“Prisoner transfer,” CJ says, as planned. “Cell block six hundred.”
The woman is older. Gray hair and glasses. She squints and steps forward.
“Are you new?”
CJ clenches their jaw. They stand frozen for the longest moment, and then just as I think we’re about to be caught, they unbutton the cuff of their left sleeve and push it up to reveal a goat-headed devil in red ink. I bite back a gasp.
The Phantoms tattoo.
I’ve actually never seen it. CJ’s always kept it hidden by covering their forearms with long sleeves or compression bands. I can’t help but stare.
The woman gulps, just as shocked as I am. This isn’t some small mark given to Phantoms grunts and cronies. This tattoo identifies CJ as a member of the Melinas family.
“Apologies,” the woman says. “Allow me to show you the way.”
CJ nods, buttoning their sleeve back up.
The woman heads toward the spiral staircase. CJ and I exchange relieved looks, then follow her onto the winding steps. I should mention: There’s no railing. The ascent stretches farther than the eye can see, and the stone steps look decidedly uneven.
What, they couldn’t get the permits for an elevator in hell?
I let out a quiet gasp. “Hellevator,” I whisper to CJ, but if they hear me, they don’t show it.
My thighs are burning before we even get to the eight hundreds(or the DCCCs, apparently). CJ doesn’t seem to be doing much better. But we can’t stop, so we just push through. The woman leading us, though much older, doesn’t appear to have any issue. Either her living body is in amazing shape or she has the kind of delusional confidence that allows her to believe she can do anything. Honestly, goals.
I’m about to collapse when we finally get to the proper floor. I want to sigh in relief, but now we have the problem of getting rid of this lady before we can actually do anything. If not, I might end up in yetanothercell.
This floor looks just like the one below. Lots of dark stone, broken bones, and torches. Prisoners wail behind iron doors. Ghostly fingers stretch through the bars and wide eyes peer out at me.
“Which cell?” the woman asks.
CJ swallows. “672.”
I don’t know if CJ is just choosing a cell close to Credence’s or if they happen to know that cell specifically is empty. Either way, it takes less time than I’d like to find door DCLXXII.
The woman fumbles at a ring of keys at her belt just as CJ and I notice the cell is occupied, a wide eye peering through the grate. CJ clears their throat and glances at me. They showed their tattoo, so we’re limited in what we can do here. If I weren’t the prisoner, I could talk our way out of this. If we didn’t need to keep CJ’s cover, I could take the woman out with a few swift punches.
But as soon as the woman notices the cell I’m being transferred to is occupied, their cover is blown anyway.
Time for drastic action.
The woman finds the key.
I’m going to pretend to take CJ out and make a run for it. It’s a risk, but at least it will distract the woman, maintain CJ’s cover, and leave an opening for us to continue the job.
The key clicks into the lock.
I cock back my elbow.
A sudden and all-consuming wave of despair washes over me.
This won’t work. It’s impulsive and risky, and there are way too many variables I can’t control. The woman is going to open the door, find the soul inside, and realize that CJ and I are lying. I’ll be put into a cell again and stuck there to rot forever.
The key turns.
The woman is just about to open the door when an alarm sounds, high and screechy and loud enough that I want to cover my ears.
Immediately, the woman reacts. She removes the key from the door.