Page 42
Which is appropriate for me, I suppose.
The boots are slightly bigger, but not enough to slide when laced tight.
I let out a long exhale, trying to ignore the irritating scratch across my cuts, and exit my cell to find a tray of food has been left there. A small orange, something that looks like mushy oatmeal in a bowl, and a cup of coffee. Two small, irregular-shaped pieces of bread look to be the most appetizing, and I reach down for one, squinting with the streak of pain that zips across my back.
A smoky scent coupled to the slightly burnt flavor of the bread on my tongue confirms that it’s ash bread. Even though the gypsies had ovens in their living quarters back at home, some still insisted on cooking bread out on the open flame. I tear away a small piece of one, and shove the other into the pocket of my pants for Will, before swallowing down the cold coffee. As many conveniences as we had, even I don’t waste food, so I scarf down the bowl of mush as quickly as I can, surprised to discover it has a sweet flavor, like honey.
Leaving the tray of empty dishes where it is, I set off to see Will again.
The guard, who I now know as Tom, greets me at the door of what I’ve determined are the solitary cells. The place where prisoners were originally sent in punishment, when tiny cellblocks weren’t punishment enough.
“I’m here to check Titus’s wounds,” I tell him, which is only partly true.
With a nod, he waves me through with a half-cocked smile.
Titus is slumped against the wall, as before, and doesn’t bother to move a muscle when Tom unfastens the lock and opens the door. Once the guard walks away, I sneak a quick peek of Will, and find him lying on his back, one arm tucked under his head, staring up at the ceiling.
Still here. Still alive.
The sooner I check on Titus, the sooner I can talk to Will, assuming Tom allows it.
With the same cautious approach as before, I head into the cell and kneel beside Titus, flinching with the burn to my backside, and eye the length of chain that would give him just enough reach for an attack. As battered as I feel right now, I wouldn’t even have the strength to put up a fight. A fact that must be written all over my face, when his brow flickers with a brief dip of his gaze toward my bruised jaw, where the guard hit me.
“I’m just here to check on your wounds.”
To his credit, he doesn’t ask about the bruise, since I have no intentions of speaking about the night before, but his chest rises and falls with an easy tempo, which I take as invitation to go to work, peeling back the gauze I taped the day before.
The inflamed edges of the wound have calmed to healed skin, something that, I know from experience, usually takes much longer.
Frowning, I run my thumb over the contracted stitches, well aware that I shouldn’t be touching them, but I can’t help myself. “Impossible. That should’ve taken at least a week. Maybe more.”
“Must be a strong antiseptic.”
No, not even a powerful antibiotic would result in this level of restoration. “Or you’re not exactly what you seem.”
He rolls his head against the wall, those honey colored eyes on mine, and for a moment, I almost feel consumed. Maybe because he so rarely acknowledges anything more than what’s directly in front of his nose, but my stomach flutters with the sudden attention. “And what do I seem?”
Pressing the bandage back in place is an excuse to break my stare, and I clear my throat as I move onto the next wound. “Well, you seem pretty subdued, almost catatonic, for a man who rips heads off vicious creatures.”
“If I ripped the heads off everyone I met, I wouldn’t be blessed with your conversation now, would I?” It’s hard to tell if the air is thick with annoyance, or amusement, as the two seem to blend with him. “It’s a pain in the ass cleaning blood off the hands.”
I want to laugh at that, but I can’t tell if he’s being serious. It’s possible that all that stands between fully intact me, and me with my head rolling across the floor, is nothing more than inconvenience. “Well, thank goodness for that,” I mutter, examining yet another fully healed wound.
“You don’t acknowledge God for your blessings? Daughter.” He spits the last word like it’s a bad taste in his mouth.
In looking away from him, I notice a bucket of water placed out of reach. Palms to my knees, I push to my feet, and fill the tin cup hooked to the side of it. Once back at his side, I crouch down and offer the cup of water, which he shamelessly guzzles back. “I take it you don’t have faith in Him, at all.”
“If I did, I’d already be dead.” Brushing his lips over his massive bicep wipes away the excess water, and my eyes are once again distracted by the muscles on this man. The most chiseled I’ve ever seen, undoubtedly capable of intense pain when engaged.
“And here we both are, so perhaps one of us is lying.”
“Was it His will that banished you from Szolen?” The wit in his eyes dulls to shadows, as he turns away from me. “You call me the God of Monsters. Seems more fitting for the one you worship.”
Touché. “Is the fact that I’m a Daughter troubling to you?”
“I would’ve fought for a thousand savage women before you.”
Savages. Ones who grew up in the Deadlands. It was the derogatory term people in Szolen used to describe anyone not living within its precious bubble of purity. Worse than gypsies, because at least they were allowed inside the walls.
