Page 6 of Whispers of the Dead

“We might not be able to get out now, but there will be an opening and when there is, we’ll take it,” she says, leaving no room for argument.

I stare at her outline. How I wish I could see the fire in her eyes that I’m sure is there. I can barely even see her, but the fire inside her soul is intoxicating. Dangerous, even.

Fine, I’ll play. “You can probably move faster and more quietly. You’ll have to be careful when you get out of here. If you find yourself in the kitchen, there’s a knife block on the countertop to the left of the fridge. You’ll need to use it, and don’t be afraid to hurt the dregs before they can hurt you. Idon’t mean cutting off their dick. Cut off a head or two, too. Go for the kill.”

She shifts until she’s sitting directly in front of me now. I know she can’t see me in the dark. Not even my outline is visible. To her, my cell is nothing but an empty black pit of nothingness. For all she knows, I could be nothing more than a voice in her head. “Why are you talking as though you won’t be there with me?” I don’t respond. “We’re all getting out of here, Damon. All four of us.”

The clouds over the moon shift and I can make out a sliver of golden blonde hair, but I wish the beam of light stretched far enough to see her face. Still, though, I don’t need to see her to know she firmly believes every word she says.

We’re complete strangers. She knows nothing about us. She doesn’t even know she can trust us, let alone see us, but she’s already planning to get free and take all three of us along with her. Who the fuck is this woman?

She holds a fire I long thought died out in this world. Now all I want to do is fan the embers to keep it burning.

“If you say so.”

The conversation dies there, but she doesn’t move away. She stays close. I could reach out and touch her if I wanted to, but I don’t dare for fear I might ruin her like I ruined myself.

The minutes bleed into hours, and she eventually cries herself to sleep. It’s not a wailing cry, more of a series of soft sniffles. Something else is eating away at her, but she wouldn’t say what.

Now she lies curled up on the cold concrete floor with her back pressed up against the bars that face me. Only when her breathing evens out do I dare slip a hand through the bars.

With gentle movements, I run my fingers through her hair, detangling the knots as best I can without stirring her. Itstops a couple of inches past her shoulders. The ends of the strands feel like a horrible hack job, probably done by a knife in a haste.

Her body shivers, but it’s not from my touch. I realize she’s wearing a thin tank top shirt when my knuckles graze along her upper arm and feel goosebumps. The dregs threw her in here without a blanket. She’ll freeze.

Cursing quietly so as not to disturb her, I snatch the thin blanket off my cot and slide it through the bars before draping it over her. Once I’m satisfied that I’ve helped her as much as I can, I back away and retreat deeper into the shadows of my cell.

I spend the rest of the night like this, still as a statue, watching over her dark outline from where I sit upright perched on top of my cot.

For the first time in months, I don’t look at the stars. I look at her.

The faint lightof dawn filters in through the barred window of Zoey’s cell, casting a soft glow across her still form and painting her in gold. First the first time, I can see her more clearly.

She’s smaller than I expected, but compact with lean muscle. Even in sleep, there’s tension in her limbs, like she’s always ready to spring into a fight. Her fingers curl loosely around the bars separating us. I almost want to reach out and touch her, but I don’t. Only observe. Her breathing is even and undisturbed.

Still asleep, her face turns toward the bars, but with the light behind her, I still can’t see her face.

The blanket I gave her in the night has slipped off and is pooling around her waist, leaving her bare arms and legsexposed to the morning chill. She’s wearing even less clothing than I realized. No wonder she was shivering.

A thin white tank top clings to her frame, and the hem of her blue shorts rides up enough to reveal a sliver of toned thigh. I shouldn’t be looking, but something about her presence pulls at me like a gravity I can’t fight. She’s strong, though I could tell that even in the dark, but seeing her now, bathed in the fragile light of dawn, I also realize she’s delicate in ways I don’t want to admit.

I push the thought away. She’s just another prisoner. Another person who won’t make it out of here.

Yes, I stayed up all night watching her.

My muscles ache when I shift. The stiffness in my joints protest after staying in the same position for hours. I roll my shoulders and let out a quiet exhale when I scoot to the back of my cot and lean back against the cold stone wall. I need to shake this feeling, this unfamiliar tightness in my chest.

She hasn’t even been here a day, and already she’s making it harder to stay numb.

The soft scuff of boots down the hall snaps me out of my thoughts. I shoot off my cot and snatch the blanket through the bars before a key turns in the lock. It’s a small gesture, but it matters. They would have noticed. If the dregs catch on that I’m getting a soft spot for the newcomer—hell, if they so much as suspect it—they’ll use it against me. Against my friends. Against her.

Zoey stirs, and some of her golden hair falls away from her face. A faint furrow creases her brow and her eyelashes flutter before she blinks awake. I watch the moment she registers the sound. Her muscles tighten, her breath stills, and her fingers twitch against the bars. She’s already in survival mode.

The footsteps grow louder, and then a dreg comes into view.

His grin is wide and smug, his teeth stained from years of rot and filth. He moves slow, like he’s savoring every second and relishing the control he holds over us. The keys at his belt jingle when he crouches down outside Zoey’s cell, but my focus is on the way his gaze rakes over her. Fucking bastard.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

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