“D24L103,” he finally repeated, inspecting the characters etched into the metal band. His gaze drifted to the bandages, as if he could see through to the three deep slashes beneath. “That’s a bit of a mouthful. Probably easier if you stick with Jaren.”

Kiva stumbled slightly, her head whipping toward him only to find his blue-gold eyes lit with humor.

Humor.

“Is this a joke to you?” she hissed, stopping dead on the gravel path between the infirmary and the stone building nearest to it. “You do realize where you’re standing right now, don’t you?” She threw her hands out, as if doing so would help open his eyes. While the light was steadily fading as dusk settled over the expansive grounds, the limestone perimeter walls rose high on all sides around them, making it impossible to forget that they were trapped like rats in a cage.

Jaren’s humor dissolved, his eyes flicking to Naari, then back to Kiva. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He rubbed his neck, looking uncomfortable. “I guess—I’m not sure how I’m supposed to act in here.”

Kiva inhaled deeply, then shook the tension from her shoulders. People dealt with fear and uncertainty in different ways, she reminded herself. Humor was a coping mechanism, and certainly not the worst of them. She needed to have more patience with him.

“That’s what I’m here for,” she told him, more gently. “To tell you what you need to know. To help you survive this place.”

“And how long have you been surviving this place?”

She held his gaze. “Long enough to be a good teacher.”

That seemed to satisfy him, since he followed without argument when she started forward again. At least until she stopped them at the entrance to the next building over and said, “I figure the first place you visit should also be the last.”

When Jaren looked at her in puzzlement, she nodded to the dark doorway and finished, “Welcome to the morgue.”

Chapter Five

Kiva led the way inside the cold stone building, her nose wrinkling at the acrid smell that permeated everything from the walls to the floors. Incense burned from a small worktable at the side of the square room, but it didn’t hide the stench of death, an unpleasant mix of spoiled meat and sour milk.

A drain lay in the center of the floor, the stones closest to it stained a reddish-brown. Only a fraction of prisoners underwent embalming, usually those from more privileged families who were granted permission to collect their loved ones after death. The lingering scent of thyme, rosemary, and lavender tickled Kiva’s nose, but she couldn’t smell any wine, indicating it had been some time since the last attempted preservation.