The Lycan's Stolen Bride

Chapter 1 Callie was doing her duty, out in the cold, in the cells of Greywater, battling the cold. Her hands were frozen numb as well, but she preserved through it. Around her, forty women did the same thing as her, they were all inmates in this place, convicted for one crime or another. Nobody talked much here, while doing this duties. It was because talking used up energy and energy needed food and there was never enough food in this place. The sky was turning dark soon, and Callie knew from routine that soon enough, the bell would ring signifying dinner and then they would line up to the cafterria, where they got a lousy dry bread, with a small plate of food, and afterwards, they were sent to bed, to rest for he night, repeating these days in the same monotonous routine. Callie had stopped counting the days after the first winter. Counting made the time feel longer. Now she only counted small things that made her life way easier and less dreadful, it was her own little way of coping in this hellhole that her family had abandoned her. She counted the number of shirts washed by hands in the freezing cold. She counted the numbers of steps it took to reach the gate. She also counted the breaths before the pain in her back eased after her daily dose of flogging. Across the yard, near the drying lines, Sparrow was hanging sheets, that had been given to her. That was her own duties, some would wash, others will rinse while the unfortunate one would be left to spread the entire heavy sheets all alone. It was a duty that nobody liked but Sparrow got stuck with almost all the time, being the littlest of everyone and easily bullied. She had to stand on her toes to reach the line. She was so thin that the grey camp dress hung off her like a sack, it was too big for her, and finding a fitted one only showed off how emaciated she really was . Her wrists looked like they could snap. Anyone who saw her from far away would think she was a child of twelve or thirteen. She wasn't. Sparrow was the same age as Callie. Twenty two years old. Callie knew this because Sparrow had once scratched the number into the dirt with a stick, then rubbed it out fast, like she had said too much and was afraid that she was going to get beaten for it. That was how Sparrow talked, she never spoke with her voice, but used sticks or signed with her hands. Nobody knew if she was an actual mute or had chosen to not speak. She had not said one word in the year Callie had known her. But there was was a thick white scar across her throat, and most of the women said that was the Some said her tongue had been cut. Callie didn't believe the stories. She didn't ask, either. In Greywater, you didn't ask. You just survived. Callie bent back to her washing. Then she heard the splash. She looked up. Three women had come around the end of the drying lines. Callie knew them. Everyone knew them. Big Mag, who was taller than most of the guards. Dora, with her missing front teeth. And Hessa, who smiled while she did cruel things, as if they were jokes. Mag had Sparrow by the back of her dress. "Thief," Mag said loudly. "Little rat stole my soap." Sparrow shook her head hard. Her eyes were wide. "Don't shake your head at me." Mag dragged her toward the end trough, the one where the ice still floated in the mornings. "You want to be clean? Fine. I'll make you clean." She pushed Sparrow's head down into the water. Sparrow's arms flew out. Her small hands slapped at the stone. Dora grabbed one arm and Hessa grabbed the other, and Hessa laughed. The other women in the yard looked away. Some of them turned their backs. Callie understood why. The guard on the wall was watching too, and he wasn't moving. He was eating an apple. Callie counted. One. Two. Three. Four. Sparrow's kicking was getting slower. Five. Callie dropped the shirt and walked across the yard. She didn't run. Running made people notice you. She just walked fast, with her head down, and when she reached the trough she grabbed Mag's wrist and twisted it back. Mag yelled and let go. Sparrow came up out of the water, choking and gasping. Her lips were blue. Callie pulled her back by the shoulders and pushed her behind her own body. For a second, everything went quiet. "Well," Hessa said. She was still smiling. "Look who found her voice. Number 3456." Callie said nothing. "She stole my soap," Mag said, rubbing her wrist. "She didn't," Callie said. Her voice came out rough. She didn't use it much anymore. "Your soap is in your apron pocket. I can see it from here." Dora looked down at Mag's apron. The corner of a yellow bar was poking out. Mag's face went dark red. "You think you're better than us?" Mag stepped close. Callie could smell her breath, sour and old. "I know who you are. Rich girl. Killer girl. They say you poisoned someone at a fancy dinner. Is that true?" Callie didn't answer that either. She had stopped answering that question a long time ago. No one ever believed her answer. "Go," Callie said quietly to Sparrow, without turning. "Go inside." Sparrow didn't move. Callie felt her small cold hand grab the back of her dress. "Go," Callie said again, harder this time. The hand let go. She heard Sparrow's bare feet slap on the wet stones as she ran. Then Mag hit her. The first punch landed on her cheek and turned her head to the side. The second one hit her stomach and folded her in half. She went down on her knees on the cold stones. Dora kicked her in the ribs. Hessa grabbed her hair and pulled her head back. "You want to take her place?" Hessa whispered. "Then take it." They pushed her face into the trough. The cold hit her like a slap from a giant hand. It filled her nose. It burned her eyes. She held her breath and didn't fight. Fighting made it last longer. She had learned that in her first month. She counted instead. One. Two. Three. She thought about Luca. She always thought about Luca when it was bad. His small face. The way he used to fall asleep on her shoulder when he was little, heavy and warm. He would be nineteen now. She didn't know where he was. Nobody would tell her. Seven. Eight. They pulled her up. She coughed water onto the stones. Then they did it again. When it was over, the bell was ringing for supper. Mag kicked her once more, almost lazily, and the three of them walked away laughing. Up on the wall, the guard threw his apple core into the yard and turned around, leaving the premises like the area was infected and he did not want to catch strays. Callie lay on the stones for a while. Then she got up, slowly, one piece of her body at a time, and went back to the trough. The guard's shirt was still there. It still had the stain, still staring at her, like a thorn she could not get out. She finished washing it before she went in.