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)
And with that, she vanished.
I left my cell and wandered through the corridors trying to find a guard I could speak to. That was when I remembered the guards didn’t come in there. They merely locked us in and watched us from the safety of their observation tower. At least in human prisons, if someone was attacked, the guards came in and broke things up. In the Prison of Thorns, they allowed most situations to unfold without intervention.
Other prisoners eyeballed me as I passed, but none of them tried to talk to me. Perhaps rumour had already spread that I was bypassing the power of the thorn tattoos. They were certainly eyeing me less disrespectfully than they had been earlier in the dining hall. Finally, I gave up and went to one of the only people who would actually speak to me.
I climbed the stairs to Vasilios’s cell and found him reclining on his bed, reading a book. Unlike me, he had home comforts, a pillow, a blanket, extra clothing, and toiletries. I eyed his sink, wondering if his cell had running water. I knew there were showers on the ground floor, but I hadn’t had the chance to visit them yet.
I didn’t enter the cell, instead standing just outside.
He must’ve sensed my presence because he exhaled and closed his book. “Why are you standing there? Come in or leave. Make up your mind.”
I stepped inside the cell but remained as close to the exit as I could manage. I cleared my throat, then spoke. “Thank you for helping me earlier.”
His eyes flicked to mine. “You’re welcome. Is that all?”
“Well, I was wondering if you knew of a way of getting a message to the warden. I was hoping to communicate with my parents, let them know I’m okay.”
His gaze traversed my beat-up, dishevelled form, one eyebrow rising. “Are you? Okay, that is?”
“I’m still breathing, aren’t I?”
“Just about. And to answer your question, there’s no way to get a message out. This place is a fortress, and there is no communication with the outside world. You won’t see your parents until you’re released from here.” He paused to consider me. “Just how long is your sentence, anyway?”
“Too long,” I replied evasively and took another step inside his cell, lowering my voice to a whisper. “But you sent me that letter and the flowers. How?”
His expression sharpened. “What letter and flowers?”
Okay, so he was going to play dumb. “What about the cell door earlier, then? You used magic to lock Mack and Vincent in. I don’t understand how that was possible.”
Vasilios looked away. He re-opened his book and returned to reading, which I took as a sign that he was refusing to answer my questions. But then he said in a low voice, “It comes and goes. The tattoos don’t seem to restrict me as efficiently as they do the other warlocks and witches here. Perhaps because I’m genetically different. Though it doesn’t work all the time, there are moments when the tattoos’ power dulls, and I can perform small spells. It’s never strong enough to teleport, unfortunately.”
“Oh,” I said, wondering if that was the truth. Maybe he was lying so that I’d underestimate him, or maybe he was being honest. After all, if he had possession of all his vast magic, surely he and Sven would’ve teleported from the prison months ago.
Silence fell. Vasilios continued to read his book when I asked, “Do you have running water in here?”
He lowered his book. “I do.”
“Ah, um, cool.”
He glanced from me to the small sink. “Is there no water in your cell?”
I shook my head.
“Would you like to use mine?”
Something stubborn within me refused to accept the small kindness. “No. I was just about to go take a shower, actually.”
He put his book down again and emitted another sigh. “You have no idea about the showers, do you?”
I was sure my expression conveyed my confusion. “What about them?”
“The elves run the showers. You have to give them something if you want to access them.”
“Give them something like what?” I asked warily.
“You could give them one of your meals in the dining hall. Or offer to clean out their cells. Massage their feet. Lots of inmates exchange sexual favours.”
I stared at him, aghast. I wasn’t sure why, though. It was a prison, after all, and sex was a currency. Hell, it was often a currency in the outside world, too.
Vasilios frowned at my reaction. “So innocent. You’re far too young to be in a place like this.” A flicker of anger crossed his features, and my throat tightened. I questioned his motives yet again. Was he angry because he’d set me up and regretted it, or was he angry because he worried about me being there? There was also the third option: he was putting on an Oscar-worthy performance.