Dillon was taken down another hall. He and Cross exchanged glances as he was dragged away. Cross shook his head, and he wanted to explain that he was sorry, that he hadn’t wanted things to end up as they had, that he wished they weren’t hundreds of miles away from home and behind enemy lines and far from where they were supposed to be, about to die or worse.
For his part, Dillon just nodded back, stoic, quiet and reserved, just like always.
This isn’t your fault, that nod seemed to say. This is what happens sometimes.
Cross’ stomach clinched. He thought of Dillon’s sister and nephew. He thought of Snow, burning alive on a train as it plummeted to the bottom of a nightmare rift.
The lead vampire and a black-clad jailor hauled Cross down a long hallway. Dank water that reeked of feces and charcoal leaked through Cross’ damaged combat boots, and he felt greasy matter mash between his toes. The sound of their feet splashing down the hall filled Cross’ head like a song, but it was drowned out by the groan of the metal walls.
There was less light the deeper they went. Soon Cross’ eyes strained to see the filth-covered hallway. Something brushed against his leg just below the surface of the water; whatever it was, it was so cold that its touch nearly froze him in his tracks.
He was pushed around a corner. Water flowed down a short set of steps and into a dark, vast room. The vampires pushed Cross down the steps. He stumbled and fell head-long into the freezing water screams teeth gnashing claws at his throat rain of acid blood nails fire tearing through the sky is a giant mouth parting to tear the flesh ground into holes like eyes like pits fire burn hold you down falling forever into screams teeth gnashing
Cross gasped, and jumped back up to get his head out of the water. He was soaked through to the bone. His clothes clung to his skin. A smell like the inside of an old drain clung to his nostrils. Dank water dripped off of him like he’d spent an hour in the middle of a rainstorm.
The water level in the room had risen up to his knees. Even though he’d only been submerged for a few moments, he had the feeling that hours had passed. He felt out of synch, like he’d just woken up. The door had been sealed shut, and the air was still.
Cross stumbled around in near darkness. A dim glowing orb — some arcane vampire trinket the size of a softball — dangled from one of the enumerate chains that hung overhead. The orb leaked steam and smelled like gasoline.
He inspected the chains. Dozens of them hung down from the high ceiling, but the lower ends of the chains were still several feet over his head. Bits of molded meat, ragged cloth and bone dangled from the hooks.
He sloshed his way back to the steps and the sealed iron door. The steps had been swallowed up by the water, and even when he ascended he was still submerged up to his ankles.
Cross reached for his spirit. She was there, but she was incredibly weak. They’d done something to her, something to the bond that the two of them shared, some damage he couldn’t quite identify. He felt it inside of him, a wound so deep it ate at him and blackened his soul, like he’d been filled with oily smoke. That wound wouldn’t let them heal or truly touch one another.
Not again.
“ God damn it!”
His voice echoed into the darkness and faded away. He was answered only by the slosh of deep water and the jangle of rusted chains.
Cross limped the perimeter of the room. His spirit managed to keep his body warm — he worried about Dillon, who had no such ability — but there was little to be done about the water. He thought about trench foot. He’d be able to sleep on the top step next to the door so long as he propped himself upright, but he’d only be able to doze, at best, and he knew that if he was too exhausted he’d quietly slip under the surface and drown.
He tapped on the walls, and tried the door. The steel was lined with thick patches of grey-red rust, but it was free of handholds, and impossible to climb.
Time passed. Cross tried to reach the chains, but he couldn’t. He paced and limped through the grimy waters. He tried the walls again.
They’d taken his gauntlets. Even if his spirit hadn’t been so weak and their bond hadn’t been as damaged as it was, it was incredibly dangerous for him to call on her. At best, he’d scar them both forever.
I know better than to have even tried. His mind felt numb and slow. What the hell is wrong with me?
He walked, back and forth, and memorized the particular smudges on the wall, the spots where the steel had been damaged in peculiar ways. One pattern of scratches looked like some ancient language. He thought that another looked like a lizard wearing a hat, and that was when he understood that he was losing his mind.
His skin was cold and clammy. He was afraid to look at his feet under the boots. His stomach growled.
Cross closed his eyes, and hours seemed to pass in the space of that hands with claws reach out of the water grab pull you down slide the skin off your bones suck lick chew our way up your body blink. He slept standing up. Horrid images assaulted him in his dreams, so he did his best to stay awake.
They’re trying to break you, he told himself. This is what they do.
This is what they did to Snow.
He thought about his sister. He tried not to, but sometimes he couldn’t help it. He missed her. Her death was his fault, because in the end he hadn’t been able to save her. His chest tightened at the memory. His hands shook. He saw her face, younger than when she’d died, when she was maybe ten years old. He heard her voice.
Cross wept.
He sees her on the train, burning.
The light grew dimmer. He saw things move in the shadows, things he hoped weren’t really there. The chains rattled now and again, blown by some phantom wind. There was no breeze in that dank pit, of course, no clean air at all. Cross tasted poison on his tongue and bile in the back of his throat.
He pissed in the corner, not caring that it would blend with the other water in his cage.
Cross lost time. It might have been only hours since they’d deposited him there, or it might have been days. It soon became very difficult to tell if he was awake or asleep.
He guessed awake, because there were no hands or voices that came out of the water to claim his mind or his flesh.
Cross started to cough unceasingly. He used his spirit to fend off sickness. Doing so without a thaumaturgic implement burned his fingers, and they sizzled with pain, but Cross was thankful for the reminder that he could still use them. He was happy to be awake.
“ Hello?” he said. His voice echoed and faded. Only the chains answered.
He tried to count the hours, and realized that he had no way to even start. There was nothing he could use to mark the passage of days aside from his own blood, and he wasn’t ready to do that. Not yet.
Cross stared at the wall. He was exhausted.
I’m never leaving, he thought. This is my grave.
NINE
He walks on a mountain, but it isn’t really him. Whatever body he inhabits now is light and lithe and moves with feline grace.
He slithers through the shadows of a falling forest. The sky is bright and cold. Azure light shines down and melts thick patches of dark ice at the base of petrified trees.
He smells sap and winter flowers. There is snow beneath his bare feet, and he tastes nectar and honey in the air.
Leaves rattle as a hard wind pushes its way up the steep mountainside.
Below and behind him is a valley filled with burning trees.
The blaze rages silently. The smoldering fire gives off no heat: it is a cold blaze. Wind carries bitter frost and charcoal mist that lands on his tongue. The flames are black and blue, the color of hurt.