Page 10 of The Bonds of Indigo

Thanks for nothing

You asked, I provided

I really hate this guy—smug piece of shit.

It doesn’t help that I can’t just kill him, and it’s not because I have no idea how to kill a Fallen. That obviously has a bit to do with it, but he has a role to play right now. All of that bullshit has nothing to do with me, but regardless, I can’t imagine that my friends would be too pleased if I sent his ass back to his creator.

Maybe.

I shrug, push my hands into my jean pockets, and start the mile-long trek along the stone causeway out to sea. Thornegate waits in the distance: a slab of concrete and misery that extends into the Cynth. Home to the continent’s most ruthless.

Modern prisons with high-voltage gates exist for Mundanes and low-level offenses from Dylox, but this place is different. There are two high-level penitentiaries: this one, and another by Old Hearth that’s been dormant for centuries. The deadly sky keeps Dylox from manning it, and Mundanes are too weak to deal with the kinds of criminals that end up in a place like that.

The stone walls are weathered but sturdy, each row stacked smaller than the one below until they taper toward the top. A lighthouse tower crowns the structure. Hundreds of windows dot the façade—faint candlelight, not electricity. Only one entrance connects to this fifteen-foot-wide walkway; high enough that the current won’t drag you, but low enough to splash the bottoms of your pants.

As I near the metal doors, I glance sideways at an unsteady exterior stairway that climbs to a little sitting area with two fold out chairs and no guardrail. Who in their right mind wants to sit out there?

When I reach for the right-hand door, it starts to swing open. I straighten, hand sinking back in my pocket. There’s a man standing in the threshold wearing a dark green guard uniform with a name tag that reads ‘Jozier’. Definitely not who I’m supposed to be meeting.

“Good afternoon. Butcher, I presume?”

“That would be me.”

His eyes go wide as he glances away from mine, taking in the wall of muscle standing before him. “He wasn’t kidding. You got another body stuffed under your skin there, big guy?”

There aren’t many things I hate in this world—which is saying something, considering how long I’ve been around—but being called big guy ranks high on the list.

Yeah, I’m built. Broad shoulders packed with muscle, every inch of me carved from too much tension and too little patience. My arms, chest, and abdomen all earned, not an ounce of me existing by accident. I’m just shy of seven feet—six-eight, maybe six-nine—so I get it. My size is intimidating.

My silence is enough to say I disliked the nickname. His smirk fades when he realizes I’m not laughing.

He clears his throat and steps aside, pale skin flushing red from under his collar all the way to his ears. “I’m supposed to take you straight to Warden Sook.”

“Right to it. Just how I like it.”

“Yeah…” He sounds young, this male. Probably a Mundane, though maybe not. Now that I’m beside him, there’s a faint scent of sea salt clinging to him. Could just be the sea bleeding through this place, but his scent cuts deeper. Maybe a Shifter. Either way, I don’t care enough to ask.

We move through what looks like a waiting room, though it only holds a few metal chairs and an empty water dispenser. A glass—or maybe plastic—reception booth sits against the wall, but the cushioned chair behind it is empty.

“Busy day.”

Jozier chuckles. “This is the busiest we’ve been in a long time.” He looks over his shoulder at me. “We don’t get many… visitors.”

You don’t say…

We reach a junction where the path splits ahead. Jozier veers right, the sign above the other reading ‘Medical Bay’, while ours says ‘Inmates’.

The walls here are the same as before: dark gray, damp-looking, but surprisingly free of any rot or stench. No fishy odor, which I half expected.

He turns a corner, leading us to a narrow stairwell. As we start to climb, windows break up the concrete, offering brief glimpses of the churning water below. By the time we’ve taken enough flights that the sea vanishes from sight, we’re at the top floor.

The corridor is nearly identical to the one on the first level—same walls, same silence. I follow him around the circular hall until he stops before a door that stands out from the rest.

Unlike everything else in this place, it’s wooden—polished, cared for, spotless. Someone clearly makes sure it stays that way. A little ostentatious, but whatever keeps the warden feeling important.

Jozier knocks, and I hear a male on the other side say, “Come in.”

I do as he says. The sooner I’m out of this place, the better. I’m not expecting much anyway—this Witch probably won’t talk to me. Why would they?