As if my thoughts summon my enemies, the door to my cell opens and light floods in. I shield my eyes from the light that floods in, shrinking back as a large, strange man enters the room. He’s got a tray in his hands, with an earthenware pitcher and a bowl on it. He’s in armor, and a man behind him carries a torch. Neither of them looks friendly.
“Where am I? Who are you?” I demand.
The man sets down the tray on the floor near the doorway. He points to it. “Eat. I’ll be back to pick up the dishes later.” He points in the opposite corner of my shadowy cell. “If you need the facilities, there’s a bucket over there.”
“Who are you? Where is…my friend?”
He ignores me, stepping back out of the cell. A moment later, the door is locked once more. I’m alone.
Well, fuck.
I try not to worry over Kalos—or Dingle—but I can’t help it. Are they imprisoned, too? Being tortured? What do these strangers want? My stomach roils again, and I crawl across the floor over to the tray and drag it to my bed, shivering. I lift the bowl to my nose and sniff it, but it seems bland. Hot but bland. Oatmeal, maybe? The liquid in the pitcher is water, and I sip it cautiously. It tastes a bit brackish, but it’s cool and my throat is so damn dry that I can’t stop myself from drinking all of it.
I figure if they’re going to poison me again, there’s not much I can do. Might as well eat and drink and try to keep my strength up. I eat all the food, too, though it has the texture of dry porridge and tastes even worse. When I’m done, I set the dishes back down and fumble my way in the dark over to find the bucket. I use it and shake the last of the water out of the pitcher to wash my hands.
The urge to cry is overwhelming, but I fight it off. I need a plan. I must find Kalos and somehow get us out of here. Next time the guard arrives, I can use the pitcher as a weapon andattack him. It sounded like they went down a hall, so I need to listen to the movements around me to try and mentally map this place out. I creep back toward the door and put my ear to it.
Even though I’m in this cell, I’m not defeated. Kalos must be nearby, because I can feel the tether between us. It’s a little strained, like a cord pulled taut, but it’s not painful. That means he’s close, but not too close.
Wherever this is, we’rebothhere.
Strangely enough, that gives me hope. We’ll reunite and get out of here.
My money pouch is gone, along with my makeshift weapons. I’ll have to get new ones. There’s the water jug, and then the piss bucket, maybe? I imagine slinging it at the guard when he arrives and distracting him. I didn’t see where he kept his key, though…and there were two guards. So do I sling the piss and check them for the key and try to get away next time? Or will they be on alert? Is it better to do it all in one fell swoop and hope I can escape before the guards regroup? I let the thoughts circle in my head repeatedly, planning out my attack as I sit in the darkness.
It feels like hours before someone returns.
I hear the footsteps long before I see the light approach. I grab the piss bucket, deciding at the last moment to fling the contents and use the pitcher I keep nearby to attack the second guard. The torch hovers just outside, light spilling in underneath the door, and a key jangles. The door opens and I ready the piss bucket?—
I hear a woman’s voice. “My god, are all the locks really necessary? She’s his Anchor, not a damn cat burglar.”
That makes me pause.
The door opens and the woman steps inside, her expression a little huffy. I stand there, clutching the bucket, mymouth open. She’s about my age, her hair pulled into two knots atop her head like mouse ears, with a filmy scarf draped over them. Her neck is covered with a heavy encrusted crystalline necklace, and her dress is a pale and delicate sheath with princess-like long sleeves. She eyes me holding the bucket, and her gaze darts to mine. “If I ask nicely, could you not toss that on me? This dress is new and I really like it.”
I lower the bucket, watching as she steps aside and more guards file in. They’re carrying things, and as I watch, one sets up a wooden tripod and another guard rolls in a cart. A third brings a carved stool and another sets a lantern to hang from a steel tripod. My mouth falls open as a large, stretched canvas is brought in and settled on the wooden tripod—which I’m now figuring out is an easel.
What the holy fucking fuck is going on?
The men file out of my cell and the woman flashes a bright smile at me. “Okay if we hang out a bit? I’m Margo, by the way.”
“Elsie,” I answer automatically. “Do…I know you?”
“Oh gosh no.” She chuckles and settles herself on the wooden stool, picking up a paintbrush from the cart and eyeing the easel in front of her. “You and I are perfect strangers, but I thought we’d have a chitchat, Anchor to Anchor. Are you from Chicago too?”
My jaw falls open further. “How did you…”
Chapter
Twenty
The stranger flicks her dry paintbrush at me. “Yup. Chicago. Thought so. For some reason everyone they pluck is from Chicago. It’s like it’s easy hunting grounds there, or maybe their spiderwebs are just clearer there. Who the fuck knows, am I right?” She dabs her brush into a blob of paint atop the cart and makes a large swipe across the canvas. “Hmm. The lighting in here sucks balls. I guess that’s on me.”
I don’t know whether to laugh at her consternation or scream in frustration. I decide to aim for answers instead. “You’re the one that kidnapped me? Where’s Kalos? How did you know I’m from Chicago? What’s going on?”
“Because I’m from Chicago, too. And Faith was. And Carly. I’m not sure about Max.” She swipes another stroke across her painting and tilts her head, regarding her work. “Are we feeling this brown?”
“Who are Max and Carly?”
