Caged Warrior

fuck.

Walk.

Walk to that place.

It made sense, considering Audrey had been dropped into this underground hell while still wearing a hospital gown. She must have been transported without the possibility of outsiders seeing her curious state of undress.

She would get free. Save Jack. Contact Mal.

Malnefoley would not fail her on this. They would put their differences aside. He would not bow before the Council’s wishes again.

Wearing her silk-lined leather clothing, Audrey tucked the practice knife into the strap of one of her boots. She wanted the armor Leto had begun training her to wear. Kilgore’s expectations, however, were clear as glass behind his sickly yellowed eyes. She needed to be a neophyte, dictated by his whims.

The butcher paper from the peppermints, mud, and the tip of her practice knife had come in handy for her second letter. She’d composed its words using using the Tigony’s ancient language. Then she’d re-coded so that only those among Mal’s inner circle could read it. The Sath knew too much about all of the houses. No language was considered safe without private ciphers. She’d spent an evening scraping mud into the paper’s waxy sheen.

She would get Kilgore to deliver it—and learn enough about Jack’s whereabouts to hazard an escape. All while manipulating an avaricious man who apparently hadn’t touched a woman in forever and a half.

Dragon help me.

After a deep breath, she returned down the corridor.

She automatically presented her wrists. Manacles. An advantage in this case. By Leto’s example with the mace, she knew how effective chains could be in downing an opponent. She’d rather chew nails than admit what his instruction had provided her by way of skills and resolve.

But it was true.

Kilgore hadn’t lost his half–puppy dog, half-salacious expression. He was too desperate for it to be called leering. She almost pitied him. Almost. She knew too much about what he expected of her.

“Shall we?” He even offered his arm.

Again, that date analogy. While she wore manacles.

Audrey would’ve laughed. Her thundering heart, however, reminded her to keep quiet and focused. She was right to be afraid, just as she was right to be amped up on a double shot of adrenaline.

She cupped her hand around his forearm. “We have business to attend to, yes?”

He literally licked his lips. The further she delved into this situation, the less Audrey liked it. And it had started out unpalatable.

With her free hand, she touched the fabric of her tunic, over the spot where a scar was a constant reminder of what Dr. Aster had done to her. Although he had cut her in a hundred different places, her emotional losses centered there, where he had removed an ovary.

Kilgore led her toward the mess hall. Then past it. She hadn’t been allowed any farther, so she gathered as many details as possible. Cinder block walls, just like the rest of the complex. Painted white. Cheap fluorescent lights stretched along the ceiling in a single-file line. They made the paint seem to glow with a ghostly blue aura. Goose bumps prickled the skin beneath her sleeves. She only noticed she was reflexively gripping Kilgore’s arm more tightly when he lifted a pleased smile.

Good. Whatever made him believe she was there to meet his needs.

Using old mnemonic training, Audrey memorized the twists and turns. He steered her left, then right, right again, and down another endless corridor of blue-white fluorescent and cinder block. The long hallway was dotted with doors at intervals of roughly five feet.

“The workers’ quarters?”

Kilgore nodded. “Mine is better.”

“Oh?” She returned his smile. Hers felt meaner. “That’s where we’re going, yes? On our little walk?”

“You’re coming with me willingly.” Kilgore’s mouth puckered as if having scraped his teeth along the inside of a banana peel. “What do you expect of me, neophyte?”

“The fairest trade we can both agree to.”

“Good. You’re no more naive than I am. Don’t think the guards would side with you if they happened on our negotiations.” His eyes were beady, but they glittered with a menace she fully believed. “They get their dirty magazines, extra rations, and even their mail through me. They’d just as soon hack off their own balls rather than lose my services.”

No allies. No real weapons. One mercenary piece of slime.

This was going to be tricky.

“Thank you for the compliment,” she said. “Because you’re right. Neither of us is naive. I have a letter I’d liked mailed. You have physical favors you want fulfilled.”

“That I do.”

Another left, then a climb up shallow steps that curved to the right. By the time Kilgore pulled out a set of keys, they stood before another unmarked door. This one, however, was at the end of its own hallway. Practically private. Just the sort of place where skin-crawling sounds would never be heard.

Her optimism remained. Kilgore had more than one key on his ring. She watched which he used to enter, which narrowed the possibilities to four others.

One particular door during their journey had been colder than the rest. The light beneath it had been different, too. Darker. More like pale gray than eerie blue. She’d identified two other possibilities as well. Exits. Chances. All she had were chances. And Kilgore’s self-importance could be to her advantage. He liked to boast. She just needed him to brag about the right details.

His touch turned suddenly rough. With a fist closed over her manacle chain, he threw her into his room. She landed hard on the bare floor. Her forehead slammed against the iron encircling her left wrist. Blood. Instantly. Its coppery warmth dripped down toward her cheek.

That was nothing compared to how her heart lurched, then froze, when Kilgore slammed the door. Slammed it. She’d been right. No one would hear them.

“We haven’t reached our agreement,” she said calmly, despite her injuries and fight-or-flight fear.

“You’ll need to give me a great deal if you expect me to smuggle a neophyte’s letter out of the complex.”

“Tell me what.”

“Oh, no. That’s part of the fun. I want to see the look on your face with each new surprise.”

She didn’t apologize or contradict his threat. Kilgore was a haggler by trade. He wanted a good negotiation before either of them gave in.

And, apparently, a good fight.

He moved faster than she would’ve imagined. Maybe that was because her forehead still throbbed. He retrieved a pair of handcuffs and locked her manacle chains to the foot of his bed. Not even on the bed. Just sprawled on the floor.

It was almost worse to know she possessed a gift from the Dragon—no matter how erratic—when her collar kept her powerless. She felt no better off now than she’d been when a Dragon King in a black trench coat had watched the Asters take her and Jack hostage.

She indulged in that one flicker of panic. Self-pity, really. Because she had a hell of a lot more resources now. She didn’t need her gift to best one lust-blinded human.

Flipping onto her back, she thrust up with her legs and caught Kilgore around the waist. He tried to push her off, but she squeezed with the strength of her thighs and calves. A hard grunt indicated when she’d found his kidneys with her heels. With one hard slam, she planted the soles of her boots dead center of his chest. He staggered, coughing and clutching. His back connected with the bedroom door.

Bedroom. Hell. It was just another cage, this one with a bed, a dimly lit lamp, and only one way out.

Although Kilgore still coughed and reeled, he dredged a warped smile. Subservient weasel? No way. He was calculating. His yellowed eyes shone with a cruel glint she hadn’t seen since her internment in the labs.