Chapter 4: The Chain Below
1387 Words
The guard’s fingers hovered beneath the alarm chain.
Selene Voss kept her blade against his wrist.
Behind her, Bram Kendrick coughed under the torn corpse shroud. Every breath sounded too loud in the narrow passage.
The bier lay on its side. One carrier had backed into the wall. The other stared at Bram as if death had personally insulted him.
“The ash failed,” Selene said.
Her lie needed shape before fear gave the men one of their own.
The guard nearest the alarm swallowed.
“He’s alive.”
“Briefly.”
Bram wiped blood from his throat and looked at the red on his hand.
“That sounds encouraging.”
Selene did not turn.
The guard’s eyes widened.
“Ash seizures can resemble waking,” she said. “If you report one, Commander Cynthia will question why the dose was disturbed during transit.”
Neither carrier wanted Cynthia examining his work.
Selene lowered the blade from the alarm chain.
“Lift him.”
The men hesitated.
Bram planted one hand against the floor and began to stand.
The shroud slipped from his shoulders. His legs shook from the death ash, but there was nothing corpse-like in the way his attention moved between exits.
One carrier reached for his short sword.
Selene caught the man’s wrist.
“He remains mine until the furnace.”
Bram looked directly at her.
“Charming.”
His voice scraped against the wound.
The alarm guard glanced toward the gate behind them. “The furnace is east.”
“It is also attended.”
Selene pointed toward an unmarked iron door farther down the passage. “The lower preparation vault is empty.”
“Executioners don’t prepare bodies.”
“This one is breathing.”
That settled nothing, but rank did.
The carriers lifted the bier. Bram allowed Selene to push him onto it. The moment his back touched the wood, his hand closed around her forearm.
His grip was weak only by Alpha standards.
“Where?” he asked.
“Somewhere you can stop proving you’re alive.”
“You covered my face.”
“There were witnesses.”
“And now?”
“There are fewer.”
His gaze moved to the two carriers.
Selene pulled her arm free before he decided the number should become smaller.
“Lie down.”
“I’ve done enough of that.”
The alarm guard shifted toward the chain again.
Selene pressed two fingers into the ash point beneath Bram’s wound.
His strength vanished. He dropped onto the bier, jaw clenched against a sound.
Hatred cleared the bond pressure from his face.
Good. Hatred could be managed.
“Move,” she ordered.
They carried him through the unmarked door.
The air beyond it tasted of damp iron. Narrow corpse routes divided beneath the palace, built to keep execution remains away from ceremonial halls. Drain channels ran along both walls.
Selene closed the door and retrieved the iron locking pin hanging from its frame. She drove it through the brackets.
The alarm guard remained outside.
He could still report them.
He would first have to explain why he had permitted the transfer.
Fear of procedure had bought Selene minutes, perhaps less.
The carriers took Bram down a sloped passage. His breathing grew stronger with each turn. The ash was burning out too quickly to keep him helpless for long.
At the first junction, one man slowed.
“This isn’t the furnace route.”
“You are finished,” Selene said.
Both carriers stopped.
She removed two black execution seals from the fastening at her belt and held one toward each man.
“You delivered the body to lower preparation. Return to the public yard and report that.”
The thinner carrier accepted his seal.
“What if he walks back up?”
“He won’t.”
Bram lifted his head from the bier.
The carrier stared at him.
Selene stepped between them.
“Go.”
They left without collecting the shroud.
Once their steps faded, Bram rolled off the bier.
His knees failed.
Selene caught him around the ribs before he struck the drain. Heat pressed through his torn shirt. The mate bond tightened at the contact, carrying a hard pulse through her chest.
He smelled alive.
Too alive for the corpse record now bearing his name.
Bram shoved away from her and hit the wall.
“You cut my throat.”
“Shallowly.”
“You stopped my heart.”
“It restarted.”
His expression sharpened. “Was that the entire plan?”
“The plan required you to remain unconscious.”
“You could have mentioned it.”
“While Malakor watched?”
“You found time to signal breathing.”
“I gave you two heartbeats.”
“I noticed.”
His hand went to the wound. Blood coated his fingers again.
Selene removed a folded cloth from the supply shelf fixed beside the bier alcove. She threw it to him.
He caught it one-handed.
“Press that there.”
Bram looked at the cloth, then at her.
“Is this rescue?”
“Not if you keep speaking.”
A corner of his mouth moved before pain erased it. He pressed the cloth to his throat.
Selene went ahead.
The lower vault lay beyond a second iron door. She pulled its pin from the wall bracket and entered first.
The room had once held condemned prisoners awaiting private executions. A stone bench occupied one wall. A drain crossed the floor. An iron ring had been fixed waist-high beside the bench.
A length of chain lay beneath it.
Selene had not entered this vault in months.
Bram stopped in the doorway.
His gaze settled on the chain.
“No.”
The word was quiet.
Footsteps sounded faintly from the corpse route behind them.
Selene judged distance. Two turns away. Perhaps three.
She seized Bram’s arm and pulled him inside.
He resisted despite the ash still weakening his legs. His shoulder struck the frame. The cloth slipped from his throat, exposing the wet cut.
“You said the furnace,” he said.
“I lied.”
“I gathered that.”
The approaching steps grew clearer.
Selene retrieved the chain from beneath the wall ring. Rust marked the outer links, but the manacle still closed cleanly.
Bram braced himself against the bench.
“You dragged me off an execution block to put me in another cell.”
“I moved a dead rebel through a guarded palace. If you are seen, that death becomes mine.”
“And this makes it acceptable?”
“No.”
The answer stopped him for half a breath.
Selene crouched and closed the manacle around his ankle.
Bram kicked.
She avoided his heel, caught his calf, and twisted his leg against the stone bench. He reached for her shoulder. His fingers closed around the back of her uniform.
The bond flared at the contact.
Heat ran from his hand toward her nape. Her body wanted to turn into him.
Selene drove her forearm against his damaged ribs.
Pain forced him back.
The manacle clicked shut.
Bram grabbed the chain and pulled. Iron struck the wall ring.
“You saved me,” he said. “This is still a cage.”
Selene rose with the locking pin in her hand.
“Yes.”
No defense. None would survive the sight of him chained below the palace.
The footsteps stopped outside the preparation-vault door.
Someone tested the iron pin Selene had set through its brackets.
Bram heard it. His attention shifted toward the corridor.
Selene caught the shroud from the floor and threw it over the bench, hiding the brightest blood. Then she pressed Bram down beside it.
“If they enter, you are dead.”
“They already wrote that down.”
The outer pin scraped.
Selene moved toward the vault door.
Bram pulled once more against the chain, measuring it.
“Executioner.”
She looked back.
He sat alive beneath the palace, blood on his throat and iron around his ankle. Anger had replaced every trace of bond shock.
“If Malakor finds me,” he said, “I won’t protect your lie.”
Selene closed the vault door between them and drove the locking pin home.
On the other side, Bram’s chain struck stone.
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