He leers at his companion. “What’s going on here?”
Styles hikes a stubby thumb toward me. “Not too much. Pretty boy here is demanding to see the Prefect.” He chuckles.
Renquist turns to me and snorts. “Is’e now? Would’ja like some tea an’ biscuits first?”
This elicits another hoot and holler from Styles. His eyes flit to the hallway outside the cell, then to me, then back to his companion. “But first, don’t’cha think we ought’a get him cleaned up real good?” I can’t miss the unmistakable wink he gives his cohort.
Renquist squeezes into the room. With these two massive brutes in here, there’s barely enough room to retreat. I can feel the heat of their bodies, sniff their sweat, which smothers what little circulation of air there is. They both turn to look at me, the laughter gone from their lips and eyes.
My mouth goes dry.
“Take me to the Prefect,” I repeat.
Renquist ignores me and turns to Styles. “It’s a shame to let this one go to waste. Has he been logged in yet?”
Styles nods, not taking his eyes off me. “We can always do a little creative bookkeeping before it gets to HQ. This pretty boy will fetch a nice stash on the market.”
My stomach tightens. The Emporiums. Hellholes run by traffickers in human flesh who peddle the poor like cattle to slake the decadent appetites of the elite. The slaves’ bodies and minds are used until there’s nothing left and then they’re discarded without a second thought, leaving no trace of their existence. I grit my teeth. I’m not going to end up in some heap of crushed dreams.
The two move closer. Renquist leers at me, his tongue running across his lips. “Just as long as we get to sample the merchandise before we hand it over. I’ve been pulling double shifts for the past two weeks on account of this Recruitment and I need to blow off some steam.”
Styles nods and takes another step. “Of course, partner. And I’m sure Pretty over here isn’t going to tell a soul.”
They close in on me.
I back away until the cold concrete of the cell wall presses against my spine.
I’ll die before I submit.
“Styles! Renquist!” a new voice blares.
A female Imp is standing in the doorway, glaring at my captors. I recognize her from the alley.
Both Imps snap to attention.
“Captain Valerian,” Styles barks. “We were just interrogating the perp.”
“I know what you were doing.” Her mouth and nose crinkle. Does she actually have some compassion flowing through her blood?
“Just give us a few more minutes,” Renquist mutters.
“That’s a negative, Officers. Your presence is requested in debriefing.”
Styles’s eyes dart between me and her. “But we can break him-”
“Stat!” There’s no mistaking the authority in her voice. She obviously outranks them.
The two move away from me and skirt either side of her, practically bumping into each other as they exit the cell. I lean an arm against the wall and steady myself.
Valerian stares at me, her eyes cubes of ice. “Don’t think for a minute I have any sympathy for a traitor. Your kind make me sick, spreading your poison. Filthy ingrates. You deserve the treatment you get, but we have laws, a system in place. Sometimes my colleagues let their … patriotism … get the best of them.” She smirks. “I’d shoot you myself. Don’t you forget that.”
I nod. “I won’t.”
“You don’t have to worry about that … yet.” She sneers at me. “Seems like you’ve gotten a reprieve, traitor.”
She tosses me a dirty old blanket, which I drape over my body.
My vision is now sharply in focus. “What do you mean?”
“Retinal scan confirmed you as Lucian Spark. Seems when the custody manifest got circulated, the higher-ups requested you be taken up for a personal interrogation.”
“You mean …?”
“That’s right. I’m personally escorting you to the Prefect for questioning.”
My knees almost give-a side effect of the exhaustion, relief, and anxiety swirling inside me.
She pulls out a triangular metallic device and points it at me. I’ve seen those in use before. Nerve stimulators. Very painful. Very effective.
“Move,” she barks.
I shamble from the cell, squinting against the bright lights, with Valerian at my back.
The path to the Citadel’s main tower leads me past the dungeon levels, where the anguished cries of those waiting for sentencing or questioning raise all the hairs on my body. From the festering prison, through the shiny metallic Imposer precinct, up spiraling staircases and through enormous iron doors, I travel higher and higher, Valerian’s nerve stimulator pressing against the small of my back the entire way. If I were to make any move that she deemed suspect, a simple press of a button would do anything from frying all my nerve-endings to inducing instant cardiac arrest, depending on the device’s setting and her mood. From what I’ve already experienced, I know I don’t want to test either.
The closer I get to the Prefect’s tower, the faster my heart beats and the shorter my breaths. It’s been two years. Since just before my mother died. Other than a few smuggled communications, we’ve barely had any contact. If they find out we’ve interacted in any way, it could destroy him.
I’m not sure what to expect. Life in the service can change a person. I think about how I’ve changed since Mom died. How has he changed?
As Valerian prods my body up and around the winding staircase leading to the Prefect’s antechamber, my mind dances around the questions that I so desperately want answered, but so desperately fear the answers to.
Will he still feel the same way about me now that he’s lived away from the Parish and been exposed to so much more, in two years, than I’ve been in my entire life? Or have I gambled Cole’s life away in vain?
The stairs dead-end in front of a set of high, arched, paneled doors that are flanked by two other stone-faced Imps.
The answers to both my questions lie just beyond.
Valerian salutes the Imps. “Captain Valerian requesting permission to enter the Prefect’s chamber with the prisoner.”
The guards salute back. The one on the right presses a button on the panel by the doors. They move apart with a soft creak.
I gulp down the last of my spit, staring at the widening rift.
When Valerian nudges me inside, I almost risk the stimulator’s wrath before my feet finally respond and propel their burden inside.
The room, if you can call it that, is the grandest I’ve ever seen. The ceiling towers overhead, culminating in a glass skylight that frames the noon sun in an oval, like it’s an all-powerful eye. Tearing my eyes from the blinding light, I take in molded archways flanked by columns three times the width of my body. On one wall, marble busts of previous Prefects rest in alcoves a couple of feet apart, making you feel like dozens of eyes are scrutinizing your every move as you walk past them. Set into the opposite wall is a huge glass tank, displaying a couple of small trees sprouting every color of the rainbow. Bands of scaly black twist through their branches. My skin erupts into gooseflesh and I look away.
Across from this tank is a clear enclosure with two fluffy white rats pressed against the glass, their whiskers twitching as if they can smell me.
Ahead, a tall shape stands with its back to me, silhouetted on a balcony overlooking Town Square. I don’t have to see the face to know who it is. My pulse quickens. Sure, he’s taller now, but that outline is the same, imprinted in my brain. The last time I saw it was on the bank of Fortune’s River. He was standing with his back to me then, too. Except we’d just said our goodbyes.
As much as I’ve played out this moment in my mind every day for the past two years, now that it’s here, my mouth suddenly forgets to speak.