The Poison Bride

Chapter 4 The Unopened Door

The dungeon corridor was damp enough to slick the walls, and water had gathered in the joints between the stones. After the fire upstairs, the cold bit through my coat.

Three days, and Elara was still dragging out this performance. The smell, the hour, and Galton's interruption had worn through my patience.

I held the stone bowl level as I walked. She would get the antidote after she heard what I had to say. I would not reward another display like this one.

I rehearsed the reprimand on the way down. Her sister had needed her, and the pack came before her comfort.

I would remind her of every meal she had eaten under my protection and every rule she had questioned.

Once she apologized, I would let her drink. If she behaved, I might even hold her afterward and stop the trembling I expected.

She belonged to me, and three days in a cell should have taught her what that meant.

The guard at the end of the hall bowed, then missed the keyhole. Rust scraped inside the lock. When I told him to hurry, he lowered his head until I could no longer see his expression.

“Open it,” I commanded, my patience worn thin.

He put his shoulder to the door and pulled it inward. Damp earth and mildew rolled out first.

Underneath lay a stale, sweet odor I had smelled on old kills left too long before burial. I almost asked the guard how long it had been there.

When my eyes adjusted, I found Elara curled on the dirty hay in the far corner. Her thin tunic had ridden up at one ankle, and both bare feet were gray with cold.

Her back was turned. She did not move when the door scraped or when my boots entered the cell.

“Get up, Elara.” My order bounced off the stone.

Water dripped from the ceiling. Elara gave no answer.

I tightened my grip on the bowl. After all this trouble, she was still trying to defy me with silence.

“I said, get up!” I crossed the cell without setting down the bowl. She would take the medicine on her feet.

My shadow fell over her. She didn’t flinch. Fine. If she wouldn't rise on her own, I would force her.

I caught her shoulder to haul her to her feet.

Cold shot from her shoulder into my palm.

Her thin tunic covered flesh as rigid as winter meat. I had held injured wolves through worse cold and felt their muscles jump beneath my hands.

No muscle moved beneath my hand. The cold came from her, not the dungeon.

I shook her shoulder and waited for a protest, a sleepy curse, any sound at all.

Her body rustled across the hay. Her head rolled loosely to one side.

My fingers slipped on her tunic. I tried to close them again and could not.

My other hand, the one holding the bowl, went slack.

The stone bowl slipped from my hand and broke into a dozen pieces. Green antidote ran between the filthy floor stones and disappeared.