by Naomi Clark
Frustration building, I prowled the room. I’d never gone into a situation so blind before. When I was bounty-hunting, I’d always had some info, some clues. All I had now was my own hunches, and I keenly missed having Elijah as a sounding board to bounce them off. For real, not just me chattering away at a crow who might not even understand who I was.
I bit my lip, familiar pain twisting my gut. I’d done a complete circuit of the room and was back at the bar. It was time to get out of here. I was achieving nothing, and the night wouldn’t last forever.
As I went for the door, I struck my foot on something. Looking down, I saw I’d kicked a heavy metal latch. A trapdoor. There must be a basement under the bar. Well, fuck it, right?
I opened the trapdoor and peered into the darkness below. There was a ladder leading down into the basement, disappearing into shadows. A strange smell wafted up, something chemical and astringent. It could just be where they kept the cleaning products. But something about that smell tugged at my memory, made me think of Varnham, of ill-lit rooms full of secrets and sadism.
Maybe I was just desperate. I wanted my regular, boring life back. I wanted to be able to look Mr. Cold in the eye and tell him we were done. I wanted to stop this before some innocent kid ended up as collateral damage.
So I went down.
My heart pounded as I descended. I didn’t have many nightmares anymore, but if I did, Varnham was in them. His blank expression and burning eyes. His clinically emotionless voice and clean, pale hands. I’ve met plenty of monsters. I’ve killed a lot of them. I never got to kill Varnham, and because of that, he haunts me.
And I was thinking of his lab as I climbed down the ladder. Rows of neatly organized and labeled jars, filled with cloudy liquids and body parts. Gleaming steel devices designed to cut and dissect. The muffled, tortured moans of his experiments. Elijah and I, young and bruised and bloodied, fleeing Varnham’s den in the dead of night, not daring to look back.
My hands were so clammy by the time I reached the bottom, I could barely hold onto the metal rungs. I groped along the brick wall for a light switch, my mind conjuring a million terrible scenarios for what I was about to see.
My fingers hit the switch. A dull flickering light came on overhead, illuminating what looked like a huge copper kettle on legs, and a bunch of pipes and gauges. A set of metal shelves against the far wall housed rows of amber bottles, each one meticulously labeled with a date. There was a stack of wooden crates in one corner. The chemical smell seemed to be coming from all the copper. It was all so perfectly mundane that I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.
I’d stumbled on Obsidian’s home-brewing operation, clearly. Curious, I went to examine the bottles. I was prepared to accept that my poisoned-drink-bad-blood theory was totally wrong, but it was difficult to believe there was no connection between the dead vampires and Obsidian at all. I uncorked a bottle and inhaled.
The smell was divine and it hit me like a truck. I swayed, eyes fluttering shut as I soaked in the intoxicating aroma. It was like... spice and sweetness, like vintage wine and dark, ripe purple fruit. It was lush and inviting, and my fangs dropped involuntarily, my mouth watering. I’d never smelt anything like this in my life, and I had no idea what it was, but I wanted it with a vicious hunger.
A red haze fell over the world. It had been years since I last drank human blood, but this hunger felt similar. An aching, gnawing emptiness filled me, one that could only be sated one way. This went beyond simple need. This was essential. All that existed in the world was my hunger and this ambrosia.
I raised the bottle to my lips, desperation overruling common sense.
I managed a single gulp before something heavy and hard hit me in the back of the head, and after that all that existed in the world was blackness.
CONSCIOUSNESS SLAMMED back in rudely, bringing nothing but pain. My head swam, my wrists and ankles ached, and my stomach heaved. I fell limply onto my side, throat burning as I threw up. All that came up was bloody-looking liquid. Obsidian’s potion definitely didn’t smell as good the second time round.
I tried to sit up, and realized dimly my wrists and ankles were bound with rope. As the pain in my head dulled to a steady, irritating throb, I became aware enough to assess my predicament. I was still in the basement, and I had all my clothes on. That cleared up a couple of immediate worries.
I ran my tongue over my teeth. My fangs had receded, so I’d probably been out a little while. I could pop them out on purpose, but making them recede wasn’t a conscious effort. It just happened when my adrenaline dumped, or the danger was over and my instincts careened from vampire back to human.
I shuffled myself back into a sitting position and away from the pool of vomit. The smell was overpowering and not in the good way it had been when I opened the bottle. Speaking of which...I glanced around and saw no broken glass or spilt liquid. Whoever knocked me out also cleaned up after themselves.
Over the ugly pounding in my skull, I heard noises up in the bar. Someone walking around, moving things. I debated shouting up. On the one hand, staying quiet might give me time to get myself free. On the other hand, it might just get me locked in the basement to die of thirst. Drawing attention to myself carried its own risks, but I was already fucked up and tied up. How much worse could I make it for myself?
I sighed at my own naivete. It can always get worse. Always.
But I yelled out anyway, simply because I couldn’t see anything down here to cut the ropes with, and I’d never mastered that trick of dislocating my thumbs to get out of bonds.
“Hey, asshole!” I called. “Is this how you treat all your customers?”
Heavy footsteps thudded toward the open trapdoor. “Customers pay for their drinks. What you are is a trespasser.”
His voice was cold and reproachful, like a disappointed father. I was unfazed. My father had tried to murder me, more than once. I could handle a little disappointment.
“I’m not paying for shit that makes me throw up. Your house special could use a little refinement.”
He chuckled and started climbing down the ladder. I got a good look at him as he did, from the back at least. Lean and lanky, dressed in old jeans and a faded black hoodie, with a shock of pale hair. He jumped the last few rungs and turned to face me, dusting his palms off. He was perfectly unremarkable. The kind of guy you’d never even notice on the street, not because he was unattractive, but because he was so absolutely bland. My gaze seemed to slide off him, dismissing him without registering him. If I closed my eyes, I’d never be able to recall what he looked like.
It set my inner alarm bells ringing, and I scanned him more closely as he approached, looking for the amulet. There had to be one. A piece of jewelry, maybe, something to carry the charm that made him so extraordinarily forgettable.
He smirked, noticing my searching gaze. “You must be Georgia Jackson. The vampire’s pet.” He spat the word vampire, lips curling in disgust. “How did you like your drink?”
It was the word pet that stung me, but I wasn’t going to argue with him. I’d just found my target – or rather, he’d found me. Semantic debates were off the table.
“It was gross,” I said. “I’m guessing it needs a lot of alcohol to make it palatable.”
He gave me a curious look, assessing me the same way I’d assessed him. “Humans actually like the taste, alcohol or not. Vampires can’t resist the smell, but they do struggle with the taste, unless it’s filtered through blood. But...you’re not a vampire?”
I ignored the question in his voice, a twinge of icy panic making my head hurt anew. Shit. Shit. Was I poisoned, or had I thrown up the potion in time? Maybe being half-human gave me some defense, but...Shit. How quickly had Beckett died?
My stomach churned and a shot of paranoia brought my bile rising again. I leaned forward, throwing up again, more violently this time.
My captor watched me with cool, interested eyes. “I don’t think you’re going to
die,” he said. “You barely drank a mouthful and you’ve thrown it all up, surely. And you’re not a vampire. But it does affect you a little.”
He crossed to the shelves and grabbed a bottle, smiling now. “And you are the vampire’s pet. And you broke in here, so I think, by rights, I’m allowed to extract a punishment. How about a little experiment, Georgia?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
I’d like to say that being tied up and threatened with torture was a familiar enough experience that it no longer fazed me. The truth is, you should never allow yourself to get used to that kind of shit. There is always someone out there clever enough, violent enough, or crazy enough to kill you if they get the chance. Never believe otherwise.
I had no idea yet if this guy was clever, violent, or crazy, but there was no mistaking his intention as he knelt down next to me, hand on the cork of the bottle. The gleam in his eye was unnerving. He was going to enjoy whatever happened next. Maybe a little crazy then.
I flinched when he popped the cork out of the bottle. That enticing smell swamped me, and I heard myself whine as my fangs descended. I lurched forward. He laughed and scooted back, keeping the bottle out of reach. I tumbled onto my side, hissing in frustration.
“A dhampir, maybe?” he mused, corking the bottle again. “I didn’t expect that. I figured you had to be a vampire.”
The scent didn’t dissipate with the bottle closed, but hung in the air like smoke, almost tangible in its allure. I barely heard him. I was too fixated on the bottle in his hands. I felt like a black hole, capable of nothing but hunger.
“How much do you want it?” he asked me. “How much do you think it would take to kill you? I assume it would, eventually. Or maybe you’d just get sick, like a human. What rules – vampire genes or mortal ones?”
I made an ugly keening sound and tried to get back upright. I managed to get on my knees. My hands were tied in front of me, so I could reach out and grab a little, but not with any effectiveness. The warlock simply stood and backed off, lifting one booted foot as if considering kicking me in the face.
Instead, he knelt down again, holding the bottle out cautiously. I lunged again, wild and desperate, and this time he let me grab the bottle. I raised it to my mouth clumsily, spilling half of it. I mindlessly glugged down what was left, an animalistic gluttony sweeping through me.
It wasn’t blood. For all that my body reacted like it was, it wasn’t, and my body knew the difference the second it hit my stomach. I retched violently, collapsing onto my face as a powerful wave of nausea hit me. I vomited immediately, hot shivers wracking down my spine. Every instinct and scrap of common sense I possessed told me that this shit was toxic, and yet when the damn warlock waved another bottle under my nose, I heard myself whining in need again.
“Interesting,” he said.
“Fuck you, asshole,” I spat. I forced myself to stay down, even though it meant practically breathing in my own puke. It was hard. Even with my brain screaming not to do it, my hunger urged me to drink again.
“You came prying,” he said, reproachful again. “It’s not my fault you don’t like what you found.” He sighed, putting the unopened bottle back on the shelf. “If you can’t keep it down, it’s not going to kill you.”
I closed my eyes, breathing deeply to try and ease the pain spiking through me. It certainly felt like the stuff would kill me. I wasn’t about to argue though. If he gave up and went away, I had a chance to recover and escape. If he stayed here experimenting on me, I was eventually going to be weak enough for him to kill me one way or another.
“Well,” he said, sounding resigned now. “There are other ways to skin a dhampir, right?”
I opened my mouth to swear at him again. Before I could finish, he kicked me. The toecap of his boot connected squarely with my forehead, and I went down in a dazzling burst of stars and pain. The only silver lining was that the explosion of agony cleared the smell of his potion from my nose. A concussion will do that.
I closed my eyes again, curling up into a ball. While I lay there, fighting the urge to throw up again, I heard him walk away. A whimper of relief left me when the trapdoor slammed shut. I was far worse off than I had been thirty minutes ago, of course, but now I had a chance to regroup.
As soon as my head stopped spinning. And my ears stopped ringing. And my body started working.
I rolled onto my front and gingerly pushed onto my knees. The room blurred and I choked back nausea. There was nothing left in my body to bring up, and the stink was already overpowering. For a long moment, I stayed there, resisting the urge to keel over again. I’d had concussions in the past, and this did feel like another one. Not ideal, but I’d push through. I was still conscious and hopefully I had a little time now before the warlock came back.
His parting words left me in no doubt he planned to kill me. He knew who I was, he knew Mr. Cold had sent me, and it was a safe guess he’d sent the draugr after me. The only advantage I might have had was that he didn’t know I was a dhampir, but that didn’t matter now. He’d been expecting a vampire – he was prepared for supernatural attacks. If I’d managed to get the drop on him, it might be different, but here I was, tied up and bashed in, and helpless.
But I might still have a slender advantage if I could get free. Time was everything.
What’s the difference between a warlock and a witch, you ask? A witch is a natural-born magic user. Whether it’s manipulating elements or speaking with the dead, a witch’s gift is inherent. A warlock cannot create something from nothing. Every spell or charm or potion they make takes time and work to prepare, physical labor. Anyone can become a warlock with patience and training. Witches are born.
My captor was a warlock. There was no doubting that now, and as much as my inclination was to murder every warlock I met, my best option now was to escape. Whatever he was planning to do with me, my guess was it needed prep time. He probably wasn’t the type to just stab or shoot someone, or he wouldn’t be going after vampires with potions and proxies. Honestly, I’d never met a warlock that liked the direct approach. Something about all the alchemy and occult shit made them secretive and sly.
Fine by me. I leaned back against the wall and managed to lever myself to my feet with a little effort. Every movement made my head ring and sparks flash in my vision. I gritted my teeth and raised my bound wrists to eye-level to examine the rope properly. It was hard. Everything was hard. After what felt like an hour of staring, all I could really conclude was that it was definitely rope.
Groaning, I looked around the room for anything sharp. Even in my hazy state, it quickly became apparent there was only one option.
I shuffle-hopped my way over to the shelves and grabbed a bottle.
The smash of glass on the tiled floor made my eyes water. Luckily, I guess, I couldn’t smell a damn thing at the moment, so the magic of the potion was lost on me. It was just a puddle of goopy red liquid and nothing more. Back on my knees, I picked through the shards of glass until I found one big enough for my needs.
Maneuvering the shard into a position where I could grip it between my palms and saw down on the rope took far more time than I liked, and lost me far more blood than I could afford. My hands were slick with blood and sweat by the time I sawed through, and my heart was pounding so hard it made me feel sick all over again. I was gasping for air and so exhausted I just wanted to lay down and rest for a minute. Except it wouldn’t be a minute, and I knew it.
Instead, I massaged some life back into my shredded hands, wiped the blood off on my tank top as best as I could, and started work on my ankles. I was crying with fatigue by the time I was done, and I still had to climb the fucking ladder and hope the fucking warlock had left the fucking trapdoor un-fucking-locked. Fuck.
There was no way I could climb the ladder with my hands covered in blood, so I stripped off my tank top and with a little more sawing and a hell of a lot of crying and swearing, I managed to rip it in two. I bound up my hands as best as I could.
It was a terrible effort, but that summed up the whole night, really.
Nasty shockwaves of pain shot through me when I grasped the ladder rungs. I found myself swaying again, the ringing in my ears turning to a scream. The insidious thought that I’d be fine if I had actual blood danced across my mind.
Normally, I’d have banished that thought the second it appeared. I didn’t need blood. I never needed blood. But now I let myself indulge. Hot, fresh, salty, coppery warlock blood, straight from the vein. It would fire me up, take away some of the pain, clear my head, make me stronger, faster, better.
I let that hunger fuel me as I climbed the ladder. If I caught the warlock, I was wringing every last drop of blood from him. That mental image powered me up to the trapdoor. Clinging onto the top rung with one hand, I pressed my other against the trapdoor, hoping against hope I got lucky.
I started crying again when the trapdoor creaked open. I’d definitely taken a solid knock to the skull. I hadn’t cried this much since...since the last time I crossed swords with a warlock.
Swallowing that thought, I carefully pushed the door upwards, listening as best I could with my ears still ringing. The lights were still on in the bar, but I couldn’t hear anything. Was the warlock really this careless? I’d have locked the trapdoor. I’d probably have also knocked my prisoner out again.
Well, I wasn’t in a position to question it. I crawled out into the bar, moving with aching slowness. I felt like I was crawling through molasses. All I wanted was sleep, and I had no idea how I was going to get home even if I got out of here.
One step at a time. I dragged myself to my feet using the bar, then collapsed against the bar top. Okay. I was mostly upright. Now what?
