Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 128488 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128488 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
“Wait,” Grim called as the kid started following the man out the open door. “Wait!” he called again. But the man ignored him. Clearly, it wasn’t Grim’s choice whether he kept his eye or not. It’d been Cedro’s, and he’d made it. Why?
“Stupid kid,” he muttered as the door shut. Grim slid back down to the floor of his cage. He still felt like hell but better than he had since he’d woken in the dark, begging like an animal. He hadn’t begged for his life. He’d begged for some alcohol. Of course, he hadn’t gotten any, and his body had rebelled. He’d thought he’d die a time or two and hoped he would. That was surely coming, only he figured now it was going to be even more painful than it would have been if he’d died of the DTs. “Just my fuckin’ luck.”
Grim had heard about something like this from the men who dealt in drugs and humans crossing the border. Word was, there was some kind of game being played by rich elites who got their rocks off doing sick shit to caged humans. Humans who’d never be missed. Throwaways like the kid.
Like you. Nobodies who have nobody.
The smugglers and traffickers—the cartels—all wanted a piece of it, obviously. Where there was money, there was always the desire—at least by some—to partake. But from what Grim had heard, this game was more exclusive than the likes of even the biggest drug kingpin. Grim had only half listened to the murmurings. Even for someone like him, who had seen depravity the likes of which most people didn’t think existed, he thought the stories about this game were overblown and unlikely.
Apparently, he’d been wrong. Or maybe he’d been too drunk too often over the past few years to pay attention like he should have. He ran a hand over his gnarled beard. He could smell the vomit stuck to it, and it made him want to vomit again. If he hadn’t needed to drink the water he’d been given so badly, he would have used at least some of it to clean himself up. Goddamn it, what was happening to the kid right that second?
The kid. Cedro. The one who’d stolen his locket. He’d seen him around town. He looked like a dirty little urchin, even if he was a teenager, but the boy was quick and stealthy, Grim would give him that. It hadn’t been hard to steal from Grim himself, as he’d been three sheets to the wind when the kid had taken his locket. But he’d watched him swipe things off others, and he was good. Good enough that he hadn’t been dragged over to Calle Miguel and turned into a prostitute. Or killed for the organs inside his body that many considered the most valuable part of him. Yet.
Though this might be part of that. Or worse. So apparently their luck had run out. He didn’t care personally . . . much. After all, he’d been killing himself slowly. This would get it over with in a hurry, even if there was some pain in the process. But he was surprised to find that he cared about the kid dying this way. He’d thought he was beyond caring about anyone or anything.
It felt like hours before the boy came back. Grim had allowed himself to drift off. Sleeping was the only time he wasn’t actively suffering, and he knew his body needed it if he was going to get through the last part of this detox he’d been forced to endure. He sat up as the kid was pushed back into his cage, coming to sit against the bars as he stared stoically ahead, expression blank. He’d seen that look before. Too many times to count. He’d also seen those unmistakable hand-size bruises on the jaws of young boys. The split lips from being forced apart. Fuck. “I could have lived without an eye,” he said.
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
Cedro’s gaze whipped in his direction, a small spark lighting in his eyes. Grim let out a slow breath. Okay, not gone, just temporarily extinguished.
“Why’d you do it?” Grim asked. “You shouldn’t have.”
The kid was silent for so long Grim thought he was going to ignore him. Finally, he asked, “The day you shot that dog . . . you said something over her. Like . . . a prayer or something. What’d you say?”
Grim paused. He hardly remembered that day. But he probed his memory. He owed the kid at least that. He’d heard the dog’s moans before he’d seen it. Someone had left it lying in the street. Suffering. He knelt down next to it and stroked its fur and . . . “I said the prayer of Saint Michael.”
Cedro let out a slow breath as though he was relieved in some way. As though Grim’s answer had satisfied two questions instead of the one he’d asked out loud. “My mother used to say that prayer,” he told Grim.