"Aphrodite's_Flame_042" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kenner _Julie_-_[Protector_04]_-_Aphrodite's_Flame_(V1.0)_[lit](multi-file html))

Chapter Thirty-nine

Plop, plip, plop.
The steady drip of water—at least, he hoped it was water—echoed in the dark chamber. His chamber was pitch-black, and Harold Frost could see nothing.
He could hear and smell everything, though, and in this dank place, that was hardly a comfort. Sulphur, as pungent as rotten eggs, filled the air, stinging his useless eyes. Another smell, too. Though it was unfamiliar, Harold was certain that the sharp odor was the smell of burning flesh.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
Blindly, he reached back, running his hand along the rough stone wall. He was already sitting on the smooth stone bench—the only one in the cell—but before he leaned back against the wall, he wanted to make sure there weren’t any creepy-crawlies on it.
They came in the night—or what he thought was the night—slithering around and over him. He shivered at the memory.
He had no idea how long he’d been here, but it was long enough to leave him exhausted and half-starved. When he’d first arrived, he’d tried to pace the area of his cell, but there was no room. If he held his hands out and turned in a circle, his fingers never ceased to touch the walls.
He thought again of his daughter, how she’d hate this place, and the thought gave him strength. She was special. She’d save him. He knew that. In his heart, he knew that his daughter would come for him.
Still... it didn’t hurt to be practical. And he’d run his hands over every inch of the walls, looking for embedded latches, nooks, secret passageways, anything.
But there was nothing.
And all he could do was sit in the dark and wait.

Chapter Thirty-nine

Plop, plip, plop.
The steady drip of water—at least, he hoped it was water—echoed in the dark chamber. His chamber was pitch-black, and Harold Frost could see nothing.
He could hear and smell everything, though, and in this dank place, that was hardly a comfort. Sulphur, as pungent as rotten eggs, filled the air, stinging his useless eyes. Another smell, too. Though it was unfamiliar, Harold was certain that the sharp odor was the smell of burning flesh.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
Blindly, he reached back, running his hand along the rough stone wall. He was already sitting on the smooth stone bench—the only one in the cell—but before he leaned back against the wall, he wanted to make sure there weren’t any creepy-crawlies on it.
They came in the night—or what he thought was the night—slithering around and over him. He shivered at the memory.
He had no idea how long he’d been here, but it was long enough to leave him exhausted and half-starved. When he’d first arrived, he’d tried to pace the area of his cell, but there was no room. If he held his hands out and turned in a circle, his fingers never ceased to touch the walls.
He thought again of his daughter, how she’d hate this place, and the thought gave him strength. She was special. She’d save him. He knew that. In his heart, he knew that his daughter would come for him.
Still... it didn’t hurt to be practical. And he’d run his hands over every inch of the walls, looking for embedded latches, nooks, secret passageways, anything.
But there was nothing.
And all he could do was sit in the dark and wait.