by Katie May
“Councilman Raphael Turner.” His words are spoken succinctly, a no-nonsense manner used commonly at the Compound.
I stare at him blankly, attempting to calm down my rabbiting heart.
“I’ve never heard of him,” I say slowly, carefully. It feels as if I’m tiptoeing along a thin rope miles above shark-infested waters. One wrong move and I’ll tumble over, never to be seen again.
“You had blood on you,” the man announces curtly. At my raised brow, he elaborates. “When we found you. You had blood on you.”
My own blood, I think somewhat amusedly. Definitely macabre amusement. I picture a knife descending on the sensitive skin of my stomach…
“I was tortured,” I admit quietly. The very words hurt to say, as if confessing them out loud somehow makes them more real. “I’ve been there since I was two or three—”
“The blood we found on you belonged to Raphael Turner,” he cuts me off, and I can practically hear the banked anger and frustration lurking just beneath the surface. His next words take the remaining air from my lungs. I exhale heavily, my muscles losing strength, as tears prick at my eyes. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Councilman Raphael Turner.”
Chapter 2
Nina
They don’t tell you that when you’re arrested for murder, you learn that the world isn’t black and white.
They don’t tell you that you discover humans aren’t the only people roaming this earth.
The supernatural exists.
When I first entered my holding cell—after a stern-faced doctor ushered me into a separate room to test me for powers—I was left reeling. From her, I learned that vampires, demons, sirens, witches, and so much more live side by side with us humans.
It’s...not at all shocking.
To some, it might be a life-changing epiphany, but I have always suspected I wasn’t human. Humans can’t do what I can. Seeing through others’ eyes, for one, but also my accelerated healing.
When the doctor asked me what I was, I had merely quirked a single brow at her. What I was was confused, hungry, and terrified. After numerous tests and prodding, my results came back inconclusive.
Even in the supernatural world, I am a freak.
The first few days, I was absolutely terrified. I sobbed, yelled, and pounded my fists against the stone walls of my dank cell until blood formed on my knuckles. When I requested a lawyer, the guard scoffed—literally scoffed—before promising I’ll get the “best help available.”
Even I could hear the sarcasm in those words.
My “lawyer” was a ditzy man who never held a law book in his hand. I believe he worked at a grocery store before being pulled in as my attorney.
And that’s how the court works: I’m guilty until proven innocent. The problem? They don’t allow me a fair and fighting chance to prove my innocence.
My trial itself lasted only a month until the ancient judge declared me guilty of all charges. William—the man who had questioned me at the hospital—sat in the audience with a smug smile on his face. I could see him through the judge’s eyes.
Nightmare Penitentiary.
I haven’t heard of the elusive prison designed to host the most dangerous and fearsome supernatural creatures. How could I? I lived in one cage my entire life and then immediately traded it in for a second. My view of the world is extremely limited. Until I was arrested, I didn’t even know the supernatural world existed.
I allow darkness to overtake my vision like a cauldron of spilled ink as I’m loaded into a van. The guilty verdict reverberates in my head accompanied by a gut-clenching fear. Terror thrums through me, an electric wire, and I shift uncomfortably in the leather seat. Iron handcuffs are clasped tightly around my wrists, the skin beneath them red and bleeding.
From what little I garnered eavesdropping, Nightmare Penitentiary is home to murderers, rapists, serial killers, and thieves of all ages and genders. It’s the Land of Misfit Toys...only for monsters.
A category I’m now grouped into.
Beneath the terror, something akin to resolve settles over me. I know I’m going to die. How could I not? I’m a blind female entering a prison so dangerous, the staff themselves have to be the best of the best. I’m a gazelle entering a den of lions.
I don’t like to think of myself as weak, but I know I am. My body is frail and starved, and the slightest sound sends me into a tailspin.
And what do I have to fight for?
Freedom is an illusion, one that evaporates with the slightest pressure. I can fight for myself, sure, but where did that lead me last time? My “freedom” consists of nothing but pain and numbness—the juxtaposition not lost on me.
I’m trembling like a leaf in the wind when the van finally pulls to an abrupt stop.
A door is opened, and then a hand grabs my arm, roughly pulling me onto the pebbled street. I take the opportunity to survey our location through my captor’s eyes—my new prison.
The guard—at least, I’m assuming he’s a guard—is staring at an immense stone building splashed with gray. Numerous gables and turrets are erected on the roof, and I spot a gargoyle standing sentry. Gray clouds clot the sky overhead, somehow making the entire scene appear even more ominous. Everything is banked in monochromatic colors. Silver fences sprout from the ground and swoop steeply inwards creating a makeshift roof over a courtyard. The prongs at the top resemble jagged teeth. Almost irrationally, I picture them as teeth...devouring me whole.
“Come on,” the guard says gruffly, giving my arm a shake. “The Warden wants to speak with you.”
The Warden…
I contemplate mounting a case to prove my innocence, but I know the effort will be futile. From the moment the judge laid eyes on me, he construed I was guilty. I still don’t know the full story of how Raphael Turner died, and my lawyer didn’t deem it as necessary to divulge the facts.
But what defense could I give? The judge didn’t believe me when I claimed I’d been held captive my entire life, tortured by a secret organization seeking to understand my powers. It sounds ridiculous even to me.
The facts remain consistent: I was found passed out on a highway, covered in the blood of a dead man. A homeless, nameless female.
The verdict had been swift and brutal.
“She’s nothing but skin and bones,” a new voice scoffs from nearby. A moment later, a second hand wraps around my upper arm, tight enough to bruise. I whimper at the initial sting of pain before stubbornly clamping my mouth closed.
You can’t cry. You can’t show weakness.
But... a dry voice begins in my head. Aren’t you already dead?
It’s a funny thing to question your mortality. How much can a person actually endure? How many times can you be twisted and bent until you snap? I’m still standing, even after I’d been broken one too many times. But how much longer can I last? I’m running in a never-ending race, and I’m only just now realizing that the track is a circle with no definitive beginning or end. Freedom is an abstract illusion, a mirage in a desert.
Shaking myself out of my demented reverie, I allow the guards to lead me up a steep staircase.
The air changes the second I enter the inside of the prison. It seems staler, somehow, and smells vaguely of copper and urine. Two smells I’m familiar with.
Heart galloping like a herd of wild horses, I focus on my other senses.
What do you hear?
It sounds like...men crying. The melancholic sound sends pinpricks of unease down my spine. It’s both haunting and heartbreaking. Woven intermittently with the cries are men laughing—loud, humorous guffaws at odds with the other noise.
What do you feel?
Nothing but the hands wrapped around my arms and the handcuffs secured to my wrists in front of my stomach. I am wearing the pure white dress from a month ago—when I had first escaped the Compound. The hospital had made me change back into it after I was released. Every night, I would dress in court-issued pajamas. When I woke u
p the next morning, the dress would be miraculously clean. The fabric is soft and breathable, airy around my chest and lower regions.
What do you smell?
Copper. Blood. Urine. Vomit. Those distinct scents contaminate the air until I’m practically choking on it.
What do you see?
I push my consciousness into the nearest guard...only to quickly retreat when I discover he’s focused intently on my heaving breasts. Shuddering, I settle on the second man instead who is, thankfully, watching where he is going.
The hallway is long, the walls made up of roughly hewn cement blocks. From what I can see, there are very few doors down this expanse.
“I don’t feel right about this,” the guard whose head I’m in mutters to his comrade. “She’s just a kid. She’ll be killed in seconds.”
The second man releases a harsh bark of laughter. “She’s a fucking murderer. She deserves whatever is coming for her.” His hand slips from my arm to land on my ass and cop a feel. I tremble, fear coursing through me.
Men are...evil.
Correction: not all men. There are facets of every aspect of nature. Not one person—or gender—is inherently evil. There are light and dark aspects in everyone.
This man though? He’s evil.
I feel violated and disgusted, but I know I don’t have a voice. They stole it from me the second they secured handcuffs to my wrists and accused me of a crime I didn’t commit. We live in an unfortunate world where the accused is glorified and the victim is blamed. It can’t be a dog eat dog world when I’m nothing more than a pathetic mouse.
“Come on, bitch. The Warden wants to speak with you,” the creepy man announces.
Together, the men drag me into a large room, directly at odds with the rest of the prison.
The room is beautiful. Ethereal. A five-tiered chandelier hangs in the center of the room, flames casting odd shadows on the furniture. Plush blue chairs, lined with gold trim, sit directly in front of a mahogany desk. There appears to be more than one level, and everywhere I look, bookshelves sprout from the ground. It reminds me of the story Kai used to tell me—Belle visiting the Beast's library.
Only, in this situation, I'm the Beast.
The guards lead me through the throng of dark painted bookshelves.
What secrets lurk in these yellowing pages? What is so important to be kept reserved in a glass case?
A man leans against a desk, his arms crossed over his chest and a cigarette dangling from his plush lips. He wears a long, flowing trench coat with more pockets than I thought possible. A black tie is haphazardly undone as well as the first few buttons of his shirt. A shock of disheveled dark hair grazes his eyes as he stands to his full, impressive height.
"Is this her?" he asks, voice raspy. The evil guard gives my arm a shake for good measure.
"It's her," he agrees before nodding his head respectfully. "Warden."
"Terry." He nods first to the creepy guard and then to the guard whose head I’m occupying. “Brad.”
The Warden steps even closer to me, out of Brad’s line of sight, and I feel his hot breath waft across my cheeks. For what feels like a century, he merely surveys me. Silent. Deadly.
A lion that isn't just out for the hunt, but for the kill. After a moment, he steps back, removes his cigarette, and blows out a puff of smoke.
“You don’t look like much,” he murmurs, almost dismissively. To the others, he asks, “Did she really kill Raphael Turner?”
There’s a long moment of silence as the guards shuffle from foot to foot, unable to answer. Or maybe unwilling to answer.
The Warden’s deranged laughter implodes the silence. “Good job, girly!” He claps a hand against my back, the force of it making me stagger forward a few steps.
The guards make a strangled sound but don’t comment.
“Now, do you want my advice, girly?” the Warden continues, either oblivious or choosing to ignore the reactions to his dogmatic comment. When I remain silent, shaking, he places a calloused hand on my shoulder. “To survive the Labyrinth, you have to make friends. Get it, girl? You can’t do this by yourself.”
God... I. Can’t. Stop. Shaking.
Labyrinth?
I know what one is, of course. Kai used to tell me stories about the maze guarded by the minotaur. What does this have to do with prison? Is it code for something? I don’t dare to ask the numerous questions clamoring for attention in my mind.
“I’m going to be generous with you, Nina. I don’t know why. Maybe I like you.” The Warden scoffs at his own words before chuckling darkly. “The labyrinth is constantly changing. The second you think you’re familiar with the layout... just know that you’re not. Fortunately for you, only political prisoners are placed in the maze. Everything from hacking into top-secret information to assassinating Council Members.” Through the guard’s eyes, I can see the Warden leveling me with a pointed look. It feels as if my heart is shrinking in a rapidly growing vise. I can barely hear him over the pounding in my ears. “When you wake up, you’ll be confused and disoriented. You, more than anyone else.” He presses the pad of his thumb to first one eyelid and then the other to indicate my blindness. I stagger back a step...directly into the evil guard’s arms.
“Hello, Princess,” he purrs, and I immediately step forward, closer to the Warden. You learn very, very quickly how necessary it is to choose your monsters. It becomes ingrained within you—that ability to sense evil in others.
Wait...
“When I wake up?” I stutter out.
“I’m rooting for you, Nina Doe,” the Warden says, using the last name the court gave me. I didn’t have an “identity,” and the courts could find nothing in their databases.
“Wait!” Before I can mount a protest, something sharp penetrates the skin of my neck. I sway on my feet, the familiar sensation of dread and terror increasing tenfold. Anything can happen when you’re unconscious.
Anything.
“Night, night,” the Warden says just before unconsciousness claims me.
At least I understand the darkness. The rest of the world? Not so much.
Chapter 3
Blade
The pathetic excuse for a man falls at my feet.
A spineless, disgusting werewolf.
Bronson has a large hand around the man’s neck, keeping him in place. I narrow my eyes into thin slits, enjoying the way the man—Jean—quivers. There’s something very, very satisfying about instilling fear in a dangerous prisoner such as Jean. Does it make me fucked-up? Probably. Do I care? Absolutely fucking not.
“Jean, Jean, Jean,” I tsk, shaking my head slowly. The man’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly in his face, his terror evident. I know I can be intimidating as fuck. I’m large, larger than the rest of the freak shows around here, with muscle upon muscle. Tattoos and scars line the length of my body. There isn’t a spot of me that isn’t covered, including my dick—though no one in this shit show has seen those particular tattoos.
As one of the last remaining dragons, evoking fear is ingrained in my very genetic makeup. One piercing glare, and I have men falling to their knees. One strident word, and I can take over this godforsaken world.
Unfortunately, this “world” is in the basement of a maximum-security supernatural prison.
“Blade, do you have to toy with your food?” Damien drawls from beside me, using the nickname given to me by the other inmates. Damien, as always, is impeccably dressed in a form-fitting suit and shiny loafers. It’s the outfit he wore when he first arrived at the prison, nearly two years ago, and one he has stubbornly refused to get rid of. As a powerful mage, he is more than capable of washing the suit every night before bed. I imagine wearing it gives him some semblance of control—a reminder of the life he once had before it had been brutally ripped from his hands.
Currently, his pants are undone, cock on display, as he fucks one of the prison whores. Their words, not mine. He barely seems aware of the panting girl beneath him, he
r eyes closed in bliss. As always, Damien’s hands are firmly by his sides, not even touching the girl’s waist. It’s one of his rules: get your cock wet, but nothing else.
The girl, Teegan or whatever, begins shouting inarticulate praises as Damien increases his speed. I just barely resist the urge to roll my eyes. She—like so many other females who offer themselves to my gang—probably thinks she’ll be the one to tame his beast. The mere concept is laughable. Damien is a psychopath through and through. If I wasn’t continually benefiting him, I had no doubt he would kill me.
“I’m not playing,” I huff, crossing my muscular arms over my chest. I cast a side-eyed glance at the simpering wolf. Pathetic. I’m not usually one to judge an entire species based on one man—Bronson is ten times the werewolf this man could ever be—but come on. This is the third shifter I dragged into my “office” in the past week. They’ve been getting restless, volatile, and I know it’s only a matter of time until they snap.
Abruptly, Damien pulls out of Terry—Tasha?—and stalks forward, ignoring her cries of protest. His dick is still hard and bobbing as he steps in front of the werewolf. Bronson, after a quick look at me, steps away with barely veiled disgust.
“I’m a lot of things, Jean, but a rapist is not one of them. Do you know what I do to rapists?” Damien, almost methodically, tucks his cock back into his pants. I swear the sick bastard is harder now than he was a minute ago, balls deep in his whore.
Jean trembles pathetically, ducking his head in what I would almost describe as a submissive gesture.
I want to scoff.
If he thinks kissing my ass now will save his life, he’s sorely mistaken. I didn’t become the unofficial leader of the Labyrinth through my good looks alone. For the most part, the Warden and his slimy guards leave us alone. We’re the forgotten monsters. As long as there’s no obvious dissent, we don’t have to worry about a visit from the big man above.
