by L A Kennedy
“Neri,” Zylan finally spoke, his throat feeling like someone was standing on it.
Bane crawled over to Zylan, fresh wounds bleeding down the side of Bane’s face. “She wasn’t in there, Zy. I swear to you. She’s not here.”
Riam, who was clean of wounds and debris, held his hand out to Zylan. Riam knew it was coming, and in true Riam fashion, he never disrupted the predestined path. There was no point in arguing with him about warning them. Riam didn’t budge. He and Sid understood each other like no other could. Neither of them spoke of the future or gave warnings. They did what they could, in the only ways they could.
Zylan knew that Riam stopped the truck for only one reason. It wasn’t to calm him down. It was to buy enough time to save the three of them. Riam did what he could.
Zylan took Riam’s hand and stood, his knees needing a few chances to lock and keep him standing. He clapped Riam on the shoulder and gave him a nod, an unspoken thank you. The others bled out of the trees, having inspected the grounds around them.
Bane smelled the air. “You good to go, Zy?”
Zylan nodded and cleared his throat. “Can you smell her?”
“Them… I can smell them. The Order has been here,” Bane answered and pointed toward the left, behind what was once the safe house.
“How did they know about this place?” Zylan asked, wondering the same thing they had all been whispering about.
“Neri’s car that we found a few miles back… She took the side route. Her GPS was still active,” Sid answered, pointing off into the trees and the direction of Neri’s car. “Once they found her GPS signal, the rest would have been fairly easy.”
Cael stepped forward and divided them into teams. They would stick together as they climbed off the mountain. Once Bane had a direction, they’d rip the city apart trying to find her. They would each take a district and work from there. It was all they could do for now.
Zylan was off and into the trees. He didn’t wait for anyone. As much as he appreciated the Slayers all showing up in an effort to find his one true love, he couldn’t hang back. He couldn’t do anything but run. He couldn’t have stopped his feet, even if he’d wanted to. Neri was with the Order. He didn’t even want to think of what they were doing to her. He was a man on a mission, and he would take out anyone who stood in his way.
Bane ran at his side. He didn’t ask questions or offer any warnings. He ran with his fellow Slayer, guiding their direction. Bane was good for that, falling in line and keeping his eyes forward. He would ignore the smell of fear pulsating off Zylan. He would ignore the salt taste of tears in the air. It was guy code. Tears and fear always went unnoticed. Push on, no matter who was crying or shaking like a leaf.
Zylan and Bane were lost to the wind, full speed ahead. Zylan would get his Fyrvor back. He had to. Anything less would end him completely. How can I live in a world that doesn’t have her? How can I protect a world that doesn’t include her? He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Her death would be his true death.
Chapter Six
Still weak from his meeting with Father Dearest, Strain sat in a plush, black leather wingback chair with a glass of bourbon in his hand. The ice jingled against the crystal highball glass as he swirled the booze around the cubes. Now that he’d relieved his anger from meeting with his father on some poor soul, he sipped his well-earned drink.
The compound was silent and not just because of the soundproofing he’d had installed here to match his center, but because he had sent everyone away. The soundproofing wasn’t as big a deal around these parts. The compound was located at the end of Blood Alley, where no one dared venture. Those who did come around these parts wouldn’t have given a rat’s ass about noise of torture or screams. No one came down here unless it was for nefarious acts, to be played out by those who didn’t need the heat. It was the perfect site. Hope and righteousness didn’t live around here.
He was pleased, as usual, with Garm and his game hunt. Garm, as he’d promised, had dropped Nerissa at Strain’s feet. Neri was a little banged up—her doing. She’d run. Then when she couldn’t run fast enough, she’d fought. But for the most part, she’d been delivered unharmed. He was delighted. Pleasing Strain was a difficult task on a good day, let alone after a run-in with the Genesys.
Strain was a perfectionist like his father. He liked everything to be a certain way and executed in a particular manner. Garm toed the line, performing tasks exactly how Strain would have wanted. Garm was a step ahead, predicting exactly what was to be done and how.
In a chair—the same as Strain’s—Nerissa slumped, unconscious. Her head lolled to the side. He didn’t bother with restraints. There was no way out. If by some miracle she did get out she wouldn’t make it very far. She’d be dragged down some side alley and killed before finding a soul, literally. Souls came here to die, not to be saved. As disgusting as this neighborhood was, it had its perks.
The room smelled of previous visits. The walls were stained with fear and blood. No amount of bleach would get that kind of vomit and death out of the air. He didn’t mind the smells, though. He enjoyed the aroma just before someone died. It was delicious. It added to the thrill of the next, hinted at what was coming. The smell of new and old was exhilarating. He could spend hours in here, eyes closed, savoring every memory.
Strain shivered, breathing in deeply. His cock reared to attention. He stood, moving closer to Nerissa Sung. Her bone structure was like a delicate porcelain doll’s. Her Korean features reminded him of movies he’d watched as a child. She looked like someone who should be on billboards and not behind a microscope. Her jet-black hair, twisted into knots, hung over her shoulder. He smoothed out the little hairs around her bruised cheeks. Tiny lines under her eyes said this was probably the deepest sleep she’d had in weeks.
This tiny package held so much promise. It was his experience that the smaller ones gave the biggest fight. Perhaps being the smallest throughout life had forced them to fight for every inch they’d gained, or maybe it was that they were harder to hold onto. They wormed free easier than the fat and plump ones could. The fat ones tired so easily. They were no fun.
He was looking forward to Nerissa waking up. For now, he’d let her sleep. He wanted her in tip-top shape, rested and ready for round one. He liked them feisty.
Taking his seat again, he grinned. He was hopeful the blast that had taken out the safe house had taken out a few Slayers, but he wasn’t about to bet the farm on it. The Slayers had horseshoes stuffed up their asses. They always managed to make it out alive.
Giving credit where credit was due, they owed it all to Cael. He didn’t train bitches. Cael trained warriors. He trained the best of the best. They all gave Strain a run for his money, and he’d have it no other way. This conquest wouldn’t be worth it unless he had to work for it. Victory was much sweeter when one had to claw your way to the top on the backs of those one had been better than, stronger than, quicker than.
The Slayers were like sewer rats. The only thing to do was set traps and hope they were stupid enough to step into them. It only took once. Just one wrong step, one wrong turn, and snap, the trap would come down on their necks. One by one, he’d take them out.
Zylan… Strain knew of him and his family. The little Prince, Zylan-Nefarious Bloodletting, was born as cursed as Strain. Both of them were born heirs to a throne. The only difference? Zylan didn’t want his throne, and Strain did. Taking out Zylan would be a blow to the Vampyre society. Taking Nerissa was a two-for-one deal. The intel he could gain from Nerissa would give the Order the leg up they needed, and, in turn, killing her would end the little Prince. Zylan was one of Cael’s closest. Ending him would kick Cael in the nuts.
Love breeds stupidity, among other brain ailments. Zylan would come looking for Strain, love-drunk and making enough mistakes for the rat trap to snap across his throat, ending his life. Strain’s father would be proud. He knew it.
Nerissa moaned, groggy, sending a scorching pulse down the shaft of
Strain’s cock. He breathed in deeply, exhaling with a shuttering moan. He pulled open the zipper of his pants, releasing his throbbing dick, palming himself at the thought of triumph—one more stab at the Slayers, one more shot at his traitorous brother.
Holding his hardness, he wouldn’t allow himself release—not yet. He would draw out his own suffering as he drew out hers. It would make his release so much greater. He would force himself to earn his pleasure. Later—much later—he would pump his hateful hips into her insufferable body after turning her into another puppet at his command.
Strain laughed, the sound bouncing off the walls, filling the room with a dark hate. He had special plans for Neri. Each one of those plans would make her wish she’d have remained in that building as it had come down.
The darkness was arriving. All he had to do was open up and let it out.
Chapter Seven
Neri sagged in the corner, pressing her bruised back into the black Styrofoam egg carton wall that kept her screams and the stench of death locked inside this room with her. Each scream would end with her gagging over the smell of those who’d never left the room on their own two life-filled feet.
Her attacker, known to her and the agency as Strain, would come and go, kicking her like a dog, as he pleased. He was easily amused and just as easily angered. He waffled between sanity and absurdity, completely losing touch with reality. At first, she’d prayed he’d slip completely into deranged and would begin to make mistakes, but each time he licked that fine line, he’d come back swinging.
She’d hung for the last hour, tied to the wall with her blood slowly draining out of the small wounds on the backs of her knees. They’d nicked the popliteal artery that branched off from the femoral artery. She’d thought she would have bled out sooner, but, to her surprise, it wasn’t working out as she’d begun to pray it would. Dangling by the wrists, she wondered how long it would be until she would finally just die.
Not soon enough…
That surprised her more than anything else, how resilient her mind and body could be when pushed to the brink. She’d thought to herself how great a paper this experience would make. Passing time, she’d thought of a solid argument for psychological warfare and what would and would not work to break a human being, along with the length of time it would take. Being an irregular, she wondered if that played a factor in the length of time it took for her to die.
Days of interrogation and torture had passed, him asking the same questions over and over, and each time she wouldn’t answer. She had the answers, through dreams and second-hand knowledge, gossip and the very little information she’d been given on a need-to-know basis. He’d asked about the banker’s box he’d seen her leaving with. She wouldn’t tell him. She wouldn’t tell him anything, including her name. He already knew too much. She’d known that he’d been watching her. But his own knowledge was limited to what any hacker could find out. He—like many others—could have hijacked the camera feed and watched her walk out of the building.
Her mind was a steel trap. Nothing was going to open that door, not even the death she was hanging from the wall waiting for—the death she prayed was coming. Eventually, it would. She was getting weaker with each drip of blood. There would be freedom and peace in her death, and she welcomed it with open arms.
Something about his frustration with her had pleased her. He’d tried everything, next to finally killing her, but she wouldn’t break. He couldn’t make her talk, and it pissed him off. It wasn’t out of strength that she didn’t break. It was fear. Fear was a strong motivator—stronger than any ounce of strength her mind could muster. Fear was her power, and nothing he could do would remove that power.
Strain’s frustration was marked on every inch of her flesh, layer over layer. The bruising blackened her alabaster skin. She was usually pale, but lately, due to starvation, sleep deprivation and torture, she was pastier than normal. Staring down at her nude body, she giggled. At first she laughed to herself, the hysteria finally breaking over and flooding the room.
“I look like a Dalmatian,” she giggled to herself, looking down at her spots.
She shook her head. She was finally certifiable. She’d hit complete madness. She knew she wouldn’t find peace in death any time soon, but she’d find peace in lunacy. Complete psychosis was just around the bend, and she couldn’t wait. At least she wouldn’t be aware of what he was doing to her body. Perhaps it was blood loss, or perhaps this is just what happened to people held captive and tortured.
She’d read stories of people who had gone mad in war camps, their minds no longer able to tolerate the assault. Once wondering how it took hold of the mind, she now knew. For her, it wasn’t a quick happening. She hadn’t opened her eyes to a complete destruction of her mind. She’d felt it slowly creeping in. Unhurried, the madness came to her, and she welcomed it. She didn’t fight to remain aware and sane.
Her internal insanity had taken time to set in. The first day had been painful, but after he’d leave, she would recite the genetic sequence of every species she knew. She’d moved onto things as trivial as the periodic table or listing the ingredients of her favorite dishes her mother had made her. She missed her mother, who’d died of a lonely heart. After her father, an agent for the Netherworld, had passed, her mother had raised her into adulthood. Once she’d known Neri would make it, she let herself go home, to her mate.
She’d pulled her mind from her mother, never remaining there for too long. Too long made her sad. Instead, she’d recite the Hippocratic Oath or list every instrument she would need to perform a specific task in her lab.
Neri’s body didn’t seem to want to give up, as much as she pleaded with it to abandon life. Who the hell can take this kind of treatment and still wake up? Since her body was alive and thriving in this condition, she could only hope her mind would go quickly. But it hadn’t come quickly. To her dismay, it had taken a lot to snap her reality.
On day three, she’d known no one was coming for her. There would be no rescue. Thinking back to packing her banker’s box, she’d thought about getting a message to Zylan, but she didn’t know how. On her way to her car, she’d looked directly into the security camera and mouthed his name. She knew someone would see it. She’d left the GPS on in her car, so someone would know where she was heading. Downside was that’s exactly how Strain and his maggots had found her. And now, after almost a week, the thought of a rescue was as ludicrous as him opening the door and letting her go.
The days bled into each other and no one came, besides the monster who abused her for information they both knew she’d never give. What made things worse? She knew he was hoping she wouldn’t spill. He’d begun to look forward to each and every time he came to visit her. This wasn’t about intel. This was about some sick fuck getting off on each bone that snapped and echoed in this room of disgust.
Knowing she was on her own didn’t make her slide deeper into a pool of self-pity, though. It gave her power, a sickening power. Strain’s frustration with her unbending will gave her satisfaction unlike anything she’d ever felt. To be fair to herself, she’d never been in this kind of situation before, where she took joy where she could.
Her life had been sheltered. Her mother had worked every day of her life, yet had always found time to be a parent. She had been private schooled, had had friends and a modest home that had been filled with love. There had never been a day where she’d felt neglected or unloved. Her mother had been busy, but she’d made a point of teaching Neri how to make it in a world that didn’t care if she was dead or alive. That was the blunt truth of the world—a truth she learned early, before both parents were gone.
That truth had been what pushed her to endure. The world didn’t care about her wounds or her cries of pain. The world was going by, with or without her. She would make sure her mark in this little hellhole of a world, would forever be stained on the walls and on the half-eaten soul of Strain. He would remember her for all time. He would remember her mocking sm
ile and hear her laughter when he stripped down to a hard-on. She would bruise him in any way she could, because the world didn’t give a shit about him either.
The cruelty she showed him was minor compared to what he could dish out. Once, she was a doctor, a daughter, a friend, a person, and now, she was thriving on the cruelty she managed to serve up. She was losing who she was, bit by bit. Neri said goodbye to who she was and welcomed the woman she’d have to become. Once the type to step over a spider and nurse a bird, now she’d become the type to shove that bird down his throat. As long as Strain was suffocating on it, she wouldn’t flinch as the bird died.
Lifting her head up, she whispered, “Orygin, I pray to you. Please allow me the release of death. Welcome me home. Let me leave my broken body behind, nurse my mind and soul in your arms, soak my brokenness in the pools of Elysium. Strain is never going to let me go. I fear the pain will be so great that I will bring shame to my family. The deeds of this prison have brought shame to my father’s name. Please, allow me to leave this place. Allow me to restore the dignity of my family.”
It had been many days since she’d felt anything besides paralyzed emotions. Letting go of the initial panic had been easy. Feeling it creep back in felt like another crushing blow.
“Please, let me come home. Welcome me into Elysium,” Neri whispered. Then she pushed her face into her arms as she cried. “Tell Zylan I know that he looked for me. Tell him he did his best. Watch over him. He’ll need you.”
“You bring no shame to your family. You bring honor and respect,” a man’s voice spoke to her. “It’ll be over soon.”
She jerked her head, looking around the black Styrofoam-walled room. No one was there. For days, this voice had spoken to her. He hadn’t said anything of great importance. Sometimes she could feel him holding her hand, and sometimes he told her stories of a place stuck between sunrise and sunset. She told him stories of her childhood, and he told her stories of a woman named Desdemona. He’d told her that he didn’t have a childhood. He was born and matured, then planted beside Desdemona to keep her on a righteous path. He would never answer her questions about her fate, only tell her that the torture would end soon.
