Page 32 of Whispers of the Dead

“Don’t let them see the knife,” Damon growls out.

“No shit. I’m trying.” I stretch further and my fingertip brushes the handle, only to push it farther away. “Dammit.”

I yank my arm back and slam my fist against the concrete in frustration. The knife is still in plain sight. If the dregs see it, we’re screwed.

Before I can try again, a hand shoots through the bars of the cell in front of me. I watch the fingers stretch and strain to reach the knife. I hear a sickening pop, followed by a sharp grunt. “Cole, what was that?”

There’s no answer. Nothing but ragged breathing.

“Cole?”

“My shoulder.” His voice is tight with pain. “Fuck.”

There’s a dull thud, followed by another. “Are you ramming your body against the bars?”

“Dude, what the fuck?” Benji chimes in.

“Whatever you’re doing, hurry it up,” Damon urges.

Cole’s arm flops out, and his fingers go slack. Then they curl loosely around the blade. There’s a slow scrape, then a pause, then another slam of his body against the bars again before letting out a roaring grunt. “Fixed it.”

“I’m impressed. You haven’t moved this much since the day the dead rose,” Benji says.

“How’s the arm?” Damon asks.

“I said it’s fixed.”

The sound of keys jangling cuts through the air before the lock clicks and the large heavy door swings open, thebottom scraping across the concrete. I barely have time to scramble away from the bars before two dregs step into the dim light that reaches part of the corridor outside my cell.

Each of them carries two trays of food with smug grins plastered on their filthy faces. I don’t recognize either of them, but they give off the same spine-chilling presence as the others. The one in front of my cell sets a tray of food down with exaggerated care.

“Special delivery,” he sneers. Then his grin widens, and he leans closer to the bars. His breath reeks like something sour and rotting. I fight the urge to gag. “We made this one especially for you.”

I glare back at him with my lips pressed into a tight, thin line.

His amusement grows, and he gestures at the tray. “Go on. Eat up. You’ll feel great.”

I don’t move. I don’t even blink, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. His laughter bounces off the walls when he steps away. He remains standing in the middle of the corridor with his arms crossed over his chest, watching. Glaring.

The second dreg looks far less entertained. He drops trays in front of the other cells with carelessness. A tray clatters loudly against the floor and I glance toward Benji’s cell to see he’d kicked it. The dreg’s head snaps up and he sneers. “What’s the matter? Not hungry?”

Benji’s voice holds a viciousness I don’t expect from him. “Starving. Just not for whatever shit you’re serving.”

The dregs exchange a glance before shrugging and walking away. Their laughter fades down the corridor with them.

The silence that follows is suffocating. I let out a shaky exhale and let my body slump against the wall. That was a close one.

My eyes drift toward the dark void of Cole’s cell. “Cole. Your shoulder…”

“I’m fine,” he grunts, but his voice is tight and strained.

His green eyes gleam in the shadows. I curl my fingers into fists. I was supposed to help us escape. Instead, I hurt him in the process. “I’m sorry.”

His eyes lock onto mine, and something unreadable flashes in them. “Don’t.”

I nod, sensing he doesn’t want to talk about it. The man of many words.

Rather than pushing for a conversation, I glance at my tray of food. It’s better but this, though not by much. The staleness of the bread is off-putting, but the small bit of mold on the side is downright offensive. “Nobody touch that.”

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