Deviation (Clone Chronicles #2)(3)

The room is lit by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. Where my new accommodations upstairs are a million times better than my old room in Twig City, Melanie’s cell is a million times worse. The entire room is fuzzy with the singular color of gray concrete that has been coated in dust. The air is stale and thick, leaving a coating in my throat every time I inhale. There is a cot shoved against the back wall, a steel frame with a mattress as thin as a rug laying over it. There is no pillow and the wool blanket is worn to threads and stained red. It’s as if Titus purposely went looking for the worst of the worst. And then decorated it in her blood.

In the center of the room, under a dim and dingy spotlight, is a wooden table with a chair on each side. Just outside the reach of the light, I see her. The shadows swallow her features so that all I can see from the threshold is the silhouette of her body, the outline of arms and shoulders, before the table obscures the rest.

The moment I step fully inside, the door slams shut behind me and the lock clicks into place. I jump, rattling the dishes on the tray. I steady it and shoot a glance to my right, to the wall I know is somehow not a wall where Titus waits on the other side. I know instinctively that he is watching even if I don’t know how.

I walk forward slowly.

When I am almost to the table, I finally see her and I almost lose it again. In that moment, I don’t need the benefit of spoken word to know Melanie still wants to kill me. The murderous glare she wears as she tracks my approach is evidence enough. I squeeze the handle of the tray and send a silent thank you to the guards for leaving Melanie bound. I know Melanie hates me even if it is more about the other Raven than it is about me. I doubt the torture helped.

Her hatred for me aside, the sight of Melanie sitting with arms and legs bound, clothes in rags and exposed skin red or burnt or scabbed or still oozing, is enough to make me choke back a sob. All I can think about is my promise. In exchange for bringing her in, I’m sworn to free her when she asks.

I am terrified she’ll ask me to do it now, and I have no idea what to do if she does. I can’t free her any easier than I can free a single Imitation from Twig City.

And if she’s too far gone to ask? If Titus has tortured her past the point of lucidity over the past eight weeks, what then?

I don’t have an answer for either scenario.

I concentrate on keeping the tray steady until I make it to the wooden table in the center of the room. It is weathered and scarred, although not nearly as badly as Melanie’s chair. Or her body. I wonder briefly what sort of instrument would inflict the wounds I see, but dismiss it. I don’t want to know.

The dishes rattle as I set the tray down. Melanie’s eyes don’t stray from mine as I uncap a tinted bottle and pour her a sizable glass of wine. I repeat the process with a second glass provided. I’m not normally a drinker, not after that time in the coat closet with Taylor, but my nerves are strung so tightly they might snap if I don’t do something.

“I brought you a drink,” I say, my voice wobbly as I slide the drink closer to her.

She can’t take it but it’s the gesture that counts. And I don’t know where else to start. Titus wants information that I can only hope Melanie won’t cooperate in giving. At least if Melanie does talk, she can’t tell Titus where Morton and the others are now.

But she doesn’t say a word.

She only glares.

“I also brought food. Steak and eggs and bacon and pie,” I tell her.

More silence.

I resist the urge to fidget. The chair behind me creaks as I pull it out and lower myself into it. I want to show her I’m patient. I’m not going anywhere. It’s the only comfort I can offer, to be with her, even if it’s full of hateful silence. Besides, the door will be locked until Titus is satisfied. Of this I am certain.

“Do you need anything?” I ask.

Minutes pass.

I fix my eyes on a place over Melanie’s left shoulder. I can’t bring myself to hold her gaze. It fills me with images of her hands wrapped around my throat, squeezing the free space out of my windpipe.

I blink free of the terror. She apologized for that. I should let it go. Do humans do that? Do they let attempted murder go if the guilty party apologizes? I have no idea. Melanie is the only human who has ever apologized to me. I can’t picture Titus or any of the politicians I’ve met apologizing to anyone. Maybe humans don’t do that.

Linc would do it, though.

Linc. I am glad he’s not here. I suspect Titus has waited to bring me down here on purpose, but I am glad for it. If Linc were here, he’d only worry. Or worse, interfere.

Melanie suddenly lurches forward in a heaving cough. It is the first movement she’s shown and it’s clear when her chin is thrown against her chest and her shoulders heave in wracking tremors that she is in pain. The cough is wet and doesn’t let up. Melanie wheezes with the effort to breathe between hacks. Her hair swings as she moves, a limp curtain that hides her distorted expression. A liquidy substance rips from her lungs and coats her mouth before running down her chin.

I jump up and go to her, knocking an apple off the tray in my haste to grab the napkin underneath. It rolls along the table and thuds dully to the floor. I slide out of my chair and around the table, crouching beside Melanie. I press the napkin to her open mouth and wait. She hacks again and it is more of a gurgling sound. More of the napkin is saturated underneath my fingers. I do my best to hold steady. When she jolts, I move with her, keeping the napkin in place as best I can.