Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 89379 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 447(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89379 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 447(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
I knew I must’ve been a ghastly sight in my blood-stained jumpsuit and matted hair. The bald spot still smarted. An unpleasant smell wafted by my nose, and it took me a moment to realise it was me. I was the unpleasant smell, a mixture of blood and sweat. Probably a few tears, too. All the fear of being hunted by Mack’s vampires must’ve had me sweating buckets.
Then another scent hit me. It wasn’t as bad as my body odour, but it wasn’t great, either. It reminded me of soup or some kind of meat stew. The prisoners began forming a line, and I joined it. We entered a large, open-plan room with a steel serving counter and long tables. Dozens of prisoners were seated eating bowls of soup with bread. It didn’t seem like the typical breakfast fare, but then again, you ate what you were given.
I picked up a tray when it was my turn and approached the counter. The people serving the food were also prisoners. I guessed working in the kitchens was one of the jobs you could get. During my training, Sergeant Davis told me I’d be assigned a job and that the warden would make sure it was alongside Vasilios. I shuddered to think what kind of work I would be given, though working in the kitchen didn’t seem like such a bad option.
A grumpy-looking man with a bushy moustache served me a bowl of grey soup and a lump of dry bread. I took it without protest and went to sit alone at the end of one of the long tables. The whole time I was aware of people looking at me, not just because of my beat up appearance but because I was new. I was something out of the ordinary that had suddenly appeared in their institutionalised existence.
I didn’t let their attention phase me, instead lifting a spoonful of soup to my mouth before dipping my bread in the watery broth. It didn’t taste as awful as I anticipated, but it was very bland. I heard their whispers. They wondered who I was and what I’d done to end up there. Discreetly, I took in the different groups and realised Lara wasn’t lying when she said everyone stuck to their supernatural species. As far as I could gather, witches interacted with other witches, elves with other elves.
The sort of inclusive community my parents and the Hawthorn Council strove to create in Tribane didn’t exist in the prison.
I noticed one particular group of witches and warlocks sitting together, and there was something different about them. They were extraordinarily pale, almost to the point of looking ill. That was when I saw the fang marks on their necks. They were blood donors to the vampires. That was another aspect of the prison Sergeant Davis had informed me about. Blood drinkers had to find their sustenance from other prisoners, and the vampires seemingly had a bunch of witches and warlocks under their thrall whom they fed from. I wondered at their pallor, but then it struck me.
The thorn tattoos prevented them from casting spells to regenerate their blood, and since the vampires were physically stronger than they were, they could dominate them. I felt awful for them, even if they might have committed terrible crimes. No one should be fed from without their consent.
Worry curdled in my gut because if I was there long enough, there would come a time when I would have to feed from another prisoner, and I didn’t think I had it in me to overpower anyone weaker than me.
My mind was all twisted up in those thoughts when something shifted. I sensed a familiar presence and looked up as Vasilios and Sven entered the dining hall. They were uniquely vibrant after the witches and warlocks who’d been more or less turned into blood banks. I watched as they spoke with one another and approached the food serving station with trays. Powerful energy seemed to radiate from them, and as I watched how the other prisoners reacted to their presence, I realised something important.
Vasilios and Sven were respected there. Possibly even feared. People didn’t mess with them. I wondered if they’d endured the same vampire attack upon entry that I had. Probably not.
Still, it was unusual that they commanded respect since it was just the two of them. They didn’t belong to any larger group. Which further solidified the theory that Vasilios was accessing his magic somehow. How else had he managed to gain such a position so fast?
Something uncomfortable settled in my stomach, like a knife twisting inside me. I was pissed off because he was supposed to be punished, yet he appeared to be thriving. You could tell simply from the confident way he walked, shoulders straight, head held high. His demon horns weren’t glamoured as they had been in the outside world. No, in the prison, he wore his horns with pride. The scar that ran down one side of his face, starting at his temple and ending just below his cheek, was visible, too. Sven’s horns were also apparent, his yellow eyes practically glowing, marking him as something completely other.