The Keepers of Azera ( Book 1 of the Keepers Trilogy)

Chapter 37

James and I are led into the large room where everyone is congregating, back down the hall leading to the stairwell down to the cells, and up a flight of clear stairs. The guard stops at a stainless steel door, holds it open for us, and says, "Watch your step."

The floor feels really odd now, and as I walk, I feel disoriented. The guard notices and says, "We're technically no longer on Marix. This is the pinwheel, where the living quarters are. It spins-that's why it's so disorienting."

"Why does it spin?" I ask out of sheer curiosity. I'm amazed my voice isn't shaking like mad.

"False gravity," James says. "Otherwise we'd by the ceiling, flailing around and wondering how the hell we're suppose to get down."

I giggle at the image, but stop quickly. I huddle against James, and he puts an arm around my shoulders. I can feel him trembling, and I know that, like me, he's trying to be brave. Or appear that way, anyhow.

We walk along in silence, and I try to distract myself from the situation at hand. Problem is, there's not much distraction. Unlike the jail, everything's a sterile white. The walls look freshly painted. My fingers drag across them quickly before I pull them away. I'm not used to painted walls, and I don't like the texture.

Eventually, the guard stops in front of a door, pulls out a key, and unlocks it. "Your living quarters," he announces. "I'll be right here if you need anything."

I finally get a chance to look at his face. He's definitely Azeran. His eyes are annoyed, perhaps a little bored, but they're focused. My heart sinks at the fact that, like Simon, he's a traitor. He sees me looking at him and shoves me into the room.

Clearly, the living quarters were designed for sleeping, peeing, and not much else. There's two beds pressed up against opposite walls. Between them is an open door, showing a small bathroom. There's two wooden chairs at a table at the end of one bed and a dresser at the end of the other, and that's it. Everything from the bedspreads to the floors and walls to the bathroom is an ugly shade of brown. I shoot a questioning look at the guard, who smirks at me and shuts the door.

The second the door slides into place, I feel the tears well up inside me. I put on an air of bravado so far, but now that it's just James and me, I break down. I still feel sick and have a headache. I'm freezing and all I have is this damn gown covering me. I sink onto one of the beds and begin sobbing. James sits down next to me and wraps his arms around me. He gently rubs my shoulders and murmurs, "We're okay, Cal. We're okay." And I know him well enough to pick out the meaning behind that statement. Not "It's okay." Not "we'll be okay." Those imply that the situation is less dangerous than it appears. Being prisoners of war-and don't tell me we're not-is not okay. There's no way that we'll be fine at the end of this. "We're okay" means, "We're okay. For now. I can't guarantee the future." And wasn't the future already guaranteed only a few months ago, with that premonition? We're not gonna be okay. And James knows that.

He presses a cheek against my forehead, and I feel wetness there. His composure's broken, too. We sit on the bed and cry together until we hear voices outside of our door. Then there's a knock. James pulls away and growls, "What?"

"Can I come in? I've got clothing and toiletries for you," Kira's timid voice says through the door. James lets out a frustrated sigh and calls, "Come in, put it on the chair, and leave."

Kira does so, making sure she doesn't make eye contact with any of us. She hesitates in the door, looks towards us as if to say something, but shakes her head and leaves. James and I both stare at the door for a long time.

"We can't leave," James says quietly.

"What do you mean, we can't?" I ask, looking at him. "We can find a way. They've got ships between here and Azera. We could maybe..." my voice trails off when James slumps forward and buries his head in his hands. I realize what he means. The premonition. Prophecy. Ever since I woke up, I haven't thought about it. But it's definitely gonna happen.

"I've been wondering," I say slowly, "about one detail. I look like I've gotten the shit beaten out of me. And I'm in that gown again. I can guess everything else that's gonna happen, but I can't figure that one out."

James doesn't answer. Instead, he gets up and looks through the pile of clothes. He pulls out a pair of blue pants, holds them up, and tosses them to me. He tucks another pair under his arm and grabs a white t-shirt from the pile. He pulls something else out, sets the clothing on the table, and looks through the toiletries. He sorts them, muttering, "Toothbrush, toothbrush, shampoo..." I watch him. Finally, he grabs the bar of soap, a toothbrush, a white tube, and a grey bottle. "I'm gonna go shower and freshen up a bit," he says. "Take advantage of this while I still can."

"I'll get changed in here, then," I say. He nods and ducks into the bathroom.

There's a shirt and underwear still on the chair. I quickly pull the clothes on, glad to get out the gown. The pants are made of some sort of tough fabric. I run my fingers through my hair in an attempt to get the knots out. When I get most of them out, I curl up in a ball on the bed and rock back and forth. It's childish, but I'm bored and scared to death.

Now that I'm alone and the excitement of the day has worn off, I have time to think. I can't wrap my mind about what's going on. I can't comprehend how many people survived today because of sheer...well, I can't call our situation lucky, but we're alive. So far.

Okay, I know it's short, but I do want to publish fairly often. I still have no Internet at home and I don't really have much access to the Internet in the summer, so I apologize completely.