She had to be on thin ice with her allies right now. They would not thank her for the increased precariousness of their own positions.
And none of them would consider backing a bid for power from her. Not in the light of current events.
That meant Justine had miscalculated badly. If the Vampyre hadn’t realized that yet, then she would very soon. By her own actions, she would have alienated herself from her allies, and martial law was still in effect throughout the demesne.
She was losing her power base, and she was isolated. That meant she had no anchor, no way to achieve any of her goals, and no reason to hold back from any of her excesses.
It also meant that Melly and Julian were in an even more precarious position than she had at first realized.
Or were they? She chewed a thumbnail.
What it really meant was that the value of Melly’s life had increased, while the value of Julian’s life had gone down. Right now, Julian had value to Justine only if she had the time and the interest to torture him, and Melly was willing to bet that Justine was rapidly running out of both time and interest.
And Julian knew it. That canny wartime general had already parsed the value of his life against the value of Melly’s. He had been so calm earlier when he had argued for Melly to use Anthony to get out, because he already believed he was going to die.
Her gaze snagged on something and stopped running the circuit. She focused on the underside of the cot.
And cocked her head.
Maybe she did have a magic bottle labeled miracles after all.
The thin mattress was meant to rest on a piece of canvas stretched to the rectangular frame and held in place by metal springs that were roughly three-quarters of the length of her little finger.
The width of the metal springs looked like it might be thinner than her broken pieces of hairpin.
Snatching a hairpin piece out of her pocket, she held it to the cot to compare. The springs were thinner. Not by much, but she didn’t need much.
Halle-fucking-lujah.
If she could flatten two of the springs out on one end, she might be able to get the ends into the locks of Julian’s manacles.
Screw plan B.
It was time she came up with her own plan.
Seven
Rising up on her knees, she took her makeshift Vampyre stake and used the edge of one end to leverage prying off one of the springs. The task was frustrating and tedious. None of the pieces of what she had were meant to be used the way she wanted to use them, and her light source was getting dimmer by the minute.
She was concentrating so hard that Julian’s voice, coming as it did out of the dark, made her jump. “What on earth are you doing now?”
If she told him, she could see all too well how that argument would go, and she didn’t have the inclination or the time to waste on it.
“Never mind what I’m doing,” she told him. “You focus on being held captive.”
One spring popped loose and skittered across the floor. She retrieved it and started prying off another.
“Melly,” said Julian. “You’re cooking up something. What is it?”
“None of your business.” A second spring popped loose. Feeling a real sense of hope for the first time since she’d been kidnapped, she jumped up and retrieved that one as well.
Now she needed to bend the ends at the correct angle. Sticking her tongue between her teeth, she used her stake to pin one end of a spring against the floor.
In the early 1990s, there had been a TV show, starring Richard Dean Anderson, about a genius that could make tools and bombs and shit out of ordinary, everyday items. What was the name of that show again?
Oh yeah. MacGyver.
Melly had loved that show. She whispered to herself, “I am a fucking genius.”
The light grew even weaker. Her flashlight was going to give out at any moment. She worked at the spring until she had gotten one end bent out, then quickly started on the other.
“I don’t feel good about this,” Julian growled.
It annoyed her to no end that he sounded so damn sexy when he did that grumpy, growly thing. She used to love when he sounded grumpy-sexy.
The memory made her spine stiffen. She said, “Remind me, when did I start giving a shit about your feelings again?”
“That would imply that you gave a shit to begin with,” he snapped.
Oh now, that one was too much to ignore. Her head came up, and she opened her mouth to blast him.
In the distance, a piercing, high-pitched whistle sounded, followed almost immediately by the sound of the ferals running away down the tunnel.
Real silence descended afterward, which was a major relief from all the nerve-wracking noises the ferals had been making in the background. The silence didn’t last long. In the distance, a single set of footsteps sounded.