Page 90 of Burdened Bonds

He peers back at me full of suspicion. He knows if he gets this wrong the punishment will be severe. I can almost see the little cogs turning in his head. In the end, he nods and beckons for me to follow him.

“All the mutts are being kept in the most secure part of the jail – in the dungeon cells.”

“As they should be.” My own mind starts whirring. This is going to make my job harder. More difficult to release Spencer, and longer for us to get out of here. “Have they been much trouble?”

“At first some were, but we learned pretty quickly that as long as we keep them in a constant state of pain, they will remain in their human states. The trick is to never let them heal.” The man smiles sadistically. “They’ve made very effective punching bags for my guards.”

I smile back, hoping I look just as sadistic and there isn’t a hint of the true disgust I feel betrayed in my eyes.

“Maybe I’ll have a go myself.”

“Weren’t you and Moreau friends? Dueling team buddies?” the man asks and maybe he isn’t as dumb as he looks.

“I had no idea what he truly was.”

He leads me into the heart of the fortress. It’s the middle of the night and yet the prison is alive with noise – of men shouting, some screaming. Of fists thumping walls, of hands rattling bars. The warden seems unconcerned, barely seeming to register the unrest.

I follow him along a weaving and narrow corridor with low ceilings, several of the lights out, and I make a note of the way we come. At the end we reach a heavy door and the man waves his hand, reciting a complicated security spell. The door groans open and beyond them lies a stone staircase, spiraling down into the cold dungeon of the old fortress.

“Are the cells numbered?” I ask him. He nods. “And which one is Moreau in?”

“Number six.” His old dueling team jersey. I have to suppress the desire to thump the man straight in his stupid grinning face.

“Thank you. That will be all.”

“I can’t let you see him alone,” the man says.

“This is private business. I’ve been ordered to ensure no one else is in attendance when I speak with the …” I swallow, “mutt.”

“It’s dangerous.”

I draw myself up to my full height. I’m taller than this man by several inches and bigger than him too. “Are you questioning my ability–”

“No, no, only advising–”

“I didn’t ask for your advice,” I say and then I’m descending the steps, ensuring the door slams behind me. It clicks locked, blocking out my escape and any light. I’m plunged into darkness, the temperature frigid.

I have that sense of foreboding again, like I did in the forest. Only this time it’s much much worse.

35

Spencer

It’sunclear how many days have passed. I drift in and out of consciousness, the pain making it almost impossible to remain awake. I know I’m brought food and water, most of which I don’t touch. I know I’m questioned and beaten, beaten and questioned. I know despite this my body is healing. But the pain, the pain remains.

Unconsciousness should be a relief from it all. But my sleep is fretful, full of dreams of the past, of the future, of nonsense. Mostly it’s full of my brother – and I wake forgetting for that fraction of a second that he’s gone, forced to experience the agony of losing him all over again.

In some ways, maybe it’s better that he’s gone. Not here to bear all this.

How many days have passed? How many endless days will pass like this? Stretching on and on forever. Until I’mbeginning to lose the ability to tell when I’m awake or asleep. Both as painful as the other.

Sometimes, when I have the strength, I think of her. Of Rhi. I hope they’ve found her. I pray she’s safe. I hope she’s far far away from here.

I dream of her too. I dream of that morning in the gymnasium when I left. I dream that I don’t go, that I stay. I dream that I tell her the truth. I dream that I confess how much I care about her. I dream that everything turns out different, that fate leads us down a different path, one that doesn’t end with me chained to the wall of a cold and desolate dungeon.

Occasionally, when he’s awake, I talk to the other were in my cell. He tells me tales of running as beasts with his pack, through the woods, through the mountains, of hunting together, of living free. Most of the time he’s out cold, and I’m forced to watch as they attack his unmoving body with glee.

It’s too painful. Far worse than enduring the beating myself and I slip away as often as I can, into the darkness.