Imprisoned Read online

  “What…what do you mean?” Ari’s mouth was suddenly dry. For a moment, she’d almost forgotten the hairy convict and his promise to put her on his “list” but Wheezer’s words brought her situation home again in a visceral way.

  “I mean if Tapper’s got you on his list, there’s nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, laddie. He’s at the top of the heap here—does what he likes.” Wheezer shook his head regretfully. “Sorry about that. You seem so nice and young too. But then…” He sighed. “That’s the way Tapper likes ‘em.”

  “I can’t just let him rape me!” Ari protested.

  “Now, now—it’s no fun but just between you and me Tapper don’t last forever—especially in the tight ones.” Wheezer winked conspiratorially. “Just squeeze him a bit once he’s all the way in you and he’ll blow his load before you know it. Your arsehole will be sore for a bit, so it will, but you’ll get over it.”

  “I don’t want to ‘get over’ being raped!” Ari protested. “I can’t—”

  But just then Wheezer’s tablet made a soft ding.

  “Oh, lookit that—your number already came up.” He nodded at the tablet. “Come along with me, boy. We’ll get you to the processing desk and into BleakHall before you know it.”

  That was exactly what Ari was afraid of.

  Three

  The day was going like every other day in the past six months, Lathe thought morosely as he straightened the medical supplies in the small infirmary. The guttural grunts of the Horvath guards, the shouts of the prisoners which sometimes escalated into screams of fury until he went out and broke up whatever fight had started about who was next in line or who had stepped on whose foot or some other inconsequential disagreement. The endless stream of small injustices and cruelties that wore a male down to the bone because there was nothing light or good—no vestige of kindness or decency—anywhere in the echoing black metal halls of BleakHall.

  It was always the same—it would never end. He would never see daylight outside these walls or breathe clean air, uncontaminated by screams of pain or the rough, trollish laughter of the Horvaths again…

  Easy, Lathe, he told himself, running a hand through his hair and sighing. You have all the evidence you need for the Yonnite Council of Mistresses and you’ll be out of here soon. The tunneler nanites are almost finished with their job.

  Yes, the nanites. He sighed again. They were supposed to be plan B—something that he would only use if there were no other options. But the same day he’d gotten into BleakHall himself, the inmate who was supposed to be his inside contact had been fatally shanked in the exercise yard. There went plan A and so Lathe was forced to employ plan B—the tunneler nanites he’d brought in his Prison ID tag. Even now they were digging a passageway, starting in the small supply room closet of the Infirmary, right under the prison to the far edge of the perimeter fence outside.

  Sitting outside the fence and camouflaged by light-bending see-me-not tech was a Kindred shuttle outfitted and fueled up—just waiting for Lathe to take charge of it. The minute the nanites informed him the tunnel was done, via uplink to the controls in his ID badge, Lathe would be out of here. He would take any Kindred who might be imprisoned with him too—though there weren’t any right now.

  Which meant he was all alone in this hell hole of misery and cruelty. And since the nanites could only dig a certain amount a day to avoid tripping the prison’s sensors, he seemed likely to remain here alone for at least another week.

  You can hang in there for a week, Lathe told himself. You can do anything for a week. Soon you’ll be out. Soon you can bring the evidence of what the Horvaths are doing in this place to light and bring the people who own BleakHall to justice. Thonolan will be avenged…

  Speaking of the Horvaths and their cruelty, he could hear evidence of it now, right outside the infirmary room door. Grunts and screams were coming from the cavity search line where Mukluk, the sadistic head of the guards, was currently doing searches.

  Most of the Horvaths were simple creatures—stupid and slow-witted, Lathe had found. But there were some, like Mukluk, who were brighter than the rest. And unfortunately what they turned their superior intelligence to was finding new ways to be cruel to the prisoners. Or simply twisting routine prison procedures to suit their sadistic needs. As Mukluk apparently was now, just outside the infirmary room door.

  “Please,” Lathe heard a high, almost feminine voice pleading. “Please don’t! I swear I don’t…don’t have anything up there. Didn’t the X-ray and the mobile Magnetic device tell you that?”

  There was a burst of rough laughter from Mukluk and the other Horvath guards and then a hissing, growling voice answered the new inmate.

  “Thoze scanz only zzhow metal. Have to do a manual cavity zzearch for everything elzz. Now bend over and zzpread your legzz.”

  Lathe tried not to listen. As a medical doctor, the kinds of atrocities that went on here turned his stomach. Yet even he had been forced to kill twice since coming to BleakHall. He had been fighting for his life and the kills had cemented his reputation as someone not to be messed with, since he’d been using the poison attribute of his fangs. But still—he had killed. And not guards either but other prisoners. Though the Goddess knew there were some here that deserved to stay behind BleakHall’s walls forever. He hadn’t understood that when Commander Sylvan had first tried to tell him but—

  “Please! Please, no!” The pleading voice outside his door sounded so young—so innocent somehow. Lathe tried in vain to ignore it. There was nothing he could do—he’d tried to institute a new, more humane way of cavity searches when he first gained access to the infirmary but the Horvaths wouldn’t allow it. They liked inflicting pain.

  “Please!” the voice moaned again and this time Lathe broke. He couldn’t stand it somehow—couldn’t stand to hear the pain of this unseen prisoner. Though he doubted the Horvaths would let him interfere, he had to at least try.

  He slammed open the infirmary door and saw a youngish man—really no more than a boy—bent naked over the searching table. The boy had tousled black hair and big, dark eyes that were filled with fright. Two of the Horvath guards had him by the arms, forcing his flat chest down to the cold metal of the table and the third—Mukluk—was standing behind him, one thick clawed finger ready to probe.

  The Horvaths had digits about twice as thick as a normal humanoid’s and their scaly skin was as rough as sandpaper. Even worse, each thick finger was tipped with a blunt, curving claw.

  The combination meant that Mukluk almost always drew blood when he was doing the cavity searches for new prisoners. Not that the other Horvath guards were particularly gentle but Mukluk was especially rough—he took sadistic delight in the pain and humiliation he caused when he shoved a sandpaper-rough digit into each new prisoner’s arse and dug around, looking for contraband.

  And now he was about to do it to the dark-haired boy the other Horvaths had spread out over the table.

  Though Lathe had witnessed this particular cruelty more times than he cared to count, he suddenly couldn’t anymore. As the lizard guard prepared to shove one scaly, clawed finger into the helpless, trembling body before him, Lathe held up a hand and shouted, “Stop!”

  “Zztop?” The two Horvaths holding the boy’s arms looked confused. Mukluk only looked irritated.

  “Why zzhould I zztop?” he demanded, flickering out his forked tongue to swipe at one slitted yellow eyeball. “Thiz zzearch muzt be done.”

  Lathe had to think quickly.

  “Of course it has to be done, but you don’t want to be the one to do it. Not on this prisoner,” he said quickly. “Not if he has what I think he has.”

  “What he hazz?” Mukluk peered at the prisoner suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

  “Hang on—let me examine him. I need to verify my suspicions,” Lathe said brusquely.

  Walking over to the table, he yanked the boy’s chin up and stared into his eyes.

  Those eyes. Dark eyes—a