Hey y’all, here’s Chapter Seven of our epic switchblade-and-sorcery e-novel, Those Who Create and Destroy. The novel’s almost finished and expected to come in at around 250,000 words. While we’re putting finishing touches on Parts 2 and 3, we’ll continue releasing Part 1 in weekly installments on Wednesdays, with audiobook and e-reader formats coming soon.
—Mabel & Cass
“The Words ‘Best Friend’ Become Redefined”
story by Mabel Harper & Cassidy Webb
written by Cassidy Webb
Rory wasn’t sure just how long ago hours had bled into days. There were no windows in the Enclave’s maximum-security prison wing, just cold, hard stone and iron bars. And there were no sapient beings to listen to his story, only Ordinators, regular as clockwork, to deliver his meals, refill his tepid bathwater, and replace the rusty bedpan in the corner.
They’d taken his keys, his switchblade—maybe most unfortunately his phone, in spite of the fact that it probably wouldn’t have gotten service anyway, thanks to interference from the Fathoms beneath Delphi. So he’d whiled away the hours pacing like a caged beast and tossing on his too-thin bedroll, and talking to himself, so much that he’d started to go hoarse. It was a habit he’d formed after he’d dropped out of the order, when he’d spent his time alone most days with Mom at work and Abby at school. Rory had never been good with silence or solitude—something that was twice as true when he was feeling anxious.
“Fuck this. Fuck this. Fuck this.” At present he was banging his head against the bars of his cell, glaring down at the snug, thin rings of adamantine that encircled his wrists. “Whatever you fucks are gonna do to me, just do it. I just wanna know she’s okay. Is that so much to ask?”
He sighed, pushed himself off from the bars, circled listlessly around toward the back of his cell. Rapped a few random Tupac lyrics, then launched into an energetic Steve Irwin impression. “Croikey! This one’s a real foightah. Look at ’eem. Look at ’ees oize.”
He spun mid-step at the sound of footfalls approaching. This time, it wasn’t just Ordinators. He could hear the now-familiar clinking of their boots, but there was something else, too—an uneven stumping, like someone walking with a crutch or a cane.
The footsteps paused, and a key turned in the lock of the entrance to the ward. The door swung open on rusty hinges.
“Listen to me, whoever you are!” Rory rushed forward and banged against the bars of his cell. “You have to listen to me for just five seconds. There are violent apostates on the loose in Chicago. The mundane girl who came here with me—she needs help!”