The air was hot, sucking every bit of oxygen out of my lungs. Bright rays seeped through the few loose stones in the wall, leaving a trail of whirled up dust particles in their wake. I sighed and pointed at the heavy mahogany door. "How long is this going to take, Dad? You know I've to get to my job." A guy hanging from long chains in the ceiling yelled like a pitchfork just stabbed him in the bum. I figured that was about the only answer I'd get. Groaning, I averted my gaze, hoping Dad, dressed in his usual business suit, gaze fixed on the guy undergoing some major torture, wouldn't notice, but of course he did. "This is your job, Cassandra. Are you watching and learning?" he asked. Nodding, I curled my lips into a forced smile, grateful Dad couldn't read my thoughts because we were blood-related. My stomach turned at the metallic smell of blood hitting my nostrils. You'd think after growing up there I would've been used to the whole shebang—torture, famine, death and so forth—but I still flinched and gritted my teeth.
