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“Have you met Lindsay yet?”
“Yes. Remus said Agatha didn’t care for her, and that’s why she was thrown in there.”
With a snort, Tom shakes his head. “She didn’t like the looks she gave one of the guards. Thought she was tromping on her territory.”
“Which guard?”
“You wouldn’t know him. She had Titus rip his insides out in front of Lindsay. Her way of claiming territory, I guess.”
Must’ve been horrific having to watch such a thing, and the fact that Titus could carry out the order only confirms my thoughts that had I not intervened in the courtyard, he’d have probably decapitated Will with that shovel.
“It’s a wonder the guards haven’t rebelled, with so many of you, and only two of them.”
He glances over his shoulder, as if someone hides in the shadows, listening to us. “I’d be careful saying that around here. Even mentioning it could get you into trouble with Agatha.”
“I didn’t suggest anything. I’m simply curious as to why you haven’t yet.”
“Remus has connections outside of this prison. But inside? All he has to do is give Titus the command, and we’d all be dead.”
I swing my gaze back toward Titus’s cell. “So, it’s true. He does kill on command. Without conscience.”
“Yes. Even chained, he’s dangerous, though he’s never harmed a woman before. I wouldn’t have let you go in there alone, if I thought he would.”
“I appreciate that. Though, from what I’ve heard of Alphas, there isn’t much you could do, if he did decide to attack.”
“That’s probably true.” With another wary glance over his shoulder, he leans in closer than before and lowers his voice, when he says, “There is a way to kill him. It’s a poison called Red Lotus. Remus and Agatha have some gun with special darts. They carry a deadly poison that paralyzes them. Once saw them shoot a regular guard, and within seconds, the man was seizing on the ground. Bled from his eyes, nose, and mouth. Like it just … strangled him. Alphas take a bit more, but Titus has tasted death, too.”
That’s why he follows their command.
“He survived, though. How?”
“I guess Lisbeth thought he was having an asthma attack, like her sister sometimes gets. She gave him some--”
“Lobelia. I’ve helped my mother make it for my brother. He has asthma, as well.”
Of course. It’s an antagonist for the nicotinic receptors, which makes me wonder if it’s nicotine poison at the end of those darts.
“Didn’t work out for the guard. Poison probably spread too fast. Watch yourself, Thalia. ‘Specially around Agatha. You’re a nice girl. That woman will eat your kindness and spit it out. You can’t ever let her know that boy means anything to you.”
I take his words as a friendly warning, but one I suspect is too late, after what happened in the courtyard earlier. If there was any question in Remus’s mind whether, or not, Will meant anything to me, I’m certain today’s little escapade gave him the answer.
Chapter 18
In an effort to kill time and distract my guilt-addled brain over Will, I wander the grounds in search of the silver boxes that might hold the mutations. It’s a farfetched dream, but one that keeps me from falling into despair here. In fact, I find myself laughing with amusement at times, thinking of Remus and Agatha trying to outrun one of those creatures. So far, I’ve found nothing but more empty cells, and ransacked offices with dilapidated desks and chairs, and patient records, so faded and tattered, I can’t make out a single word.
I take the stairwell down to the lower level, past the solitary cells, and as I descend into the dark bowels of the building, I flick on the flashlight Remus gave me when I first arrived.
The one he said was for monsters.
A shiver spirals down my spine as I tug open the heavy, steel door, which sticks as it scrapes over the concrete. An arc of light slices across the surrounding blackness, and I can’t see beyond the halo to know where I’ve ventured. Rusted pipes line the ceiling of the room. Curls of peeling paint and water stains cover the chipped, brick walls. Ahead of me, a line of machines stand useless and empty, their hinges rusted and broken down, where the doors hang cockeyed off to the side. If I had to guess, this place was probably a laundry room at one time, if the long tables and rolling carts scattered are anything to judge by. I make my way over to one of the carts, and in the flashlight find yellowed linen piled inside.
A flicker of movement sends a shock of fear down my spine, and I jerk back the light. With a deep breath, I direct the flashlight back inside the cart, and reach down to push away the linen. A flash of brown scutters across the sheets as two small mice race up the side of the cart. An involuntary scream flies past my lips, and I jump backward, watching them dart off.
Heart pounding against my ribs, I rest my hand against my chest and take long, easy breaths to settle the fear thrumming in my veins. Jesus. Flashlight angled downward, I peer into the cart again, scanning over the inside of it, my thoughts rewinding to the tiny mice scampering up the walls.
The walls.
I nab a thin pole from off the ground and use it to stir the linen for any more mice. When nothing flies out at me, I lift one of the sheets and tuck the flashlight beneath my arm, as I hold a stretch of the fabric between both hands and tug to find it’s still strong. Gathering the sheet, I hold it outstretched, estimating the length of it to be about six feet. Urgency rides me as I set the sheet down and gather the rest from the cart, careful to shake off the mice droppings, and set six more on the table. I scan the four other carts, finding more mice, and a little over a dozen more sheets.
