Gentry walked into the Weaver manor, where only the most prominent Weavers stayed, including their fearsome leader, Darisius. She then veered towards the very back staircase that was hidden behind the kitchen and near the broom closet. It only led downward and she sucked in a nice, deep breath of clean air before descending into the dungeons.
She’d only been here once to visit Quentin, the one surviving vampyre of Lydia’s horde. Once a slave, Quentin had been forced to commit all types of atrocities under his master, but her death had changed everything. He was now a freed vampyre, with a whole suite of new abilities, which was ironic considering he was doomed to spend the rest of his immortal life in the Weavers dungeons.
Clea waited for Gentry at the bottom of the staircase, a moody scowl on her face. “Are you sure this is a good idea? I could just kill him if you really feel that bad for him. It’d be kinder.”
“Yes, I’m sure. Quentin doesn’t deserve to be here. He didn’t do anything wrong.”
The female Weaver rolled her eyes as she led the way down the small, cramped halls of the dungeon. “Remember. If I set him free, he’s out of Skadra. Forever. He’ll be the rest of the world’s problem.”
Gentry nodded her agreement as she worked to keep up with Clea’s stride. Unlike the top levels of the manor, the dungeons were anything but extravagant. The iron bars lining each cell were designed to keep witches in, and the cells weren’t exactly spacious. No external light was provided, and the only reason that she could take one step after the other was by the grace of Clea’s witchlight. Hands shot out as they walked past, begging for scraps.
She doggedly ignored the pleas, aware that when it came to the natural order, she as a magic-less human was at the bottom of the totem pole.
Finally they arrived at Quentin’s cell and Gentry knocked at the bar to get the tall, handsome blonde’s attention. He was sitting on his bunk, his eyes closed like he was reflecting on something. His blue eyes snapped open at the first knock, and then he was at the bars, his speed preternaturally fast.
Gentry jumped back despite herself. “Hi Quentin,” she said politely.
Quentin’s eyebrows furrowed together, appearing confused. “You’re back.”
“Yes, just like I said I would be,” she said happily, hoping that somehow her sunny disposition would rub off on the gloomy vampyre.
It didn’t. “Why are you here?”
She ignored Clea’s snickering from behind her. “I’m here to free you.”
The vampyre looked at her like she was crazy. “Free me,” he repeated, “you’re here to free me from the Weaver dungeons for crimes that I did, in fact, commit.”
“That’s what I said!” Clea cackled obnoxiously. “See,nerd, even the vampyre knows he belongs in a cell.”
“No, he doesn’t,” Gentry responded hotly. “A vampyre must obey his master’s commands. Quentin didn’t choose to do any of the crimes he’s been locked up for. Hence, he should go free.”
“So you have the power to free me?” Quentin asked, his blue eyes narrowed. “You, a magic-less girl?”
Thankfully, Clea remained blissfully quiet.
“I am freeing you,” Gentry said, choosing to not divulge the intricacies of her lack of authority, “on two conditions.”
“And they are?” For the first time since they’d come to his cell, Quentin looked intrigued.
“One, you can’t come back to Skadra for the rest of your immortal life. If you do, then the Weavers will find you, and they will lock you away again.”
Quentin waved a hand. “Done. And the second?”
Gentry took a deep breath, knowing that her entire plan hinged on his acceptance. “I need you to save my friend Mykel.”
END
