Bloodmark

40: Plaything

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It's cold here. Goosebumps spread along my flesh, and I tremble. Something restricts my movement, and as I become more cognizant, I realize I'm tied to a chair. Bounds chaff my wrists and ankles. A gag wraps about my mouth. And the panic and dread set in.

The gag muffles my scream, and I fight against the ropes. The chair is bolted to the ground—I can't knock it over even if I try.

It harkens me back to the market raid, those many months ago. The air smells of Merlin's putrid breath, and the sinking hopelessness crushes my organs. However, this time, my capture is much worse: I cannot scream, I cannot move. I can barely breathe.

Another noise, like a subdued voice, stills my panic for a moment. Eyes adjusted to the damp darkness, a figure beside me comes into focus. It's Atlas, also tied to a bolted chair. A gag silences him as well. His gold eyes pierce the dark, worry and fear brimming there.

Relief that he's okay gives way to escalating fear. We may both be alive (for now), but we're both bound and gagged, surrounded by shadows. The distant drip of water sounds, and the air is thick with cold humidity. However, no clues tell us where we are.

A sudden flare of light blinds me. I turn away, eyes closed. When the light settles, I squint at the encroaching figures.

A woman stands before me in thick lace. Her dark hair falls in thick tresses, eyes as equally black. Her features are strong and arranged in a scowl. Sharpened fangs rest behind black painted lips. There is something vaguely familiar about her, and I try to place her despite the fogginess of my mind.

Behind her, leaning against a damp stone wall, grins Prince Laizef. My goosebumps now rise from more than just the cold. The light of a flickering torch dances in his serpentine eyes. Here, in the wet shadows, he resembles a snake more than ever.

Hidden behind them, deeper in the caverns, rests a motionless body. The twisted legs, long and seductive even now, call bile to my throat. Through the dancing light, I squint—and want to gasp, but the gag stops me.

Felice lays on the dirt ground, still and bloodied. Red stains cover the dress that hardly covers her. Fresh bitemarks decorate her neck, chest, arms, and legs.

Did this woman and Prince Laizef feast on her 'till death? A severe surge of grief bubbles in my vomit-filled mouth, and I nearly faint from the wave.

"I'm sure you're feeling a bit lost," says the woman, her voice like velvet. It pauses my grief and horror. She gestures, encapsulating the stone-walled room dominated by darkness. "We are here in the underground tunnels. The Siervs once used these to travel through the castle without interrupting the royals. They haven't been used in centuries. I doubt anyone remembers they exist at all."