Sweet Legacy
Page 26
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
“You went after a lot for one vision,” he says. “You’ll get better with practice.”
I can only hope. If this is my power, my magical legacy from our ancient ancestor, I want to be able to use it to its full potential.
“At least now I know how to practice. You knew just how to help me get the vision.” I shake my head. “How?”
His entire body tenses. That small muscle along his jawline clenches and unclenches. Every last syllable of his body language says this is an off-limits topic of conversation.
I don’t believe in limits. I’m getting tired of having these questions and getting no answers.
“Are you even human?” I ask. A few weeks ago that would have been a sarcastic question. Now, I’m deadly serious.
His gray eyes flash. “Yes.”
“But you’re not just human,” I push. “You’re something more.”
His jaw muscle tightens and doesn’t release.
“You’d better go,” he says, not looking at me. “Gretchen will need your help.”
I study him for a moment longer, trying to find some clue about what’s going on inside. He’s conflicted, and maybe scared. Whatever he’s hiding, now is not the time for me to dig it out.
I’m not usually patient, but I am determined. Eventually, he will tell me his secrets.
Without another word, I turn and follow my sister and our friends across the bridge.
CHAPTER 11
GRETCHEN
The layout of cells on the other side of the bridge is a freaking maze—another labyrinth of stone and steel—and with the soundproof shields down, the groans and growls of the prisoners echo throughout the entire chamber. Euryale is being held in the outer ring, but we have to wind our way through all the others—past all the others—to reach her cage on the other side.
Between these cells and those beyond the moat, there must be two hundred prisoners being chained and tortured. And from what the golden maiden says, there are other dungeons, other labyrinths of cells, just as full. It’s horrifying. Whether they are guilty of some crime against the gods or are political prisoners like Ursula, the treatment is inhumane.
When I finally get to Euryale’s cell, I see her crumpled and beaten, hanging from her shackles like a piece of meat. My stomach lurches. If I’d had anything to eat in the past few hours, I’d be heaving.
I step up to the door.
“Ursula!”
I can’t hide the pain in my voice, not even from myself.
“We have to get her out,” I say without turning around. “Now.”
I wrap both hands around a steel pipe in the door and yank. The door rattles but doesn’t budge. I yank again, pulling with every last ounce of my super strength. Two more pairs of hands appear alongside mine—pale ones and gleaming golden ones. Together, we grunt and pull, to no avail. The door stays solidly in place.
“It’s no use,” Greer says.
“Ursula,” I shout, louder. “Euryale!”
She stirs, but only slightly. There’s the barest hint of movement beneath her flowing garments. My breath huffs out in a relieved sigh. She’s alive.
That’s all the encouragement I need.
“The steel is too strong,” the golden maiden says. “It will not yield.”
“Then we do it the easy way.” I tap at the metal plate that shields the locking mechanism. It looks like a standard, old-style prison lock. It’s big, black, rusty, and—hopefully—vulnerable to picking.
“How?” Greer asks.
“Basic military strategy,” I explain. “Attack the most vulnerable spot. The lock.”
I bend down, rip open the flap on one of my cargo pockets, and pull out a multitool—one that’s supposed to have a tool for every situation. I hope it lives up to the salesman’s promise.
Flipping through the seven thousand accessories, I finally decide on the flathead screwdriver. I shove the point into the keyhole, wiggle it around, and pray something happens. I’ve never had to pick a lock before. Monsters aren’t usually hiding behind closed doors—I find them in the open, on crowded streets, or in back rooms and alleys, hunting somewhere with easy access.
Now I wish I’d developed the skill.
After several jerks and pulls and twists and curses, feeling nothing but the scrape of metal on immovable metal, I give the door a solid kick.
“How are we supposed to get in?” I hate feeling helpless. “How are we supposed to get her out?”
“We simply have to think this through,” Greer says. “There must be a solution—something obvious that we just aren’t seeing.”
“Sillus help huntress.”
I turn to see the little monkey emerging from the labyrinth, running toward me, his teeth bared in a huge grin.
“How?” I ask.
He jams his fist into the air.
There, dangling from his little furry hand, is a set of thick black keys.
“Where’d you get those?” I demand, snatching the keys from him.
He shrugs. “Sillus find.”
Right. The unconscious dungeon guards.
“Nice thinking,” I tell him.
His little monkey face beams.
I choose one of the big metal keys, shove it into the lock, and turn. Nothing. I choose another. The third key finally works. With a heavy clank, I feel the lock mechanism roll over.
“Yes!”
Everyone cheers.
I yank the door open and dash to my mentor’s side.
I can only hope. If this is my power, my magical legacy from our ancient ancestor, I want to be able to use it to its full potential.
“At least now I know how to practice. You knew just how to help me get the vision.” I shake my head. “How?”
His entire body tenses. That small muscle along his jawline clenches and unclenches. Every last syllable of his body language says this is an off-limits topic of conversation.
I don’t believe in limits. I’m getting tired of having these questions and getting no answers.
“Are you even human?” I ask. A few weeks ago that would have been a sarcastic question. Now, I’m deadly serious.
His gray eyes flash. “Yes.”
“But you’re not just human,” I push. “You’re something more.”
His jaw muscle tightens and doesn’t release.
“You’d better go,” he says, not looking at me. “Gretchen will need your help.”
I study him for a moment longer, trying to find some clue about what’s going on inside. He’s conflicted, and maybe scared. Whatever he’s hiding, now is not the time for me to dig it out.
I’m not usually patient, but I am determined. Eventually, he will tell me his secrets.
Without another word, I turn and follow my sister and our friends across the bridge.
CHAPTER 11
GRETCHEN
The layout of cells on the other side of the bridge is a freaking maze—another labyrinth of stone and steel—and with the soundproof shields down, the groans and growls of the prisoners echo throughout the entire chamber. Euryale is being held in the outer ring, but we have to wind our way through all the others—past all the others—to reach her cage on the other side.
Between these cells and those beyond the moat, there must be two hundred prisoners being chained and tortured. And from what the golden maiden says, there are other dungeons, other labyrinths of cells, just as full. It’s horrifying. Whether they are guilty of some crime against the gods or are political prisoners like Ursula, the treatment is inhumane.
When I finally get to Euryale’s cell, I see her crumpled and beaten, hanging from her shackles like a piece of meat. My stomach lurches. If I’d had anything to eat in the past few hours, I’d be heaving.
I step up to the door.
“Ursula!”
I can’t hide the pain in my voice, not even from myself.
“We have to get her out,” I say without turning around. “Now.”
I wrap both hands around a steel pipe in the door and yank. The door rattles but doesn’t budge. I yank again, pulling with every last ounce of my super strength. Two more pairs of hands appear alongside mine—pale ones and gleaming golden ones. Together, we grunt and pull, to no avail. The door stays solidly in place.
“It’s no use,” Greer says.
“Ursula,” I shout, louder. “Euryale!”
She stirs, but only slightly. There’s the barest hint of movement beneath her flowing garments. My breath huffs out in a relieved sigh. She’s alive.
That’s all the encouragement I need.
“The steel is too strong,” the golden maiden says. “It will not yield.”
“Then we do it the easy way.” I tap at the metal plate that shields the locking mechanism. It looks like a standard, old-style prison lock. It’s big, black, rusty, and—hopefully—vulnerable to picking.
“How?” Greer asks.
“Basic military strategy,” I explain. “Attack the most vulnerable spot. The lock.”
I bend down, rip open the flap on one of my cargo pockets, and pull out a multitool—one that’s supposed to have a tool for every situation. I hope it lives up to the salesman’s promise.
Flipping through the seven thousand accessories, I finally decide on the flathead screwdriver. I shove the point into the keyhole, wiggle it around, and pray something happens. I’ve never had to pick a lock before. Monsters aren’t usually hiding behind closed doors—I find them in the open, on crowded streets, or in back rooms and alleys, hunting somewhere with easy access.
Now I wish I’d developed the skill.
After several jerks and pulls and twists and curses, feeling nothing but the scrape of metal on immovable metal, I give the door a solid kick.
“How are we supposed to get in?” I hate feeling helpless. “How are we supposed to get her out?”
“We simply have to think this through,” Greer says. “There must be a solution—something obvious that we just aren’t seeing.”
“Sillus help huntress.”
I turn to see the little monkey emerging from the labyrinth, running toward me, his teeth bared in a huge grin.
“How?” I ask.
He jams his fist into the air.
There, dangling from his little furry hand, is a set of thick black keys.
“Where’d you get those?” I demand, snatching the keys from him.
He shrugs. “Sillus find.”
Right. The unconscious dungeon guards.
“Nice thinking,” I tell him.
His little monkey face beams.
I choose one of the big metal keys, shove it into the lock, and turn. Nothing. I choose another. The third key finally works. With a heavy clank, I feel the lock mechanism roll over.
“Yes!”
Everyone cheers.
I yank the door open and dash to my mentor’s side.
