Page 83 of Forging Darkness
“Because I enjoy your sparkling personality.”
I cross my arms over my chest and lean back against the footboard of the bed, feigning nonchalance, when what I’m really doing is taking a mental catalogue of the weapons I have stashed throughout the room as well as visually probing Silver to see what she might have on her that I could use. I have another two mirror blades hidden between the cushion and arm of the seat Silver just vacated and in the nightstand drawer behind me. Sharpened wooden stakes wait under the foot of the bed and the clawfoot tub in the bathroom. And in a pinch, any of the furniture, chair-sized or smaller, can be used against an enemy.
Silver places a hand on the fireplace mantel and turns fully to me. She cants her head, and a few clumps of hair fall in front of her face. She doesn’t bother moving them. It’s shocking how different Forsaken look in the spectrum world than in the mortal one. In the other realm, Silver is one of the loveliest girls I’ve ever seen. Piercing teal eyes framed by raven black hair that waterfalls to mid-back. Petite, fae-like features, like her mother. Yeah, she’s a little pale—never being able to stand in the sun will do that to a person—but it plays into the Snow White look she rocks. But here, in the spectrum world, the only look she’s rockin’ is skeletal-vampire-zombie-chic.
Admittedly, her clothes are still nice, but they hang off her frame and everything clashes with her chalk-white, black-veined skin. Her hair looks like it’s never been brushed and was cut by a chainsaw. Rosy-red and plump in the mortal realm, her mouth is now dehydrated, chapped, and cracking. Her lips hold a tint of pink so pale, it almost looks like she doesn’t have any lips at all.
She’s surprisingly confident despite her off-putting appearance. But I suppose with the exception of Thorne, she’s in good company. In my opinion, all the Forsaken are equally hideous and the Fallen aren’t much better.
The silence that hangs between us as she studies me is uncomfortable, but after several days at Whitehold, I’m somewhat used to it. Almost every minute I spend outside this room is scrutinized by hostile eyes. I plan to wait her out. Eventually she’ll spill the reason why she’s here and then leave me to keep planning my escape.
“What did Steel tell you about the day I was captured by Forsaken?”
My lashes flutter, but besides that, I keep the splash of surprise off my face. I debate whether to lie or refuse to answer, but I don’t see the harm in admitting the truth. Maybe it will loosen Silver’s lips.
“Nothing. He never talks about you. My roommate told me what happened.”
A muscle twitches in Silver’s jaw, but her poker face is firmly in place. Bending, she picks up a piece of firewood from the rack at her feet. The bark is white, and she turns it over in her hands. “That makes sense. If I were him, I wouldn’t be keen to air my cowardice either.”
I scoff and roll my eyes. She lifts her gaze at the sound. “You were children. Seems petty to hold a grudge against a nine-year-old because he couldn’t save you.”
The laugh that comes from Silver is as brittle as the kindling in her hands. “He tried to save me? Is that the story you were told?”
I keep my lips pressed together. Uncrossing my arms, I plop a hand on my hip.
“The truth is far more nefarious than that. I may look like a monster now, but make no mistake, he’s the one who made me this way.”
She chucks the piece of wood into the fireplace, and the small blaze erupts in sparks and embers, startling me. I lift my arms in defense as she strides past me toward the door. With her hand on the knob she glances over her shoulder, a hint of vulnerability in her red-rimmed gaze. “He doesn’t deserve your loyalty, but he does deserve everything that’s coming to him.”
With that ominous statement she breezes out of the room, slamming the door behind her hard enough that the mirror in the bathroom rattles.
Silver may have been able to overcome the monster who tried to claim her body, but it left a scar. There’s no denying the darkness living inside her. Something . . . unhinged.
The rapid pounding of my heart belies the cool façade I put on for Silver. I don’t move as her clicking heels recede down the hall, and she wrenches open the elevator grate. I hold my breath as I wait to hear the faint clanging of gears as it lowers, taking Silver with it.
I remain immobile for another two minutes. I count out exactly one hundred and twenty seconds, eyes glued to the door the entire time. Because when Silver stormed out, slamming the door behind her, there was no telltaleclinkof the lock sliding into place. In her emotional turmoil over an event I’m starting to believe I know next to nothing about, Silver made one very grave mistake. She forgot to throw the lock on my cage, and there’s no way I’m letting the opportunity for escape pass me by.
* * *
Pressing my back into the stone wall, I will the shadows to darken around me even though I don’t have the power to perform that miracle. After complaining to Thorne about my bland wardrobe, I was given an abundance of black clothes—a not-insignificant win as I will myself to disappear into the night. I would have been spotted the moment I snuck out of the tower in one of the white ensembles. Although I’m sad I had to leave my new favorite gold and white leather jacket behind, sacrifices have to be made if I’m going to make it out of Whitehold alive.
My breaths are shallow as I creep along the shadows, moving painfully slow as I scan the dark for movement. The sentries along the wall are conditioned to look for threats from outside, not from within, but I’m not taking chances. Besides the lookouts, a Fallen or Forsaken could emerge from one of the buildings at any time. It’s not as if the compound has a curfew.
As always, the night is cold. Lavender snow has collected on the ground, making my footprints painfully obvious to anyone looking. Flurries twist and blow hard enough to create ripples in the spectrum air. With any luck they’ll cover my prints quickly.
I mentally run over the aspects of my plan. I stockpiled every detail I could about Whitehold over the last six days, feigning interest in different aspects of Thorne’s fortress. I now know the number of sentries along the wall and rooftops—always twenty-four—and the purpose of every building in the compound—all twelve of them. I memorized the layout and figured out where the cameras are mounted along the walls—I hope. I even determined what area of the mountain range offers the most coverage. All to give myself the best chance of survival for this exact moment. My escape strategy isn’t foolproof, and hinges on several variables going my way, but it gives me a sliver of a chance.
A twinge of guilt tickles my gut as I creep along. Thorne hasn’t been completely forthright with me—the bomb he dropped earlier today about my mother is proof of that—but I do believe his desire to see me join his cause—to join him—is sincere. It just comes with a warped sense of right and wrong. That the strong should rule the weak, and that power should be taken rather than granted.
I’ve been the weak one before, and how I was treated by the people who should have protected me wasn’t right. Thorne was raised with Forsaken and Fallen as his guides and mentors, and it shows.
I inch closer to my destination, the coliseum. It reaches into the sky at least five stories—shorter than the wall that protects the compound, but still high enough to be intimidating. It takes me only a few short minutes to locate the door Thorne took me through. It opens easily, free of any locks. I slip inside and out of the cold, shutting the door soundlessly behind me.
I brush snowflakes off my coat and shake them out of my hair, hoping like crazy that the thin layer of leather and my angel-born abilities are enough to keep me from freezing to death in the Canadian mountains when I escape.
Before moving into the maze beneath the coliseum, I take a moment to listen—stretching my sensitive hearing to the limit. When all I pick up is a faint dripping echoing somewhere in the tunnels, I take off, doing my best to follow the same path I traveled with Thorne.
As I glide deeper into the underground belly of the coliseum, I fist my hands to keep them from shaking. This part of my plan is more than a little dangerous. Even though I don’t hear as much as a yip from the barghest housed somewhere in this labyrinth, my mind’s eye works overtime to remind me about the jaggedness of their teeth, their foul breath, and sharp claws. I mentally recite the Enochian words I memorized to keep the beasts from tearing me to pieces when I free them. If they aren’t released, I won’t have a diversion to use to sneak beyond the wall.