Page 93 of Cerulean Truth
Aside from training her, which had become an almost full-time occupancy, I’d spent all my time down at the Bastille.
Because what Emma remained blissfully unaware of was that ever since her incident, I spent a minimum of an hour each day in the chilling depths of the cave beneath the Bastille, where the soon-to-be-dead Radicals−who tried to bleed her out−were being held.
All three of them were still alive, for which I congratulated myself every single day.
This subterranean cave was made of twenty-something holding cells, all linked to a central area, only accessible to aselect few. As one of those privileged individuals, I possessed an unrestricted pass.
Each holding cell replicated the others—uniform square rooms furnished with a bed, bathroom, and dinner table. Books were at their beck and call, and the cells were all bubbled in to make sure no sound could travel and no translation could happen. All prisoners stayed in solitary confinement, as any contact with another could result in an attempt to escape.
The general area was divided into a few rooms, depending on its necessities. Not entirely unlike The Cube, we’d translate the room into whatever our needs required.
While walking down the stairs to the cave, I focused on tamping down the anger I felt, every time my mind wandered back to that night. They did the unthinkable in harming Emma, and although I realized as a future Leader, I could not let my emotions cloud my judgement, touching Emma without her consent was unforgivable and one hell of a trigger for my rage.
When I reached the general area, I had the first prisoner, Radical Number One, join me in the smallest room available. Interrogation in the magi world wasn’t easy, the techniques were complicated and there were few who really mastered those techniques to perfection.
I turned the room into a color palette of purple walls and flying drops of blood, a small table at the center, with two chairs on opposite sides.
Number One was an imposing figure, with small scars crisscrossing his face, black eyes, and a gaze that could chill the soul. However, his stare resembled a warm and cozy winter’s cabin compared to mine.
I didn’t bother with any formalities, only motioned him to sit down.
“Why do you need her blood?” I questioned in an icy tone, as I had every single day for over a month.
No answer. Just an empty gaze.
“How did you know where to find her?” I pressed.
He didn’t answer but I didn’t need him to. I only needed him tothinkabout the answer.
Translation made it possible to invade someone’s thoughts. It was highly illegal for those unauthorized and it took years to get the right qualifications. The trick was to distract or confuse or torture them enough so they would lower their mental walls during a moment of weakness in order for me to get in and extract the information I needed.
For now, all three of them weren’t talking and still successfully blocking me out.
As I sat there, locked in a silent struggle with the unyielding Number One, images of Emma and what they’d done to her kept popping up. It’d been over a month but the memories of that night were as fresh as they were the day after.
He hurt her. I clenched my fists.
He tried to take her from me. My jaw tightened.
Fuck, I wanted to kill him. More than I had ever wanted to kill anyone in my life. The urge to take his life consumed me. I’d been struggling with these thoughts for weeks on end and I was slowly starting to lose control. It wasn’t like he was giving me any usable intel…so whatwasthe harm in killing him?
I kept staring at this asshole, who was still wrapping himself in silence, and I hesitated, as I always did.
Killing this lowlife, when unsanctioned by the Council, would jeopardize not only my role as Leader but possibly the delicate balance between us and any resistance, we had fought so hard to maintain these last few months.
The weight of responsibility pressed on me as I debated my choices, torn between duty and the firing rage within me. Thoughts of Emma, bound and vulnerable, flooded my mindagain. Her whimpering, the spilled blood, her suffering, me being unable to protect her... Fucking hell.
Number One shifted uncomfortably in his chair, clearly unsettled by the waves of rage I was surely emitting. This was the point I usually resorted to torture. But today, it wasn’t enough.
The potential consequences to my leadership started fading into nothingness, gradually becoming overshadowed by the raw, unrelenting desire to avenge Emma’s torment. They had dared to touch her. They had hurt her. They had …
I could torture him again. That could take the edge off. It has before.
I took a deep breath, flexed my forearm, and shot out my Skindo. My fingers tightened around its hilt. The room seemed to grow colder. I was starting to lose control.
The Radical’s eyes widened, a flicker of fear crossing his face as he began to grasp where my struggles lay. I could see the desperation sinking in, the realization that the continuation of his life now solely rested in my ability to maintain self-control.
Ignoring the surge of conflicting emotions still coursing through me, my mind homed in on Emma’s face, her voice echoing in my mind, pleading for justice, as I imagined she would’ve done had she been conscious.
