The Runner (Part I of the Runner Series)

Chapter 40

Over and over I awake curled up on the cold floor of my cell, with only a vague recollection of being dragged back toward it and flung inside.

There is a merciful instant before I become fully aware of my surroundings, when I am able to imagine myself somewhere else, back on the roofs of the City. The sun bakes my skin, warming me while I look across the vast network of stone buildings and desert, the horizon stretching to a finite point at the furthest reaches of my vision.

I struggle to hold onto the memory as my body contracts in agony. This last interrogation was particularly monstrous, and I lost count of Harmen's strikes long before I passed out. By the way my tunic sticks stubbornly to my back, I can wager that the last of my unmarked skin has been decimated.

It is with great difficulty that I manage to pull myself into a seated position, leaning forward so I don't brush up against the rough stone behind me. I collapse over my knees and draw great, shallow breaths, the effort of adjusting my position making me fully aware of the remainder of my wounds and rendering me exhausted. I shut my eyes tightly, willing myself back into unconsciousness and away from the chorus of malicious whispers encroaching from all sides.

Each day passes the same, any semblance of wakefulness peppered by endless questions and more pain. Sometimes I awake in my cell, sometimes shackled to the pole. Even the interrogation has become predictable: where is Meg, who am I working with, what have I planned. Any satisfaction I get out of remaining silent is abolished with each fresh lick.

Nothing ever changes, but I long ago stopped expecting it to.

My fitful sleep is disturbed all too soon by the sound of my cell door being unlocked. Torchlight blazes across my vision and I blink at the invasive brightness, waiting.

The now-familiar silhouette of Harmen swims into view. The Inquisitor takes a step toward me, a tray balanced delicately in his hands. I eye him suspiciously as the platter is placed before me. The greasy smell of food hits my nostrils and causes my stomach to growl hungrily.

Someone has left a small stool near the door and I watch as Harmen lowers himself onto it, sweeping away the long tails of his jacket. He gives a slight nod and the door swings closed, leaving us alone. He studies me, not saying anything, his legs crossed elegantly as though he is making himself comfortable in a Palace lounge.

"Don't wait on my account," he says, lightly. "You must be hungry."

My hand darts out, grabbing hold of the bowl and scooping up large mouthfuls of stew with my fingers. Harmen sits and waits as I scarf greedily, not bothering to examine what it is that I am eating. It could be rat, for all I care. When I've finished, I tilt the bowl up and lick it clean, finally lowering it and rubbing my mouth with my wrist, wincing at the skin torn by my bindings.

"Better?" he asks.

My response is a hurled bowl, which he dodges easily. I'd have no problem braining him if I were in better form.

Harmen makes a low tsk in his throat as he shakes his head, seemingly disappointed. "I see there is still some work we can do."

I shrug, keeping my eyes trained on his. "I have the time."

"Indeed, you do." The creepy smile returns to his face, stretched tightly over his jaw. "How is your back today?"

"You seem unusually concerned about me."

"On the contrary—I am always interested in the well-being of my clients. I prefer them to be in the best possible health so that our sessions may continue for as long as necessary." He remains perfectly still save for one long finger drumming against his knee.