Snow ✓

The Inmate

The centaur carried her over his shoulder with her hands tied behind her back, up the incline into the hull and down identical, dimly lit corridors before he dumped her in a corner that looked the same as the rest. The mouthy one then tied up her ankles and bound them to her wrists, as if preparing a hog intended for slaughter. But she didn't think about that. Her mind was too busy curling inward like a terrorized armadillo. She took in her surroundings like someone passing by an open window: the mouthy man griping about the pain between his legs, boasting of all the crude things he would have liked to do to the boy; his comrades' silent discomfort; and the uneasy glances the man with the melted face kept throwing her way. All the while, Gran bled out in her mind's eye again and again, like a broken phonograph with a garish skip.

The chatter stopped when a man in a long white coat arrived. His gloved fingers poured over her body, massaged her neck muscles, checked her pulse, turned her head this way and that, and shined a tiny light into her eyes. When he slipped a hand through a tear in her dress below her left breast, wiped the skin there with a cold compress stinking of chemicals and injected her with a hot liquid that caused her innards to coil, she merely inclined her head to peer past the spectacles to his ghost-grey eyes that complimented his receding hairline.

This is procedural, the eyes said. Complimentary for all guests.

He left her with a slow burn pulsing under her skin. The centaur, too, had gone, though she didn't remember his leaving. The one who sounded like he had a snake lodged in his throat graced her with a crisp smile, got his knees, leaned between her and the wall and sniffed. Her thighs instinctively clenched and nausea rolled through her stomach.

"Stop it!" the burnt one barked and capped it with an oath, but mouthy wasn't keen on obeying orders.

Panic dripped into the fog of her brain slower than a caterpillar spins a cocoon. Her adrenaline spent, she was beginning to crash, and it took everything in her to stay awake.

He returned to his knees and his comrade kicked him like a stray dog. It didn't deter him. The burnt one stalked off, muttering curses.

Her skin pimpled at his warm breath and she wondered if this wasn't one of those dangerous men Mat had warned her about right before she lost the fight and fell asleep.

Lungs dry and her mouth full of humid night air escaping her in quick bursts, Snow ran through the Burnt Forest, a threat hot on her heels. She tripped in her haste and turned to meet her aggressor and found herself face to face with a wolf, white pelt bristling, muzzle pulled back in a toothy grin. If she reached out, she could flick a fuzzy ear. It licked its lips in the most human way. A sudden burst of warmth shot across her back and she awoke in a sudden panic, blinking back tears as she whipped her head around to find the mouthy man clutching at his throat, blood seeping through his fingers. A vision of terror, he gave one final gurgle, then slumped against the wall, dead.

"Sorry about that."

Snow blinked up at three new faces. Two of them wore the same get-ups as her captors: combat boots, boiled leather shirts, coarse cotton caps and trousers with belts sporting blades, a bludgeon and a long stick. But the one who had spoken lacked the stoic demeanor of the others and while he wore the same trousers and boots, a woven grey sweater hung loose at his shoulders and his belt was empty, his only weapon the bloody dagger in his hand. He wiped it clean on the trousers of the guard to his right, earning himself a glare, then cut her loose before handing the dagger to the same guard who holstered it in her belt.