by Katie May
Thank fuck. I’m not one to believe urban legends, but if the rumors are true, the Warden stalks through the shadows at night and devours parts of your soul. Creepy shit, if you ask me. I prefer my soul intact, thank you very much.
“I don’t like you, Jean. I never did. And not just because you’re a disgusting rapist,” Damien says coldly. The man is always cold though, his eyes sky blue and frosty in an arresting face. I swear he scares me more than anyone else in this prison.
“You going to let Dam take the reins?” Abel asks dryly. His back is against the wall as a girl kneels before him, sucking him off. While his eyes are fixed firmly on the scene before him, his hands are in her hair, guiding her movements.
“He’s going to kill him,” Cain, Abel’s twin (yes, I see the irony) points out. Unlike his brother, there are no girls fawning over him. They learned their lesson the hard way when he practically ripped off their heads. There are two people in my gang the girls know not to touch: me and Cain.
“I don’t care,” I reply, turning back to the scene at hand. Damien has unsheathed a long, keen blade and is holding it millimeters from Jean’s throat. Don’t ask me how the psychopath got the blade. I’m pretty sure the man has connections outside of the prison...and inside. “You know I have a zero-tolerance policy for rapists.”
Jean had been discovered by a lower gang member of mine—not a part of my inner circle—with his cock inside a struggling, terrified female. There are very few things I don’t tolerate in my prison, and rape is one. Even thinking about it makes me see red.
I’m a murderous asshole, and even I know consent is necessary.
So, no. I don’t feel bad about whatever Damien plans to do to him. I hope he burns.
As if privy to my thoughts, Damien abruptly lowers the knife to the man’s groin. With one swooping strike, the man’s dick falls to the ground and blood stains his pants.
Jean’s cry of agony? Music to my fucking ears.
“According to my source,” Damien begins in a slow, dangerous voice. The man practically exudes power. If I was into guys—or anyone, for that matter—I would totally be sporting a boner. “You had your dick inside an unwilling female. Is that true?”
Jean releases a pained gasp, pressing his face into the blood-soaked floor.
“Is that true?” Damien repeats, gripping the other man’s hair and holding his head up. Bronson, now hovering near the wall, covers his junk with a wince.
Same, man. Same.
“Yes!” Jean explodes at last, voice a sob. It always strikes me as funny how some men can act like big, macho badasses when confronting unwilling women, but the second the tides are turned, they’re simpering fools. If you have to assert your dominance over people weaker than you to feel like a man, then I feel sorry for you.
“And did your hands touch this female as well?” Damien queries dangerously. The only answer is a snot-filled sob.
One hand and then the other drop to the ground beside the severed dick.
I have to give Damien credit: he’s a classy motherfucker.
Cut the hand that did the deed and all that crap.
I turn away from the gruesome sight and survey the room. Our base of operation always changes, depending on the Labyrinth’s needs. I swear the building is a living entity. Still, we’ve been here long enough to understand how it works.
This room in particular has drain pipes on the wall, and puddles on the ground. Probably piss, if I am being honest. Not that I would test it. Hmmm. Maybe I should ask Jean to take a lick...?
The only people present are my inner circle (Bronson, the twins, and Damien), the prison girls, and Jean. The rest of my gang are probably traipsing through the ever-changing halls in search of the cafeteria. It’s a pain in my ass to never know where the food will be on a day-to-day basis. Us dragons need to eat.
A shrilling cry has me glancing back at Damien and Jean. The werewolf has lost both of his hands, his dick, and now his legs. He’s trying futilely, desperately, to crawl toward the door, blood trailing behind him in his wake.
Damien just laughs, the sound sending—admittedly—shivers of terror down my spine. If Damien ever chooses to betray me...
The next swing of the knife proves to be fatal. Jean collapses on the ground, his head dismembered from his body. I stare impassively at the head as it rolls to my feet.
Disgusting prick.
Damien, with a smile capable of making angels cry, turns toward me, blood coating his entire body. With a whoop, he runs toward his discarded female, whips out his dick, and begins to pound into her earnestly.
Fucking psycho.
Turning toward Bronson, I gesture at Jean’s...errr...body. Well, body parts.
“Take care of that.” It’s not a question.
Bronson grunts, not even hesitating before he picks up one body part at a time.
Abel chuckles—actually fucking chuckles—as Bronson wraps one of the severed hands in Jean’s discarded shirt. “Do you need a hand with that?” the twin asks, laughing even harder at his own joke. Cain gives a disgruntled snort, rolling his eyes to the heavens. Unfortunately for him, he should be looking the other way for help with his brother. As Bronson grabs a strand of Jean’s black hair, hefting his head up, Abel adds, “Next time you’re going to get all murdery, give me a heads up.”
“Good lord,” Cain mumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re a regular old comedian, aren’t you?”
“I wouldn’t say old...” Abel retorts, elbowing him in the stomach. “I’m technically a few minutes younger than your ugly ass. And thanks, sweetheart, I’m done now.” Abel extracts himself from the swollen-lipped female and moves to stand beside me, tucking his now flaccid dick back in his pants and zipping it up. Whatever he’s about to say is interrupted by a red-faced, sweaty warlock (different from a mage) running into the room. He pants, placing one hand against the wall to steady himself.
“Gary, what’s the meaning of this?” The men know not to interrupt us when we’re having a “meeting.” Read as: murder spree. I’m not pretending to do anything I’m not.
“New prisoner,” he huffs. “Female. Young. Beautiful.”
My lips purse into a frown.
When a new inmate arrives in the Labyrinth, they’re usually unconscious in order to not see the entrance and exit. When they wake up, they’re confused and terrified, especially the females. I have taken it upon myself to ensure no harm comes to these women—unless they deserve it. I’ll never hurt a female, but the other men here? They kill indiscriminately. I can’t save every asshole.
Turning toward Terry...Tallia...Terrance...shit, I need to remember her name, I nod toward the door.
“Find the female and make sure no harm comes to her.” Smiling darkly, I crack my knuckles. “When she wakes up, bring her to me.”
Chapter 4
Nina
There is one thing the prison guards failed to take into consideration when administering the sedative: I had been drugged before. Numerous times, actually. I lost track of how many times after one hundred and thirty-five.
Needless to say, I have developed a sort of immunity to it.
When awareness first grips me in an iron hold, I keep my eyelids closed. If there’s one thing I’m used to, it’s darkness. Pure, unending darkness. I know my appearance juxtaposes what my eyes actually see: my skin is as pale as moonlight, only a shade or two darker than my glaringly bright gown. My hair is long and luscious, dark tendrils that cascade to mid-back. At first glance, I appear to be a beam of light—at least, that’s how Kai always described me. It’s ironic that all I have ever known is darkness.
Focusing on the guard to my right, I submerge myself in his subconscious, allowing his eyes to work as my own.
We appear to be in a tunnel. Bright fluorescent lights overhead illuminate the dark stone walls and wet floors. It smells vaguely of mildew and bodily fluids, the combined scents making me want to gag.
My body, held between the tw
o guards, is weak and frail, the drugs still in effect at least that much. I could no sooner move my head than I could fight them off.
“Here?” guard one asks.
“Here,” the second one agrees. A moment later, I’m dropped unceremoniously onto the floor, my back aching at the impact. I clamp my mouth closed against the impending whimper that wants to escape. Heaven only knows what these men will do to me if they discover I’m awake.
“It was nice knowing you, Nina Doe,” one of the men says, not unkindly. The second one snorts, and a moment later, his boot collides with my rib cage.
“Fucking murderer.” A blob of spit lands on my face. “Bitch.”
He hurls more insults at me, but his words bounce off my rock hard skin. I have dealt with worse during my days as a prisoner.
The other guard finally gets control of his comrade and practically drags him back the way they came from. The entire exchange lasts less than a few minutes, but it feels like a century.
And then, I’m alone.
For the first time in my entire existence, there is no mind near enough for me to delve into. Darkness obscures my vision like bloated storm clouds clotting the sky. It’s all I can see, this darkness, all I’m aware of.
I can’t stay here. The thought comes to me with an almost blistering speed, my heart thumping in tandem to my racing thoughts. Icy fear trails its finger down my spine. I know how dangerous it can be for a woman like me—alone and vulnerable—in a prison that breeds predators. If the rumors whispered by the prison guards are true, monsters lurk these halls at night.
And I’ll be damned if I’m the helpless prey.
It takes considerable effort to stagger to my feet. Everything hurts—my legs, my arms, my head. Each step forward is how I imagined wading through tar would feel like.
Keep walking.
I repeat those two words in my head like a mantra. A prayer. A reminder that if I fight, then I won’t go down as a helpless victim. It’s a lesson Kai drilled in my head back at the Compound: always fight, for there’s a chance you might emerge victorious.
A small, demented part of me wants to give up and give in. That same part craves the comfort only my darkness can offer me—an escape. An escape from this world, my fear, and the monsters that lurk under my bed at night.
I reach out and touch the nearest wall, palming it desperately. It’s wet to the touch, almost as if the stone is weeping. It leaves my hand disgustingly sticky.
After a few more painfully slow steps forward, I branch out my awareness once more, searching for anyone in the general vicinity. My search proves to be futile; there are no eyes for me to see through.
How many people are in this prison?
How large is it?
My panic continues to grow and grow until it resembles a bowling ball in my stomach. Not that I know what a bowling ball looks like. I only have vague descriptions from a story Kai told me.
Speaking of stories...
I recollect the story of the maze and the minotaur. How did it go again? Did the hero survive?
I venture forward another step, my body practically plastered against the wall. My head is foggy, cloudy, and I struggle to formulate coherent sentences. Still, I forge on. Vomit churns in my stomach, and I instinctively wrap my arms around my midsection.
My searching hand comes across something abnormally sharp, almost like a piece of rock protruding from the wall. I caress the object for an extended period of time, memorizing the shape, before continuing on.
Where am I going?
I don’t have an answer to that. I’m unsure of which option is safer: finding others or remaining free of them. Still, a tinny voice in my head tells me I need to move. Where? I’ll cross that path when I find it.
Quite literally.
My hand abruptly touches air, and I pause, canting my head to the side. Focusing on my senses, I note open air in both directions. A fork in the road, I suppose.
Nibbling on my bottom lip, I decide to travel down the right one. Once more, I place my hand back on the wall and walk slowly.
One step. Two steps. Three steps.
I pause when my hand stumbles across something sharp. Something familiar. Frowning, I trace the object with careful reverence.
It’s... the same rock I had stumbled upon only a few minutes earlier.
Had I just walked in a circle?
Heart thundering, I choose the left pathway this time. Each movement is slow, unhurried, painstakingly patient. My hand memorizes each and every crook and crevice of the hallway as my feet propel me forward.
A left, then a right, then straight, then right again.
For the third time, a sharp piece of rock pokes at my palm.
No. No. No. No.
This can’t be happening.
Tears spring to life in my eyes as I stumble down hall after hall, turn after turn, fork after fork, all of which lead me back to the same rock protruding from the wall. My fear turns into frustration which turns into an almost elemental fury.
After a few more futile efforts, I collapse against the wet wall, the stench of dried blood and urine wafting to me. I bang my head against the hard stone once, twice, three times.
My body is still reeling from the effects of the drugs, and I feel unbelievably tired. My eyelids droop threateningly as my head falls to the side, my ear touching my shoulder.
Stay awake, Nina! Stay awake!
The monsters come out to play when I’m asleep.
Still, the pull is enticing, and I’m just so darn frustrated. Maybe my prison is a new form of psychological torture: loneliness.
Who would’ve thought I’d miss my cell at the Compound?
A quiet, barely audible mewl reverberates from farther down the tunnel. My head snaps up as I glance in one direction and then the other. Breath sawing in and out, I push my attention outwards, toward the creature rapidly approaching.
It’s lower to the ground, but through its eyes, I can see a clear view of myself leaning against the dirty wall. My hair is snarled, a disheveled mess of black silk, and my dress is stained with blood and dirt. Dark circles mar the skin underneath both of my eyes, painfully noticeable on my too pale skin.
The creature steps forward, and I brace myself...
Until it pounces onto my lap and curls into a ball. A contented purr echoes through its chest.
I pull myself out of the cat’s eyes, my hand smoothing down the mangled fur.
“Hello, little guy. What are you doing here?” The cat continues to purr in earnest as I stroke its back. “Are you a girl cat or a guy cat?”
This time, I’m almost positive the little creature releases an “oomf” sound. I wonder if my time down here is already making me crazy.
“Guy cat?” I ask, and a sharp tongue licks my hand. Giggling, I resume my careful strokes. “I always wanted a cat. Kai said...” I trail off, the mere mention of Kai bringing tears to my eyes. The cat makes a pathetic whining noise, curling itself further against me. “Kai said he’ll get me a cat. When we escaped. But you know? That’s a story for a different day, isn’t that right, Mr. Scruffles?”
The cat’s blissful purrs cut off abruptly, and I can practically see his head cocking to the side.
“Do you not like the name?” I tease, stroking him behind the ears. “I always told myself that I’ll name my future cat Mr. Scruffles. Of course, that was when I was, like, three...“ I giggle as Mr. Scruffles begins to knead my leg. “So, what are you doing here, sweet boy?”
Of course, the cat can’t actually respond, but it makes me feel better imagining he can. The loneliness and fear doesn’t completely dissipate, but Mr. Scruffles’s presence definitely helps.
“Let me guess,” I continue, tapping my chin. My tears dried up the second this little furball climbed into my lap and offered me sweet kitty kisses. “You’re a familiar to a warlock. Yup. I just learned this month that the supernatural exists. Before that? It was nothing but a story Kai used to tell me.” I freeze sud
denly, my hand pausing in Mr. Scruffle’s fur. “I don’t belong here. And I don’t want to be here. I think...” My eyelids droop as I once more rest my head against the wall. “I think I’m going to die here.”
Chapter 5
Nina
I wake up feeling oddly refreshed. Not one hundred percent, but better than I was the night before. My eyelids are heavy and crusty, and I blink rapidly to dispel some of the gunk that formed overnight. There’s a pain in my neck that doesn’t alleviate no matter how many times I twist and turn my head from side to side.
In my lap, purring melodically, is my new furry friend.
I don’t quite understand how a cat found himself in the basement of a dangerous prison, but I don’t dare articulate the questions on the tip of my tongue. For all I know, he is the pet of a fellow prisoner. Hell, maybe he is the familiar to a witch or warlock (if that’s not an urban legend). I still remember the stories Kai told me about a black cat...
Absentmindedly, I stroke his gnarled fur. It’s matted in numerous places, the texture coarse and rough beneath my fingers. I wonder what color he is. For some reason, I imagine him to be orange with white stripes. Don’t ask me why that particular image comes to the forefront of my mind. The only cat I have ever seen before was Fluffy, a white kitten one of my kinder captors brought to the Compound.
I suddenly become aware of a gripping sensation in my lower stomach—my bladder.
I really, really need to pee.
Staggering to my feet—and ignoring Mr. Scruffles’s disgruntled huff—I place my hand against the wall.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” I whisper to the cat, pushing myself into his head. It’s the strangest sensation to see through an animal’s eyes. For one, he’s lower to the ground than a normal human, and for two, he sees everything in shades of black and white. The monochromatic colors used to give me a headache, but over time, I got used to them. It’s either that or darkness.
Mr. Scruffles places his paw on my calf, kneading me, and I scratch behind his furry ears. In the next moment, he’s hurrying down the hall, pausing once to glance over his shoulder. Through his eyes, I can see my vacant gaze staring at a spot over his head, my jaw slackened in shock as I try to process the cat’s unusual behavior.
