Chapter 22 The Dungeon
POV: Callum Brennan
Location: Supernatural Prison (The Cage), North London
Time: First Day
The jury deliberated for thirty-seven minutes. That's how long it took twelve supernaturals to decide I'm guilty of murder and embezzlement. Thirty-seven minutes to destroy my life.
Judge Harborough read the verdict without emotion. "On the charge of murder of a human, we find the defendant guilty. On the charge of embezzlement of pack funds, we find the defendant guilty."
The courtroom reacted. Gasps from pack members. Satisfied murmurs from prosecutors. Silence from Cormac, who sat in the front row maintaining his devastated brother performance.
Harborough sentenced me immediately. "Six months in supernatural prison, followed by permanent exile from your pack. Packless status for life. You are remanded to custody immediately."
No appeals. No delays. Guards dragged me from the courtroom in silver chains while pack members watched. Some looked sympathetic. Most looked relieved the criminal was being removed.
That was three hours ago. Now I'm in a transport van heading to the Cage. The prison's in North London, underground. I can't see where we're going. The van has no windows in the back.
There are four other prisoners with me. All werewolves. All convicted of various crimes. None of them are talking.
The van stops. Doors open. Guards drag us out into a loading area beneath a warehouse. Everything's concrete and steel. Industrial. Cold.
"Welcome to the Cage," one guard says. Vampire, ancient, bored-sounding. "You're here for rehabilitation. Follow the rules, you might survive. Break them, you definitely won't."
They process us one at a time. Strip search, medical examination, decontamination shower. Everything's designed to humiliate. To break you down before you even see your cell.
My turn comes. Two vampire guards take me to a concrete room. Make me strip. Search every part of my body for contraband. I've got nothing. Just the clothes I wore to trial, which they take away.
"Prisoner 4729," one guard says, writing on a clipboard. "Callum Brennan. Six months for murder and embezzlement. Any medical conditions we should know about?"
"No."
"Allergies?"
"Silver."
The guard smirks. "Too bad. The whole facility's lined with silver. Bars, walls, floors. You're going to be uncomfortable for six months."
They give me prison clothes. Gray jumpsuit, thin fabric, no protection against the cold. No shoes. Bare feet on concrete floors.
Then they lead me deeper into the facility. Down corridors lined with cells. I can hear wolves inside. Some are silent. Some are crying. Some are screaming.
This is the Cage. This is where I'm spending the next six months.
If I survive that long.
My cell is on the third level down. The guard unlocks it and shoves me inside. The door slams shut. Silver bars lock into place.
The burn is immediate. Silver in the bars, silver dust in the concrete, silver embedded in everything. It feels like my skin is on fire. I can't touch anything without pain.
The cell's maybe eight by ten feet. There's a metal cot with a thin mattress, a toilet, a sink. Everything's bolted down. Everything's silver-laced.
There's already someone in here. A wolf huddled in the corner. Male, maybe fifty, skeletal-thin. His skin's covered in burns from the silver. Some of them look infected.
"New cellmate," the wolf rasps. His voice is damaged. "How long you got?"
"Six months."
The wolf laughs. It's a horrible sound. "You won't make it. Nobody makes six months. The silver kills you first."
"How long have you been here?"
"Four months. Maybe five. I lose track." The wolf shifts and I see more burns. Deeper ones. "I'm dying. Silver poisoning. It's in my blood now. I can feel it."
"Can't they treat that?"
"They don't care. Guards like watching us suffer. It's entertainment." The wolf coughs. Blood comes up. "I'll be dead in a week. Maybe less. Then you get the cell to yourself until they bring another dying wolf."
I look around the cell. Silver bars, silver-laced walls, silver dust everywhere. There's no escape from it. Every breath I take brings silver particles into my lungs. Every surface I touch burns.
This is designed to kill us. Slowly, painfully, while vampires watch.
The guards return an hour later. Three of them. They open the cell and point at me.
"You. New wolf. Out."
I step out. They grab my arms and drag me down the corridor. Other prisoners watch from their cells. Most look away quickly. Eyes down, the universal prisoner survival strategy.
We enter a room at the end of the block. Empty except for chains hanging from the ceiling. The guards chain my wrists above my head. I'm suspended, toes barely touching the floor.
"First day orientation," one guard says. "We're teaching you the rules."
"What rules?"
"Speak when spoken to." The guard punches me in the stomach. The air rushes out of my lungs. I'm gasping, choking. "Eyes down when guards pass." Another punch. This one catches my ribs. I feel something crack. "No fighting with other prisoners." A third punch to my face. My lip splits. Blood fills my mouth.
They beat me for twenty minutes. Fists, batons, kicks. Everything designed to hurt without killing. Breaking bones without shattering them. Teaching me what happens when guards decide to notice me.
When they finally stop, I'm barely conscious. Hanging from the chains, bleeding, everything broken and bruised.
"Good lesson," the lead guard says. "We'll have another lesson tomorrow. And the day after. Every day until you learn your place."
They unchain me. I collapse on the floor. Can't stand. Can't move. Just lie there bleeding while they drag me back to my cell.
My cellmate looks at me without sympathy. "That's orientation. Everyone gets it. It's how they break you."
"Does it work?"
"Usually. Most wolves stop fighting after the first week. Accept that this is life now. Suffering and dying." The cellmate coughs more blood. "The ones who keep fighting? They get worse treatment. Isolation. Feeding sessions. Torture that goes beyond beatings."
I try to heal. Werewolves heal fast normally. But the silver's interfering. The broken rib's not setting properly. The cuts aren't closing. The bruises are spreading instead of fading.
Silver poisoning. That's what's happening. The constant exposure is preventing my body from healing. If this continues, I'll end up like my cellmate. Dying from accumulated damage.
"How do you survive this?" I ask.
"You don't. Not really. You just endure until you can't anymore. Then you die." The cellmate closes his eyes. "I had eight months. I made it four. That's better than most."
Night comes. The facility's lit by fluorescent lights that never turn off. There's no darkness. No privacy. Just constant illumination and constant observation.
The guards walk the corridors every hour. Checking cells. Looking for problems or opportunities to cause pain. Some prisoners try to sleep. Some just stare at walls. Some cry.
My cellmate starts screaming around midnight. Not from pain exactly. From fever. The silver poisoning's progressing. His body's shutting down.
"It burns," the cellmate screams. "Everything burns. Please. Please make it stop."
No one comes. The guards ignore dying wolves. That's part of the lesson. You don't matter here. Your suffering is background noise.
The cellmate screams for three hours. Then he starts convulsing. His body's fighting the poison, trying to expel it, failing. The seizures get worse. His eyes roll back. Foam comes from his mouth.
Then he stops moving. Stops breathing. Dies there on the cell floor while I watch.
I should feel something. Horror. Pity. Grief. But I'm too numb. Too broken from my own beating. I just stare at the corpse and think: that's me in four months. That's my future.
Guards come at dawn. They open the cell and look at the dead wolf without surprise.
"Another one. That's three this week." The guard makes a note on his clipboard. "Drag it out."
They pull the body out by the ankles. The cellmate's corpse leaves a trail of blood and fluids. They're not gentle. Not respectful. Just disposing of waste.
"You're alone now," the guard tells me. "Enjoy the space while it lasts."
The cell door closes. I'm by myself. Alone with silver walls and a bloodstain where my cellmate died.
I try to assess my injuries. The broken rib's partially healed but wrong. It's setting crooked. The cuts on my face are scabbing but slowly. The bruises cover most of my torso.
And I feel weak. Weaker than I should. The silver's in my system now. Poisoning me from the inside. If this continues, if the exposure doesn't stop, I'll die like my cellmate.
Four months. That's how long he lasted. And he was probably tougher than me. More experienced with hardship.
I've got six months to serve. That's two months longer than my cellmate survived. Two months beyond what most wolves can endure.
The inmates in holding were right. This is a death sentence. I'm not going to survive six months in the Cage.
The wounds aren't healing properly. That's the clearest sign. Werewolves heal fast unless something's preventing it. Silver prevents it. Constant silver exposure means constant poison. Means accumulating damage that never repairs.
I'm going to die here. Not from a single injury. From a thousand small ones that pile up until my body can't function anymore.
Just like my cellmate. Screaming in fever. Convulsing on the floor. Dead before morning.
That's my future. Unless something changes. Unless I find a way to adapt, to survive, to endure what most wolves can't.
But sitting here in this silver cell, watching blood dry on the floor, feeling my wounds failing to heal properly, I can't see how that's possible.
This might kill me before exile does.