Chapter 6 Angry

My arm throbbed. My neck burned. My knees were raw.

I closed my eyes, and the image of the King’s face floated behind my eyelids.

“That wasn’t blood,” he had said. “That was fire.”

I lay there for what felt like hours. Time lost its meaning in the dark. I drifted in and out of a terrified doze, waking up every time the pipes in the walls groaned or distant footsteps echoed from the ceiling.

I was thirsty. My tongue felt like sandpaper. My stomach cramped with hunger.

Eventually, the slot in the door slid open.

A beam of light cut through the darkness, blinding me. I threw my hand up to shield my eyes.

"Water," a voice grunted.

A metal cup was shoved through the bars of the viewing slit. It clattered to the floor.

"Drink," the voice said. "The King wants the cattle hydrated."

The slit slammed shut. The darkness returned, heavier than before.

I crawled toward where the cup had fallen. I patted the floor until my fingers brushed cold metal.

It was a tin cup, dented and old. I sniffed it. It smelled of iron, but nothing chemical.

I drank. The water was lukewarm and tasted metallic, but it was the best thing I had ever tasted. I drained it in three gulps.

"Hey!" I yelled at the door. "When are you letting me out? What do you want?"

No answer.

I crawled back to the straw.

As I sat there, hugging my knees, I felt a strange sensation.

It was an itch.

Not on my skin, but under it.

It started at my collarbone, radiating out from the birthmark. It felt like ants crawling beneath the surface of my dermis. It wasn't painful, exactly, but it was uncomfortable.

I reached up to scratch my neck.

My fingers brushed the bite mark.

The skin was... smooth.

I frowned. I traced the spot again.

There should have been holes. Ragged, torn flesh where the King’s fangs had pierced me. There should have been a scab at least.

But there was nothing. Just a slight bump, like a mosquito bite that had already healed.

I moved my hand to my arm. I found the stitches the servant had put in.

The thread felt loose.

I tugged gently on one of the sutures. It slid out of my skin without resistance.

I froze.

I felt the line of the cut.

It was gone.

A faint ridge of scar tissue remained, but the wound—the deep slice that had been bleeding freely hours ago—was sealed shut.

My breath caught in my throat.

That’s impossible.

I touched my face. The bruise on my cheek from where Odessa had slapped me. It wasn't tender anymore.

I sat up, my heart racing.

The glowing blood. The King's reaction. The healing.

"I'm hallucinating," I whispered. "I'm in shock. My brain is making this up to protect me."

But my fingers didn't lie. The wounds were gone.

I wasn't just healing. I was knitting myself back together at an impossible speed.

Suddenly, a sound broke the silence.

It wasn't footsteps. It wasn't the pipes.

It was a voice.

Low. Raspy. Coming from the wall to my left.

"You're awake."

I jumped, scrambling back into the corner. "Who's there?"

"Neighbor," the voice said. It sounded male, but wrecked. Like he had swallowed glass. "Heard them throw you in. You're the new one. The squealer."

"I didn't squeal," I snapped defensively, my fear momentarily giving way to indignation. "I screamed. There's a difference."

A dry, hacking sound echoed through the wall. A laugh. Or a cough.

"Feisty," the voice rasped. "Good. Feisty ones taste better. Or so they say."

I pressed my ear against the cold stone. "Who are you? Are you... like them?"

"Like the Leeches?" The man scoffed. "God no. I'm livestock. Just like you. Been here... three weeks? Four? Hard to tell without the sun."

"What is this place?" I asked. "Really. Don't tell me it's a castle. Tell me the truth."

"It's a farm," the man said. His voice dropped, becoming serious. "We're in the Crimson Court. It's where the vampire houses come to buy stock. You're in the holding cells for the 'premium' goods. Level Four means they think you're special."

"Special?" I let out a bitter laugh. "I'm a barista. I make latte art. I'm not special."

"They put you in the solitary block," the man countered. "That means one of two things. Either you're dangerous... or you're reserved."

The King's face flashed in my mind. I want to know why a human girl smells like the end of the world.

"The King," I whispered. "He... he bit me."

Silence on the other side of the wall. Long, heavy silence.

"You're lying," the man said finally.

"I'm not. He bit me in the big room. With the thrones."

"If the Blood King bit you, you'd be dead," the man said flatly. "Ignatius doesn't sip. He drains. He hasn't left a human alive in fifty years."

"Well, I'm here," I said, touching my healed neck. "And I'm not dead."

"Then you're worse off," the man said. His voice was filled with a pity that terrified me more than his earlier roughness. "If he tasted you and let you live... he's not done with you."

I shivered. "What do you mean?"

"I mean you're his vintage now. He's letting you ferment."

I hugged my knees tighter. "I have to get out of here."

"There's no out," the man said. "Only through. Through the Auction, through the Houses, through the digestive tract."

"I'm not going to be eaten," I said fiercely. "I'm going to escape."

"How? The door is iron. The guards are stone-cold killers. And outside? Outside is the Void. The storm that never ends. You run, you freeze. Or the shadow-beasts get you."

"I don't care," I said. "I'll find a way."

"Sure, kid," the man sighed. "We all say that on the first night. Save your strength. You'll need it for the screaming later."

He stopped talking. I could hear him shuffling away from the wall, the rustle of straw.

"Wait!" I called out. "What's your name?"

No answer.

"Hey!"

Nothing.

I was alone again.

I leaned my head back against the stone. The hunger in my stomach was a sharp cramp now. I closed my eyes, trying to summon the image of my apartment. The smell of coffee. The sound of rain on the window.

But all I could see was red. Red eyes. Red moon. Red blood.

And deep inside me, in the dark, hollow place where my fear lived, something was changing.

The heat in my chest hadn't gone away. It was simmering.

I wasn't just scared. I was angry.

I was angry at the Butcher. Angry at the guards. Angry at the King with his arrogant, beautiful, terrifying face.

They looked at me and saw food. They saw a disposable thing.

I clenched my fist. My nails dug into my palm.

I didn't know it then, curled up in the filth of a vampire dungeon, but the man next door was wrong.