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“I just wasn’t feeling well, is all.”
“Did. You. Refuse. Him?”
Pulse racing, I carefully consider how to answer his question. “Yes. I refused.”
A cold thumb traces down my temple, as Remus smiles down on me. “You have no sense of self-preservation. Do you, dear?” He lifts his gaze just enough to give a quick nod to the guard who rolled in the pot.
My stomach sinks.
Both guards seize Jarvis from behind, trapping his arm behind his back.
“Jesus had no sense of self-preservation, either. He died for our sins.” The calm of Remus’s voice over the scuffling and grunts stokes my anxiety, my nerves flailing beneath my skin like livewires. “Our present sufferings are not comparable to the glory that will be revealed in us.”
Agatha opens the lid to the pot, releasing a cloud of steam.
In the guard’s grasp, Jarvis struggles, but to no avail. One of the men stretches the unwitting guard’s arm out toward the pot, the contents of which I can’t see from my angle.
“No! Wait! Please wait!” The harrowing sounds of Jarvis’s screams tell me whatever is in the pot is enough to have an otherwise impassive grown man wriggling and begging for mercy. Something I won’t be able to stomach. I can’t watch this. I can’t stand by and watch this horrific spectacle beside this man’s impassive tormentor.
Heart slamming against my ribs, I turn to Remus. “He didn’t mean to. I know he didn’t mean any harm.”
“You’re very kind. But, unless you want to join him, I suggest you shut the fuck up.”
“She …. She told me! She … told me to … do … it!” Jarvis’s words are clipped with his stiff jaw, but their meaning is clear.
I snap my attention to Agatha, whose wretched grin confirms what I already know about these two: they like games. Sick and sadistic games, designed to torment their victims to the fullest.
The guard manages to shove Jarvis’s hand down into the pot, and the gut-wrenching sounds that crack through his chest are too much to bear. Screwing my eyes shut, I cover my ears in a poor attempt to mute the sounds, but the screams bleed through, and when they finally die down to a gurgle, I open my eyes to see the guard pulling his hand out.
White bones make up his fingers where the skin and flesh have melted away. Jarvis hangs from his captors’ arms, passed out.
As many horrible things as I encountered as my grandmother’s assistant in births and injuries, I’ve never seen something so grotesque in my life.
Acids shoot up my throat, and I lean away from Remus just in time to expel what little I’ve eaten today. The liquids splash to the floor, and I fall to my knees as another torrent shoots from my mouth. My chest tugs for another round, but I swallow it back and breathe deeply, trying to catch my breath.
Remus holds a corner of his bath towel to his nose and shivers. “Gather up her vomit. He can eat it for dinner.”
I raise my hand to cover my mouth, but a third round of fluids spills out onto what I’ve already expelled.
An arm hooks in mine, as Remus helps me to my feet. “You look positively awful, Dove.”
While one guard drags Jarvis out of the room, the other kneels down and sops my vomit with a towel, scooping it up from the floor.
“I don’t feel so good.”
His long, bony hand cups my face, and he tips his head with a feigned expression of concern. “You don’t desire to play with me, after I punished your attacker? I did it for you.”
This twisted Prince Charming role only raises the hairs on my skin. He’s insane.
“Get her out of here.” Plopping down on the bed, Agatha holds up her glass as if to keep it from spilling over, before guzzling back a sip. “It’s a wonder you can stand the smell.”
“Go on back to your cage, little Dove. Get some rest tonight, and we’ll pick this up tomorrow.” The smile on his face fades to a grimace, before he steps away and strides across the room to sit alongside Agatha. “I don’t need you puking all over me.”
Hand clutched to my stomach, I hobble toward the door. And pass a small bit of Jarvis’s flesh on the floor as I exit the room.
Chapter 15
Night in this place is harrowing, with the shadows crawling over the walls and sounds of critters scampering in the darkness, ones I’d bet would love nothing more than to gobble up my small, injured bird. In Szolen, we had streetlamps that flickered on, the moment the sun disappeared for the day, but out here, they only have the moon, and the sliver of light streaming in isn’t enough to see past my own nose. For now, I’ve taken my purple pillowcase and crumpled it into a makeshift nest, until I can find some proper bedding for her. Earlier, I broke off tiny pieces of my ash bread from the dinner tray left outside my cell, a meal I opted to forego after tonight’s events, and fed the little wren from my palm. Using the spoon from my mush, I left a small amount of water for her and closed the drawer a crack, so she won’t hop out. She seems to appreciate the comfort, not having made so much as a peep since.
