The Girl Who Dared to Think Bella Forrest (best classic literature txt) 📖

Grey gasped, his breath becoming ragged like he was struggling to inhale. His hand darted to his throat, scrabbling there until he scratched long, pink lines down his skin. I stared in horror as blood began to trickle onto his collarbone and he started to slam himself against the glass. Once, twice, three times he battered himself, eyes wide, before he tipped over and started convulsing on the floor, a slip of saliva spilling from his mouth. He kicked once. Again. Then he was still. There was no way to tell whether Grey was acting or not, which made it all the more terrifying to watch. I kept looking for a sign, but coming up short.

I hit the button to vent the gas two seconds later. I wanted to believe this plan had worked, but if he was acting, it was so realistic, and all I could hear were the voices in my head screaming at me that I had just murdered him. Something had gone wrong. I had just killed him. Devon was smiling in grim satisfaction, while Gerome wore the same steely expression as always.

I waited a moment, but that was all I could manage. In my pocket, I wrapped a sweaty hand around the pill case and opened it, letting the pill roll free.

“Sir,” I said, my voice finding a strong note and holding it. “May I go inside now?”

“You may,” Devon said, lifting a hand and waving it dismissively.

I moved over to the door and opened it. I followed a long, narrow hall down about fifty feet, until it opened up slightly. There was another door at the end of the hall, and I noted it, making an educated guess that it led to where the prisoners were kept when they weren’t in the cells or rehabilitation rooms. I turned right to enter the holding area. An exposed tile shower stood outside the cell, as well as a heavy metal table. I walked past it, too, trying not to think about all the degrading things that might have happened in this room.

The first thing I noticed when I opened the door was the smell. The cell was obviously filthy, but the stench just reared up to punch me right in the nostrils. Excrement. Blood. And in the middle of it all was Grey, streaks of pink leading to his hands. He was so still. His eyes were closed. If he was breathing, I couldn’t see it.

I knelt, putting a hand on his chest and hoping for a heartbeat.

His chest was still beneath my hand.

No. No! No! No! No!

Keep it together, I ordered myself, palming the pill. Stick to the plan. He’s alive.

I reached for his chin, pretending to shut his mouth, and as I did so I let the little pill slip past my fingers and between his teeth. It was a small motion, shielded from the audience by my body. Hopefully nobody would suspect a thing.

Swallow, I thought at him, willing him to do so. Don’t let them find your Scipio-damned body with a pill in its mouth.

As if in answer, I saw his mouth move. It was only a little, but the movement was definitely there. I felt my heart leap into my throat, then forced myself back into the moment. There was no time for emotions. I had to get him out of there. I lifted him, a full dead weight in my arms, and began dragging him from the cell. Luckily, I had been trained in how to move unconscious people without causing too much harm to myself.

“SQUIRE.”

Devon’s voice was cold as steel as he snapped out the command. I leapt, Grey slipping from my arms to collapse against the floor as I jerked around to stare at the Champion standing in the doorway.

“Sir?”

“Step away,” he said, his voice sharp as he yanked his baton out, its tip igniting with blue light. “He’s not dead. The gas didn’t do its job.”

I looked at him, then at Grey. How did he know?

And then I saw the way the Champion’s head was tilting. The way he seemed to angle one ear skyward. He hadn’t known. Scipio, however, had.

My heart pounded. I hadn’t thought of that, but of course Scipio could tell he was alive—his brain activity had never stopped! I couldn’t believe I hadn’t considered that before. I felt like an idiot—a soon to be imprisoned, tortured, and gassed idiot.

On the floor, Grey sucked in a massive breath, his eyes flying open. He looked around, first at me, then at the advancing councilman. His face, if possible, went even paler. He tried to force a smile, but it came out shaking and lopsided, hardly a smile at all.

“Champion,” he said, his voice as cracked as a shattered plate.

“Grey Farmless,” Devon answered, rolling his baton between his fingers and stepping into the room, filling it with his presence. “You have been tried by Scipio, and found undeserving. Your punishment is to be expelled from the Tower, immediately, and in a way that offers no return.”

Grey scrambled back against the far wall, holding up a hand. “I think there’s a mistake,” he said. “I—”

“Champion!” I called, my voice loud and strong, and I pointed at Grey’s wrist. “His number.”

The number, now orange, had risen to a four.

“Scipio’s grace,” Gerome gasped from the doorway, his eyes wide and filled with awe. “The experience changed him, Champion. He has seen the error in his ways.”

Devon’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the number. Then, from between clenched teeth, a single word slipped out.

“What.”

It wasn’t even a question. It was a cold, stark thing, like poison that he was trying to spit from his body.

I stared between the two of them, my heart thudding wildly in my chest. Devon did not lower his weapon, and continued to look at Grey with what could only be described as hunger. Gerome, in contrast, seemed awed, though, his brows drawn up in confusion.

“A malfunction in the system,” Devon snarled. “Scipio marked this