Condemned

42 | Jael

The barn is a big, brutal place, I realize, dangling upside-down in my wolf shackles, somewhere I don't even recognize.

It smells like shit, piss, blood, and death in here, in fairly equal portions. Reality does not elude me. What goes into this cell, isn't well cared for and doesn't come out.

I've been a wolf throughout this unknown stretch of time. I've been in and out of consciousness. Brock hits me with something wherever he feels like it. Then I bleed and pass out. I don't quite heal before it starts all over again.

There's no light source other than the buzzing fluorescent bulb in the hall across from me. It could be hours, a whole day, or more since I was torn from my reason for living.

I promised that I wouldn't take anyone down with me, and I intend to keep it, but if there is any hope, at least for Sam's sake, then...

Help, 9-1-1, S.O.S., code red, repeat.

I don't know where they brought her or if she's dead already. I'm not aware of anyone's status, allies or otherwise, or if any treachery was discovered besides mine. All I'm getting back is silence. Still, I do my best to keep any incriminating speculation out of the loudest part of my mind just in case Rollin is ever in tune.

My own misery is interrupted by the faint sound of whimpering. At first, I think it might be Sam, being held captive nearby. But then, during one of my slow revolutions past the hallway light source, I see a group of disheveled girls being herded through.

I lose count at eight.

They're young and scared, especially when they see me, the massive, half-dead wolf hanging from the ceiling of a cell that may look something like theirs. As far as potential virgins go, they're not the cream of the crop. They're girls no one would immediately notice if they went missing. But, in a large enough group, you'd think it would warrant an investigation, something Ishmael would do whatever he could to avoid. He'd want to keep the bribable but somewhat well-meaning cops out of his immediate business. With one girl, it's a tragedy. With a group this big, it'd be national news if anyone happens to put two and two together.     

Ivy is getting desperate, and Ishmael is allowing it. There's that December 1st deadline for the Malecek thing, and she clearly hasn't given up on the idea. She still has a couple of weeks, and with this sample size, there's a decent chance she could have this all sorted out in a week, maybe less, if the "cycle" timing is right.

My humanity is in rough shape, and any sense of heroism is dead. Because I fell in love with Sam, I'm the reason these girls are here. Even so, I can't dig up even the faintest glimmer of sympathy for them. Maybe it's because they have better odds of survival than I do, or I'm getting better at assigning blame where it belongs.  

As this thought is coming to mind, Ivy breaks into the scene, something I wasn't fully anticipating. She's at the end of the long line of girls, keeping them in order with malice and verbal abuse.

When she makes a point to glare into my cell, I attempt to "play dead." I have no doubt I look the part.

Things really can't get any worse, but then they find a way. I'm too sluggish and just an instant too late. Our eyes collide. And Ivy is well aware that I was trying, yet again, to deceive her. And with her standards crashing and burning and workload multiplying, she's in absolutely no mood for it.

After the girls are squared away out of my view, Ivy returns with keys and grants herself access to my cell. She's carrying these lopping shears that are half the size of her. I'm no landscaper, but they're the kind you'd use for the big problems, like those wayward tree-branches that are the size of my forearm. She may start with my fingers or toes, but I doubt that's where she'll finish.