chapter 55; chrysalis

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Tisper hit a switch on the wall and a single golden bulb flashed on, the light so dim, it hardly competed with the single stream of moonlight, squeezing in through the basement window. At least now, she could see the bricks in the walls and the stains in the cement at her feet. She hated the thought of sticking him away here, but they had no other options. This place was built just for this—built for the Bad Moon.

A thick steel cage split the room down the center. They started from beams in the floor, where the cement foundation had been cut and replanted with the metal in place. And as the metal rose, it weaved into perpendicular bars, over and under, all the way to the ceiling. A dungeon—that was what came to mind the first time Tisper saw it. She supposed in a way it was everything the same. He was a prisoner to this place until the bad moon was over. Always a prisoner, poor Jaylin.

Nothing in this place made her stomach turn quite like the blue tarp that canvassed the basement floor. Quentin had done what he could to make it accommodating, topping the tarp with layers and layers of blankets tossed into a mound, four downy pillows at the head. He'd be comfortable at least, but Tisper still couldn't shake the guilt—especially when she looked to the key in her hands, large and metal like the kind from the movies. She supposed it took an industrial-size key to turn an industrial-size lock, but it was never the less the object that would decide Jaylin's freedom for the rest of the night.

Understandably, it took both hands to twist the lock on the cell door. It slid in place with a mechanical sound and the door, rusted from years of neglect, swung open with a dreadful whine.

She looked back to Quentin and instead found Jaylin's unconscious face in the darkness.

"What did you give him?"

"It's an herb we use sometimes for chrysalis moons. First time werewolves. It was the only thing that worked for Anna."

She stepped aside as Quentin entered the cell and laid Jaylin down slowly onto the blanket pile, easing his head onto the pillows like a sleeping child.

"Couldn't you just keep giving him that until the chrysalis is over?"

"If it was that easy, I would have given him the medicine ages ago. This stuff is derived from devil's root. It's fine for humans, but it's almost like an opioid to us. Like heroine."

"You just gave him were-heroine?" Tisper gaped. "Is that safe?"

"No," Quentin said. "It's effective. But too much and he..."

Tisper gave him the dryest look she could manage. "He'd overdose?"

He ignored her nagging and rose, leaving the cell with a reluctance in his steps. Sealing the door shut, Quentin tested its locks with a jerk.

They watched him from the outside for what felt like forever, before Tisper finally asked, "Why is he shaking?"

Even with the lights on, the basement was dark, she could hardly see Quentin's eyes but she knew they were on Jaylin. On the way he turned on his side; ankles crossed, hands curled at his heart and shoulders shivering.

Quentin's eyes glinted—the only part of them she could see in the shadows. "His body's fighting off the curse like its a virus."

She felt her breath heave, watching Jaylin tremor alone on the floor, his fingers twitching, his entire body protesting the curse the way a child trembles under the poison of a bad dream.

"Go upstairs," Quentin told her, "Get some air. Make some coffee. I'll stay with him."

"But I want to be here when he—"

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