Despair spiraled inside Alayne as she watched the blonde woman walk away. Kyle slipped a hand beneath one of Alayne's arms. Alayne stumbled to her feet. Revulsion churned in her stomach. It was bad enough that she was helpless against Tarry and a prisoner in the school's damp tunnels. It was even worse that she hadn't the strength to walk without leaning on her betrayer's arm.
The chute doors slid open, and Kyle pulled her into it. The trip to her cell took far too long, but Alayne refused to let Kyle carry her. “Please, Alayne,” he pleaded.
“No,” she stubbornly replied.
In the cell, she dropped onto her mat and curled her knees against her chest. Kyle reached into his pocket and pulled out two slices of mushed bread. He tossed them on the mat.
“Better eat those before the rats do.” He swung the lantern through the doorway, shrouding the room in total blackness again. Alayne heard his key turn and his footsteps echoing in the stone corridor, growing fainter as he moved toward light and air.
The next conference with Tarry began badly. Alayne couldn't even pretend to walk. Kyle had sneaked some food and water down to her, but the meager sustenance wasn't enough to make her limbs function. This time, Kyle took Alayne to the Chairman's office, and when he carried her through the doors of the chute, Alayne glanced in weak surprise at Daymon where he slumped on a chair, his ankles bound and his wrists secured to the arm rests.
As soon as Daymon saw her, blue fire lit his stormy eyes. “What have you done to her, Tarry?” He bit off each word as he snarled them at the blonde woman.
Tarry looked up where she leaned over her desk. She shoved a paper aside and nodded to the guards at the chute. They disappeared. She turned to Daymon. “What have I done to her? I don't think that's a fair assessment, Daymon, considering that her condition is a result of what she's brought on herself.”
Alayne watched the exchange with consternation. What must I look like?
Kyle placed her in a chair opposite Daymon's. As he fumbled with a roll of adhesive, Tarry objected. “Don't bother; she's too weak to try anything.”
Alayne saw her reflection in a mirror that hung on the side wall. She stared in horror. Her honey-gold hair, normally thick, smooth, and plaited, was matted and frizzy and dotted with rat droppings. Her eyes were dull; deep purple half moons sagged below them. Her skin looked pasty. Her lips were a mass of cracks and scabs, and dark hollows replaced the roundness of her cheeks.
Alayne turned back to Daymon, suddenly self-conscious.
As soon as her gaze met his, he asked quietly, “Have they hurt you?”
Alayne knew that he wasn't asking if she was dehydrated and starving. She shook her head once and looked away.
“Did Kyle hurt you, Layne?” Daymon's voice crackled with tension.
Alayne shook her head more decisively. “Not yet,” she croaked.
The chute doors clanged open behind them. Alayne struggled to turn her head. Four guards entered the room, followed by Simeon Malachi and Beatrice Pence. Malachi looked menacing as he crossed his arms over his barrel chest. The smirk on his bearded face enraged Alayne. She flicked her gaze to Kyle where he stood at attention next to the wall.
Beatrice stepped close to him, squeezing his shoulder. Kyle's lips softened.
Anger surged through Alayne; she wanted to lash out, but she was too weak. She could only glare.
“Right.” Tarry touched her fingertips together. “Now that we're all gathered, let's begin.” She sank into a chair between Daymon and Alayne. “I asked you a question a few days ago, Alayne, and I sincerely hope that your answer will be different this time.”
Alayne turned to Tarry with an effort. “Uh—what was the question?” All she could think about was water, and a large pitcher of it sat on Tarry's desk with a stack of small paper cups next to it. The light from the windows sparkled off the liquid and nearly drove Alayne insane.
Tarry sighed. “Alayne, I asked you the other day if you would consider helping the Alliance. With your abilities, we could very quickly end the turmoil that our Continent, and CommonEarth as a whole, is enduring.”
Alayne traced the pitcher with her gaze, tentatively reaching for the element as she had done every few moments since her capture. No luck yet.
“Alayne.”
Alayne reluctantly returned her attention to Tarry, whose red-taloned fingers clasped each other in her lap. Why did the woman like red so much? Alayne tried to remember a time when she'd seen Tarry in anything else. She couldn't come up with an instance. Red for blood. Red for the agency of life.
The woman was a vulture.
“If you agree, Alayne, you'll never have to see that black hole again. I'll order a feast in the commissary—what's your favorite? Spaghetti? Chicken? Pizza? You can have as much as you want. I'll put you in whatever bedchamber you wish. Anything you desire, Alayne, I'll do. For you. It's that simple.” She leaned forward, making sure Alayne's gaze was centered on hers. “Even your parents, Alayne. I'll reunite you with them.”
“Both parents?”
Tarry hesitated. “Of course, both parents.”
“Because one of my parents is a Natural, Tarry, as you well know.”
“I said both parents, and I meant it,” Tarry snapped. “What is your answer?”
Alayne ran her parched tongue over her cracked lips. “It's that simple, is it, Tarry?” She straightened, bracing herself on the arm of her chair. “All I'd have to do would be to say yes to mass genocide, to the thoughtless murder of people I love, to an Elemental-only world that has no compassion for anyone or anything even a little different?” Fury flickered through her veins like searing lava. “So, no, Tarry, I can't say yes. I can't begin to understand why you think I ever could.”
Tarry's face froze during Alayne's short speech. She snapped to her feet. “I was afraid you were going to say that, Alayne.” Her icy blue gaze flashed to the guards behind Alayne. “Take them. I want it done in front of her.”
“Want what done?” Panic hovered on the fringes of Alayne's consciousness. “Tarry, what are you going to do?”
Tarry smiled a perfect red lipstick slash. “I'm going to make you and your guard dog wish that neither of you had ever been born. Then, when you're ready to listen to reason, I'm going to bring you back here and give you one final chance.” She turned and walked into her office, closing the door softly behind her.
Simeon Malachi approached Alayne and yanked her out of her chair. She stumbled and fell onto the carpet. Kyle started forward, but Beatrice Pence's voice stopped him. “No, Kyle. This is not for you.”
Malachi lifted Alayne into his arms, a grin creasing his face as he leered at her. She turned her head in disgust. Two guards cut Daymon free from his chair and pushed him toward the chute. When Malachi, Alayne, Daymon, Beatrice Pence, and the two guards were crowded inside, Pence pushed the button for the gymnasium.
Alayne twisted to peer into Tarry's office. Kyle looked sick, gripping a chair as he watched her. He disappeared, and several floors shot by in a blur until the car stopped. As the doors opened, one of the guards pushed Daymon into the school gymnasium and onto the track, pacing nearly half the length of it before prodding him to the side. Malachi followed with Alayne still gripped tightly in his arms.
Alayne cleared her throat. “So, you like being Tarry's errand boy?”
Malachi's chuckle rumbled through his chest. “See, that's what I always liked 'bout you, Alayne. You ain't easy to pin down.”
Alayne's jaw tightened. “If you liked me, you'd let me go.”
The laughter burst from Malachi's mouth. “You got a talent for jokes, I'll give you that, girl.” He sobered. “I'd suggest you play along nice today, Alayne. You ain't gonna like what Tarry's got planned.”
Alayne's eyes widened as she realized where they were headed. Beatrice Pence led the group toward the side entrance and the service tunnel, her high heels beating a rapid tempo on the floor. She opened the door, and Alayne took in the same metal steps, the dingy ha
llway, the rusted piping along the wall. It was where Alayne had led Last Order meetings the previous school year.
The group clanged down the metal stairs and along the hallway to the familiar door where Alayne had spent so much of her time. As a guard opened the door, Alayne gasped and glanced at Daymon.
His face turned a sickly shade of pale.
Three new shelves lined the walls, the wood so fresh, it still smelled of pine and resin. Upon them, in abundant supply, lay every form of torture instrument ever conceived by man.
Chapter 8
Alayne struggled against Malachi until he set her on her own feet. She reached for Daymon, but Malachi's grip on her arm was too tight. He yanked her away. “Hurry up, Mowery,” he growled at one of the guards as he pushed Alayne farther into the room. “We gotta keep this short; I'm s'posed to review the arsenal with Commander Grange before evening mess call.” He paused long enough to light some lanterns that hung along the wall with a lighter on the shelf; the element harp remained empty, the elements still out of reach. Alayne wondered where Tarry had stationed the four Elementals who maintained them. Probably someplace highly inaccessible. Kyle had said their radius of control spanned the entire tower and a portion of the grounds. If she could find a way to get onto the grounds and find the perimeter...
“It's not like I enjoy this, Malachi.” Mowery's glare speared Malachi who still held Alayne's arm. His voice was high-pitched and nasal, and it grated on Alayne's ears. “But orders is orders, and especially when it comes to the Quadriweave, orders is life an' death. Why else you think the Commander's notched up the elements?”
Malachi's face reddened as he stepped closer to Mowery. “You better watch your mouth, pup. Even if them elements are out of reach, I can still squash you like the bug you are.”
Beatrice Pence shut the door behind them with a clang. “All of you, shut up.” She included the second guard in her glance, even though he had contributed nothing to the conversation.
Her heels tapped across the floor to where a metal folding chair leaned against the wall. She pulled it to the center of the room and unfolded it. “Put him here and secure him in place,” she instructed, turning to kick off her heels. They landed with a clatter near the shelves.
In the dim lantern light, the lurid scar that used to be Pence's nose looked redder and moister than ever before. Her malicious eyes glinted as Daymon was pushed into the chair and his hands and feet were retied in front of him with two lengths of rope.
Daymon's jawline was rigid. He fixed his dark gaze on Alayne, who sat on the floor opposite him, held down by Malachi, and he didn't look away.
“That boy ogles you much longer, Pence is gonna have to cut out his eyes,” Malachi whispered in Alayne's ear, his hot breath fanning her cheek. She jerked her head away, and Malachi laughed.
Pence turned to the array of instruments on the shelves as the remaining two guards finished securing Daymon to the chair and then backed to the door, where they stood at attention.
Malachi kept his hand on Alayne's shoulder, but his grip wasn't tight. If she could just find the energy, she and Daymon could tear the others apart. She glanced at the row of razor-sharp knives that lined the wall.
“Layne.” Daymon's voice broke through Alayne's haze.
“What?”
“Listen to me. Are you listening?” The urgency in his voice cut through the room.
Alayne nodded.
“Close your eyes, and do not open them. No matter what you think you hear, okay?”
Alayne snorted. “That's ridiculous, Daymon.”
“Just do it. For me. Please?” His blue eyes pleaded with her.
Pence turned back around, a wrench in her hand. Her gaze pinned Alayne to the floor. “Miss Worth has little say in the matter, Mr. Houser. She is required to watch. Why? Because she will change her mind once she sees what we do to you, and that's the whole point of this exercise, isn't it? She's not as strong as she thinks she is. She'll cave when her pet screams in agony. And you will scream, Mr. Houser.” Pence rubbed off some of the moisture from her unsightly scar and wiped it on her blouse. “Miss Worth, while I can't say it's a pleasure to have you back here at Clayborne, I can honestly say I'm going to enjoy what I do now for your benefit.”
She leaned over, anchored the wrench onto Daymon's index finger, and turned it. With a loud twist and pop, Daymon's finger broke.
Alayne's scream filled the cell with Daymon's brief yelp of pain. He quickly restrained any sound. His lips were white with strain, and sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip.
Alayne's eyes would have overflowed if any water had been left in her body, but they only burned more fiercely. “Please, stop,” she pleaded.
“Stop what?” Pence asked. “This?” She jammed the wrench onto Daymon's middle finger and twisted. With a pop, it, too, broke.
Daymon gasped again, involuntary tears streaming down his cheeks.
Pence didn't let up. Every finger, one by one—she broke them all. Daymon grew whiter and whiter. In between each finger, Malachi would lean close. “You watchin', Layne?” he'd ask. Or, “The boy ain't gonna last loads longer. I ain't sure I ever seen anyone turn so pasty.” Or, worst of all, because it raised the decibel level on Alayne's internal litany of It's all your fault, “Jus' think, Alayne, if you'da given Tarry another answer, you coulda saved your boy here all ten fingers.”
“Give in?” Pence asked after each break. “Ready to tell Tarry you're fine with helping now? Ready to turn your control of the Vale over to the EA where its power belongs?”
“Kill me, then, why don't you?” Alayne gasped in a hoarse whisper. “Just do it. I will never use the Vale to benefit the Elemental Alliance, and the only way you'll get it is if I'm dead.”
Beatrice Pence leaned close to Alayne, her breath hissing across her face and smelling of pork sausage. “As much as I would enjoy that, Miss Worth, Madame wants you alive. You and the Vale are more powerful that way.” She stepped back toward Daymon, a small smile crossing her lips. “Anyway, I'd rather you didn't give in, Alayne. This is too much fun.”
Pence returned to the shelf and picked up a drill. She rustled in an open tool box and pulled out a sharp screw, slamming it onto the bit at the end. “Ready to give up yet, Miss Worth?” she asked, her voice high and breathy. Exhilaration flushed what remained of her face.
Daymon sagged in his chair, shaking and sweating. Alayne covered her face; she rocked back and forth, cringing. Malachi dragged her hands from her eyes. “Tsk, Alayne, you don't want to miss out on the fun.”
“Now we can start on the toes. Mr. Houser, I'm going to drill one screw under each toenail until Miss Worth tells me to stop. Think maybe you'd better start asking her to do so?”
A knock sounded at the door.
“What?” Pence snapped, jerking her head toward the entrance.
A soldier entered and saluted. “The Madame requests your presence upstairs.”
Pence lowered the drill, her knuckles whitening while she hesitated. Alayne could see her struggle even with a direct order. After a moment, she sighed. “Fine.” She nodded to Mowery. “You take over. I'll come back as soon as I can.” She cast one last look at Malachi. “Make sure she watches.”
“Oh, she ain't getting out of this one.” Malachi grinned as he leaned in front of Alayne, checking her eyes.
Pence handed off the drill to Mowery, who accepted it and took up the place next to Daymon. Pence marched out of the door, shutting it firmly behind her.
“All right, here we go.” Mowery tested the trigger with his finger. The high-pitched whine of the drill was enough to snap Alayne on the inside.
Energy surged through her limbs, and in a split second, she was on her feet. Malachi's startled face was the first victim; she swung her booted foot out, smashing her heel into his temple. A loud crunch accompanied the impact, and he slumped face-down on the floor.
Mowery and the other guard shouted and dove at her, but she leaped nimbly to the sid
e. Mowery's hand caught her ankle. She twisted in the air, flipping her other foot around, and bashed him in the face with her boot.
He let go with a grunt.
The third guard had regained his feet. He crouched, his hands out in a defensive position, his eyes on Alayne's face. “Come on, girlie. Give me what you got.”
Alayne whipped around, snatching a knife off the shelf behind her. With lightning-fast fingers, she hurled the knife through the air, catching the man in his shoulder. Another knife barely touched her hand before leaving her fingers and thudding into the man's other shoulder. He squealed and staggered back.
Mowery regained his feet, but Alayne gripped her third knife. Throwing one arm around his neck, she rammed the knife against his throat. “Move just once. I dare you,” she croaked.
Slowly, Mowery's hands rose in the air, palms outward. Malachi lay still on the floor, unconscious, maybe dead, Alayne wasn't sure. The third guard was prostrate, bleeding and panting next to the wall. Alayne didn't dare touch him, knowing what would happen if she did.
“Go sit next to your buddy,” Alayne ordered, releasing Mowery with a jerk. He stumbled to the wall.
Alayne turned on weak legs and quickly sliced the ropes around Daymon's wrists and ankles. Not pausing, she grabbed the longest lengths of leftover rope and turned back to Mowery, tying his ankles and hands together with shaking fingers, yanking the knots as hard as she could, terrified that her spurt of adrenaline and energy would give out before she was finished.
When she returned to Daymon, she sank onto her knees in front of him. He stared at her. Behind the pain, she read astonishment.
“You didn't think I could do it, did you?” she murmured as she pulled one hand off his lap, sliding her fingers along his, feeling the bones straighten with a satisfying click. She laid that hand back in his lap and gently pulled the other one into her hand.
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