But the tour wasn’t over yet. Donani led us down eight stone steps and an extremely narrow passage. My nose wrinkled. It reeked of mold, dirt, and stale air. Even before we entered, I knew I wasn’t going to be a fan of the next room. Barred walls lined each side of the corridor, separated into individual cells, like an old, underground prison.
The Marksmen prodded me into the nearest one. The dirt walls absorbed the clanking of the metal as the iron-gate door slammed shut after me.
‘Could I request a different room?’ I asked. ‘I’m not really feeling this one.’
‘Ah, it speaks,’ said Donani.
‘Unfortunately,’ Quentin replied.
Donani leaned on his spear. ‘Well, listen up, gargoyle—’
‘The name’s Sebastian.’
‘—I suggest you behave like a good little beastie and shut your mouth.’
It seemed Marksmen were pretty much the same, no matter where.
‘Or what,’ I shot back. ‘Let me guess, you’re going to beat me up and throw me in a cage. Oh, wait.’
He rammed his blade through the bars, just missing the side of my face. ‘Trust me,’ he replied. ‘I could make it worse.’
The laughter of the Marksmen echoed down the passage.
‘So what now,’ asked Quentin.
‘Now, we get some breakfast,’ Donani replied. ‘This gargoyle’s not going anywhere for a while.’
Quentin smiled at me. ‘Enjoy your stay.’
I’d lost track of the amount of times the two of us had stared each other down between a set of metal bars, but it had gotten old a long time ago. I’d been ignoring my hunger and pulsing adrenaline. Now my nerves and my will were both on the verge of snapping, but I wouldn’t give them that satisfaction.
‘Enjoy yours,’ I said, forcing every word. ‘While you can.’
I really missed lying on my back.
If I was honest, I missed a lot of things from my old life, but I refused to dwell on any of them at length. Instead, I put my energy into finding a comfortable spot along the wall to prop myself against. My jeans and shirt were filthy. I smelled of blood, dirt, and sweat. My eyes burned hot when I closed them, and my stomach felt deeply hollow in a way I hadn’t experienced before.
What would happen when it was time for me to stand before the High Council? Would they let me speak, or would they kill me on the spot? I didn’t know the rules and laws for the Outcasts, much less the shadow world.
There was no possible way this was going to go well.
Something wet fell against my cheek and I reached up to brush it away. Tears. I hadn’t even realized I was crying. Now, I was conscious of them rolling down my face, one after the other.
I thought of the stares I’d gotten the day I arrived at the Circe. The way people avoided me when I approached. The way I’d just been hustled through the Court of Shadows like I had the plague.
I scared people. I scared myself. Maybe I really was the demonic abomination so many Gypsies feared. But as I sat on the dirt floor, shackled and trapped, I just felt like a helpless little kid; frightened, alone, and …
Hungry.
Visions of meat scrolled behind my eyelids. I struggled to concentrate on something else. On anything else. But I was too tired, and nothing worked. My teeth throbbed beneath my gums. I groaned inwardly and let the feelings cloud my head, turning my thoughts to unintelligent jumbles, diminishing my sense of time.
*
Ice solidified in my stomach, jerking me from the incoherent haze. I sniffed the air and sighed. They were back. Donani and Quentin were alone this time. I noted the Romany’s head Marksman had resumed his full arsenal of weaponry, complete with a full quiver of arrows strapped to his back.
I also caught the smell of meat. My stomach lurched greedily. I licked my dry lips, pricking my tongue on my jagged teeth and tasting blood. As the Marksmen neared my cell, I shuffled to my feet.
‘Listen guys,’ I said, stretching as much as I could. ‘I really need a bathroom. Seriously, this hotel sucks.’
‘Still running your mouth,’ said Donani. He pointed to the rudimentary latrine in the corner. ‘Your accommodations are better than you deserve, demon.’
Quentin produced a brown paper bag. I tried not to sniff, but I couldn’t help it. Instantly, my brain registered hamburgers. I swallowed several times as my mouth began to water uncontrollably. The Marksman thrust the bag through the bars.
‘I brought you dinner.’
I moved aside, putting as much distance as I could between us. ‘You know, I was really craving some pancakes, so I’m afraid I’m going to have to pass. Thanks for going to all this trouble, though.’
Quentin’s usually composed expression suddenly cracked. He threw the bag into my cell. ‘You idiot,’ he said, spittle flying from his mouth. ‘Do you think starving yourself will do you any good? Why won’t you eat?’
I gave him a steady look. ‘Because you want me to.’
‘I’m trying to keep you functioning. Do you wish to stand trial as nothing more than a slobbering beast, or do you want the capacity to defend yourself to the Council?’
‘What difference does it make to you?’
‘I want the Council to hear from Sebastian Grey, the proclaimed guardian of the Romany clan. And then I want them to see that you’re no different than the rest of your brethren, despite all your protests: a gargoyle who would and did kill someone of Roma blood.’
‘And me scarfing down a couple of burgers is going to prove your point?’
‘There isn’t an Outcast Gypsy in our kumpania who hasn’t witnessed the destructive nature of the shadow creatures. Grotesques and chimeras are an evil curse, a scourge to our existence. But gargoyles.’ He stepped closer, his voice lowering as he continued. ‘Your reputation as guardians has kept you safe over the decades. But the loyalty the Old Clans held for gargoyles is long dead. And soon, the same thing will happen among the Outcasts. You’re not guardians. You’re a threat. But when you’re convicted of murder, I promise you, it will be open season on all of your kind.’
‘That’s why you’re working with Augustine.’
‘We have an arrangement.’
I tried to smile, to keep the conversation going so that I could think clearly. ‘Well, since I’m doomed anyway, could I at least brush my teeth and take a shower? I want to look my best before my trial.’
Quentin’s black eyes narrowed. ‘Sorry, but that’s not on the agenda.’
Suddenly, the smell of exotic flowers wafted through the passage. For the briefest instant, I thought it was Josephine. As soon as the thought crossed my mind, it was immediately negated. The scent was similar, but definitely not her. I moved to the front of the cell for a better look.
A tall woman stood at the passageway entrance, with Augustine at her side. I knew at once it was Josephine’s aunt – which meant I was staring into the face of the Queen of the Outcast Gypsies. She wore a multicolored dress and an elaborate head wrap that concealed her hair. Heavy makeup outlined her eyes, and gold jewelry sparkled at her neck. Just behind her, four men, armed with diamond-coated spears, lined the inside of the corridor.
The