Hexes and Handcuffs: A Limited Edition Collection of Supernatural Prison Stories

by Margo Bond Collins

  One foot after the other.

  No clenching hands, back straight, head up, stepping with purpose.

  Above ground, there could be no shuffling. That was a sure sign that one belonged in Shanty Town, underground.

  The more I lied to myself, the more I tried to act like everything was okay, and I wasn’t on the list the soldiers had. Magic was forbidden, and to be magical, well, that only ended with a one-way trip.

  Dusk marked the vampire hour, and close to curfew.

  Most recently, a band of ruffians had attacked the Elven soldiers, and now they responded with vampires and solar-powered robotic dogs. I’d even heard they’d launched drone-like birds that caught those hiding, even under concrete and metal. Nothing could be hidden in this world, and no savior was coming to get humanity out of this mess.

  Taking a steeling breath, I pushed through the fear that tickled at the back of my skull.

  I was privileged enough to be able to walk aboveground. Not all could still inhale fresh, polluted air, or be allowed to view the moon’s rising.

  Wasn’t that what it was supposed to be when the invader became the Overlords? The simplest freedoms were ripped away and replaced with brutality. I tried to ignore the screams of a woman snatched right off the street and thrown into the back of a hovering police van—hmm, that was new.

  Squinting, I noticed just a few feet away stood an armed group of five tall elven guards, decked out in black riot gear—emblazoned with a fiery V on their chests. Unlike other guards, this was an elite vampire unit, according to their insignia. But one could never tell as their faces were also covered with black-and-blue light, glowing inside.

  “You,” one called out and went to pull a woman out of the pedestrian mass, who walked a few steps in front of me.

  I watched.

  “No,” she screamed, and as the soldiers went for her, she quickly produced an encircling cerulean blue magical force field, and while holding it with one hand, light sizzled from her fingertips, zapping the soldiers coming closer.

  But they didn’t stop, as if what they wore was magic resistant, or at least to her magic.

  “Athena,” she screamed, begging, and the guards laughed in response.

  “She thinks the gods will listen.” Out of the hovering police van, a soldier in the same black riot gear stepped, but his insignia was in white glyphs. He raised his gloved hand—the fingertips glowed gold, and the glyphs on his chest lit up, swirling with the same cerulean, mixing with cobalt and silver. The brighter they grew, the more the woman seemed to struggle with keeping the force field stable, until it flickered and collapsed, and she fell to her knees.

  “Looks like your goddess was busy.” I heard one of the guards say, pushing down on the woman’s shoulder to keep her from moving.

  And just like that, the magic-user was shackled with neon-glowing handcuffs, rumored to stop any magical—either active or latent—use. The visible skin on the woman’s arms puckered with pus-filled boils. The malefic rash, if not treated, was deadly.

  “Yes, she is otherworldly,” the Elf guard confirmed.

  Otherworldly was the derogatory term they used to dehumanize magic wielders. A way to separate them from their humanity.

  I caught her pain-filled gaze, and the Elf guard and two of his vampire cronies dragged her toward the back of the police van.

  “Another shitless rebel,” a guard snarked.

  “Another rebel who falls. The intel was right. Hail the Overlord. Hail the Elves.”

  I walked on, steadying my step, forcing my rigid gait to ease. Vertigo threatened to undo me.

  I still had a delivery to make.

  Chapter Four

  Rounding the bend, I moved toward one of the entries to the subterranean Shanty Town entrances. Swiping my card, I moved through the gate and bounded down the stairs. The countdown to curfew could mean the difference between being caught and living another day.

  With the lack of natural sunlight, electric signs glowed, flickered, and popped. Overhead lighting on exposed wiring hung carelessly and swung with the slightest of vibrations.

  The stench of sweat, urine, and human and animal feces intermingled with that of street fried foods and exotic spices. Before, Richmond had been a multicultural city filled with people from every walk of life, and just like above, the same as below. The caste system wasn’t based on the color of one’s skin, but one’s economic wealth and usefulness. The impoverished before was still the impoverished now.

  The financial wealth was only a part of the caste system, though, and everyone wanted to rise higher to escape what it meant to be part of the five tiers, scaled A through F.

  And that meant even snitching to get ahead. It was something I always needed to be cautious of, but tonight there was no time to zigzag. With only a couple of minutes to spare, I had to make my delivery and return to my allotted tier in time.

  Unlike above ground, I raced through these narrow and maze-like aisles until I found Madam Petulia’s aluminum sheet-made shop.

  A voice interrupted me. “You got something for me, miss?” She peeked up at me with dirt on her pox face. She stretched out her hand, begging.

  I recognized the marks on her arms, the washed-out gaunt fiend’s face. But she was only one of a couple who loitered around.

  I’d known Madam Petulia, the once-renowned psychic, for years. How she’d managed to remain free after having her face, name, and number plastered all over everything for years remained a mystery to me.

  Madam Petulia Poultices, at least that was what she called them, were to treat those in Shanty Town of their illnesses, like most, above ground, didn’t give two flying shits about the poor. They carried the burdens of the Overlords and were considered easily replaceable.

  “Kristen,” Madam Petulia called out and moved toward me. Her hair was bound up in a sunflower-yellow headscarf. She was decked out in bright yellows that reminded me of what warmth of the Caribbean, and how life used to be.

  “Sorry I’m late. Soldiers.”

  Madam Petulia nodded and stretched out her hand. Unease had her shoulders clenched up around her neck, her body rigid, her smile was also brittle, ready to crack.

  I reached into my jacket and retrieved the vials of mana, that said to help even the weakest heal, and was highly illegal to possess without the right credentials (i.e., only those in law enforcement, soldiers and the like), were able to possess the substance. It gave them the upper edge to keep regular people like me in our place.

  “I know you are risking a lot for us, but we thank you.” She patted me on the arm like what I thought my mother would have done if she were around. Family was something I never should’ve taken for granted, but now, the only family I’d found was from friends I’d known from the neighborhood before the invasion.

  “You must hurry back above ground or miss curfew.” She took the vials and slid them into a satchel, before ushering me back toward the shop’s doorway.

  She didn’t have to tell me about the consequences. If caught, I’d end up in a place where no one would find me.

  “May the gods be with you.” Her brow crinkled, and I saw the worry tighten her face. Every mission, every moment, wasn’t something promised for tomorrow. If I didn’t steal the mana to help others, they’d die—people I’d just attended college with, who didn’t have enough points to rise higher as I did.

  “And you.” I nodded and hurried back toward the exit, and with the stairs in sight, relief flooded me.

  This was almost over. The guards were putting on the heat, trying to stop an uprising. Right now, I didn’t care about rebels—all I wanted was for those sick to be well again.

  To hope.

  Suddenly, I heard jackboots on the stairs descending in front of me. Soldiers raced forward, robo-dogs bounded up the aisle from the rear.

  “Cease, Kristen Sumner, you are under arrest. Cease,” their automated voices announced.

  I dropped to my knees, placed my hands behind my head,
and stared down at the muddy ground.

  I’d been ratted out.

  And when the glowing cuffs came, I could only hope that I was strong enough not to squeal, too.

  Chapter Five

  It all happened in a whirlwind.

  I used to know how things with due process worked, but with the Overlords, the Constitution had gone out the window.

  The magistrate’s office wasn’t a judge’s chamber or a courtroom like I expected. Instead, since I wasn’t higher up the caste system, I wasn’t to be granted a trial. I was dragged before a magistrate’s desk in a tiny, cramped office. Her tight dreadlocks, tired cold gaze, and monotone voice left me with little hope. “Kristen Sumner, you are charged with possession of a controlled substance in violation of Code 656.92A, as well as possession with the intent to distribute a controlled substance in violation of Code 659.31, subsection c. How do you plead?”

  Standing before her, I cleared my throat. “You see, what happened was—”

  “This is either guilty or not guilty,” she interrupted. “No elaborate discourse. The guard’s report is pretty simple, and that, combined with the surveillance and eyewitness testimony, leaves little room for you not to be guilty.” She leaned forward. “But if you’d like to give up the one who provided you with the drugs, maybe a better deal can be negotiated. After all, one like you wouldn’t have access. This controlled substance is not made or mass-produced. Each vial has a number on it, stating its origin. We can either track that information down and bring in all who’ve touched these vials, or we can listen to your words and you could receive a less harsh sentence.”

  My entire life, no one had ever wanted to listen to my words. No matter how much I pushed, tried, begged, or cried. The only one who’d ever given me a chance was the one who’d placed me in a situation to lose the life I’d fought so hard to create.

  What sort of sentence might the magistrate pass down? I was a first-time offender, never accused of a crime, let alone found guilty of one. But there wasn’t an attorney present to even give the appearance that this entire hearing was fair.

  “Let’s be honest,” I shrugged, “no matter what I say, you’re going to find me guilty and lock me away.”

  “There are other options.”

  Even the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse thought they helped, and maybe the longer explanation was to give me a choice. Instead of making the run, I should have been turning pirouettes, making sure I was on beat. It didn’t matter how graceful and promising I’d once been. One misstep proved damning.

  This was my crossroads.

  “Other options, like what?” I hoped she’d mention work release, a slap on the wrist, and maybe even my doing home arrest.

  “If you are willing to admit where you got the stuff, we can send you to a level-one facility, where the only difference between your life here and there will be a high chain-link fence.”

  “And the other option?”

  “At Grave Warden Prison, you’ll be surrounded by thick walls topped with barbed wire, electric hounds guarding the perimeter. I cannot advise you on which avenue you should take.”

  Life was filled with imperfections, an unchoreographed dance, and I had to try to figure out the steps. I’d imagined my life in many different ways, but snitching wasn’t one of them.

  All of those hours at the bar, the pointed toes, bruised and scarred and bloodied feet. The dreams of being on stage dashed. “I guess you should get going on that judgment then. Sounds like Grave Warden is going to be my new home for a while.”

  The magistrate thinned her lips and shook her head. She glanced over the charges, ruled on incarceration, and banged her gavel. “Life it is.” She scrawled her signature across the document, and called over the waiting guard, “Next,” and he moved to my side, pulling me toward the door.

  I’d created this mess.

  And my happy ever after was one that I’d need to imagine.

  The bald male guard took me to the back for processing, a small narrow room with white walls and motivational signs mixing with directions. The “You can do good” sign juxtaposed to “Warning: All calls are monitored” ones might have thrown me for a loop, but this place wasn’t there to give me the warm fuzzies.

  “Shivers, you’re up,” he called out in the room, and a back door opened, then two female guards entered. The first of the two who appeared was stout and stern-looking. “Shoes off.” She glanced down at my marble-colored flats.

  “Uh, I’m going to need those. I have high arches,” I said. “Those are medically necessary.”

  The second guard cocked an eyebrow, but otherwise remained neutral in her expression, and snapped on white gloves. “Stand with your hands on the wall, and arms and legs stretched out,” she ordered instead.

  Neither of them seemed to want to listen to me. I did as I was ordered and closed my eyes as her hands, with solid pressure, started to pat me down. Her fingers tangled in my bleached-white hair, touching my scalp, to quickly descend to my décolletage, across and between my breasts, along my ribs, buttocks, and in between my thighs. It felt as if she’d touched every inch of me, and all I could do was stand there.

  “Shivers, cavity search,” she said and backed up.

  “That’s not necessary, surely,” I argued. The officer came up behind me and kicked my legs even further apart.

  “May the elves be generous in caring for you,” one of the guards said and beat on the bus’s ceiling as if announcing good intentions.

  It didn’t take long for me to be stripped from everything. Finished with processing, and given my new orange jumpsuit, I slipped my feet into the cheap tennis shoes. Now, shackled together, packed inside the Department of Correction and Modification’s white bus, we were hauled out of the city’s center toward the new facility that once housed the baseball field and its adjacent properties.

  The bus was segregated into different compartments, with officers seated in the rear and upfront. There must have been some high-ranked prisoners here to garner so much firepower.

  “I’ve heard that the best you can do when you get there is to find a family to join in their magical blocks,” my seatmate said. She’d been weary-eyed, her face forlorn and mouth ungenerous.

  There must have been a mistake. I wasn’t magical at all. I shrugged. “I’m not going there to make friends.”

  “Then don’t look this way when you get jumped. You’re either going to have to make your bed with these monsters watching over us or those monsters in there. At least inside those walls, they have enough power to keep us from the true pain—the games.”

  “Monsters?” It didn’t take long for magic and otherness to be outlawed. Most remained oblivious to our plight. When the dark elves came, they knew to divide and conquer was the best avenue of success. Now, there weren’t many lively folks patrolling the streets. One was either a part of the rebel faction or aligned with them.

  “When they came, the supernatural world remained mostly quiet—as if ordered to remain silent, to stay underground. And then they were gathered together, herded away. Some to the prisons and some on to the games.”

  “Games?” I asked.

  But before she could answer, a guard yelled, “Quiet,” chastising us.

  I looked at my seatmate, and she raised her index finger, making the internationally known symbol for murder.

  We were all burdened with our failures, misfortunes, and misfires.

  But with the invasion, the city shrank back as the elves forcefully relocated everyone into the hilly and historic inner-city.

  Rumors had circulated for months as to what happened at the Grave Warden Supernatural Prison. Supposedly, it was the place those who wielded magic went to die.

  With two to a seat, I sat in the front of the full bus, next to a window, covered in wire mesh. The bumpy ride through the city was done mostly in silence. I watched the scenery drift by as the bus moved down the paved road. Each mile hitched up my anxiety. I twiddled my thumbs in hopes the
motion would relieve my trepidation. Glancing across the aisle to my right, I watched as one prisoner rocked back and forth, while someone else two rows up lowly cried. In so much silence, whimpers could still be heard.

  But there must have been a mistake.

  I had no magical powers. There was nothing within me that could cause either magical damage or absorb magical blows or devastation.

  We’d once been a bustling city of over two hundred thousand people spread out over sixty miles.

  The gates for the militarized Inner-City Border parted, and the bus rolled through. I was distracted by the scenery. I’d not been this far from the city center. Before the invasion, the city had been vibrant, but out here, these parts were modern ruins, buildings encased with evidence of past battles. Curled barbed wire rested in this dead zone, as well as signs that cautioned about land mines.

  We’d left the polished city behind, and now, out here, this part was war-torn like those pictures from the Second World War.

  Buildings were abandoned, broken, and some were burned out. Jagged cinderblock walls crumbled. Vines crawled up that which remained as if nature sought to reclaim that once taken.

  Peering out the bus’s front window, I spied the prison looming in the distance. This large, clean-lined massive building seemed out of place in the industrial landscape. A newer, massive compound took the place of the older buildings, of what was once the old bus station and its surrounding bus depots.

  Apprehension was just my mind creating a fear of what might happen on the other side of those walls.

  Large, armed guards walked the perimeter, while others were visible in the observation towers.

  This place might not be too bad, I thought. Since it was new, that meant surely better treatment, upkeep, right?