Bound Angel (Her Angel: Bound Warriors paranormal romance series Book 4)

by Felicity Heaton

  In the foyer of that building, Bitch had been waiting with her ice-blond bodyguard, Spanish Inquisition. The man had watched her through glacial grey eyes as she had approached the regal brunette, his gaze calculating, and when she had been within a few metres, he had told her to stop.

  When she had asked them for the information they had promised her, Bitch had told her they had heard rumours too.

  Ones about her.

  They had heard a witch with silver hair and aquamarine eyes didn’t age.

  Couldn’t die.

  She chuckled mirthlessly beneath her breath at that, earning a sharp strike across the side of her head from her guard. She toppled to her right, her shoulder slamming into the bench, and lay there, staring into the darkness, feeling nothing but that twisted sense of déjà vu over what had happened.

  Once upon a time, someone else had told her she would have something and then a dark prince had stolen everything from her instead.

  A monster she never wanted to meet again.

  These fools thought she could give them the secret to eternal life. Another chuckle escaped her. It wasn’t going to happen.

  She focused on her wrists where they rested in front of her, dangling off the edge of the bench. The secret was hidden beneath her shackles and layers of spells, concealed from even her own eyes.

  It was ancient and forgotten by the world, and she was going to keep it that way.

  She wouldn’t let these people know it, no matter what they did to her.

  If they got hold of it, they would use it to force an immortal being into a bond with them, believing it would make them more powerful.

  It had happened in the past.

  When she had been researching the spell, she had learned of witches who had bound immortals to them through force. Most of the stories ended with either the witch being murdered on repeat by the immortal to punish them or the immortal managing to kill themselves in order to escape being a slave.

  When she had gotten her hands on the manuscript containing the spell, she had destroyed it after using it. She could remember it though, knew the words she needed to say and the ingredients required to cast it.

  While she wished pain upon the witches who had her, she wasn’t cruel enough to give them the spell in order to watch them suffer at the hands of an immortal. She wasn’t vicious enough to inflict that torment, that slavery, upon an innocent immortal.

  Revenge wasn’t her style. Her family had never been one for it.

  Were they still that way?

  Her bloodline had practiced tolerance, learning to live in a world doing good rather than evil.

  If she had a chance for revenge against the ones who had taken everything from her, was assured she would be the victor and not captured and tortured for eternity, would she take it?

  Mother Earth, she might.

  She was tired now, worn down to nothing. If there was a chance she could have some closure, she would seize it. It would be worth coping with whatever bones broke or organs ruptured during the battle, because it would ease at least a little of her pain.

  Her heart would feel lighter knowing the one who had orchestrated her suffering had paid the price.

  The vehicle squeaked to a stop.

  A chill breeze blasted against her as the back doors opened, the scent of snow growing stronger as air swept into the van.

  Frenchie grabbed her arm and tugged her upright. She stumbled along behind him, trying to focus on her surroundings in the darkness so she didn’t fall. She had done that once and they had struck her so hard that her cheekbone had fractured.

  It was no longer healing, which backed up the feeling she had been their captive for months now.

  “Where’d you get this gaff?” It was the other British male, the one whose more cockney than country estate accent had earned him the moniker of London Town.

  They were cautious, hadn’t used names around her the entire time they had been holding her.

  Afraid she might get revenge on them by using their names?

  Names were powerful. They allowed the more potent spells to take hold, and some of them required a name as part of the incantation. Without one, she couldn’t use such a spell. With one, she could easily curse them to suffer greatly. Horrifically.

  She was feeling imaginative recently too. If they slipped up and gave her their names, she might be inclined to curse them into lusting after each other.

  She stifled a smile as Frenchie marched her through snow that bit into her feet through her thin leather boots and soaked into her black jeans, not feeling the cold as her mind wandered pleasant paths, following thoughts of cursing them.

  With their staunch masculinity, she could well imagine how horrified they would be if they were unable to keep their hands off each other. It would certainly be entertaining.

  Maybe she would even curse them to hunger after every male they came across, make them unable to resist the need to flirt with every one of them, even if those men threatened them.

  She stumbled a little as her boots hit gravel.

  Frenchie pulled her up again, muttering, “Let’s just get inside. I’m freezing my balls off.”

  “Take our guest to the basement. My sister called ahead to have the staff get everything ready.” Country Estate moved away from them at a swifter clip, his expensive fragrance fading as the distance between them grew.

  “Reckon they own this gaff too?” London Town sidled closer, until his cheap cologne overpowered her, choking her.

  It was difficult enough to breathe with the hood on. She didn’t need him suffocating her with his stench.

  While she despised them all, London Town and Frenchie could learn a few things from Country Estate. Personal hygiene being one of them.

  Frenchie didn’t answer. Isadora imagined him glaring at London Town in a pointed way, one that warned the man to be more careful because he had just given her the first real piece of information they had offered in the entire time she had been their captive.

  Country Estate and Bitch’s accents weren’t just for show, and neither were their refined air and high-and-mighty attitudes. They had money, apparently enough to own this new location and one of the previous ones. Which one? Paris or one of the handful that had come afterwards?

  More than one of them?

  There were only a few dozen witch bloodlines in England with money to their name. If she did a little research, it wouldn’t be difficult to narrow it down to the one they belonged to, or possibly led.

  Another vehicle pulled up, growling as it crunched over the snow and onto the gravel, and her guard paused, turning slightly towards the sound.

  Low voices sounded, Bitch and her bodyguard, and Isadora strained to hear what they were talking about as they closed the doors of the sports car.

  They always travelled separately. She had noticed that when they had moved her the first time. She had noticed several other things since then.

  Like the fact the brunette and Spanish Inquisition were an item but they were keeping it secret from the others for some reason. Because Country Estate wouldn’t approve of his big sister sleeping with one of the group? Or because the group might feel he was being given preferential treatment, was sleeping his way to the top and liable to get more out of their shady business because of it?

  During the times they had been sent to interrogate or guard her, Frenchie and London Town had complained about the fact Bitch was keeping things from them. They didn’t like the fact she went to meetings with other witches and never told them what had happened, or why she had been meeting with them in the first place.

  Was Bitch thinking of selling the spell once she got her hands on it?

  Many witches in the world would pay handsomely for such a lost incantation, one that held the power to make them immortal.

  The scent of Country Estate grew stronger again, and she heard him mutter, “Bloody cold here as always.”

  He had never been cruel to her, had been patient the tim
es he had been sent to get the spell out of her.

  In fact, only one of them had really hurt her.

  It was the reason she had called him Spanish Inquisition.

  He never asked her questions when he was sent to her, never attempted to get the spell out of her through means other than his fists. For a powerful witch, he certainly liked attacking physically. He would spend an hour with her hurting her in silence, that coldness in his grey eyes, as if he took no pleasure from what he was doing. She knew he savoured every blow that made her cry out, relished bending her limbs until they felt as if they would break and she screamed for him to stop. The bastard was sadistic, vicious.

  He almost made the Devil look like a sweetheart.

  Almost.

  Spanish Inquisition always stopped at the critical moment, before bone broke or flesh split. The Devil hadn’t. He had torn her apart and then had one of his angels heal her so he could do it all over again.

  “I have a meeting in the south, but I should be back within a few days.” Bitch’s voice was loud, just off to Isadora’s right, and she turned her head in that direction and focused there, trying to use a low-level spell to sense where she was.

  She didn’t have the strength to cast one though, not when the spell Frenchie had used on her was still flowing through her together with the lingering effects of the drug. She resigned herself to listening.

  “A meeting?” Country Estate didn’t sound happy. “When did this come up?”

  “They called during the drive.” Spanish Inquisition’s deep voice cut like a diamond in the still night air, brooking no argument from Country Estate. “I will go with her to make sure she’s safe.”

  Isadora bet he would be doing a lot more than keeping her safe. He would be keeping her satisfied too. She didn’t want to imagine what sort of twisted play happened in their bedchamber. She barely suppressed a shudder.

  “It’s important.” Bitch again, with the same amount of bite as Spanish Inquisition. “I leave you in charge, Brother. I expect results when I return. I want that spell.”

  The sound of footsteps drifted away from Isadora and then the purr of the sports car’s engine filled the tense silence.

  “Results,” Country Estate sneered and then barked, “Get her in the fucking house.”

  Frenchie yanked on her upper arm and she stumbled as she violently twisted on her heel, struggled to keep her balance as he marched her towards the building.

  “Step up.” Frenchie lifted her arm.

  Isadora blindly raised her right foot, snagged it on the lip of the step, and fell forwards. He yanked her up again with a huff.

  “Perhaps if I wasn’t blindfolded, I would be less of a burden,” she snapped.

  “She’s lucid.” London Town.

  Dammit.

  She hadn’t meant to give away the fact she had managed to shake off the spell back in the van. It was growing less effective the more they used it on her, her magic learning to counter it even when it was mostly bound by the spell on the shackles. They were going to resort to drugs again, and she didn’t have a counter against those, despised the way they made her feel, stealing away sensation and her awareness with it, leaving her vulnerable.

  As much as she craved oblivion, she didn’t like it.

  Warmth washed over her, together with the scent of a log fire, and light penetrated the hood over her head. Frenchie marched her forwards, into darkness again, down a stone staircase. She focused on her surroundings, reached out with what little magic she had at her disposal to form a picture of her new location.

  A rush of sensation flooded her as she connected with magic that gave her subdued abilities a boost. Nature. That magic formed a key element of hers, was the basis of most of her spells and her power. The light.

  She used the sudden boost in her magic to map the area before Frenchie or anyone else noticed she was siphoning power from everything beyond the walls of the building.

  A building that was old.

  Easily several centuries.

  It was embedded in the landscape now, the magic twined around it, burrowed deeply into the fabric of it.

  It had been a long time since she had felt power like this.

  The magic was dormant and powerful. Not power a witch like Country Estate and his companions could tap into. They probably weren’t even aware of it. Users of the dark rarely felt the touch of the light. It was beautiful, potent, and stirred her strength. It flowed around her, woven into the trees that spread out in all directions around her and the mountains beyond them.

  A forest and mountains she wanted to see, sure they would bring her some relief because her own magic was in tune with the light, threaded through and entwined with that of nature. Magic meant to give, not take. Create and not destroy.

  Frenchie pushed her forwards and she staggered, boots scuffing against stone as she fought to remain upright. She flinched as he whipped the hood off, turning her face away from him and the sudden brightness that assaulted her eyes.

  He chuckled.

  “Enjoy your new home.” His pale blue eyes matched hers as they leaped to meet his, but his were glacial, held no feeling as he gazed at her, and no remorse as he raked them down her body. “We’ll have to see about getting you cleaned up. You’re starting to tarnish.”

  She glared at him through the tangled threads of her silver hair and spat, “I’m not an object.”

  A smile tilted his lips, tugging at the left corner of his wide mouth, and he hiked his broad shoulders, raising his long black coat with them. “Could’ve fooled me.”

  He turned away and her chest tightened as she realised he was heading towards a thick steel door, one that looked like a new addition to the stone room.

  A cell.

  They had placed her in a cell.

  Panic closed her throat and she launched for the exit.

  Slammed into the cold metal door as it shut in her face.

  Her shackles scraped against it as she pressed her hands to it, searching for the handle, and cold slithered through her as she realised something. There wasn’t one.

  “Make yourself comfortable, Isadora. We’re going to be here until you finally give up.”

  With that, he walked away, his boots loud on the stone floor.

  A floor she wanted to sink to as her strength left her, despair eating away at it until there was nothing left. They had never placed her in a cell before, had always held her in a room, where she had some comforts. Now she was in a bare stone box, cold and alone in the dark. She forced herself to remain standing, refused to give up and give in to them. She wouldn’t give them the secret they wanted from her. It was hers to keep and she would take it to her grave.

  If her grave would welcome her.

  If death could be hers.

  She looked around at the dark cell, a bare room that extended no more than fifteen feet in all directions, and leaned back against the door. It was cold against her back, chilled her skin through her thin black t-shirt. She hated her clothes, not because of their style but because Country Estate had given them to her in an attempt to win her over when Spanish Inquisition had torn her own clothes from her in an attempt of a different nature—one meant to break her.

  She wouldn’t break.

  She couldn’t.

  She lifted her blue gaze and fixed it on the long rectangular window set high into the wall opposite her. Bars lined the wide opening, glass shielding her from the weather on the other side. Even without the bars, she wouldn’t be able to escape that way. The height of the window was too small, barely six inches. She would never be able to squeeze through a gap like that.

  Isadora drifted towards it anyway, drawn by the sliver of moonlight shining through it.

  Snow edged the lower part of the window and as she tiptoed and gripped the bars to pull herself up so she could get a better view of the world outside, she hoped it wouldn’t rise any higher.

  Beyond the white garden that extended at eye level to her, breathtak
ing mountains speared the sky, the snow that covered them shining bright blue in the cold moonlight. Mottled darkness spread over their bases, signalling the trees she had felt.

  She had never been given a view before, and while she found it comforting, it also set her on edge.

  Because it meant they were so far from civilisation they didn’t fear her recognising where they were or getting help from anyone.

  Where was she?

  Wherever it was, it was a long way from Paris. There were no mountains in that region of France. Bitch had mentioned going south. If Isadora had to guess, she would place them near the border with Switzerland, perhaps far enough south that Bitch was travelling to Nice.

  Why did they keep moving her?

  Was it because they were meeting with buyers for the spell? Or did they fear the angel she had been seeking would come after her? As far as she knew, he wasn’t aware of her. They had no reason to fear him.

  They were definitely the group she had heard about during her time in Paris. Rumour had it they had been stealing magic from witches and using it to give them more power, but Isadora now suspected they were also selling the spells they extracted.

  Was that the reason they kept moving? To sell spells and evade those who might come after them? She was sure other witches were trying to hunt them down, desperate to save their loved ones or have revenge on the ones who had taken them.

  She rubbed her shackled wrist, feeling a glimmer of the magic hidden there.

  It had been a blessing once, but now it felt like a curse. She was damned to walk the Earth, aware that Rook was back in Heaven and no longer remembered her. The spell was proof of that. He was alive because it was still active, linking them.

  She twisted, pressed her back to the stone wall and slid down it to land on her backside on the cold floor.

  She stroked her fingers across her left wrist and focused, aching to see through the layers of the spell to the markings they concealed. She needed the comfort of them as everything took its toll on her. She needed hope again.

  Faint swirls shimmered on her skin and tears filled her eyes at the sight of them.

  Grief swept through her, as strong now as it had been on the day he had been taken from her. She mourned for all she had lost and would never know again.