Caged Kitten (All the Queen's Men #2) - Rhea Watson Page 0,45
exploded from the warlock’s wand and struck him square in the gut, visibly knocking the wind out of him as Deimos sniggered from his cell. The last thing I saw before Thompson hauled me through the door was Elijah’s knees buckling, his hand slamming into the hard ground just fast enough to ensure it wasn’t his face, and the last thing I heard…
“Simmer down, boys. Your bitch has an appointment with the warden.”
And then the door clunked shut, instantly muffling the chaos of Cellblock C. The usual cacophony of locks shifting into place cut through the dense quiet of the stone corridor, and as I stumbled along behind Thompson, a high-pitched whine stretched between my ears. What the hell had happened to this day? One minute we were playing yet another round of cards, and then…
And then…
Adrenaline had made me forget how wrecked I was after my bakery shift, but as it slowly faded now, the aches and pains and weariness trickled in.
“Is that true?” I asked, every word an effort, my feet desperate for me to sit down and put them up somewhere. Oblivious, Thompson kept his pace even, and I had no choice but to follow. “Am I seeing the warden?”
We darted left where we usually went right, the air cooling, the hallway brightening.
“Yeah,” Thompson said, quickly glancing over his shoulder at me. “Don’t forget your manners—and don’t piss him off.”
Great advice. I might have been ready to defend the helpless new guy against a dick like Deimos, but the warden was another beast entirely. He was king of this place, and whatever fight I’d had in me died at the thought of sitting across from him. Maybe, just maybe, something had happened in the outside world that brokered my freedom. Maybe he would issue an apology and send me on my way.
A snort snagged in my throat, choking me. Right. That would be the day.
Without another word, Thompson hauled me into a wing of the prison that was totally foreign to me—that my fellow inmates wouldn’t believe existed unless they saw it for themselves. After crossing through a set of double doors, we left the dusty stonework and narrow corridors behind for a grand foyer with marble columns and glittering checkered tile. Sunlight spilled in through tasteful windows in the domed ceiling. Paintings in ornate frames adorned the walls. Ivy spiraled around the railing of the staircase Thompson marched me up, its dotted purple blooms giving off a sweet and soothing scent.
This was a whole different world, but at Thompson’s breakneck pace, I hadn’t the time to properly digest it all. From my hurried glances around the sprawling space, silent except for our footsteps, it was open and airy and clean. Rich, splashed with marble and gold and ivory and—
Gone.
Thompson and I blitzed through another set of double doors, which opened into an arched corridor made of black wood paneling. Thin carpet stretched all the way down the dark hallway to the one door in sight, which was partially ajar, sunlight slanting through the opening. There it was—the final destination. Adrenaline spiked again when I spotted a black placard on the door, WARDEN embossed across it in stark gold lettering.
Much to my surprise, Thompson didn’t knock. He waltzed right into an office that was so expected, so cliché, that I couldn’t help wondering if this was a dream—or if we really were on a TV show, this room more like a polished set than a room where someone worked every day. Mahogany desk. A huge empty high-backed chair behind it made of quilted black leather. Desk overflowing with paper stacks and folders. One metal tray that said Inbox, the Outbox on the opposite corner. A feathery quill and an iron inkpot. Two wooden chairs in front of said desk, one of which Thompson shoved me into. Bookshelves full of thick tomes lined all four walls, so neatly organized and vast that they could give Café Crowley’s collection a run for its money.
The room smelled like leather and sandalwood and sea salt. A hearth nestled between two bookshelves directly behind the desk, the fire inside burning low, almost nonexistent save a few flaring embers.
Three evenly spaced windows dominated most of the wall to my right, their pine-green curtains tied to the sides, thin bookshelves arranged between them.
Was that a human skull—
“Don’t touch anything, Fox.”
I nodded, but by the time I looked back, Thompson was gone, the door open, the hallway beyond dark.