King's Cage

One strongarm descends the stairs as we approach, his footsteps lumbering. I thank whatever idiot Silver put him on watch. His ability is brute force, nothing sensory. But he would certainly feel us if we bumped into him.

We slip by him slowly, our backs edged against the exterior tower wall. He passes without so much as a whiff of uncertainty, his focus elsewhere.

The other strongarm is more difficult to pass. He leans against a door, long legs angled out in front of him. They almost block the steps entirely, forcing Harrick and me to the far side of the stairs. I’m grateful for my height. It allows me to step over him without incident. Harrick is not so graceful. His twitching returns tenfold as he straddles the steps, trying not to make a sound.

Gritting my teeth, I let silence pool beneath my skin. I wonder if I can kill both these men before they raise the alarm. I already feel sick at the thought.

But then Harrick lurches forward, his foot catching the next step. It doesn’t make much noise, but enough to stir the Silver. He looks back and forth, and I freeze, gripping Harrick’s outstretched wrist. Terror claws at my throat, begging to scream out.

When he turns his back, looking down at his comrade, I nudge Harrick.

“Lykos, you hear something?” the strongarm calls down.

“Not a thing,” the other responds.

Each word covers our darting steps, allowing us to reach the top of the stairs and the door cracked ajar. I breathe the quietest sigh of relief imaginable. My hands are shaking too.

Inside the room, voices bicker. “We have to surrender,” someone says.

Barks of opposition sound in response, drowning out our entry. We slip in like mice and find ourselves in a room crawling with hungry cats. Silver officers congregate along the walls, most of them wounded. The smell of blood is overpowering. Moans of pain permeate the many arguments arcing across the chamber. Officers shout each other down, their faces pale with fear, grief, and agony. Several of the wounded seem to be dying. I gag at the sight and stench of men and women in all states of injury. No healers here, I realize. These Silver wounds won’t disappear with the wave of a hand.

Even so, I’m not made of ice or stone. The ones with the worst injuries are lined up along the curved exterior wall, just a few yards from my feet. The closest one is a woman, her face scraped with cuts. Silver blood pools beneath her hands as she tries in vain to keep her guts inside her body. Her mouth flaps open and closed, a dying fish gasping for air. Her pain is too deep for ramblings or screams. I swallow hard. A strange thought comes to me: I could put her out of her misery if I wanted. I could extend a hand of silence and help her slip away in peace.

Just the idea is enough to make me gag, and I have to turn away.

“Surrender is not an option. The Scarlet Guard will kill us, or worse . . . ?”

“Worse?” sputters one of the officers lying on the floor, his body bruised and bandaged. “Look around, Chyron!”

I glance around, daring to hope. If they keep shouting at one another, this will be so much easier. On the far side of the room, I spot them. Huddled together, their flesh pink and brown, their blood Red, are no less than twenty fifteen-year-olds. Only fear keeps me rooted in place, separated from everything I want by a stretch of deadly, angry killing machines.

Morrey. Seconds away. Inches away.

We cross the chamber as carefully as we climbed the steps, and twice as slowly. The Silvers with lesser wounds rove about, either tending to the more seriously injured or walking off their nerves. I’ve never seen Silvers like this. Off guard, up close. So human. An older female officer with a riot of badges holds the hand of a young man, maybe eighteen. His face is bone white, drained of blood, and he blinks calmly at the ceiling, waiting to die. The body next to him is already there. I hold back a gasp, forcing myself to breathe evenly and quietly. Even with so many distractions, I’m not taking a chance.

“Tell my mother I love her,” one of the dying murmurs.

Another almost corpse calls for a man who isn’t here, yelping out his name.

Death looms like a cloud. It shadows me too. I could die here, same as the rest. If Harrick tires, if I step somewhere I shouldn’t. I try to ignore everything but my own two feet and the goal in front of me. But the farther I go into the chamber, the harder that is. The floor swims before my eyes, and not from Harrick’s illusion. Am I . . . am I crying? For them?

Angry, I wipe the tears away before they can fall and leave tracks. As much as I know I hate these people, I can’t find it in me to hate right now. All the rage I felt an hour ago is gone, replaced by strange pity.

The hostages are now close enough for me to touch, and one silhouette is as familiar as my own face. Curly black hair, midnight skin, gangly limbs, big hands with crooked fingers. The widest, brightest smile I’ve ever seen, though that is far, far away right now. If I could, I would tackle Morrey and never let him go. Instead, I creep up behind and slowly, surely crouch until I’m right next to his ear. I hope beyond hope he doesn’t startle.

“Morrey, it’s Cameron.”

His body jolts, but he doesn’t make a sound.

“I’m with a newblood; he can make us invisible. I’m going to get you out of here, but you have to do exactly as I say.”

He turns his head, just so, his eyes wide and afraid. He has our mother’s eyes, kohl black with heavy lashes. I resist the urge to hug him. Slowly, he shakes his head back and forth.

“Yes. I can do it,” I breathe. “Tell the others what I just told you. Be discreet. Don’t let the Silvers see. Do it, Morrey.”