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.”

  He seemed friendly, almost normal, but I wasn’t about to trust the first person who was nice to me. I imagined prison was similar to normal life in that way. If someone went out of their way to be friendly, it often meant they wanted something.

  Still, I was curious to know what he was. He gave off strong shapeshifter energy, but I could be wrong. I also wanted to know what he’d done to end up here, but I wasn’t about to ask him that.

  “Roll up your sleeves,” he instructed, his smoky dark eyes holding mine captive.

  I didn’t enjoy how intently he watched me. Sized me up. He put on a pair of black rubber gloves, then rubbed some antiseptic over my right wrist. A second later, his tattoo gun buzzed to life. My stomach did a somersault. I was nervous but also curious to see what being tattooed felt like. Since the ink was bespelled, I imagined it would be more than the regular stinging sensation from being pricked repeatedly with a needle.

  He brought the tattoo gun to my wrist, and I couldn’t look away. The sting was intense but not unbearable, and I could feel the magic seeping into me. A hot, fizzing sensation muting whatever magical powers I had. I considered telling him it was pointless tattooing me since my magic was so weak, but pointing out weaknesses didn’t seem wise in this scenario.

  “So, you aren’t even going to tell me your name,” Serg said, his attention focused on the tattoo. I didn’t see the point in refusing to tell him since people would find out sooner or later. I could hardly go around the prison, standing out as the girl who refused to give her name.

  “Darya,” I told him, my eyes on the black thorns he was inking into my skin. Oddly, there was something rather beautiful about the delicate, intricate design.

  “Wow, nice voice,” he said. “Cool name, too.” He glanced at me for a second, looking impressed. “Most people don’t like to look at the needle, but you just stare right at it, don’t ya?”

  “How else am I going to make sure you don’t tattoo a pair of boobs on there?” I replied, surprising even myself when I cracked the joke.

  Serg laughed. “You’re funny.” His eyes dimmed a little as he went on seriously, “I hope this place doesn’t strip that away from you.”

  A silence fell, only the buzz of the tattoo gun filling the small space. “How long have you been here?” I asked before I could stop myself.

  “Too long,” Serg replied, and I decided not to probe further.

  He quietly moved to the other wrist, his dark eyes flicking up to me every once in a while. He frowned, and I wondered what he was thinking.

  “So, what animal do you turn into?” I asked, hoping my supernatural detection skills hadn’t led me astray.

  His lips twitched a little as he shook his head. “Maybe one day you’ll find out.” A brief flicker of sadness crossed his features, and I remembered that the wards around the prison not only muted magic, they also prevented shapeshifters from transforming. Did Serg miss his animal form?

  He was almost finished with the tattoo when he said, “You’re not the usual kind of person to end up here.”

  “What’s the usual kind?”

  He eyed me up and down. “The opposite of you.”

  “I’m not entirely what I appear,” I told him cryptically.

  He tilted his head, pausing his tattooing a moment to meet my gaze. “If you’re here, then you must not be,” he agreed.

  Serg returned his attention to the tattoo, and a few minutes later, it was complete. I stared at the ink staining both my wrists, again struck by the beauty of the design. Ironic that something so pretty was created to do something as awful as imprisoning a person. My accelerated healing meant my body was already sealing the skin damaged by the tattoo gun.

  “Ah,” said Serg, eyeing my rapidly healing wrists. “I thought you were just a witch. There hasn’t been a dhampir in this prison for quite some time.”

  “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” I asked.

  “Could go either way, but it means you’ll stand out. Most of the time, this isn’t the sort of place you want to stand out.”

  “We’ll see about that,” I said, hoping he didn’t see through my feigned confidence.

  “You’re tough. Good. You’ll need that here.”

  The guards returned and silently escorted Serg away. Then two others arrived and led me to another room, where I was instructed to strip off all my clothes. I’d known that was coming. The last few days, I’d been made privy to everything I’d experience when I arrived at the prison, and the strip search was the part I’d been least looking forward to.

  Thankfully, only female guards were present, and I was relieved when they got it over with as quickly as possible. I was given a set of plain white underwear, a white vest, and a red jumpsuit, the same as the one Serg had been wearing. It had my prisoner number tattooed across the breast pocket: 804. The bra didn’t fit very well, and I found myself tugging at it in discomfort. I didn’t voice any complaints, though. I suspected an ill-fitting bra was the least of the discomfort I was about to endure.

  The guard who’d conducted my strip search handed me a stack of items, including a thin pillow, a blanket, a second set of clothes, and some basic toiletries. I carried them as the guards escorted me down another long, dark, damp corridor before stopping at a heavy steel door.

  “You’re in cell 128 on the fourth floor,” the guard told me before pressing several buttons next to the door. I heard a few clicks before it popped open, and I was unceremoniously shoved inside.

  6.

  I looked over my shoulder as the steel door slammed shut behind me. A shiver tiptoed down my spine. I was all alone inside the main part of the prison; the part inhabited only by prisoners. I’d expected the guards to escort me directly to my cell, but instead, they’d dumped me there and left. Of all the preparations I’d gone through over the last few days, I hadn’t been prepared for that.

  Grace and I had watched countless movies and TV shows together, some of which featured characters going to prison. On those, there was almost always a scene where the character was walked to their cell while the other prisoners shouted and jeered at them.

  Not the case at the Prison of Thorns.

  It was eerily silent as I stood there.

  Sergeant Davis told me the prison was a panopticon, which meant there was an observation tower right in the centre, surrounded by several storeys of cells that the guards could see from every angle. Those of us within the cells couldn’t see the guards in the tower, though. Sergeant Davis said it might give me the uncomfortable feeling of being constantly observed but never truly knowing whether someone was looking at me or not.

  Even the thought gave me an eery sensation, probably because I felt more observed than ever before, but not because of the guards in the watch tower. I felt observed by the other prisoners in their cells. Their silence was unnerving. A part of me would’ve preferred to be yelled at and insulted.

  Okay, Darya, focus. What had the guard said to me? Cell number 128 on the fourth floor, right?

  I walked up the nearest stairway, refusing to make eye contact with any of the prisoners in the cells as I passed. I felt their eyes on me as I kept my head held high, my gaze forward, shoulders straight. I did my best to convey confidence and strength. To show anyone who might think to threaten me that though I might be young, I wouldn’t be easily cowed.

  I’d reached the third floor when I heard a door slowly creak open. I glanced in the direction of the noise and found someone had emerged from their cell. If the cells weren’t locked, why was nobody out in the communal areas? I wondered uneasily.

  A little old lady appeared. She wore the same red jumpsuit, but it looked completely out of place on her. She should’ve been wearing a cardigan and pearls, or at least, that was the impression I got. She was barely over five feet tall, and her grey-streaked hair was tied back in a neat bun. I stiffened because appearances could be deceptive in the supernatural world, and something told me the lady wasn’t all she seemed.

  “Hello, dear,” she said with a toothy grin. “How pleasant to see a new face.”

  “Hi, nice to meet you,” I said, dipping my head respectfully. I tried to continue up the stairs, but suddenly she was in front of me, and there was only one type of supernatural being who could move that fast. She was a vampire, and judging by her appearance, she was a very, very old one. My father was almost three hundred years old and barely looked forty. In human terms, the woman looked like she was in her mid-seventies, which meant she had to be at least seven or eight hundred years old.

  Wariness flickered through me because vampires that old often held antiquated views about dhampirs. They saw us as unclean half-breeds. Mistakes that should never have been born. My gut tightened as she observed me, her shrewd green eyes taking me in. She began to circle me, her movements lithe in contrast with her elderly appearance.

  Her attention went to the stack of items in my arms. “Give me those,” she calmly demanded.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “You should never question me, girl. Just do as I say.”

  “I’m not giving you my things.” I stood firm.

  “Every new inmate has to pay a tax. If you don’t pay it this way, you’ll pay it in another.”

  I stared her down. “Is that a threat?”

  She didn’t respond, but then again, she didn’t have to. As soon as I asked the question, several more vampires emerged silently from nearby cells. The old woman’s eyes went to my wrists circled by thorns, and she smiled. I suspected she’d wrongly assumed I was merely a witch. Vampires often had trouble spotting dhampirs. They were too blinded by the human in our scent that they failed to recognise the vampire.

  “One last chance,” she said. “Hand over the items, or we’ll take payment in the form of your sweet magical blood.”

  I calmly stepped back, set my blanket, pillow, extra clothing, and toiletries on a step behind me, then turned to face the vampires. Briefly, I glanced up and realised we weren’t as alone as I thought. Up above, prisoners silently peered down, having gathered to watch the show. I looked down, and there were onlookers there, too, leaning against the railing as they peered up at us. I swallowed thickly, wondering if Vasilios and Sven were among them.

  The vampires advanced on me, extending their fangs. “You think those scare me?” I asked, with pure bravado, as I took a quick step to the side. The old lady, who obviously held some kind of authority, narrowed her gaze on me. My swift movements piqued her suspicion. A tall vampire tried to swipe for me, but I jumped up onto the metal railing, balancing perfectly. The old lady’s eyes narrowed further.

  “Dhampir,” she seethed, her gaze thin with hatred. “Get her.”

  The tall vampire tried to swipe at me again, but I quickly leapt, grabbed hold of the railing above me, and swung my legs out, kicking him hard in the chest with both feet. My father had trained me since I was a child for situations like I was in—cornered and outnumbered. I had no weapons, but I had my strength and skill, which would have to be enough.

  “Little bitch!” the vampire roared, rubbing at his chest.

  I quickly swung down, grabbed my things, and hoped I made it to my cell before they caught me. “Why don’t you all just back off? You’re embarrassing yourselves,” I goaded, happily traversing the narrow metal railing. There was an amused chuckle from above. I glanced up and saw Serg among the gathered observers. He winked at me, and I grinned back, then flung myself onto the stairs and ran for my life.

  I made it to the fourth floor, but the vampires weren’t far behind. I barely got the chance to peer at the cell numbers when a meaty paw grabbed my hair and yanked me back. I screamed at the sharp pain, my things dropping haphazardly to the floor. My back met a hard body, and I knew it was the vampire I’d kicked in the chest. He smelled like blood and sawdust. Perhaps kicking him wasn’t the wisest move, because now he was mad at me. Very, very mad.

  This was me belatedly realising that I should’ve used some of my de-escalation techniques instead of going on the defensive. Evidently, I still had a lot to learn.

  I struggled in his hold, but his arm came around my waist, his hand keeping a firm grip on my hair. He fisted it so hard that I feared he would leave a bald patch. On instinct, my fangs emerged. I twisted my head to the side, feeling the hair pull away from the root as I opened my mouth and bit down hard. The unpleasant, metallic taste of vampire blood hit my tongue, and I immediately spat it out while his hold on me loosened long enough for me to get away.

  In my panic, I couldn’t remember a thing about the prison’s layout that Sergeant Davis had drilled into me. I ran down a long row of cells only to find the old lady and her posse of vamps had somehow gotten ahead of me. For a second, I wondered why I hadn’t just handed over my things. I could survive without a pillow and a blanket. What I might not survive was the beating the vampires were sure to give me.

  Over my shoulder, several more appeared. Unless I wanted to jump over the railing and possibly fall to my death, there was no avoiding whatever was about to happen to me.

  The old lady approached. “You’re a feisty one. A pity you’re a half-breed. I could’ve used a fighter like you in my crew.”

  “Yeah, well, I refuse to join any club that would have me as a member,” I shot back, but the quote seemed to go over her head. It made me wonder exactly how long she’d been locked up. My dad was a fan of Groucho Marx, and as far as I knew, he’d died back in the 1970s, which meant she’d been there for fifty years at least.

  “You’ll be begging to be in someone’s club by the time we’re done with you,” the tall vampire who’d yanked my hair said. My scalp smarted as I stood there, and I was terrified to look in a mirror and see the damage. The sleeves of his jumpsuit were rolled up, and he had a tattoo on his right forearm that read Vincent. It could’ve been the name of a treasured loved one, but the guy seemed dim and oafish enough to have tattooed his own name on his arm.

  I glared at him and spat on the floor just shy of his feet. “Do your worst, you lanky bastard.”

  He reared up at the insult, but the old lady placed a hand on his chest, her sharp eyes gleaming in something akin to amusement. “My name is Macalister, but you can call me Mack. Remember the name. I’ll be the one you come begging to when the rest of the vultures in this place have sliced off a piece of you.”

  Her threat had me dying to utter my father’s name. He was notorious among vampires, both feared and awed in equal measures. He was the sun walker, the only one who could traverse the world without fearing being harmed by daylight.

  At that, I realised Mack and her cronies had kept to the shaded areas of the prison. It was late in the day, but a few tendrils of light still shone through the building’s narrow windows. Night was quickly falling, though, and soon, there would be no areas they had to avoid. My gut sank because the fading daylight was the only thing that kept me one step ahead of those arseholes. They’d had to avoid it in their chase.

  Now, though, the dark was descending, and I could go nowhere to escape them.

  A vampire with long black hair pushed me back against the railing. She fisted the front of my jumpsuit, her sharp fangs gleaming as they descended. My hand shot out, ramming her in the elbow as I spun away from her, but another three penned me in. I punched one in the shoulder and kicked another in the shin, focusing on whatever weak spots I could reach, but it was no use. I was outnumbered with no way to escape. That didn’t mean I wasn’t prepared to fight tooth and nail for my survival.