Two days pass. In the dark of my cell I now have more than madness and boredom to contend with. I must also work to burn the image of a bloody and broken Katarina from my mind. I want to remember Katrina as I know her: wise and strong.
I continue with my breathing exercises. They help.
But not much.
Eventually the cell door opens, and again I’m doused with cold water, gagged this time, blindfolded, and dragged back to the same cell. Once I’ve been chained to the ceiling, my blindfold is removed.
Katarina is right where I last saw her, as broken and battered as before. I can only hope she’s been let down at some point.
The same Mog as before sits across from us, on the edge of the desk, a bandage across his sliced cheek. I can see he is straining to be as menacing as he was before. But he regards us with a new fear.
I hate him. More than anyone I have ever met. If I could tear him apart with my bare hands I would. If I couldn’t use my hands, I would rip him apart with my teeth.
He sees me looking at him. He leaps forward suddenly, tearing the gag from my mouth. He wields the rubber-handled razor in front of my face again, twisting it, letting the ceiling light dance across its edge.
“I don’t know what number you are . . . ” he says. I cringe involuntarily, expecting him to try and cut me again, but he holds back. Then, with sadistic deliberateness, he crosses over to Katarina, pulling on her hair. Still gagged, she manages only a whimper. “But you’re going to tell me right now.”
“No!” I scream. He grins with satisfaction at my anguish, like he’s been waiting for it. He presses the blade to Katarina’s arm and slides it down her flesh. Her arm opens up, pouring blood. She buckles against her chains, tears flooding her face. I try to scream but my voice gives out: all that comes out is a high, pained gasp.
He makes another cut beside the first, this one even deeper. Katarina succumbs to the pain and goes limp.
With my teeth, I think.
“I can do this all day,” he says. “Do you understand me? You’re going to tell me everything I want to know, starting with what number you are.”
I close my eyes. My heart burns. I feel like a volcano, only there’s no opening, no outlet for the rage filling up inside of me.
When I open my eyes he’s back at the desk, tossing a large blade from his left hand to his right hand and back. Playfully, waiting for my gaze. Now that he’s got it, he holds the blade up so I can see its size.
It begins to glow in his hands, changing colors: violet one second, green the next.
“Now . . . your number. Four? Seven? Are you lucky enough to be Number Nine?”
Katarina, barely conscious, shakes her head. I know she’s signalling me to keep silent. She has kept her silence this long.
I struggle to keep quiet. But I can’t handle it, can’t watch him hurt my Katarina. My Cêpan.
He walks over to Katarina, still wielding the blade. Katarina murmurs something beneath her gag. Curious, he lowers it from her mouth.
She spits a thick wad of blood onto the floor by his feet. “Torturing me to get to her?”
He eyes her hatefully, impatient. “Yes, that’s about right.”
Katarina manages a scornful, slow-building laugh. “It took you two whole days to come up with that plan?”
I can see his cheeks turn red at the well-aimed jab. Even Mogadorians have their pride.
“You must be some kind of idiot,” she howls. I thrill at Katarina’s impudence, proud of her defiance but afraid of what the consequence will be.
“I have all the time in the galaxies for this,” he says flatly. “While you are in here with me, we are out there with the rest of you. Don’t think anything has stopped us from moving forward just because we have you. We know more than you think. But we want to know everything.”
He cruelly strikes Katarina with the butt of the knife before she can speak again.