Page 17 of King Elijah (The Zemiran Chronicles 2)

Seven

ELIJAH DIDN’T KNOWWayland’s real name. As a young child, he had seen the massive man come and go whenever his father had brought in new prisoners, requesting questionable and rather vile services.

When Elijah became king, he sought him out, but only when he believed it was justified. The ‘Reaper,’ they had called him, the very essence of death itself. He towered over most men, three times Elijah’s size. He had seen prisoners confess their wrongs just at the sight of him. That was the reason he had chosen someone like that. Elijah’s desperate hope was that Janelle would be frightened into giving up her secrets before the torture could even begin.

I hope I’ve not underestimated her, he thought.

Elijah winced at the thought of what was about to happen. The idea of hurting her made him feel physically ill. But he had an obligation to protect his people. A threat to the king was a threat to all Zemira, and it was his duty to get to the bottom of whatever plot she was spearheading.

The guards had placed Janelle back in the dungeon but in the farthest cell—a very different type of room. A reclining steel chair sat in the center, with thick metal clamps for the victims’ wrists and a tray of instruments at hand. Long iron chains hung loosely from the ceiling. The floor was marked with rust-colored stains, and no matter how many times Elijah had it cleaned, the evidence of all the blood spilled there would never be washed away.

Janelle’s head hung low. She had been strapped into the steel chair and a filthy rag shoved into her mouth. This was to keep her from choking on her tongue . . . and from biting. Elijah placed his finger gingerly under her jaw and tilted her head up to make eye contact with him. She tried to wrench free of the clamps, chewing at the gag in her mouth and looking up at him with a mixture of rage and terror. Elijah had to force himself to tear his gaze away before he weakened and changed his mind.

Then, inhumanly heavy steps echoed through the dungeon.

Elijah looked up at Wayland when he entered the room, constantly surprised that the man was so massive that his head grazed the ceiling.

The man didn’t speak; only his dark brown eyes met Elijah’s for a moment before turning to Janelle.

Elijah reached out and placed his hand carefully on his wrist. Wayland slowly turned, and with a whisper, he said, “No blood, Reaper. Don’t leave scars.”

Wayland gave one nod and trudged forward. Janelle wiggled again and tried to scream, but the gag around her mouth muffled her cries.

The Reaper looked down at the tray of instruments and shrugged. Everything there would slice skin, break a bone, and shed her blood. Torture wasn’t precisely a low-risk activity for the victim; regardless of what the outcome was, there would always be scars. Instead, he set the tray next to the cell door and grabbed the rag lying under the instruments, then headed to the back of the room. He unhooked the bronze jar from a water barrel and filled it to the brim with water.

“Who hired you?” Elijah asked as Wayland returned, hooked his free hand to the chair, and tilted it back until her legs bent back in an arc and her feet barely grazed the floor.

Janelle’s eyes narrowed at him, and she shook her head.

Wayland turned to the king, and Elijah nodded for him to continue.

The large man walked behind her, removed her gag, then placed the rag over her entire face, holding it tight behind her head with one strong hand. Janelle began to struggle and scream with rage beneath the fabric, twisting more viciously in the chair.Wayland then began to pour the water slowly over the rag. Slight gasps and gurgles left her lips before she went silent. All but the desperate slap of her bare feet thrashing against the chair’s clamps. He couldn’t do this. Not to a woman. Not to Aiden’s sister.

Elijah held up his hand for Wayland to stop. He removed the rag, and Janelle repeatedly gasped for air, choking, and coughing.

After a moment, she lifted her head slowly and smirked. “That’s all you’ve got?”

Elijah pressed his lips tightly together and bit down hard on his lip, trying to control his temper to not march himself over to her and—

He broke free of their gaze and remembered something else.

A smile crept on his lips.

“Wayland,” he said, craning his neck to look into his dark eyes. “Thank you for your time, but I think I have another way.”

Wayland, still not speaking, gave the king a nod and left the cell.

Elijah strode to her and placed his hand over her lips where she had bitten down on her own skin. He felt his heart sink at the sight on her face.

Blood was drawn, even though she had done it to herself when her animal instincts had taken over, thrashing, and fighting in the face of death. It wasn’t Wayland’s fault. It was Elijah’s.

Janelle cocked her head. Water and blood dripped down her chin onto Elijah’s hand as she took in the sight of him. Elijah knew he looked pale and strained. Disgust was evident in his expression. He disliked torture, let alone a twisted kind like what he had ordered Wayland to do.

“Maybe you aren’t like your father after all,” she said with a tiny tear threatening to fall down her cheek. “You seemed to care what happened to me just then.”

There was an unusual softness to her voice, but it wasn’t a compliment. The elf, who usually looked vibrant and fierce, now seemed resigned to her fate. Shoulders slumped, ready for it all to be over. It made him wonder what had really motivated her to come there. She didn’t look like a fanatic anymore; she looked like someone who had lost all hope. Perhaps whoever had sent her had forced her hand, promising her a fate worse than death if she failed.

Elijah knelt and placed his hands on her legs, tilting his head to the side. He ran his palms slowly up her thighs until she gasped, looking at him in horror.

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