Defy the Sun (Beware the Night #2) - Jessika Fleck Page 0,2
the way the lantern hanging in my cell dims that it’s quickly drying out of oil and that, once again, I’ll be locked in darkness.
I’d find it poetic, maybe even humorous, if I wasn’t being driven mad by it. How, not too long ago, it was the night, the outside world after sunset, I feared. Anything indoors, light or dark, prison or home, meant safety.
Now, I’d do anything to be out there instead of in here.
The monsters live indoors.
Among us.
* * *
I’M NOT IN the prison below the Coliseum, of that I’m confident.
This one is quiet, as if I’m the only one down here. Or, at least, there are very few of us. Maybe high-level prisoners? Ones they know others might try to get to, either to free us or kill us themselves.
I’m also fairly confident I’m underground, and I can’t help but wonder: If I were strategic, might I figure out where in Bellona I am? Dig my way to one of the Night’s tunnels? Get home?
Impossible, of course.
But I’ve got lots of time to muse and pray. Make wishes I know won’t come true. Especially here in total blackness where my eyes play cruel tricks on my brain. Where shadows become ax-slinging executioners and the breeze that intermittently sneaks in tickles over my shoulders like mice skittering across my skin.
Sometimes I lie down next to the door and peek through the crack. There’s never anything to see. Just a stone hallway. An hourglass on a small empty table. The soft flicker of light.
I now crave light like I used to crave sunrise flowers and candied lemons, Nico’s dimple, Poppy’s speckled hands, Dorian’s sheepish grin. My goodness, how simple life seemed when sneaking around for mud beetles before morning bells was the scandal of the day.
Try as I might to avoid it, I think the words, see the unavoidable images and memories because everything’s all wrong now. Poppy’s gone, Nico might be dead, Dorian’s fate is unknown, and I’m set to be executed any day now.
Even the sunrise flowers are long wilted and the mud beetles are hibernating from the harsh winter cold. There are no lemons to be candied.
It’s silly, but somehow it’s that last thought that sets my eyes watering and my nose stinging.
* * *
I’M CURLED UP in the corner, knees pulled to my chest, arms wrapped round my legs for warmth. My clothing’s tattered, and there’s not a blanket or scrap to warm me in sight.
No matter.
Everything down here is forever damp. The stone, the wood, my bare feet, even the thick fabric of my Night uniform jacket is always just wet to the touch. Enough to be torturous. Not enough to cause deathly illness.
I’m about to doze off for the I-don’t-know-how-many-eth time when the tap-tap of heavy footsteps snaps me out of it. I sit straight up. On edge. Because those aren’t the usual officer’s boots. Hers make more of a clap-clap sound.
No, these are dressier. Fancier. Somehow harsher. Like a quick slice of a blade on stone.
If Death wore boots would he wear softer-soled ones like the officer’s or have handcrafted wooden soles more like …
The unmistakable glow of a swinging lantern sends light beams to sway underneath my cell door.
I stand. Pad across the space to the far corner. Force my body flush with the wall.
A key jingles. The bolt squeals, then clicks. The door creaks open.
A thin sliver of light filters right down my face. I hold my hand over my brow as if gazing into the sun, squint to shield my sight but still try my damnedest to make out who’s entering.
Three taps of his boots, three steps inside my cell, is all it takes.
“Miss Adeline.”
Raevald.
“My adviser told me not to bother … that you aren’t worth my time, but…” He tilts his head downward, sets his dark eyes straight on mine. “I couldn’t resist. I had to see for myself. Be sure we did it. And indeed we did. Finally we trapped the girl who keeps getting away.” He nods. Smugly. Like he’s oh-so-satisfied at the sight of me in a cage.
I force my eyes to focus through the still-blinding light, glare across the cramped, dark space.
He sneers. “I know it’s only been a couple of weeks, but you’ve changed since we last spoke.”
“Being kept like a wild animal will do that to a person.” My voice is raspy, my throat so very dry. But the low tone works right now because it matches my loathing for the man.