Dust (Of Dust and Darkness) - By Devon Ashley Page 0,43
body is eating away at what muscles I have left. I rub my fingers across my ribs. My skin’s not supposed to dip between each one like that… I want to rise and at least walk circles around my prison, but I’ve cut the soles of my feet too many times. They’re infected, and each step feels like I’m walking on shards of glass. The best I can muster is to stretch my legs and extend the muscles as far as they can go in either direction.
There’s not much left on my bones. If I don’t get out of here soon…
A yellowish glow begins bouncing down the walls and I groan. My captor, with his pompous leer and ridiculous dress descends in a halo of light that is anything but divine. My wings are incredibly sensitive but the intense pain buzzing through the nerves has faded enough for my mind to focus on other things. I dare not let Finley know this, and continue to feign pain so he may not be as brutal today.
He lands softly on his feet, disposes of the lantern to free his hands and prances the remaining steps between us, where I sit mostly in shadow. He hasn’t come with a spriggan today so maybe if I keep my mouth shut, nothing bad will happen. Of course I have to pinch my hands just to keep myself from gouging out his eyes when he leans in close enough to brush my nose. I’d back away if I wasn’t already pinned against the wall. He’s been wearing that heavy velvet far too long and it takes everything within me not to wince from the stench of body odor.
“Looking a little worse for the wear, sixty-eight.” His breath today rivals that of a spriggan.
Likewise, you jerk. “Rosalie,” I reply, showing no emotion whatsoever.
So much for quiet indifference.
He strokes the prickly hairs on his chin, a despicable smile spreading as he continues to glare at me. “Still going that route, eh?” He thumps the end of my nose and the urge to scratch at his bristly face intensifies. My jagged, broken fingernails dig deeper into the flesh of my palm. “Well, we’ll see how you fare the next time we come to break your wings.”
“Finley!” a male calls from above. His voice is smooth like a faerie’s. Just what I need. Another overdressed buffoon. “You down there?”
He stares at me before calling back, “Jack. Come down.”
Finley stands as the second faerie descends into the hole. At least this one is dressed normally in dark leggings and a white short-sleeved v-neck, though someone should tell him the curly mop hairstyle he’s sporting is out of fashion. His skin is a creamy peach, which is a few hues lighter than mine. I think he’s still a teen, but he could be borderline adult. On the bright side, Jack doesn’t come off as a prick like Finley.
“My father said you wanted to see me?”
“Yes.” Finley’s hand sweeps in my direction and his lips take on an ugly sneer. “Meet sixty-eight. Your new responsibility.” I swear internally but bite my tongue. My wings can’t take another breaking today.
Jack’s head snaps my way and he looks to me with dread. “What?” His nose pinches like he suddenly caught wind of something foul.
“Sixty-eight can’t be released back into the prison until we’ve broken her desire to flee. Once you’ve achieved that, you’re free to go.” He slaps Jack roughly on the back of the shoulder.
Jack huffs and backs away, ready to take flight. Defiantly, he says, “I’m not watching her.”
“Remember that little stunt you pulled last month with that twit of a friend of yours?”
Aghast, Jack hollers dramatically, “Oh, you have got to be kidding me!”
Finley’s wicked smile transfers from me to Jack and I wonder what exactly he and his friend did to land him here with me. “Guess it doesn’t seem so funny now, does it?”
With resign, Jack asks, “I don’t believe this. How long will this crap take?”
Finley thrusts the lantern into Jack’s chest, then flies upward slowly. “Well, I suppose that’ll depend on the manner in which you choose to break her.” The jerk actually winks at me. Jack’s a little slower to take off, giving me a lengthy glare before leaving me in darkness. Once he passes over, his voice muffles as he chases Finley down the cave passage; the volume of his bellows suggesting he’s complaining all the way.
I may have beaten the whistle on my prick assessment.