Page 73 of Mongrel
“He needs a doctor,” Bowie repeats. “If you send for one, he might recover.”
Her brows narrow as she levels her threatening gaze on Bowie. “Liar. He’s recovered. What magic lies in your blood? I will have it for myself.”
Bowie tenses. “It doesn’t work that way. You must be gravely injured for my blood to be of any help. Unless you want one of your archers to shoot you with an arrow, it will do nothing.”
“I don’t believe you,” she spits. “Lie to me again and see what it costs you. Put your hand through the bars.”
Bowie doesn’t move. He’s frozen in place, as am I, my heart pounding loudly against my ribs.
“He can’t,” says Janos. “He’s already given too much. If he loses more blood, you’ll kill him, and then what will you have gained? Another corpse? Surely you’ve had your fill of those.”
Báthory’s vicious glare turns to Janos. Bowie and I have a brief moment to remember how to breathe. He hugs me close, and I settle against him as much as I can without drawing attention.
“I think you’re all a nest of liars, nosing around, asking questions whose answers don’t concern you. Why should I believe a thing you say?”
Janos grips the bars, knuckles white. “Because three hostages are better than two. If you must have blood, take mine.”
Bowie shudders. I hope he stays quiet and lets Janos make this sacrifice.
“You’d have me believe you’re the same type of creature as that one?” She points to Bowie.
“I am.”
“And if his blood is no good without a mortal wound, then why would yours be?”
“I’m older than he is. It’s me you want.”
She saunters toward the other cage. I let out a breath. Not relief, not in the slightest, but the farther away she moves, the easier it is to remember I have lungs.
“Put your hand through the bars.”
Janos hesitates, reluctance evident in his tight, rigid posture.
“Do it, or I’ll drain your”—her eyes dart between Janos and Bowie—“lover?” She studies Janos’s response, which is to scoff and feign indifference.
“Coworkers, at best,” answers Janos. “Our boss isn’t the sort of man you want to cross. If we don’t return soon, he’ll come looking. He knows where we’ve gone.”
“You continue to think words will gain you the upper hand. You’re locked in a cage in my personal chambers. I’m not afraid of yourboss. Send him along. As you can see”—she gestures to an empty cage—“I have plenty of room for guests.”
It’s one thing to hold grown men in these abysmal conditions, but as I imagine young girls in the same predicament, my mind rebels. Unthinkable.
“Your. Hand,” she snaps. “Now.”
With a resigned sigh, Janos shoves his hand through the gap in the bars, in a fist, palm down. I’m grateful to him for sparing Bowie. I wonder if he knows as well as I do that Bowie doesn’t drink enough. I’m not sure how much blood he can spare before that becomes a new problem for us, and though I wish no harm to Janos, he earns my respect with his selfless sacrifice.
Báthory plucks a gleaming sharp dagger from her torture wall and returns to the cage, an eager flare in her dark gaze.
Janos yanks his arm back in. “I can do it myself.”
“And spare me the pleasure?” she asks. “You’ll do no such thing. Give me your hand.”
He extends it again, strong and steady. I admire him for not trembling. There’s no fear in his eyes, only hatred. He doesn’t flinch as she drags the blade across the meaty-soft flesh of his palm.
A line of blood wells to the surface. The scent blooms strong in my nostrils. Báthory’s eyes widen. She takes his wrist and yanks him forward, his shoulder against the bars, arm extended as far as possible.
“My guards are stationed just outside,” she warns. “Remain still, and I won’t call for them to pluck off yourcoworker’sfingernails one by one. Understood?”
“Understood.”
