“Now you’re laying it on too thick.” I reach for the bread again, and Alistair yanks the tray away.
“Wait a few minutes, you idiot!”
I narrow my eyes. “Can we skip what’s sure to be a dumb, drawn-out argument and go straight to the part where you tell me how long I have to survive before I can take another bite?”
“One hour,” Alistair drawls.
“Fine,” I sigh. “I’ll sit here and fixate on my guts or something.”
“Do you think Celine is okay?” Luca whispers.
Malach grunts. “She’s stronger than anyone I know. While I cannot possibly guess what she’s going through, I’m certain of two things: one, she’s furious; two, she’s fighting with everything she’s got to get free.”
He’s right, and there’s nothing left to say about it. I steel my resolve and glance at the door. We need to be ready as soon as it opens.
SIX
Monster Realm Survival Tip #7:
If caught, it’s over. Escape is a dream, and dreams are for fools.
CELINE
I sleep a little, but I’m too wired to truly rest.
The bed is too empty. There’s no heavy arm around my waist, no hair tickling my neck or cheeks. Gods, when did I get more comfortable sharing my bed than sleeping alone?
I sit up and tug the thin blanket over my chest.
Something about my cell is different. There aren’t any windows, so I can’t be sure, but I’m pretty sure it’s daylight. The cold feels different, weaker, like it can’t quite penetrate the log walls as easily as it did during the night.
There’s a shallow bowl of water near the fire, an oddly shaped pitcher, and a tray of food that wasn’t there when I fell asleep. I frown, not loving the idea that someone came in here while I slept. Was it the veydra or someone else? I guess prisoners can’t be choosers.
I sniff the food, then shovel it into my mouth. It’s some kind of greasy stew with tough chunks of meat that I could spend all day chewing and never cut down to size. I chew harder and risk a swallow. I don’t want to spend any more time tasting this than I have to.
Once I’ve scarfed it down, I wash off to the best of my ability using the bowl of water. I don’t have any of my normal products—they confiscated my backpack—but I’ll be damned if my basic hygiene suffers. I’m already grossed out by the suspicious bucket in the corner shaped vaguely like a toilet.
Next, I methodically braid my hair. The pull against my scalp is familiar. I’ve used this style so many times since I started fighting at the Mouth of Hell that I could do it with my eyes closed. Which is handy because there’s no mirror in here.
That face-shifting asshole knew I’d make good use of any sharp edges as soon as someone opens my door. It’s both inconvenient and satisfying not to be underestimated.
Moderately full, I take stock of my body and start stretching.
My routine is a mix of dance and fight moves, including all three splits, arm and leg rotations, and one hundred bodyweight squats with jabs, hooks, and uppercuts mixed in.
By the time my muscles are warm, a light sheen of sweat has formed on my lower back.
I drink all the lukewarm water from the pitcher, then examine it. Not ceramic or glass. I could probably break it—I’m pretty confident I could break almost anything with the right motivation—but it doesn’t seem sharp enough to make a weapon.
Still, I don’t recognize the material, so how do I know how it will break? Might as well find out.
I raise the pitcher over my head and throw it at the floor, yelping and dodging as it bounces directly at my face.What the fuck is this thing made from? Flubber?I stomp on it next, but even my foot rebounds faster than it should.
Picking the pitcher up, I examine the lip and the curved edges. Not a crack in sight. My eyebrows shoot up. It’s virtually indestructible; I’m impressed.
When the door opens with an ominous whine, I don’t hesitate, hurling the pitcher at the veydra with all my strength.
He ducks, and it sails over his head and hits the guard behind him, knocking him out cold. A flash of straight white teeth disrupts my captor’s living mask. Did he grin at me?
