I bellow. I’m completely losing my shit now, and I don’t care if they hear me. Let them come.

And they do.

The sound of boots on concrete is my answer. They move down the corridor at a slow pace. A single dreg who I haven’t seen before steps into the dim light. His smirk is carved deep into his face, like he knows something I don’t. Smug little shit.

He’s a thin fella, not built for real fights. One of those guys who relies on cruelty and power instead of skill. That’s perfect. I can tear him to shreds without a problem.

He approaches Zoey’s empty cell and then a second man, the one Zoey and I bruised up a decent bit, steps forward and unlocks the door. The first man stands there and inspects her cell. He doesn’t say anything. All he does is stand there and look around the cell and then up at the barred window. I can’t figure out what his angle is. There’s nothing in there but that bucket.

“Are you finally going to bring her a cot and blanket?” I ask.

The thin man ignores me. He keeps staring at nothing.

I pound my fist against the bars to get his attention. “Is she even coming back?”

The man walks out of her cell and disappears back down the corridor. The second one doesn’t follow.

My favorite walking bruise waits until we’re alone and then turns to me with growing amusement. “Someone’s awfully loud this morning.”

“Go to hell,” I growl, my voice a snarl. If he hurt her, no bars on this earth could keep me from getting to him.

His lips curl back, and he pulls something from his belt. I don’t need to see it to know what it is. “You wanna keep yelling?”

I don’t get the chance to answer before a sharp crack fills the air and pain explodes through me like fire, white-hot and electric. Every muscle in my body seizes up and my knees buckle as a strangle gasp rips from my throat. My vision blurs. My limbs twitch uncontrollably as I crumple to the cold floor.

The fucker tased me.

I grit my teeth and try to fight against the convulsions wracking my body. My muscles feel like they’re tearing apart, and my breath comes in uneven gasps, but I force my eyes open. Through the haze, I see him standing above me. His smug grin widens when crouches down with the taser still in his grip.

“See, this is what happens when you get too loud.” He gives the taser a lazy twirl in his fingers. “I suggest you keep your voice down next time, yeah?”

I swallow down the bile rising in my throat and glare at him. Somehow, I force words through my clenched teeth. “Go…to…hell.”

His grin doesn’t falter. “You’re in no position to be handing out demands around here.” His voice drips with mockery. He turns and strolls away, leaving me gasping for breath on the cold concrete.

I don’t knowhow long I lie here before I hear footsteps. There are two sets, heavier and faster than before.

My body protests when I push myself upright. The lingering effects of the taser leaves my limbs weak and sluggish. My head throbs and my vision swims, but I push the dizziness aside and grip the bars with renewed desperation.

Then I see her.

A dreg steps into the dim glow of Zoey’s cell window, carrying a limp figure in his arms.

Zoey.

My stomach lurches. Her tangled golden hair falls over her face, half shadowed by the faint moonlight. Her arms dangle lifelessly at her sides. Her bandaged hand stands out as a stark contrast against her pale skin.

The dreg holding her pauses in front of her cell and he adjusts his grip. When he glances down at her, his expression shifts in a way that confuses me. I’ve seen dregs sneer, mock, and hurt, but the look on his face? It isn’t cruelty. I would almost call it caring, but that can’t be right. These bastards don’t feel things. Yet, the way his arms tighten around her, and the slight crease in his brow as he watches her, it’s not the look of a man handling cargo. It’s something else. Something I don’t fucking trust.

“Avery,” a voice calls from the corridor. I recognize Eugene’s slimy tone. My muscles lock up.

The dreg holding her, Avery, glances toward the voice and his face shifts from something unreadable to ice-cold indifference.

“I need to have a word,” Eugene continues. He sounds impatient. Angry, even.

Avery doesn’t move. His grip on Zoey doesn’t loosen. His voice comes out flat. “Later.”

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