When no angry cryptid burst from the back of the truck, Bowman said something I couldn’t hear to his fellow handlers. The driver and passenger climbed into the cargo area. A couple of seconds later, a large pair of boots slid haltingly out of the truck, followed by a pair of thick male legs clothed in dirty, ripped orange scrubs.
The kind a human prisoner wears.
“No.”My protest carried little volume, but Lala heard me.
“What?”
I stood, and my lunch tray clattered to the floor, spilling chunks of egg and broccoli.
Outside, the orange pants were followed by a large orange shirt, which gathered beneath the new prisoner’s broad torso as he was pushed out of the truck by the two men inside and pulled out by Woodrow and Bowman, who each had one of his legs. I knew who we were seeing long before familiar arms fell, thick fingers grazing the dirt. Before I saw the strong profile, strangely altered by an uncovered head.
“Gallagher,” Lala whispered, and his name echoed in murmurs from across the room as the other former menagerie inmates came to the same realization. “What is he wearing?”
“It’s a jail uniform.” The conclusion brought with it an odd sense of relief. “They must have thought he was human.” Because back at Metzger’s, he’d broken the Spectacle employee’s neck, rather than ripping his head off.
All four strong handlers struggled beneath Gallagher’s limp weight, and his head sagged below his shoulders. His hair fell back from his face, revealing closed eyes, as well as several bruises and gashes.
I blinked back tears, my face and hands pressed to the glass, and when my eyes opened again Gallagher was wearing his traditional faded red cap, unglamoured, because he was unconscious.
That’s how they figured it out.
As they turned to carry Gallagher into the building, I caught a better look at the side of his face. His left eye was purple and swollen. There was a deep gash in his chin, and both of his lips were split open and still dripping blood.
But Gallagher’s hands bore no bruises or cuts that I could see. They’d beaten him while he was unconscious—I could think of no other reason he would fail to fight back.
Thefuriaestirred within me.My veins surged with fire, lapping at the bounds of my temper like waves crashing over a levee wall. I spun to look up at one of the cameras. “Hey! Where are you taking him?”
The entire room went still around me. The murmur of conversation died and all heads turned my way. But I got no response from anyone on the other side of the camera feed. So I ran for the door.
“Delilah, no!” Mirela grabbed for my arm, and when she missed, Mahsa stepped into my path, leopard eyes wide with concern for my sanity.
I dodged her and kept going until I saw the red light flicker over the door and felt the first warning twinge of pain from my collar. I skidded to a stop on bare feet, then inched backward until the light stopped flickering and the pain disappeared. I was two feet from the door—the programmed limit of the sensor’s range.
“Zyanya!” I called, and she stepped forward from the crowd that had gathered to watch what they seemed to think was my total mental collapse. “I’m going to open the door, and I need you to push me into the hall.”
“But—”
“I have a theory.” I stared right into her golden cheetah eyes. “I think it’ll stop hurting once I’m exactly this far away from the door, on the other side. Which means if I’m willing to take the pain, I should be able to get out. And I’m willing.”
Zyanya frowned. “What if you’re wrong?”
“Then at least we’ll know for sure.”
Mirela took my arm. “Delilah, there’s no one on the other side to pull you clear if you don’t get far enough away on one push. The electrocution might just continue.” She turned to the shifter before I could argue. “Zyanya, don’t do this.”
Zyanya hesitated, then nodded. “Sorry, Delilah. I’m not going to help you hurt yourself.”
As frustrated as I was, I couldn’t blame her. I’d have said the same thing if our positions were reversed.
“Fine,” I said, and everyone looked relieved—until I lunged forward and kicked the door open, without bothering to turn the knob. Agony shot through my neck and down my spine, then blazed into all four of my limbs. Pain pooled in my fingers and toes and exploded behind my eyelids. The top of my head felt like it was about to blow open.
Mirela pulled me backward, and the relief was immediate.
The door was open. Mission accomplished.
“Thanks,” I whispered as I struggled to catch my breath. Then I shouted into the hallway. “Hey! Where are you taking Gallagher? He needs to go to the infirmary, not intake!” Surely there was an infirmary.
I got no response, but the shuffle of feet as my roommates moved away from me said they fully expected me to draw a swift, harsh reaction from our captors.
