Bereft: Demise

20 | Of Murderers Dangerous and Doomed

The room beyond the man was lit by the warm, welcoming glow of antique gas lamps. I had expected a barren cell, but the furnishings were all well-appointed, if a bit dusty. The walls and floor were all made of the same colorless, unyielding stone and there weren't any windows. There was a selection of thick, leather-bound books on an oak shelf and a pentagonal table riddled with ugly scorch marks. 

The man's bronze eyes scrunched with confusion as he looked me over. "Can I help you with something?" he asked, speaking in a definite American accent. It was north-eastern, perhaps Bostonian, though I wasn't certain. The question was posed lightly, as if the man were used to women randomly popping up outside his cell door.

"Uh," I stuttered, torn between flight and curiosity. "I-I'm not sure—." I paused to breathe, though it was difficult with the needling, smothering sensation of being closed in still crushing my chest. "I'm not sure where I am."

The man looked both ways along the lightless passageway. "Why, you're in the dungeons, of course," he replied. "Where else could you be?"

"I've honestly no idea."

He chuckled and he leaned upon the struts bracing the iron bars. If I hadn't already been against the opposing wall, I would have backed away. As the man shifted, he happened to turn his left hand and the light showed a grievous mark upon his palm. He saw my eyes grow wide when I caught sight of it and obliged in my curiosity, holding the hand prone to show the mark.

"Not a pretty thing, is it?"

No, it was not. A black brand in the shape of an open eye spanned the length of his palm, embedded deep in the callused flesh. I wagered the wound must have been excruciating when it was fresh.

The man waggled his fingers. "Makes it bloody impossible to go shopping. Can't even stop by a local coven shop without sending someone into a fit." He sighed, poking the brand. "But I guess that's the point. Blue Fire does so love their petty little punishments."

Coven? Blue Fire? "Do you mean Blue Fire Syndicate?"

"Naturally." He nodded, smiling.

A trill of anxiety and exhilaration went through me. "Are you a mage?" I asked. I had never met a mage—aside from a brief encounter in which I had clocked one over the head with a pistol—and Darius had warned me against their kind, stating that it would be dangerous for both the Sin and me if we ran afoul one of the mage syndicates.

"Naturally!" Again the man smiled, head bobbing once in agreement.

"Are you with a syndicate?"

"Ah, I was. Not for some time, though, no." The mage scratched his scruffy jaw. "You're a curious sort, aren't you? Typically if a woman comes knocking upon a man's door, he's the one who asks the questions."

He had a point.

"And if that man is inside a prison cell, that woman typically takes her leave as fast as she can."

Again, the mage had a very good point.

Perhaps it was naïve of me, but I wasn't frightened. Disconcerted by the manor's finicky mood and layout, yes. Confused by the sudden switch in venues and the cramped passage, absolutely. I was exhausted and in pain after being dragged through the Realm by Darius—but frightened? Was I frightened of the mage?

I had committed terrible crimes in Verweald. I had killed cultists and a vampire, and was complicit in the death of many others who had met their fate at Darius's hands. I believed their deaths justified, but that did not mean I was a righteous person. I didn't regret what I had done, which was possibly the worst crime of all.