Chapter 5 Cage

The silence that followed the King’s whisper didn’t last. It shattered like a dropped mirror.

A collective gasp sucked the air out of the massive throne room, followed instantly by the roar of movement. Hundreds of bodies shifted in the dark balconies above—rustling silk, the clinking of jewelry, the sudden, sharp intake of breath from a thousand predators realizing the dinner bell had just rung, but the food was poisonous.

I was on the floor, clutching my neck. The pain was a hot, throbbing pulse that matched the frantic beat of my heart. My hand was wet.

"Clear the hall!" a voice boomed.

It wasn't the King. The King was still gripping the edge of the dais, staring at his own hand, at the glowing smear of my blood that stained his skin. He looked like a man who had just touched a live wire.

It was the Shadow Lord, Vasilis. He materialized from the gloom beside the throne, his movement so fast it made my eyes water. He placed a hand on the King’s shoulder, saying something low and urgent.

Then, he looked at me.

His eyes were gray storms, devoid of pity. He pointed a gloved finger at me.

"Secure her," he commanded. "Do not let her bleed on the floor. Every drop is property of the Crown."

The two armored giants who had guarded the door surged forward. They didn't grab my arms this time. They grabbed the back of the thin silk dress, hauling me up like a kitten by the scruff of its neck. The fabric dug into my armpits, cutting off circulation.

"No!" I rasped, kicking out. My bare feet found no purchase on the slick marble. "Let me go! He bit me! He's insane!"

"Silence, meat," the guard on my left growled.

He didn't hit me. He didn't have to. He just squeezed my shoulder. The pressure was immense, grinding bone against bone. I cried out, the sound tearing from my throat, raw and pathetic.

They dragged me backward, away from the light of the dais, away from the King who was still staring at his hand as if it held the secrets of the universe.

"Take her to the Deep Keep," Vasilis ordered, his voice following us into the shadows. "Level Four. Solitary. If she dies of shock, I will flay you both alive."

"Yes, My Lord," the guards chorused.

The cold hit me first. The throne room had been chilly, but the corridor beyond was a meat locker. I was dragged through, my toes scraping the stone.

"Please," I begged, my teeth chattering uncontrollably. "I want to go home. I won't tell anyone. Just take my money. Take... take whatever you want."

The guard on the right laughed. It was a hollow, metallic sound inside his helmet. "Your money is paper trash here, little stray. And as for what we want... we already have it."

We moved fast. Too fast. My vision blurred, smearing the torchlight into long, bloody streaks. We passed tapestries that looked like they were woven from human hair. We passed statues of gargoyles that seemed to track my movement with empty stone eyes.

They didn't walk me down. They rushed me. I stumbled, missing steps, my knees banging against the sharp stone edges. Every impact sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through my stomach.

The air grew heavier. Thicker. It tasted of mold and despair. The opulent marble of the upper levels gave way to rough-hewn rock, slick with condensation.

"Level Four," the guard grunted.

They stopped in front of a heavy wooden door reinforced with bands of black iron. There was no handle, only a small, barred viewing slit at eye level.

One guard produced a key—a massive, skeleton thing that looked like it belonged in a museum. He shoved it into the lock.

He kicked the door open.

"Inside," he barked.

I tried to grab the doorframe, to hold on, to bargain. "Wait, please, I need a doctor! My neck—"

He shoved me.

It was a casual push for him, but it sent me flying. I sprawled onto the stone floor, skidding on the grit.

The door banged shut behind me. The lock engaged with a sound that felt like a hammer to the chest.

Darkness.

I scrambled to my feet, ignoring the bruising on my knees, and threw myself at the door. I hammered my fists against the wood.

"Let me out!" I screamed. " You can't do this! I'm an American citizen! People will look for me!"

Silence. Just the damp echo of my own voice bouncing off the stone walls.

"Gary will call the police!" I shouted, the lie tasting like ash in my mouth. Gary wouldn't call anyone. He'd probably just dock my pay for the missing shift and hire a new girl by noon. Mina... Mina might call. But the police in Ashwick were useless on a good day.

I slumped against the door, sliding down until I hit the floor. I pulled my knees to my chest, trying to preserve whatever body heat I had left. The silk dress was useless. It was like wearing a cobweb.

I touched my neck.

It was still wet, but the flow of blood had stopped. I winced as my fingers brushed the puncture marks. Two holes. Distinct. Deep.

He bit me.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to force my brain to process the last hour. The man on the throne. The red eyes. The fangs.

Drugs, I told myself. They drugged me. The knife in the alley had something on it. Hallucinogens. That’s why the eyes looked red. That’s why he looked like a monster. It’s a cult. A rich, twisted cult that thinks they’re vampires.

It was a comforting lie. It made sense. Rich people got bored. They played games. They kidnapped girls and played dress-up.

But then I remembered the strength of the guard. The way he had carried me like a doll. The way the King's face had changed when he smelled the blood.

And the blood itself.

I looked down at my hand in the pitch black. I couldn't see it, but I could remember the glow. My blood had glowed.

"What did you put in me?" I whispered to the dark.

I shivered, a violent tremor that started in my core and rattled my teeth.

I needed to explore. I needed to know the dimensions of my cage.

I crawled forward on my hands and knees, feeling the floor. I reached out with one hand, sweeping the space in front of me.

My fingers brushed something soft.

I recoiled, yelping.

"Hello?" I whispered.

Nothing moved.

I reached out again, steeling myself. It was straw. Just a pile of old, musty straw in the corner. A bed.

I crawled further.

My hand hit a wall. I followed it.

It was a box. Maybe six feet by six feet. No windows. No furniture. Just the straw and a bucket in the other corner that smelled of ammonia.

A holding cell.