Mentally, I would like to think I am handling all this shit really well. I died, was resurrected, and had amazing sex with a tentacle god monster who might as well have laid eggs inside me.
“Love, is something going to fall out of me?”
I wait for them to speak to me, but they don’t. The silence in my mind shouldn’t feel this wrong, but I don’t want to be alone. The walls around me close in more as I continue to wait for them, hoping they can hear me. I’m not pregnant. I know that isn’t what happened, but any reassurance that when I stand up my insides will stay where they belong is important.
“I suppose my soulmate is getting a talking to,” I say to myself. Hopefully, whatever repercussions Love mentioned aren’t going to scare her off of me more. “She hates me already. How much worse can it get?”
With those final last words, I stand up.
Being alone has never been an issue for me. I’m used to it. My parents were always busy when I was growing up and nannies only cared about shoving dinner down my throat so they could send me to bed. Once I entered prep school, the nannies were replaced with coaches. Fencing isn’t a team sport. We were a group of students making up a team that would just as soon tear each other to shreds if it meant we would win.
I have the chance to be a part of something now. There is a person out there who is mine. The sting of rejection is surface level. A gut reaction on her part, I tell myself. She needs to get to know me, then she will see.
She will accept me.
I sound fucking crazy, but I only have my vengeance and my soulmate. My promise to Love is simple. Once I am out of this cell, I am going to kill Miles and Audrey and whoever they hired to help them. Nothing is going to keep me from fulfilling that.
I tug the blanket firmly around my chest and roll the top over to secure it. Time to get out of this prison and start proving myself. I am not a quitter, I am a doer.
Feeling around the gauged walls, the iron door makes me jump when my fingers touch the smooth surface. There is no doorknob, and the hinges are on the other side. I tap my broken nails against metal, sending little jolts of discomfort up my fingertips until I get an idea.
When I was thrown in here, she punched the metal so hard I heard it creak. Could I break the door down? I press my palm flat against the metal and push. Nothing happens and I feel stupid. Were there words I needed to speak? Is the power Love gave me different than what they gave to her?
My head is filled with questions and no one to answer them.Think, Del. Brute force has never been my style. This is a test of mental fortitude. I pace the length of the dark cell, trying to remember if there is a lock or a latch on the other side of this door.
I think it’s just a latch. I’m fucked if there is a whole chain there.
“Does it matter what’s there? I can’t open the door.” I speak through a few scenarios of what I could do but keep returning to the same thought. I need to ram the giant, sturdy metal door on a cell designed to hold a whole-ass werewolf inside.
I psyche myself up and jump on the balls of my feet like I used to before a fencing match. The floor isn’t too cracked, so I’m not worried about falling. With each side, I feint a shove motion and decide that sacrificing my left shoulder will be worth it. Love said they gave me the power to get out of here, so that is what I am going to do.
Not even three steps away from the far wall, I fall on my ass. It’s like a cartoon: my foot slips on something, and I pinwheel my arms to try and remain steady, only to end up flat on my back. My head doesn’t smack the ground, but the wind knocks out of my chest.
I gasp through the pain. This is for the best. It saves me from risking my bones. I lay on the ground for a moment, but then I feel it. Something wet is soaking through my blanket. Irrationally, I think it’s my blood. The longer I stay in my spot, the more sure I am that it’s not in a puddle of my blood. It’s too much. I roll over with a groan and feel for a wet spot.
It’s a small puddle, a shallow divot in the stone from long years of wear. Cautiously, I touch it. No immediate burning sensation, and when I sniff my finger, there is nothing. Throwing any self-preservation to the wind now, I swirl my fingers around in it and try to waft towards me like I would a fine wine. Sommelier, I am not, but this water does have a rosy, salty scent.
There is no dropping sound. So in the dark, I brush my fingers around the edges of it and find a barely there trickle. Crawling on my hands and knees, I trace the rivulets of water back to their source. A small crack in the far wall that, when I first felt around this cell, felt like all the others. But now it’s wet and…
And I don’t know what that means for me.
A groan, deep and guttural, bursts from my chest. This is so fucking typical. My fists clench, and I am reminded again that most of my acrylics have fallen off. I don’t even try to stop the waves of anger. I’m alone and hopeless and every part of me wants to fight despite how fruitless it would be to do so right now. My limbs begin to tingle and my body burns. I squeeze my eyes shut to stop the frustrated tears from slipping down.
With each heaving breath I take, more waves crash into my thoughts. Long-buried resentments are unearthed and washing up at the forefront of my mind. My parents, my life, my cold heart.
My fist slams over the crack and the wall shakes.
I open my eyes and see the world illuminated pink. A small area of Love’s mark peeks out from my dress, glowing. I do it again. My fist meets the stone wall and it crumbles away. More water dribbles through the crack, but so does a new form of light. It’s low and warm, but I can’t stop now. I ball my fists together in one clenched form and raise my arms above my head.
The last conversation I had with Dad flashes through my head, how disappointed he was with me and how much I hated him at that moment. For throwing me to the wolves, for abandoning me on the East Coast while he spent time with the one person who ever looked out for me, who cared for me.
Tears drip down my cheeks and I strike the stone one more time. Half the wall crumbles. A kaleidoscope of pinks erupts from the rubble as it disintegrates. The room floods with steam and the scent of salty, floral heat.
“Holy shit,” I murmur. “Holy shit!”
I step over a portion of the remaining wall and find pearls scattered across ornate Grecian tiles. Whites, pinks, and deep brown precious gemstones roll across the tiny squares that make up a mosaic design I have only seen in museums thatYiayiawould take me to as a child. The floor mosaic covers the expanse of a huge bath. In the light, I can see that the wall I smashed through is marble.
“Holy shit.”
