The Prison Healer (The Prison Healer #1)(67)

And Kiva’s family would come for her.

No matter what.

Feeling slightly more confident, Kiva was nearing the first of the cell blocks when someone called out to her.

“You, healer!”

Sucking in a sharp breath, Kiva halted on the path. She turned slowly, having already recognized the voice, dreading what it could mean.

Bones was striding toward her, his long legs eating up the distance, his crossbow draped casually over his shoulder, his black eyes like death.

“We need you at the barracks,” he said, a clear order.

Kiva swallowed and nodded, then trailed quickly after him when he beckoned her to follow.

Bones was like a wild animal. Sometimes he was temperate. Sometimes he was not. Every week, she treated prisoners who had suffered his wrath—broken fingers, wrists, ribs. Anything that made a hearty snap sound, that was his preference. Kiva had long since trained herself not to feel sick in his presence, though there were times when she still had to force down bile.

She feared that, whatever he was leading her into tonight, it might be one of those times.

Kiva couldn’t stop thinking about Naari’s warnings of late, how she’d been deliberate in staying back at the infirmary with Kiva, or making sure Kiva knew not to leave on her own. It was winter. The guards were agitated. It happened every year, and every year, Kiva managed to survive the worst of it.

Just as she would survive tonight.

“In,” barked Bones once they reached the entrance to the barracks.

Kiva stepped through the wooden doorway into the stone building, even as everything within her wanted to run screaming in the other direction. She couldn’t risk Bones seeing her reluctance, or what he might do to her because of it. If he caught so much as a whiff of rebellion from her, he would revel in making her pay. His black eyes told her as much, the anticipation gleaming in them as he watched her like a hawk eyeing its prey.

“This way,” he said, moving past her close enough that their bodies brushed.

Kiva stopped breathing, dread rising within her, before she forced her heartbeat to settle. Nothing had been done to her yet. There was no reason to believe anything would be done to her. The guards needed her alive—not just as their entertainment in the Ordeals, but as their prison healer. Especially with this sickness spreading. She was their best hope, and they knew it. They would not risk breaking her, physically or mentally.

Bolstered, Kiva followed Bones down a hallway, past closed doors that she knew led into private quarters, and toward a large communal room at the end of the long corridor. Someone was playing music, which Kiva rarely heard at Zalindov, and while she couldn’t pinpoint the source, she recognized the song as an old lament her mother used to sing when she was a child.

Nostalgia washed over her with the force of a wave, but as her eyes scanned the room, the comfort of the memory was swept away in an instant.

The guards were having a party—or the Zalindov equivalent of one.

Opened bottles of spirits lined the wooden tables, food piled up beside them, mostly untouched despite the drink being almost all gone. Guards were at ease around the room, all of them men. Curled up in their laps were prisoners in various states of undress, all with glossy, fevered eyes and rosy cheeks.

Kiva had an inkling of why she had been brought here. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or not, her initial fear being that she was to become a plaything, but now . . .

“That one had a bit too much fun,” Bones said, pointing to the far corner where the Butcher sat leaning back in an armchair, a half-naked prisoner draped across his legs.

Kiva didn’t know the prisoner, but she could see that the woman was unconscious. Just as she could see that the Butcher didn’t care—or perhaps didn’t realize, his own eyes out of focus, his head lolling to the side, a watery smile on his lips as he nuzzled the woman’s hair, his hands—

This time, Kiva did have to swallow back bile.

Mustering her courage, she walked over to the two of them, aware that Bones was shadowing her. The other guards barely glanced their way, too distracted by their own prisoners to care what was happening in the corner.

Upon reaching the Butcher, Kiva took stock of the situation. She’d thought it was just spirits in the room, that the guards and prisoners alike were inebriated, but up close, she saw the golden powder glittering on the woman’s fingers, under her nose, on her lips. She saw the same on the Butcher, his eyes half lidded, his hands still roaming, unaware that the prisoner he held wasn’t responding.

Because she couldn’t.

Kiva didn’t need to check her pulse. It was obvious.

The woman was dead.

Overdosed.

On angeldust.

Rage rose in Kiva, strong and true. These guards, they didn’t care—they just wanted their playthings, their entertainment, and then they would discard them again. The prisoners meant nothing to them, even their favored ones. Live or die, it was all the same to people like Bones and the Butcher.

“Well, healer?” Bones prompted. “Can you wake her up? We’re not done with her yet. It’s time for round two.”

“You mean three!” called another guard.

“Four!” came a different voice.

Bones chuckled, and this time Kiva feared she wouldn’t be able to swallow back all she was feeling. Fisting her hands tightly enough for her nails to pierce skin, she used the pain to ground herself. Only when she was certain she could open her mouth without risk did she answer, “I can’t wake her. She’s dead.”