Chapter 7 Scent

I sat in the corner of the stone box, my knees pulled tight to my chest. My internal clock was broken. It could have been minutes since the guard threw me in, or it could have been days. The only way to mark time was the rhythmic, maddening drip of water somewhere in the corridor and the dull throb of my own pulse.

My body felt strange. Not sick, exactly, but vibrating. The heat that had started in my chest during the audience with the King hadn’t faded. It had settled deep in my marrow, a low-grade fever that kept the damp chill of the dungeon at bay.

I touched my neck again. Smooth skin. No puncture marks.

I touched my arm. The slash from the Butcher was gone, leaving only a faint, silvery line like a memory of pain.

"I'm a freak," I whispered into the silence. The words felt solid in the thick air. "I'm a regenerating freak in a castle of vampires."

I needed to get out.

The man in the next cell had fallen silent hours ago. I didn't know if he was asleep or dead. I didn't want to check.

I crawled to the door again. It was solid wood reinforced with iron bands. I ran my fingers along the bottom edge, feeling for rot, for a gap, for anything.

Nothing. It was built to hold monsters. A barista didn't stand a chance.

I moved to the wall. The stone was rough, slick with slime. I felt along the mortar lines, digging my fingernails into the grit.

There has to be a loose stone. There’s always a loose stone in the movies.

I found a jagged edge near the floor. A block of granite that shifted slightly when I pushed against it.

Hope, sharp and desperate, flared in my chest.

I dug my fingers in deeper, ignoring the protest of my nails. I pushed. I pulled. I gritted my teeth and put my shoulder into it.

It moved. Just a fraction of an inch.

"Come on," I grunted, sweat beading on my forehead.

I readjusted my grip. My hand slipped.

My palm scraped violently against a sharp spur of raw iron protruding from the door hinge.

It wasn't a deep cut, but it was ragged. It sliced through the meat of my thumb.

"Damn it!" I hissed, snatching my hand back.

I squeezed my thumb, trying to stem the flow. The blood welled up instantly, hot and thick. It dripped onto the stone floor.

One drop.

Then two.

The smell hit me before the pain did.

It wasn't the metallic tang of copper I was used to. It was… sweet. It smelled like spun sugar and ozone, like flowers blooming in a graveyard, like the air right before a lightning strike. It was potent, filling the small cell instantly, masking the stench of the mildew and the waste bucket.

I stared at the dark droplets on the floor. They seemed to shimmer, catching a light that wasn't there.

Then, the itching started. The wound began to knit. I watched, fascinated and horrified, as the skin pulled itself together, sealing the breach.

"Okay," I breathed, wiping my hand on my ruined dress. "Okay. It’s stopped. No harm done."

But the smell remained. It hung in the air, heavy and intoxicating.

And then, I heard it.

Outside, in the corridor.

Footsteps.

They weren't the rhythmic, disciplined march of the armored guards who had thrown me in.

"Do you smell that?" a voice rasped. It sounded like gravel grinding in a mixer.

"Sugar," another voice hissed. "Hot sugar."

My stomach dropped. I scrambled backward, away from the door, until my back hit the rear wall of the cell.

"It’s coming from Four," the first voice growled. "The stray."

Something slammed against the door. The wood groaned.

"Hey!" I yelled, my voice cracking. "Back off!"

"Open it," the second voice moaned. "I need it. I need to taste it."

"Key," the first one snapped. "Where’s the key?"

"Don't need a key. Break it. Break it open!"

The slamming intensified. It wasn't just fists anymore. They were throwing their bodies against the door. The iron hinges rattled. Dust drifted down from the ceiling.

These weren't the elite guards from the throne room. These were the dungeon keepers. The bottom feeders. And they sounded insane.

"Let me in!" a voice shrieked, high and hysterical.

A face appeared at the viewing slit.

I screamed.

It was a nightmare pressed against the bars. Pale, gray skin stretched tight over a skull. Eyes that were entirely black, bleeding into red at the edges. And the mouth… the lips were pulled back, revealing gums that were black and teeth that were too long, jagged, and dripping with saliva.

It wasn't looking at me. It was looking at the drop of blood on the floor.

"Mine," the creature hissed, its tongue darting out to lick the cold iron bars. "Spilled. Wasted. I’ll lick it up. Let me lick it up."

"Get back!" I shouted, grabbing the heavy wooden bucket from the corner. It was my only weapon. "I’ll kill you!"

The creature laughed. It was a wet, gurgling sound. "Kill me? Yes. Make it bleed. Make more."

Fingers thrust through the viewing slit, grasping blindly at the air.

"Open the door, Rictus!" the thing at the window yelled to its companion. "Use the crowbar!"

Metal screeched against stone. They were jamming something into the doorframe.

The heavy wood bent. A crack of light appeared at the edge.

I pressed myself into the corner, shaking so hard my teeth clicked together. I held the bucket like a shield, but I knew it was useless. If those things got in…

They wouldn't just kill me. They would tear me apart. They would fight over the pieces.

The door groaned, a long, torturous sound of yielding wood.

"Almost," the voice outside panted. "I can smell the heart. I can hear it beating"

The gap widened. I could see them now—two of them, wearing tattered remnants of uniforms. They were hunched, skeletal, vibrating with a hunger that looked painful.

"Please," I whispered, tears hot on my cheeks. "Please don't."

The door buckled. The lock was giving way. One more shove.

"NOW!" the creature shrieked.