Page 10 of Rook of Ruin
“Here you go. Have a good shift.” Laura smiles wide. Her wide mouth is always pulled into a smile or a grin. It makes me wonder if she smiled the whole time as a Recruit.
My brace hums in my hands, creating a feeling of sheer power that is almost an addiction. I slip it over my left forearm, securing it with the gold clasps on the back and pulling thin leather straps between the holes in the gold that I had inserted as an extra safety precaution.
“Thanks, Laura.” I open the door and practically sprint back down the hall. A heavy steel door, which separates the prison cells from the world, is guarded by two female Recruits. One of them pulls open the door for me, allowing a woosh of emotions to hit. It’s overwhelming to feel the depths of the Locker’s sorrow, fear, and anger. Once, I asked Paul if he could feel the emotions in the Locker, and he looked at me like I had worms crawling out of my ears. Heaving a sigh, I note the time. Time is everything today. Time is the worst fucking murderer. It takes until there is nothing left of us, leaving only bones and memories.
Trying to stop the rising panic as I descend into the bowels of the dungeon, my fingers lock into fists. To distract myself whileI move through the levels of Her Majesty’s Locker, I recount what I tell the Recruits. Quietly I whisper to myself, “There are three levels to the Locker, and each level has blocks. The highest level, level one, has a few offices, a training room, and a small barracks for those who are too tired to make it back to the main ones. Level two, the ground floor, is where we house petty criminals—those who are in holding for sentencing or who will be transferred to offshore workhouses. Level three is for the worst of Acros—rapists, murderers—it’s where I’m stationed. We interrogate the offenders, and on occasion, torture them for information.” I have no problem with the occasional torture. However, I don’t delight in it.
Sadistic tendencies aside, my battalion really cares. We are the Guardians of Life. Guardians prevent those in the lowest level from ever preying on the innocent. We find secrets that may prevent future crimes and protect the kingdom throughanymeans necessary.
I rush down the level three stairs, still whispering calmly to myself like a weirdo, and into block eight, completely ignoring Paul’s orders to report to block three. I guess if I’m committing treason, I might as well throw in insubordination while I’m at it. A hysterical laugh threatens to burst from my mouth as I pass four other Rooks guiding a prisoner to the upper cells. That could be me soon. Surprise hits me as I slow for a moment. I recognize the prisoner—he’s the Panther’s second, the man I captured last night. His head is hung low, and bruises cover his face. Briefly, I wonder why they are taking him to the upper cells. Normally, I would stop and ask, but there’s no time.
Running down the middle of the block, passing metal doors nestled tightly in the grey stone, I try not to pause or consider the possibility of my life in a cell before a painful execution—if we’re caught. These cells house many of the worst of Acros, and I’m now one of them.
My heart pounds wildly as I reach the back corridor, where there are several interrogation cells. Relief hits my chest when I see my co-conspirator. A thin slip of a woman in a dark grey tunic dress, red cape, and a white cowl covering her hair waits, hands folded, completely serene compared to my chaotic heart. Next to her sits a large wooden cart, ready to wheel out the dead. After performing prisoners’ Death Rites, the Grey Sisters use the carts to haul bodies.
“Matron. Ready?” I know at any minute, she or I could change our treasonous minds. Trust is crucial, because she could be playing a long game, taking for granted that I’m only a speck in a bigger web of chaos. She could use me and then turn me over to the Spider. I could do the same. This could also be a hoax, a test of loyalty to the queen.
Her mouth curves into a grim smile. “Yes.”
If it weren’t for her and fucking bad luck, I wouldn’t be in this mess. I would be blissfully unaware on block three, doing whatever needs to be done. My power allows me to heal what I can see andfeel.The few other Rook healers we have are not able to heal their patients as quickly as I can—what takes me mere seconds takes them minutes if not hours. I don’t tire as easily compared to them, which is likely why Matron chose me to confide in.
Matron pulls out a set of keys from the folds of her tunic and inserts one into the door. With a click, the terrible plan I recklessly made up materializes. Time slows, and my brain rapidly fires off questions. Why did the queen sanction innocents in the Locker? Why would Ossian harm innocent people? He’s an ass, but surely—
Matron opens the door, and the smells of blood, rotted flesh, and excrement overpower my senses. It’s not only the stench that has my stomach turning, it’s also the extreme emotions of hopelessness, fear, anger, and misery. The emotions bite intomy soul. Under normal circumstances, none of this would truly bother me, but there is a child in here. An innocent. Rooks don’t harm the innocent.
The room is horrific, even for me. Fury rolls though my body, and I stiffen, standing dumbstruck. Matron came to me because my brace allows me to be both a healer and a torturer. It allows me to be the best Rook to those in need and the worst to those who crave death but won’t receive it. I can break bones, blind, maim, cut off limbs, and heal them just to do it all again. I find it cruel but efficient.
“They are far worse than when I first found them,” Matron whispers, clearly in shock, surprised by the depravity. She quietly shuts the metal door behind us, but in my mind, it sounds like she slammed it.
The child, barely six years old, is chained to a chair in front of me, tears steadily flowing down his dirty and blood-caked face. His clothes are in tatters, and his right arm is burned badly and infected, the smell of fleshy decay pouring out. I stifle a gasp. Rooks wouldn’t do this, we just wouldn’t.But Ossian did.
My lips curl, and icy rage burns through me. Reaching for my strand of power, my brace glows softly as I take the boy’s pain. He jerks back in surprise as his pain disappears. Matron walks softly over to him, whispers in his ear, and begins carefully unlocking the iron bracelets holding his legs to the chair. She then very gently unlocks his arms, careful of the infected skin. The young boy screams, and my heart feels as though it is being ripped out from the sound. His frightened scream will forever be in my nightmares.
“Get the fuck away from him. I’m right fucking here!” The strangled sound of a hoarse voice comes from my right. The other occupant of this cell is no more a danger than this boy is. Matron told me, and sometimes, you just know.
Unconsciously, I tilt my head out of curiosity. I can’t place his accent. Sheer anger and desperation pours off the man standing on his toes, facing the wall. He is shaking his emaciated body, moving, trying to distract me away from the child. His naked, pale form is stretched out in an X, bruised from a beating, the skin of his back shredded from a zevenstaart flailing. His head is bloody from what looks like patches of hair being ripped out and the rest shaved. A pool of blood and red-stained hair lies at his feet. The smell coming from his body makes me sick.
Moving swiftly to his side so he can see my face, I plan to show my true intentions as I speak, but his face is too badly beaten. His eyes are swollen shut, nose is broken, his cheeks are bruised, his lips are badly cracked and split. I also notice a strange cut along his ear. Hells, I will really have to concentrate to put him back together.
“I’m not going to hurt you or the boy,” I try to say in a reassuring voice.
“Lies!” His voice cracks.
Anger flows from him again, practically knocking me off my feet. Whatever this man is feeling is powerful, and my brace is picking up on it, wanting to heal him. A soft light emerges from my brace, but for the first time, I’m not controlling it. I stare at it for a moment, only to realize the light is also pulsing up from under my skin. I can see it radiating around my wrist and down my fingers. I flick my hand, trying to rid myself of it, and I slowly realize I’m not healing him; rather, it’s pulling me to him—pulling his emotions away from him and into me. My brace and skin become uncontrollably bright, and my mouth clamps shut.
The pain.
Falling to my knees, sunlight explodes into the cell. Each lash, each punch, I canfeelthem happening to my body. Completely collapsing, my arms falling into his pool of blood, black spots dot my eyes. Matron’s hands gently touch my face. I see hermouth moving, but what she says, I do not know. A fractured sob releases from my throat, and a breath is all it takes for the pain to recede back into who knows where. I move onto all fours and vomit.
“What was that?” I shakily whisper and then spit on the floor, trying to rid the taste of bile from my mouth.
“Something that could get us killed,” Matron replies curtly. “Do we have a problem?”
A headache blooms, but I force myself up, healing myself. I take a few gulps of air. The anger that was once there in the man is gone, and I canfeelhis layered emotions as if they are my own. Confusion, sadness, and . . . an odd feeling of yearning? I glance at the man.
“What do you mean? Why—”
Matron cuts me off. “I need to know, can you continue? We need to hurry.”
