Brood of Vipers, Maggie Claire [e novels to read .TXT] 📗

guilt, regret, and agony into the hearts of his victims. He practically lives on suffering more than other food and drink.

“Turn around,” a heartbreakingly familiar voice commands as calloused fingers brush her elbow.

A flood of memories spring to life as Helena flinches from the innocent touch. I am going to die, she declares to herself, facing the man who had once been the center of her world. He loved me so much, and I betrayed him. And the way I left him behind…. If the tunnel doesn’t kill me, seven days with Ithel certainly will. Helena shuffles in place, unable to raise her head and meet the guard’s eye. Her heart thrashes wildly in its ribbed cage, the force so strong it causes her shoulders to quake. “I am so sorry, Ithel. I never—”

“Save your apologies,” Ithel growls as his fists clench at his sides. “We have seven days to get you ready before the tunnel.” He guides Helena toward a hidden exit on the left side of the stone walls, completely enshrouded in shadows. A mirthless chuckle erupts from Ithel when Helena stubbornly keeps her eyes focused on his shoes. “If we survive this week, then we will talk about the past.”

“What do you mean if we survive?” Helena’s eyes snap up to inspect Ithel’s furious expression, flinching as she notices all the subtle changes from their years apart—a small scar over his upper lip and a longer, wicked counterpart through one eyebrow. His icy eyes are now haloed by sun wrinkles, giving his already angry countenance a cold, assessing squint. He keeps his hair closely cropped to his scalp now, but Helena remembers how it used to fall to his shoulders, catching the sunlight in its auburn waves. And his mouth, which used to be constantly on the verge of a smile, now bears deep frown and worry lines.

If Ithel notices her scrutiny, he does not react as he answers her question, confirming Helena’s deepest fears. “If our prisoner dies, so does his or her guard. I think it was the king’s way of keeping the guards invested in his plan.” He jerks Helena through a side corridor to the closest infirmary, his rough hands like sandpaper on her fragile skin. “Everything has turned into some sick form of entertainment for the king and his court. People kill each other in the streets out of greed and sport. Death and meaningless destruction are a daily part of our lives. That’s what has become of Déchets while you have been languishing in the dungeons, Helena,” Ithel barks as he shoves her toward the open arms of the awaiting medics. “Now do what they tell you. You look like hell.”

The bright lights nearly blind Helena as tentative fingers brush the open, unhealed wounds that crisscross around her wrists and ankles. The medics crowd around her, whispering to each other as their insistent fingers poke and prod her flesh. I feel like a side show of the circus rather than a prison patient. The snide thought keeps Helena from hyperventilating at the proximity of so many new faces after years of isolation. Step back, she longs to command as another medic’s dark eyes loom on her left. I crave space and open air. Just let me have a moment’s peace!

“Helena,” they all suddenly whisper at the same time, addressing her as though they speak with one voice. “Use our strengths to heal yourself.” They force their energies into her, assaulting her body even as they speed her recovery. By keeping their mental connections one-sided, Helena has no choice but to obey and endure their ministrations. The naming bonds are an invasion that Helena has always abhorred. Some of the medics grow faint and drop to the floor as the process continues, and more step out of the shadows to replace them.

It feels like hours before the barrage of energy stops pulsing over Helena’s body. Now her skin bears thin scars and fading, yellowed bruises, her hair no longer filled with lice and crawling bugs. Her eyes hold no brightness from fever and infection. Even her figure has filled out to healthier proportions, and for the first time in years, her stomach churns in preparation of food. For so long, she has been so numb to hunger that the sounds from her growling stomach are threatening to her ears. She catches her reflection in a mirror, running her fingers along her full lips once more. No signs of dehydration, no flaky, cracked skin. The alterations are so striking that it brings fresh tears to Helena’s eyes.

Ithel waits in the corner of the room, his cool eyes never missing any detail even as he appears bored by the scene. “Food over here,” he announces with a yawn, dropping his gaze to his bowl immediately after he finishes speaking.

Helena crouches over the nearest nurse, her hand brushing hair from her cold forehead. “She’s dead!” Staring at the other medics, she wails, “They all are dead! But why? Why would they do this? Why didn’t they stop sending me their energies before they drained themselves dry?” Helena’s skin grows clammy, her stomach lurching as it floods with guilt. They killed themselves for me! They are dead because of me!

“They were slaves, Helena, not doctors and nurses. Part of the king’s rule has been reinstituting slavery. He keeps slaves to serve in his house, and he has his magicians spell them to give up their life forces when he commands it.” Ithel slides a bowl of something warm and steaming toward her, not bothering to look and see if she takes it. “They knew they were going to die, Helena. Don’t feel guilty. You couldn’t have stopped it even if you’d known.”

Helena’s hands quiver as she holds the bowl, now repulsed by her need to eat. “I’m sorry for them. Truly.”

“Just eat, Helena,” Ithel demands gruffly, turning his cold, furious stare on her until Helena’s hand slinks toward a spoon.

Helena barely takes a sip of the