My mouth is dry. So dry. I roll over, feeling the bars of my cage press into my side. My water bottle sits before me. I’ve been rationing sips. I can’t give in and drink more too quickly.
Grunt sits against the far wall, his hefty legs kicked out before him. He stood for the first two days solid. Impressive.
In fact, it wasn’t until the morning of day four that Grunt actually sat down. Other than that, the troll doesn’t leave the room for any reason. Every so often, he pulls out a flask of water or a strip of jerky from the leather sack he’s got tried to his waist. That’s it.
I lick my lips, but that only makes them feel more chapped. “So, how does it work for you guys?”
No reply.
Not that I expect one. Grunt never answers. All he does is stare ahead with his all-black eyes. Still, a one-sided conversation is better than silence. So I go on. “Don’t you ever need to hit the bathroom?”
Still nothing.
“Because at some point, you’ll have to go.” I grab my water bottle with both hands. It helps to string out the drinking process for as long as possible. “You live underground, right? That means you must have to hunt and leave no trail, that kind of thing. I’m guessing that nothing leaves a mark like crapping in a cave. Stuff like that would take thousands of years to go away. Didn’t I read something about dinosaur poop getting found in a cavern somewhere? I’m pretty sure I did.”
Grunt doesn’t even blink.
“Back to my theory,” I continue. “If you’re sneaking around underground, I’m guessing you must be able to hold it for weeks at a time.” I unscrew the plastic cap. “Not that I usually spend quality time contemplating bathroom practices of trolls. Still, I’m sure you understand. There’s not much else to do here.”
A small pile of shattered glass and wood lays nearby. Straining through the bars, I try to grab a shard of what’s left of my glass slipper and wooden pumpkin. They’re just out of reach. “Grunt, could you kick me a little of that junk on the floor? Sentimental value, you know.” I’ve only asked the troll this question a hundred and thirty seven times. You never know. Maybe things will change on attempt number one hundred and thirty eight.
“What did you say?” I ask.
Grunt doesn’t even blink, let alone reply.
“Tell me about your favorite food. I’m pegging you as a chocolate fan.”
Still zip.
I’m out of small talk, so I press the bottle to my lips and take a precious sip.
The final drops of water settle onto my tongue. Sweet bliss.
For the first few days here, I waited for Bry, Knox, and a ton of shifters to burst through the walls. Nope. Then I figured at least Blackaverre would pop in with a pity drink. Nothing. Marchesa was right. I’m locked away.
Even so, it’s not in me to give up. Closing my eyes, I reach out to my magic once more. I can’t access so much as a single silver dust particle.
And time is running out.