C H A P T E R T W E N T Y- N I N E
When Kiva awoke, her head was pounding, and there was a stubborn, piercing ache at the base of her skull.
She opened her eyes with effort, the space around her dark and blurry from her spinning vision. She tried to sit up, but it took three attempts before she was no longer lying flat on the cold stone floor.
“Ow,” she moaned to herself, pressing a hand to her head.
Steadying her breathing, she sought to clear her mind, to figure out where she was, and why.
Adrenaline slammed into her when she remembered.
The water Ordeal.
Drowning.
Jaren saving her life.
With magic.
Rooke.
Then nothing.
Her thumping heart made her head ache even more, but it also brought much-needed clarity, and Kiva was able to shakily rise to her feet and look properly around the room she was in. The cell she was in. For that was what it was—no more than a small, empty space surrounded by thick stone walls, a metal door at one end, the dimmest of luminium beacons offering just enough light to see by.
Kiva had never been in such a cell before. Dread rose within her as she considered what she knew of Zalindov. Of all the buildings she’d visited as the prison healer, there was only one she’d never set
foot in.
She was in the punishment block.
The Abyss.
A scraping sound at the metal door had her whirling toward it, then backing away as far as she could. Her pulse was racing, nerves shooting through her limbs. If her bladder had been full, she would
have soiled herself, so stark was her terror at what she was about to face, at who was about to step through that door.
It wasn’t the Butcher.
It wasn’t even Bones.
Just another guard, someone Kiva didn’t recognize.
She knew better than to feel relief, especially when that guard barked, “Come, healer. Your presence is required.”
Kiva’s legs were quaking as she followed the man out of her cell and down a dark stone hallway. There were more metal doors spaced along it, and she was sure she heard crying and moaning as she passed by some of them. Was Jaren behind one? Was he hurt?
The air smelled of fear—blood, sweat, vomit, and other waste. Bile rose in Kiva’s throat, but she forced it down and breathed through her mouth, blocking her ears to the cries.
“In here,” the guard said, his hand clutching her shoulder, as if to keep her from running.
He opened a door, this one wooden, and they stepped into the room beyond.
It was larger than the cell she’d just left, enough for a number of people to move around comfortably. The walls were still thick stone, and the floor sloped downward slightly toward a small drain in the center of the room, into which fresh blood was slowly flowing. . . . Blood that came from Jaren, who was tied to a flogging post, his head bowed, his back a mess of deep, red slashes.
“No,” Kiva gasped, her knees buckling. Only the guard’s tight grip kept her from falling.
Jaren made the smallest of movements at her voice, as if trying to lift his head, but his strength gave out before he could manage it.
“Good, you’re here.”
Kiva turned woodenly to the man holding the whip. The Butcher’s pale eyes were glowing with sadistic delight, a smirk stretching across his ruddy face as he rolled the cat-o’-nine-tails in his hands.
“You’re just in time for the best part,” he continued, moving slowly toward Jaren.
“No, please,” Kiva begged, lunging forward. She only made it one step before her guard yanked her backwards, wrapping his other arm around her middle from behind.
“Uh-uh-uh,” he whispered in her ear, his breath like rotten fish.
“You stay here. Best seat in the house.”
“Don’t worry, healer,” the Butcher called to her. “We’re just having some fun. You’ll enjoy it, I swear.”
And without any other warning, he drew back his arm and then flung it forward, the cat-o’-nine-tails swinging through the air . . . and lashing into Jaren’s flesh.
His body jerked violently, a moan leaving him, before he slumped against the post, it being the only thing that held him up.
Tears pooled in Kiva’s eyes and then flowed from them as the Butcher drew his arm back again.
“Don’t!” Kiva shouted, her voice breaking halfway through the
word. “Stop!”
But the Butcher didn’t listen.
“STOP!” Kiva screamed when his whip flew through the air a second time. “STOP! PLEASE! STOP!”
She screamed at him over and over, but he was deaf to her pleas as he struck his whip into Jaren’s back.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Desperate, Kiva fought the guard holding her, wrestling in his arms to get away, to get to Jaren. But it was no use—he was too strong, his grip too tight, and she was forced to watch as the Butcher continued his torture, turning Jaren’s flesh into a pulpy mess of lash marks.
Kiva was sobbing openly by the time the Butcher finally stepped back, her voice raw from screaming at him to stop.
And then he turned his pale eyes on her.
She didn’t have any room left in her to feel afraid as he strode over, his skin and clothes sprayed with Jaren’s blood, the whip dripping at his side. All she felt was rage. And fear. But not for herself—for Jaren, who was still tied to the post, unmoving.
“He’s fine. He’ll heal,” the Butcher said dismissively as he approached. “Rooke said to make him feel it, but no permanent damage.”
He looked disappointed, just when Kiva thought she couldn’t feel any more disgust.
She stared down at the whip, unable to stand the sight of the Butcher’s red-splattered face. Drip, drip, drip. She watched Jaren’s blood dribble onto the ground, nausea roiling within her.
The Butcher chuckled, reaching out to clasp Kiva’s chin, the painful clench of his fingers forcing her to look at him.
“Don’t worry, healer. Rooke said you’re not to be touched.” A dark grin lit his face. “He figured you’d be punished more by having to watch.” He used his other hand to wipe a tear from her cheek, his grin widening when she tried to jerk away from him, his fingers at her chin tightening. “Looks like he was right.” He chuckled again, before his gaze flicked to the guard behind her. “Keep an eye on her friend.
If he moves . . .” The Butcher handed over the bloodied whip, and the guard took it, nodding eagerly.
Kiva didn’t have any words left, any screams left, as the Butcher released her chin, only to latch on to her shoulder and force her to turn around. She couldn’t summon any relief that she wasn’t to be flogged next, because Rooke had been right about her punishment —watching was worse. Her purpose in life was to heal people, not hurt them. And there Jaren was, suffering not only because of her, but also instead of her.
“Move, healer,” the Butcher ordered, shoving her toward the door.
She stumbled along with him, walking in a daze, unable to conceive what she was meant to do, how she was meant to feel, since her mind just kept replaying the whip striking Jaren over and over again.
Unsatisfied with her pace, the Butcher wrapped his fingers tightly around her wrist, dragging her down the stone corridor. His hand was wet against her flesh, and when Kiva looked at where they were joined, she gagged at the sight of Jaren’s blood being transferred onto her skin.
“Hurry up,” the Butcher growled, tugging her viciously after him.
“Where are you taking me?” Kiva finally managed to rasp.
“There are different kinds of torture, did you know that?” he said, his tone conversational as he continued hauling her along. “There’s the physical kind, like the fun I just had with your boyfriend.”
Fun. The Butcher considered what he’d just done fun.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Kiva whispered hoarsely, even as the loud whack, whack, whack of his whip meeting Jaren’s flesh continued echoing in her ears, the memory refusing to fade.
“Then there’s the psychological kind,” the Butcher went on, oblivious to her inner turmoil. Or perhaps reveling in it. “Rooke only told me not to get physical with you.” A flash of teeth. “He didn’t mention anything else.”
He paused to let that sink in, but Kiva was too numb to feel alarmed. All she could do was stare at the blood on the Butcher’s
arms, legs, chest, face.
So much blood.
Her fault—it was all Kiva’s fault.
“Are you . . .” She could barely ask her question, but she needed to know, so she croaked out, “Are you going to kill him?”
A sharp laugh from the Butcher. “Oh, no.”
Kiva wilted with relief.
“But when he wakes up, he’ll wish I had.”
Tears filled Kiva’s eyes, her imagination going into overdrive as they reached a stone staircase. The Butcher dragged her down it, then down another. The air was cold here, the smells even worse, like all the suffering from above had seeped beneath the earth and now lingered like ghosts.
“Do you know why they call this place the Abyss?” the Butcher asked when he finally pulled her to a stop in front of another door, this one made of thick, impenetrable stone.
Kiva felt hollow inside, fear for Jaren threatening to overwhelm her.
But also, looking at this door, a sudden, growing fear for herself.
She didn’t get a chance to answer the Butcher before he opened it, shoving her into the pitch-black space beyond, and declared,
“You’re about to find out.”
And then, darkness.
