Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 89379 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 447(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89379 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 447(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
“Really? And can they see you as I can? Can they talk to you?”
She deflated a little. “No. You’re the only one who can see me.”
“Oh,” I said, frowning. “My mother has a small affinity for ghosts. Perhaps I inherited that affinity, and that’s why I’m the only one who can actually see you.”
“Yippee!” Belinda replied sarcastically.
“Hey! You’re lucky someone can see you. Otherwise, you’d have no one to talk to at all.”
“Yeah, why did it have to be you, though?” She sounded genuinely annoyed, and I didn’t blame her. If I’d died and Belinda Williams was the only person who could see my ghost, I’d be pretty pissed off, too.
“Looks like your boat journey is at an end,” Belinda said before disappearing,
The Prison of Thorns loomed tall and foreboding before me, and suddenly, it was all too real. Fear trickled down my spine. There was no pulling the brakes.
The boat docked, and Sergeant Davis escorted me ashore. He shot me a stern look telling me that, for all intents and purposes, we were no longer friendly acquaintances. The pretence was about to become as real as it could get, and I wouldn’t receive any kind words of encouragement from the man who recruited me to my undercover mission.
The wind whipped my hair around my face almost violently, the blonde strands half obscuring my view. I shook my head, clearing my vision. As we approached the tall steel doors of the prison, they opened, and several guards emerged. I thought it was a little overkill for one small dhampir, but they obviously took detaining each new prisoner seriously. They wanted me to be scared so that I’d be more likely to behave.
I felt like I was entering a medieval dungeon. The stone walls dripped with perspiration, almost like the rough sea surrounding the prison was trying to penetrate the very stones it was made from. The prison guards wore dark green uniforms paired with white shirts, navy ties, and shiny black boots. Oh, and a little green hat. It was a very military look, and I was surprised by how clean and neatly pressed everyone’s clothes were. The warden certainly ran a tight ship.
We entered a spacious lobby area where I signed an admittance form. I had to make a concerted effort to remember to put my name down as Darya Stolle and not Darya Cristescu. Making a mistake like that would’ve put an end to my mission before it even started.
After that, I was escorted down a long, dark corridor to a small, dark room. There were two chairs, a table, and a shelf containing ink and tattoo equipment. The room smelled sharply of antiseptic, and I was surprised when Sergeant Davis removed my cuffs. The ink was what fascinated me most, though. The containers seemed to hum with magic, like the thorny vines covering the prison. The ink was bespelled to block magic, just like the thorns outside were.
“This is where we part ways,” he said, surprising me when he leaned close, his voice barely a whisper, “Good luck, Darya.”
Not having expected them, I appreciated his well-wishes because I had a feeling I wouldn’t be receiving any kindness while inside.
Then he left, taking the reassuring feeling of protection with him. I really was on my own, and as far as the prison guards were concerned, I was a real prisoner. Which meant they would treat me as such. My shoulders stiffened when a man was brought into the room by another guard. He was medium height, with a completely bald head and a dark goatee. He wore a bright red jumpsuit, and I realised he was a prisoner, too. He had several facial piercings, and from what I could see, he was heavily inked under his jumpsuit. Was he the guy who would tattoo me? A fellow prisoner?
The guards stationed themselves outside the door, leaving me completely alone with a man who could be a serial killer for all I knew. He looked me up and down, his dark eyebrows shooting up his forehead.
“Jeez, princess, what did you do to land yourself in a place like this?” he asked as he approached the shelf and began gathering his equipment. I’d never been tattooed before, so I was a little apprehensive, although my mother assured me she’d be able to remove the ink with a simple spell as soon as I got home.
I didn’t respond to his question, hoping my silence came off as stoic confidence rather than stark terror. Under the surface I was a deer caught in the headlights.
He chuckled and shook his head. “Don’t want to talk? Fine. I’ll do the talking. The name’s Serg. I’m the resident tattoo artist. Of all the jobs you can get in this place, it’s a pretty cushy one. I was a tattoo artist on the outside, too, so my skills came in handy. It’s kind of a drag doing the same fucking design over and over again, but hey, it’s better than scrubbing toilets.”