Page 17 of Her Tortured Beasts (Her Vicious Beasts #4)

Chapter 16

Ghoul

7 days later

W e watch Aurelia through the thermal cameras, my team and I. It’s no longer Solomon’s team, and I think he gets that now.

The snakelet has taken longer than others before her to start losing herself. Perhaps it’s her Boneweaver spirit. Perhaps it’s just her.

Isolation, after all, is not a new enemy to her.

Within the first twenty-four hours, she found the drinking water and the toilet. Between hours of quiet contemplation, she occupied herself with a singing and dancing routine that changed over the days. When she tired of that, she made up stories, speaking out loud as if to an audience.

It was on the third day that she cried.

Not a loud, angry cry like I’d expected. But a silent weeping whose only giveaway was the shaking of her shoulders and the scrunched-up brow over the hands shielding most of her face.

It may have just been the hunger in her belly that time because minutes after, she’d loudly complained about the absence of any food.

Today, she has stopped the pretence of an invisible audience and is now talking to herself. Muttering to herself. I catch a laugh now and again, but most of it sounds like nonsense.

Something about fairy bread, and then Eugene was mentioned. She whispers the names of her mates sometimes, just before she nods off to sleep. My name is never spoken, which makes my blood heat in irritation.

Currently, she’s still in her human form, scraping elongated cobra fangs against the stone wall as if they irritate her.

Solomon checks the time on his Rolex. “She hasn’t yet shifted. At all.”

“She’s still aware of the risk.” Of rabidity. She’s been in that state before, and knows coming out of it is difficult.

Aurelia hisses angrily at the wall as if the entire faults of the world lie within that black stone.

“She is not nearly desperate enough,” Solomon mutters.

“Send in some game,” I advise, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms. It squeaks under my weight. “See if she’s feral enough to hunt it.”

“The lamb may do it.”

“No,” I say quickly. “The rooster.”

Solomon speaks into a walkie-talkie, and within two minutes, a metal grate by the toilet silently opens. The snakelet’s head whips in that direction as the thermal camera picks up a tiny figure, stepping cautiously out into the wider cell. He sniffs the air and so does the snakelet. She whispers something the camera doesn’t pick up and goes onto her hands and knees to crawl along the wall.

I sit forward again, watching with interest. With hope.

The bird slowly steps along, his head bobbing before his body as is the way of poultry. The snakelet crawls faster and faster, raising her head and sniffing, before she cries out and grabs the bird. Solomon and I both squint at the screen as she buries her teeth in its neck.

My heart leaps with a profound sort of joy.

The snakelet raises her head, and the bird hops to the ground, clearly well and alive.

Disappointed, I shake my head. She’d been… hugging the bird, not tearing into its throat like I’d dreamt.

Solomon scoffs in disgust. “She has a strong maternal instinct. That is a good indication for breeding, His Majesty will be happy to hear. But this is not what we are after.”

“No. We want her broken.”

Solomon furiously types notes into the documentation system.

I sigh in annoyance. “Another week then.”