Wasteland Treasure (The Deviant Future #2) - Eve Langlais Page 0,2

lie to me, apprentice. I saw you skimping from that jar with the green powder.”

“The mint? That just gives it a refreshing feel.”

“Did you just talk back?” Jezebelle recoiled, her rouged lips pulled into a rictus meant to feign shock. Yet it also hinted of jubilation. Jezebelle had found justification for her actions. “Insolent wretch. I’ll have you punished for this. Where is your master?”

“Attending more important people than you.” There was horror and yet deep satisfaction in saying it.

The gaping expression on Jezebelle’s face was worth the explosion. Quite literally. The citizen uttered a high-pierced shriek of rage, which rang in the shop. The waves of it sent Sofia to her knees, hands over her ears. Still the scream went on, shattering glass, shaking the very structure of the shop.

When it ended, Sofia lay huddled among glass and ingredients, her nose tickling at all the sharp scents. The waste of it incredible, especially since some of the items were very rare and valuable.

“You idiot. Look what you did,” snapped Sofia. “You destroyed the master’s shop.”

“You provoked me.”

“Don’t blame me for the fact you can’t control your temper.” Sofia rose, shedding glass and powder.

“We’ll see who’s blamed.”

“I’m not the one who just pulverized a shop.”

“I was protecting myself,” was Jezebelle’s haughty reply.

“From what? This?” She held up the jar of cream that had remarkably stayed intact on the counter. “I can see the danger. Moisturized skin. Such a horrible thing to suffer. Totally justifies you having a tantrum.” Once started, she couldn’t seem to stop. The insults kept coming and coming. Given the shattered window, with citizens peering inside, she imagined it wouldn’t be long before the city guards arrived.

Jezebelle must have realized it. She grabbed at some broken glass and lifted it over her arm.

Would she seriously…she did. She slashed herself a few times, shallow messy cuts.

“Everyone knows base citizens can be violent.” She shot a triumphant smirk in Sofia’s direction.

It was an utter lie. Yet, Sofia already knew they would believe Jezebelle.

Sofia would be placed in a cell. Execution would be the kindest thing if that happened. She knew what happened to those who were put on trial. She could end up being forced into labor on a farm or in a factory where people were literally worked to death. Pretty prisoners were often given to the soldiers as whores. There was banishment. Public humiliation. Death.

All horrible choices because of a rotten woman. An annoying, entitled, mean woman who delighted in attacking Sofia.

No more.

Before Jezebelle could put down the glass, Sofia dove over the counter for her. If she was going to be punished, she wanted to have the satisfaction of hitting her at least once.

Not expecting the attack, Jezebelle staggered under Sofia’s weight and hit the ground hard. Sofia grabbed the wrist with the hand holding the glass. She drew back her other hand and balled it into a fist.

Before she could hit that rouged mouth screaming for help, the door to the shop smashed open and guards poured in, yelling, “Halt, or we’ll shoot.”

She froze and released Jezebelle, raising her hands over her head. Before she could stand, Jezebelle slashed her across the cheek with the glass shard.

The hot blood heated skin as it dripped off her jaw. She gaped at the woman. “What is wrong with you?”

“Arrest her! She attacked me!” Jezebelle screeched.

“She started it.” Sofia stuck to the truth.

Rough hands gripped her by the arms and dragged her away. The soldiers had no interest in listening to anything she had to say. She might be a citizen of the city, but she ranked low in the hierarchy.

The cell they tossed her into proved nicer than expected. A clean space of her own. An actual bed. Water to wash herself. Food three times a day. Blander than her usual fare, but better than nothing.

She only wished she’d had some access to herbs. Thread would have been nice. The wound on her cheek—the skin splayed open from the jagged glass—scabbed in a thick line. It would leave a mark if she couldn’t treat it soon.

The day of her trial arrived, and the level of activity around the cells multiplied as the prisoners were prepared for their day in court. Less justice and more a spectacle, court took place once every seventeen days.

Given it was a show, she endured a scrubbing followed by a rinse in a room along with the other female prisoners. Through the water pouring steadily from the ceiling and sluicing down a huge