The Marriage Game

In Which We Casually Discuss Murder

"Touch the door, the vampire dies. Touch the window, the vampire dies. Touch any kind of weapon-"

"The vampire dies. Got it." Camila jumped in, interrupting Zora's monologue. Alex and she had surrendered quickly. With Zora's powers and the twelve werewolves behind her, not to mention Declan, it had seemed prudent to save their energy and not start a pointless fight.

The witch didn't seem to mind the interruption. She nodded briefly in acknowledgement. Gruffly, she asked, "You doing okay?"

"We're not friends," Camila snapped, vividly remembering the sharp terror she'd felt when Zora had knocked on the door, the ultimately pointless attempt to fight back, and the shock rooting her to the spot when she realized Declan was free.

"Certainly not with that attitude." Zora clapped her on the shoulder. Her lips didn't twitch when she talked. Her thin black eyebrows stayed firmly in one spot and her eyes would look more natural on a dead body. "Hang in there. We're not pure evil."

"Just mostly evil." The words slipped out before she could stop them. Apparently, her etiquette skills weren't thriving under a climate of kidnapping and surprise attacks.

Zora surprised her by laughing.

"At least you're honest," she chuckled, opening the door. "Remember, touch the door-"

"I think I got it, thanks."

Zora's thin lips tilted upwards. She smiled awkwardly, like she didn't quite know how. "You're welcome. It'll be nice to have another woman around here."

The metal door—a silver and steel alloy built specifically to keep werewolves captive—slammed shut behind her. She didn't trust Zora. She was a Vindicator, a powerful witch with a reportedly impressive kill count.

Even so, something like gratitude settled in Camila's heart. It was nice, she thought, to know that someone cared.

The room was clearly where the Vindicator's kept prisoners. It was perfectly square. A single window—enchanted glass, Zora had been happy to inform her—sat in the middle of the wall to her right. Everything was bleached white: the floor, the ceiling, the walls, even the chair nailed to the floor in the center of the room.

Declan didn't keep her waiting.

Camila had barely sat down when the door swung open again. He took a second to look at her—hunched over, hands clasped in her lap, hair hiding her face—before stepping inside.

"Anything you want to say to me?" He leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

His knuckles were scraped raw, the skin an angry red. As if he'd hit something.

"Don't kill Alex," she said, peering up at him through long black eyelashes. "He's a good man. He doesn't deserve to die."

"No one deserves death." Declan glanced over at the door, almost like he was looking for an escape. His gaze darted back to her. His eyes were cold and hard, his mouth set in a thin line, and he was barely moving. It was like looking at a stranger. "But people die every day."

"Please," she whispered.

A muscle in his jaw tensed. "Anything else?"

"...What do you mean?"

"I said," He stepped closer. His eyes were dark as the depths of an emerald sea. If looks could kill, Camila would have been dead and buried the moment he stepped into the room. "Was there anything else you wanted to say to me?"

Camila gulped.

She pictured Alex: trapped in some other room, chained up, probably injured. She couldn't imagine Declan treating him with the same odd courtesy he tried to show her.