Hopelessly Devoted | Hale- TO/TW [6]

31 | Lockdown

Peter Hale crouches in his prison cell, a small blade in his hands. He drags it over the floor, pieces of the concrete curling up to meet the sharp edge.

The cell has only one light over the bed in the corner. The glass in the door to his cell lets some light shine through but not much. The smell would have overwhelmed him had it not been for the constant wolfsbane poisoning he is subjected to in order to keep him from gathering too much strength. He can distantly hear the other inmates screaming.

He pauses, his hands aching. He blows away the dust and continues to create a spiral. A spiral for revenge. Revenge he would get as soon as someone saves him from his prison.

Suddenly, the light flickers out. Alarms sound. The door opens with a hiss. He watches it slide to the side before he turns his attention to the hallway. Peter drops the blade and sits back on his knees, cracking his neck.

He slowly gets to his feet, walking to the doorway. The gate at the end of the hallway swings open with a squeak. In the other direction, grunts are heard. Peter opts for the open gate.

A guard is thrown across his path. He only follows the motion with his eyes as the guard gets up and beats back the other patient. The entire hall is filled with patients going up against guards.

He walks through three pairs of fighters, avoiding blood and impact. The last guard, who had just beaten down a windigo, snarls, "Hale! Get back in your cell!" Peter doesn't stop. "I'm not gonna repeat myself."

He swings his baton but freezes in midair. His neck snaps to the side, his body falling to the ground. Peter lets his eyes follow the body. "No, you're not," the blonde behind him says.

The woman leans against the open gate, her hand returning to her side. A hood lies over her face, but Peter knows exactly who she is. Her blue eyes blink up to his.

Her hand shoots out, grabbing his arm. "Whatever you do, do not stop running," she orders, her accent thick with veiled emotion. "It's a lockdown. All we have to do is get to the exit. I can do the rest."

She begins to tug him down hallway after hallway, making him wait for her as she battles her way past the orderlies. Each human guard is down within a second.

Peter recognizes the look in her eyes. The look of excitement, exhilaration. The bloodlust and the sick, twisted joy that comes with expressing anger and hatred and loathing through murder.

Before he knows it, they are standing at the front door to Eichen House, not a person in sight. Mist appears before the large, metal door. Peter can vaguely see an apartment on the other side. The moment she pushes him through, everything goes dark.

—|—|—|—

Evening light pours in from an open window. Fresh, cool air brushes up against his face as he slowly wakes up, refusing to open his eyes. He can hear the distant sounds of traffic, the crackle of the stove top, and feminine humming.

The bed beneath his body feels like a cloud. The plush pillow fits around his head perfectly. The blanket is just warm enough so that he isn't cold. When he opens his eyes, just a crack, he can't help but thank God for his sister.

The room is elegant but laid back. Plain walls surround him, but they aren't like the ones at Eichen. They feel like home, not at all confining. A glass of water stands on the bedside table, the window slightly open behind it.

He sits up with a low groan, his tight arm reaching for the glass. The moment the water hits his throat, his entire body relaxes more than he thought possible. Every glass of water he's had for months has been drugged with one thing or another.