Chapter 92 The Tragedy
VALENTINA
I've been in this cell for thirty-six hours. Silver-lined walls. No windows. One door with a lock I can't pick.
Alone with my thoughts. With my fear. With my certainty that Callum will try something stupid.
The cell is small. Six feet by eight feet. Concrete floor. Metal cot bolted to the wall. Toilet in the corner with no privacy.
I've counted the stones in the wall. 247 of them. Counted the hours. 36 and counting. Counted my regrets. Too many to track.
Footsteps in the corridor.
I stand. Back against the far wall. Ready to fight even though there's nowhere to run.
The door opens. Mordaunt enters.
"Valentina." He's perfectly composed. Expensive suit. Not a hair out of place. "How are you enjoying your accommodations?"
"Go to hell."
"Eventually. But not today." He pulls up a chair. Sits just outside the cell. "I wanted to talk before your friend arrives."
"Callum's not coming."
"Of course he is. He's predictable. Loyal. Sentimental." Mordaunt smiles. "He'll attempt rescue despite knowing it's trap. Because that's who he is."
"You don't know him."
"I know his type. Idealistic wolves who think courage conquers strategy. They always charge in. They always fail." He leans back. "Your mother was the same way."
My blood goes cold. "Don't talk about my mother."
"Why not? She's relevant. She also thought love conquered politics. Thought her relationship with a vampire would be overlooked." Mordaunt's voice is casual. Cruel. "She was wrong."
"You killed her."
"Parliament killed her. I simply didn't object." He pulls out a photograph. Shows it to me. My mother. The night she died. "She begged, you know. At the end. Pleaded for her life. For your life."
"Stop."
"She said you were just a child. Said you deserved a chance. Said killing her was enough, please spare the daughter." He studies the photo. "We ignored her, obviously. But the begging was memorable."
I want to kill him. Want to rip his throat out. But I'm in a cell and he's safely outside.
"Why are you telling me this?" My voice shakes.
"Because you should know what happens to people who oppose us. Your mother begged. It didn't save her. Callum will fight. It won't save him. You'll watch both of you die because sentiment doesn't defeat power."
"Fuck you."
"Probably." He puts the photo away. Pulls out something else. A wooden stake. Dark wood. Old. "Recognize this?"
I do. The wood grain. The carved handle. The dried blood in the grooves.
"That's the stake that killed my mother."
"Correct. Parliamentary execution weapon. Used for twenty-three vampire-related executions over the past century." He runs his finger along the wood. "Your mother was number nineteen. You'll be number twenty-four."
"Poetic, don't you think?" He stands. "Same stake that killed mother kills daughter. Narrative symmetry. I appreciate that."
"I'm not dying today."
"Of course you are. The only question is whether Callum dies with you or survives to be thrall." Mordaunt heads toward the door. "Either way, your resistance ends. Your community scatters. Everything you built crumbles."
"You're wrong."
"Am I?" He pauses at the threshold. "We've done this before. Crushed rebellions. Eliminated threats. Restored order. You're not special. You're just another obstacle."
"Then why work so hard to trap us? If we're not special, why the elaborate plans?"
Good question. He doesn't have immediate answer.
"Because effective power eliminates threats before they become dangerous," he finally says. "You're not special now. But you could become special if left unchecked. So we check you."
He leaves. Locks the door behind him.
I'm alone again.
With my thoughts. With my fear. With the certainty that my mother's execution stake is going to kill me.
I sit on the cot. Try to think strategically. But strategy requires options and I have none.
The cell door is locked. Walls are silver-lined, burning my skin where I touch them. No windows. No weapons. No escape.
Just waiting for death.
Callum will come. I know he will. He's loyal like that. Stupid like that.
And when he comes, Mordaunt will kill him too.
Unless I can do something. But what?
I examine the cell again. Looking for anything useful.
The cot is bolted down. Can't use it as weapon.
The toilet is porcelain. Could shatter it, use shards as improvised stakes. But how do I break porcelain quietly?
The door lock is electronic. No way to pick it without tools.
Wait.
The door. It's slightly ajar. Not much. Maybe an inch. Like someone unlocked it but didn't fully close it.
I approach carefully. Test it.
The door swings open.
Unlocked. Someone unlocked my cell.
The mysterious helper? The one who sent Callum the letter?
This could be trap. Could be Mordaunt testing me. Seeing if I'll try to escape so he can shoot me for "attempting to flee."
But what choice do I have? Stay in cell and die on execution stake? Or try to escape and maybe die fighting?
I choose fighting.
I slip into the corridor. Empty. No guards visible.
There are weapons mounted on the wall. Stakes. Silver knives. UV flashlights.
Placed there deliberately. Too convenient to be accident.
I grab a stake. Two silver knives. UV flashlight.
Now what?
The building layout. Sublevel one is cells. Ground level is the blood club main floor. Upper levels are private rooms and offices.
Exit is ground level. But going up puts me in open space where guards patrol.
Staying down here keeps me hidden but trapped if they seal the basement.
I hear something. Distant. Outside.
An explosion.
Then gunfire.
The rescue. It's starting.
Earlier than expected. Mordaunt said midnight. It's barely dawn.
Callum came early. Smart.
Or it's part of Mordaunt's trap. Create diversion. Make me think rescue is happening. Lead me into ambush.
Either way, I can't stay here.
I move toward the stairs. Weapon ready. Prepared to fight.
Because if I'm dying today, I'm taking Mordaunt with me.
That stake he showed me? The one that killed my mother?
I'm going to shove it through his heart.
Poetic symmetry indeed.