I tried the bars again, but they might as well have been welded to the bones of the earth. My fingers slipped on old rust.
Moab looked ready to break something. He pressed his forehead to the wall and just breathed, chest expanding and contracting like he was fighting a bear for space.
Scarlette watched him, a note of concern sneaking into her scowl. “He’s not built for cages,” she muttered.
I nodded. “None of us are.”
More shouts, closer this time, and then a key ring rattled through the hall. Someone was coming, torch bobbing in a restless fist.
Scarlette shot a look at Celeste. “You going to do anything, or just sit there like a Buddha?”
Celeste didn’t answer, but I saw her fingers move, tracing something on her palm. A shape, a sign, or maybe just an old habit.
The footsteps stopped at our cell. The man on the other side was built like Moab, but meaner, all scars and teeth. His eyes were small and close-set, and he looked at us the way a butcher looks at a side of beef.
He spoke. “Which one of you is the priest?”
We just stared at him.
He spat in the drain. “No matter. Tomorrow you all die.” He laughed, the kind of sound that promised follow-through, then shouldered his torch and moved on.
Moab slammed a fist into the bars, hard enough to rattle the frame. “Fuck!”
Scarlette tensed. “He’s right, isn’t he? We’re going to die here.”
Celeste looked at me, her eyes black as spit. “Only if you let them.”
Her certainty scared me more than the butcher outside.
I stared at the ceiling, watched the torch shadows crawl and writhe, and wondered if Catherine was anywhere near. If she was, I’d find her. Even if I had to drag my broken soul through every century of hell to do it.
***
The hall had gone quiet for at least an hour, which was how you knew real trouble was on the way.
The usual racket—the moaning, the shouts, the rattling of distant chains—shut off like someone cutting power to a haunted house. The silence grew a skin. I gripped the bars and watchedtorchlight crawl up the corridor wall, washing out every color but blood orange.
First came two guards in matching red uniforms, tall hats, and boots that shone even in this shithole. They carried muskets at parade rest, but their faces said they'd use the bayonets first and reload later. Between them strode a man who made the other two look like wind-up toys: upright, pressed uniform, hair clipped so tight the scalp shone, boots that clicked instead of thudded. He looked like he'd never farted or sneezed without a signed order from God.
His eyes scanned the cell, then lingered on each of us in turn.
He fixed on Moab first—maybe because he took up the most air. Then Scarlette, then Celeste, and last, me. His gaze was cold and perfect. It measured us down to the marrow.
He stopped two feet from the bars. “State your names,” he barked.
Moab gave him nothing, arms folded, face set to stone.
Scarlette hesitated, then spat, “Sarah. Sarah Byrne.” I almost laughed—she had a fake name ready, even here.
Celeste smiled, sweet as sugar. “Marie. Marie Laveau.”
He didn’t blink. “And you?” he said, pinning me to the back wall with that stare.
My brain defaulted. “James,” I said, the name rolling out on instinct. “James O’Toole.”
He twitched. “I see.” He looked us over again, starting to circle the cell like he was casing a safe for weak points. “You claim to be travelers. But your clothes are…unusual. Your speech even more so.” He let the insult hang in the air, then snapped, “What are you?”
Scarlette rolled her eyes. “People. Just people.”