The smell hits me first—fear, excrement, unwashed bodies, and something else. A sickly sweet scent that sparks in my nose like champagne. Through the bond, Anassa bristles. Her hackles rise.
“Siphon magic,”she says. That’s what the smell is.
What have these monsters been doing to the children?
My heart hammers in my head as we near the cells—something is wrong. It’s too quiet. Too still.
Stark dismounts his wolf and glances up at me with a look that sends my heart plummeting into my gut.
The cells are empty. Every last one of them.
The children aren’t here.
My boots crunch on the dirty stones as I slip from Anassa’s back and peer through the bars beside Stark.
“They were here not long ago,” he says quietly.
I nod. There are scraps of children’s clothing inside the cells. Food bowls, a battered doll. A single stained blanket.
“They knew we were coming,” I hear myself say.
My voice sounds hollow. Dead.
I’m numb.
Stark turns as though to speak, but one of the Daemos soldiers interrupts.
“Sir, we’ve captured one of the Siphon guards,” he says.
The numbness inside me darkens into sharp and savage. There’s a flicker of shadows around the edge of my vision, urging me toward further violence.
“Good,” I say. “I have questions for them.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Back at our camp at Grunfall, the Siphon prisoner has been transferred to an interrogation room set up in one of the old stone buildings. I wanted to interrogate him at the temple, but Stark insisted that this was protocol—Siphons are too dangerous for in-field interrogations.
We had to bring the bastard here, where he could be safely chained to a metal chair bolted to the stone floor. Where, even if he did get out, he’d be surrounded by soldiers and Bonded with no chance of escape.
I agreed—on one condition: thatIget to be the one who leads the interrogation.
Stark gave me a look when I said that, half irritation and half respect. But he didn’t argue.
Now, as I enter the bare interrogation room, shadows twist again at the edges of my vision, and with them, rage burns bright. Somewhere, deep down inside of me, is dread at the idea of torturing another being.
I push the feeling down further.
My sister isn’t here. Saela—if she was with those children in the cells—is gone. And this single Siphon guard is my only lead to finding her.
The Siphon guard sits tall in his chains, beautiful even with a bloodied face. The soldiers that captured him managed to knock him unconscious with a crushing blow to the head. The wound has since healed, but combined with a timely injection of the same poison that coats our blades, they managed to keep the Siphon out long enough to chain him.
This is a rare opportunity. One I can’t afford to waste.
Stark enters the room behind me, hanging back beside the table of interrogation tools. His presence is heavy, dark. Like pregnant clouds on a horizon, threatening a deadly blizzard.
Odd that it’s also sort of comforting.
I approach the prisoner. The Siphon’s gaze touches mine with unnerving weight and inhuman calm. No fear. He’s still and beautiful in the guttering torchlight.
