Waiting and not knowing is excruciating—at times, more so than the torture I endured at Doctor Sting’s hands. For the first couple of days, I held out the hope that James would contact me, that he would realize the information is real and would be grateful and ready to take me back. But that hasn’t happened, and all I got is silence, even after I found out the details of Elliot and Zara’s meeting and passed them along to Aydan—who didn’t seem to have much time for me either.
Now, hope has abandoned me for good, and I find again that life can very quickly lose its meaning when there’s no one left to look up to, to argue with, to love. So, every minute, I die a little and feel, not like a Trojan, but like a parasite among parasites.
I eat their food and shuffle their dishes. Onyx got me a job in her kitchen, and it revolts me—the thought that I’ve become their servant. I tell myself there’s a reason I’m here, that something will happen soon, and—when it does—I’ll be ready to make a difference.
“One more day. Only one more day,” I murmur, knowing that I won’t survive another hour, if I look too far into the future.
“She’s talking to the dirty dishes again,” a lanky girl with eyes like a lynx says. She’s in charge of keeping the kitchen clean, picking up spills, taking out the garbage, scrubbing the sinks.
I ignore her, so does everyone else. This place runs from 4 A.M. to 11 P.M. nonstop. No one has time for the crazy girl who repeats everything she says—not if she keeps the conveyor belt flowing and the industrial dishwasher pumping out clean pots and dishes, which I do, flawlessly. So well that even Lyra seems to have lost interest in me, even after I went missing for two hours the night I met James. I guess she’s now bored of always finding me where I’m supposed to be, even when she pops in at the oddest times.
It has been a week since that night, and all I’ve gotten for my efforts is a big fat zero. Elliot’s meeting with Zara is tomorrow in conference room 103. I will wait until then. If nothing happens, I guess it will be time to take Aydan’s advice and leave.
“One more day,” I repeat under my breath.
Wiping my hands on my dirty apron, I head back out into the dining area. It’s dinner time, the busiest meal of the day, when the creatures are back from chasing the humans who fight back, when their hunting stories are the loudest and I’m more likely to stab someone’s eyeball with the tip of a sauce-smeared table knife.
I keep my head low and walk between tables, picking up trays and delivering them to the blue conveyor belt. Most, if not all, don’t pick up after themselves. The pecking order is clear. Everyone has a rank and, with that, no need for manners. If Azrael takes over me again, at least I can be consoled by the fact that her rank will have her doing dishes for the rest of her life.
A large leg appears in my path. I stop, look up and find that it’s attached to Tusks.
“I see you’ve found a job that suits you,” he says, stretching his horrible mouth in a twisted, foul grin. There’s greasy sauce on his chin and half-chewed food visible past his tusks. He smells like a pork chop. How anyone can stand to eat with him is a mystery, and a good one, judging by every occupied seat at his table.
I ignore him and try to walk around. He scoots his chair and lifts his leg higher to better block my way. I turn to go back the way I came, but he stands and plants his massive body in front of me.
“I have another job for you,” he says. “My boots need shining. I want you to clean them … with your tongue.”
Everyone at his table laughs as if they’ve never heard anything funnier.
“C’mon, what are you waiting for?” he demands, sweeping my feet from under me with one swift kick.
I land on all fours and, again, find myself face to face with his massive scuffed boots. My ribs hurt with phantom reminders of his vicious kicks. I try to stand, but he puts a foot on my shoulder and keeps me down. His dinner pals snicker.
“Lick. My. Boots,” he orders me, his foot crushing me down.
My arms tremble as I try to keep myself from collapsing on my stomach. I push upward, but he’s too heavy. My elbows buckle. My face is inches from his boot. I work a thick ball of saliva in my mouth and spit it on top of the shoelaces.
“Lick them yourself, if you can, you dirty hog,” I say, ready to get trampled again, because I’d rather die than stoop any lower than I already have.
Someone at an adjacent table cackles. “Nope, I don’t think he could get the boot past that regrettable grill.”
Both tables burst into laughter. Tusks lets out a guttural growl, pushes his foot out and sends me rolling to the side. I hurry to my feet, turn to run, but his enormous hand takes me by the neck and reels me back in. I duck to one side, get free and throw a round kick to his stomach. He grunts, but that’s it. It’s like hitting a heavy bag, not someone made of actual flesh and blood.
I throw another kick. He blocks it, grabs my leg and hurls me on top of his table. Drinks and plates fly in every direction. Everyone scatters. Tusks lumbers in my direction, his pig eyes glinting with murder. I paw the table and come up with a handful of spaghetti dripping with red sauce. Aiming for his face, I fling the food and hit the mark.
Tusks swats noodles off his eyes. Snarling like a beast, he pulls me down, grabs me by the neck and winds his fist back. I close my eyes.
“I said ORDER!” a commanding voice shouts.
The room goes utterly silent. Tusks’s fist freezes midway, and it is then that I notice my head has started buzzing just a little louder.
Chairs scrape against the floor as everyone stands to attention.
Elliot is in the room.