Page 30 of Night of Death and Flowers

“Bread,” I state, although my tone comes out far more condescending than I would have liked it.

“I know that,” he snaps back, his lips pulling into a tight line. “Why do you have it?”

“To eat,” I drawl, and he rolls his eyes.

“You can’t bring that in here.”

“What?” I glance at the other enforcer, as if he may overrule the decision, but he shakes his head. “No food. No weapons.”

“In that order?” I ask. “My father, Vaknor, gave it to me to give to Drake.”

They pause, then one says, “You may proceed,” the enforcer says, his tone laced with a frustration he attempts to conceal.

Muttering under my breath, I walk between them, then up the narrow path, towards the building with three sides casting a shadow over the courtyard. Desperate screams echo from the incarns inside—assumed criminals undergoing interrogation, and those deemed unfit for society.

I walk around a weathered fountain, the mossy waters thick with dirt, and a sense of doom washes over me. On spotting a smaller building with a chimney billowing smoke, my stomach churns. It’s clear that this is where they dispose of the bodies. Then, I realize—the Incarcuri isn’t a place where incarns are freed; it is where they are brought to die.

Ash floats up my nose, agitating my senses. I sneeze, then glance at the billowing chimney of the building, horrified.

Enforcers stand on either side of the black double doors, several daggers in their belts. They glance over at the enforcers behind me, and a chill creeps through the courtyard. Stepping aside, one knocks four times, pauses, then follows it with two more.

Foggy breaths leave my lips as I wring my hands, the air somehow colder here than in town.

A woman opens the door, her blue, orb-like eyes with silver flecks announcing her position within Astraea’s coven. She looks at the enforcers, then turns her gaze to me. “Name.”

“Calista Bellevue.”

She sighs, pulling her graying, blond strands over one shoulder. “The incarns’ name,” she clarifies, as if I should know.

“Drake Redding.”

A long wooden desk stands in the center of the bare foyer, chipped and dented with time. Flames flicker from a candelabra, illuminating the scattered papers, quills and ink. “This way,” she orders, not offering me a second glance.

Undoubtedly, my father will be made aware soon that I visited here, only inducing his wrath further. Fortunately, I plan on fleeing as soon as I figure out how to set Drake free.

The woman leads me down a dark corridor, marks left behind where blood has been scrubbed from the walls. Her alarming tone echoes as she announces, “Do not touch the bars. They are infused with magic.”

I sense Death’s magic, harnessed from his coven, as I near the bars of the empty cells. “What will happen if I touch it?” I question, tracking each step to ensure I can find my way to Drake next time.

She doesn’t answer, but beckons me to follow her down an adjacent corridor, where the floor-to-ceiling cells are filled with incarns. Walls between them are only ten inches thick. Unintelligible whispers hang in the air as I gaze inside the dark holes. The men and women inside hide in the most shadowy corners of their cells, clutching their heads. Bald spots pattern what little hair they have left. One whispers to a wall. None of their eyes focused on anything at all, as if they are lost in memories and thoughts I cannot see.

The thought of Drake being confined in a place so devoid of hope tears into my spirit, sending waves of pain through my heart.

Finally, we reach the most depressing corridor of all. A lonely torch offers little light to the seemingly endless passageway where the cells are replaced by rooms. We stop in front of one door, created from heavy iron with two bars and a slot small enough to pass a slice of bread through. The numbers hang grimy on the front: 817.

“You may speak with him through here,” she explains, pointing at the slot. “Visiting hours are almost at an end.”

“Thanks,” I reply, failing to keep the condescension from my tone. “You have been so helpful.”

She slides herself back a few steps but keeps her eyes trained on me. I shouldn’t expect them to leave us alone, but none of that matters once I hear movement from inside. “Drake?”

“Wildflower?” His voice is hoarse and meeker than usual, and my heart sinks on hearing his endearment. I swallow hard as his bloodshot eyes come into view on the other side of the slot. “Don’t touch the door,” he warns. “How are you?”

I refrain from touching the slot, desperate to feel Drake. Within these walls, forgoing sunlight and sleep, I imagine its loneliness that breaks the incarns’ spirits first. His eyelids close, then slowly open, and I notice the same far-off look as the other incarns I passed. It’s as if he can’t focus. I’m losing him. “Drake? What in the Darklands are they doing to you?” I ask, my tone pleading as I glance over my shoulder and shoot a death glare at the woman behind me.

“Nothing. I’m fine,” he lies. I can’t see the rest of him, but just from the rectangle view of his face, I know something is horribly wrong.

“I’m going to come back to visit you,” I promise, enunciating each word so he knows what I mean.

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