Shapes of Autumn (Boxed set, books 1 - 5)

by Veronica Blade

  Geez, what did that mean? Roman gladiators came to mind and I hoped fighting for my life wouldn’t be my fate. I’d have to kill to survive, which would expose my special skills and strength to all the werewolves. But if I didn’t use my power, they’d kill me.

  Chapter FOUR

  Zack

  My pulse quickened and I relaxed my muscles one by one. King Mortimer ambled around his room, stopping to check his computer or phone and any number of things he did out of my line of vision. In between tasks, he sat in the chair across from me and stared, tapping his nails on the glossy surface of the writing desk like he was trying to figure out what he was going to do about me.

  Or maybe he was waiting for me to break. But I had all day. And being cuffed in his office was better than being in the hole—not that the smell was any improvement. Except my stomach was growling.

  He scratched his beard in my peripheral vision, then all movement stopped. “I detect the faintest scent of vampire on you.”

  Not good, not good. Crap, now he’d hear my erratic heartbeat and wonder why I was gripped by fear. My mind raced. “On the drive here, I had to stop for gas and food. Long story short, I came across a staked vampire in an alley.” I tried my best to appear remorseful. “I was starving and drinking from him was faster than getting food. I was hungrier than I thought because I ended up draining the poor guy. I couldn’t have him waking up and finding me one day, so I cut off his head and buried him.”

  “Hm.” The king’s brows raised a touch. “This explains why the tranquilizers didn’t keep you down all day.”

  I remained quiet several seconds to see if he would say something else, but he didn’t. “Am I in trouble?”

  He snickered. “The only good vampire is a dead vampire.”

  No clichés there. I inwardly rolled my eyes. He rose, retrieved the little key from his pocket, then leaned around me and unlocked my cuffs. I held my breath when a death-like stench assaulted my nose.

  Our supernatural bodies easily eliminated bacteria which decreased our chances of smells. But we still had to clean ourselves now and then. Although Ulric, Mortimer’s henchman we’d killed a month ago, wouldn’t have won any hygiene awards, I didn’t remember him stinking this much. Maybe Mortimer had been on the vampire juice longer and therefore more demented.

  “You won’t be drinking anymore vampire blood. It’s absolutely forbidden.”

  I didn’t ask why; I already knew. He couldn’t have his people indulging. Not because he objected to them slowly going insane, but because he couldn’t allow anyone to become too powerful. Same reason he didn’t let any werewolf live longer than a handful of centuries.

  “Yes, sir,” I said in a cautious tone. “Now what?”

  Mortimer loomed over me, with no indication I should get up. “Food is on the way.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.” Though I lowered my gaze, I felt him staring. “I’m most grateful for your generosity.”

  “Was your father a werewolf or were you turned?”

  I kept my gaze on my knees, remembering the details I’d memorized of the fabricated life Cedric had given me. “Not turned. I never met my father and my mother never told me who he was. She was on heroin off and on for years, and couldn’t remember which stranger got her pregnant.”

  “Must have been difficult hitting werewolf maturity all alone.”

  Werewolves appeared human in every way until sometime in their teens when the dormant werewolf gene exploded in their bodies. If the teen had no idea he was a werewolf, which I hadn’t, the changes in the body could be frightening.

  My head remained bowed, my focus toward the ground. I kept track of Mortimer and the silky fabric of his robe rustling while he roamed the spacious room. Though I was free to move now that I no longer had handcuffs, I seriously doubted I could overpower Mortimer. If I tried anything, I’d die for sure. But I wanted the option to do him serious damage if he tried anything. I’d have a better chance if I wasn’t caught off guard.

  “Yes, Your Majesty. But it was summer and I wasn’t in school. My mother usually made me stay in my room when she had guests, which was pretty much all the time. But when she didn’t have men over, she was either asleep or too high to notice any weird noises. I figured it out for myself.”

  “I understand your skills are advanced for someone your age. Where did you learn to fight?”

  “My mother always had shady people like addicts and dealers around. She wanted to make sure I could defend myself.” I huffed. “Probably the one thing she did right. But if she had given up drugs, I wouldn’t have been in so much danger that I had to protect myself.”

  I smelled the steak before I heard the quick knock. The door opened and a woman dressed in an old-fashioned gray peasant dress shuffled in with a rolling cart. Shape-shifter. Her motions were quick and efficient, but her expression apathetic. I wondered how long she’d been a slave. Worse, in the weeks I’d lived in this small isolated town, one of the few women I’d seen had been beaten severely for merely not replying to their husband quickly enough. I knew how they treated women and by the vacant look in this servant’s eyes, she hadn’t fared well either.

  She moved the silver serving ware to the table, then lifted the lids and set them aside, exposing the steak, string beans and roasted potatoes with rosemary. My mouth salivated. Though I was dying to dig in, I waited for Mortimer’s permission. He waved her away and she quietly slipped out the door.

  “Eat,” he said after several long seconds.

  I probably didn’t have to worry about anyone poisoning my food, not with so many more efficient ways to kill or torture me. I didn’t smell anything odd and even if I had, the poison would’ve just knocked me out. Been there, done that. And if he’d wanted to kill me, why fill my belly first? I dug in. With each bite, I stayed completely aware of any motion, every sound. Mortimer was psychotic. I didn’t want to lose my head, literally, because I hadn’t paid attention.

  As I shoveled in the last bite of potatoes, Mortimer rose and his stink mixed with the formerly exquisite scent of delicious food. I forced the bite down then glanced up at him.

  “I trust you have your strength back.” His robes swirled and he proceeded to the door. “They’re ready for you.”

  “No cuffs or anything?” I wished I’d kept my trap shut. Why did I have to point out to him I wasn’t shackled in any way?

  “You won’t need them where you’re going.” He pushed the door open.

  Any thoughts of escaping were squashed at the sight of the hallway which was crowded with guards dressed in black. They swept me through the long corridor and into the courtyard, then down another long passageway where beams of sunlight flashed through tiny holes high on the wall close to the ceiling. We spilled out into a dirt arena. Someone shoved me forward and the metal door locked behind me.

  I rotated, shielding my eyes from the blinding afternoon sun to see benches filled with people. The only other exit was at the opposite end of the arena where two meaty werewolves hulked toward me. One of them was Gunther. He grinned.

  Of course Gunther would want another shot at me. He’d probably lost face after his own trainee, me, had bested him.

  The other guy had black hair hanging loose well past his shoulder, and a goatee. He tossed me a sword. “This is a fight to the death, pup.”

  Two against one didn’t seem fair, but at least they’d given me a weapon. “And if I win?”

  “You won’t.” One side of his mouth tilted up.

  After living with these disgusting dogs for weeks and accomplishing nothing, I sure as hell wasn’t going to die like this.

  Goatee circled behind me, still several yards away. I took note of the sounds of his bare feet pressing into the dirt and his sword slicing through the air as he crept closer. Gunther shifted into my peripheral vision and I circled until I could see the other guy too. I expected that they were underestimating me, that they had assumed my last triumph was pure luck. I’d play on that.

>   I raised my hands. “Listen, guys, you don’t have to do this.”

  Gunther sneered. “Yeah, we do.”

  I backed up, killing time to plan my big move. Which would probably get me killed. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

  Goatee laughed. “Let you live and defy my king? No, thanks. I don’t want to end up in your shoes.”

  “I can’t take both of you.” I dropped to my knees. Though I laid my sword at my side, my grip on the handle stayed firm. “Just get it over with.”

  “You’re not much fun, are you?” Goatee muttered. “I was kind of hoping you’d make us chase you.”

  “What’s the point? If I’m going to die, I want it to go fast.”

  “Happy to oblige.” Gunther’s lip twisted, and he stalked toward me. I bowed in submission while keeping my eyes on them.

  Still two feet away, Gunther sliced horizontally. He would’ve cut my head off, but I flipped back, then vaulted up and slammed my heel into his throat. Right before I landed, using every ounce of strength in me, I plunged the sword into his heart. As he plummeted to the dirt, I snatched the sword from his hand and in one swift movement, I spun and swung at Goatee before he could do the same to me.

  Goatee’s head soared into the air and the crowd roared. I grabbed his sword as it slipped from his fingers. He toppled to the ground and a plume of dust puffed around him.

  Gunther was paralyzed, not dead. I whirled around and plunged the tip of the blade straight into Gunther’s neck. Blood filled his mouth and streamed down his chin. I pulled the sword out, then cut through the air horizontally. His head separated from his neck and I kicked it aside to make sure his nerves couldn’t reattach.

  The audience went wild, banging the benches and shouting.

  I wiped each blade on the clothes of the dead werewolves. A familiar sting in my neck had me tossing the blades out of my way as I spiraled toward the dirt. I’d done what they wanted, yet they’d still put me to sleep.

  God, I hated these filthy wolves.

  † † †

  I woke on the cold damp cement, taking in the familiar musky scent of the cell. Tiny feet pattered inches from me and I opened my eyes to see a rat disappear beyond the bars. I didn’t sense another soul around. Solitary confinement again.

  Natasha, can you hear me? Natasha! I shouted telepathically for the millionth time. Though the trace was faint, I could feel her presence not too far away. Which meant she was alive, though unconscious. The king probably had her on the same juice he kept shooting into me.

  Autumn?

  Zack, are you all right? Desperation infected Autumn’s silent words.

  I’m fine. In the dungeon. She’d freak if I told her I’d had to play gladiator and could’ve died. I’d keep that to myself for now. I have all my limbs, no immediate danger. That I knew of. What’s the latest over there?

  On the road, almost to Scottsdale. Dathan was telling me about witches. Heads up, they’re good at plucking pictures from your mind and Mortimer always keeps a witch or two around. If you encounter one, be sure to shield your thoughts. And since some of them are able to block their own presence, might be a good idea not to let your guard down, like ever. Have you found out anything about Natasha yet?

  Not yet. On the upside, I said, pausing to make sure no one was around, I can feel her energy. Not sure where she is, but she’s alive. Metal clanged in the corridor. I have to go. I’ll contact you again when I can.

  Seeing no point in pretending to be asleep, I rolled over. By the slow pace, as though he had all the time in the world, it had to be Mortimer. And I could already smell his foul odor.

  “Your Majesty.” I popped up so I could bow properly. Keeping my chin close to my chest, I let him do the talking.

  From this moment on, whether I access your mind or not, your sole reason for existence is to serve me, no matter the cost. Do you understand?

  A pressure wrapped around my skull, unwanted urges seeping into me. I quickly threw up a mental block, forbidding him entry. The dirt bag was trying to glamour me into doing his bidding. But if I didn’t play along, he’d figure out I was much more powerful than he assumed. “Yes, Your Majesty,” I replied in a zombielike tone.

  You’re about to meet someone special, Jack. Mortimer glanced side-to-side, his gaze searching for someone or something. You will protect him, give up your life if necessary. You will do everything he asks of you, so long as it doesn’t harm me or conflict with the commands I’ve given you.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” I inclined my head just as an odd smell floated into the cell. An instant later, the source of the strange new scent appeared. A witch.

  Mortimer raised an arm to touch the guy’s shoulder, his robe moving the air and pushing the scent of the new guy toward me. And the vampire scent doubled. This blond guy was on the juice too. He had a medium build and pin-straight blond hair with some clumps sticking up and out. I wondered why the crazy ones rebelled against proper grooming.

  “This is David, an old witch.” Mortimer flashed him a mischievous smile before unlocking my cell door and motioning me out. “War is coming and I’ll need his powers. Your job is to keep him safe at all costs. You’ll also make sure he has anything his heart desires until the battle begins. Any conversations with David or me will be strictly confidential. If asked about either of us, you will remember nothing.”

  If I shielded my thoughts, wouldn’t they wonder why they couldn’t pick anything up from me? Maybe I could fake them out by throwing pictures of my choosing at them. I thought of a big juicy burger and mentally sent it to David.

  David grunted. “He has a simple mind, but he’ll be useful. Thank you, Your Majesty. This will free me up for more important things.” David jerked his head toward the exit. “Let’s go, Jack. We have much to do before they come.”

  Chapter FIVE

  Zack

  Uneasy and distrusting of Mortimer and David, I wondered what my new job would be. I followed David out of Mortimer’s suite to the end of the short corridor. David stopped at a door, punched in a code before pushing through it, and then sprinted down a flight of stairs. The stone walls, dim lighting and dank smell made me think of a dungeon.

  Glancing back, I noticed a camera staring from the entryway. Shadowing David, I traveled deeper down the corridor of the basement, past rows and rows of small cells. I had wondered where all the prisoners were kept. But why were these shape-shifters, all of them apparently unconscious, imprisoned if Mortimer could easily control their minds into serving him?

  A large brown cockroach scampered ahead of me, then stopped and lifted a wing. I shivered, but not because roaches scared me. I’d seen plenty of bugs and maggots in some of the other buildings, but these suckers around the holding cell I’d been thrown into and the basement—dungeon, actually—were big enough to require a leash and licensing. And sometimes they flew. I could do without them in my life. But pests and vermin were the least of my worries.

  “The cells are tiny but we aren’t be opposed to doubling up if necessary. We usually exterminate the extras before it comes to that. We don’t want to give them company and make their lives any more pleasant than we absolutely have to.” David flicked a thumb to his right and my gaze followed. I counted a row of six cells before we turned left. “This was the supply room which we’ve converted into my office.”

  Office, my ass. It resembled a torture chamber. A table with restraints sat in the middle of the small room, tools sprawled out on a nearby metal tray and red droplets splattered the walls. The floor and corners of the room were littered with bloody rags, used dishes and piles of garbage. Apparently, not only was David a total slob, but also a real sicko. Which answered my earlier question. They didn’t glamour the shape-shifters into obeying and then set them free, because David kept them and tortured them. Or experimented on them. Whatever David was doing, I didn’t want the details.

  We moved on to the next row of six cells, my stomach churning all the way to the end of the hall wh
ere a sign read “Closet.” Another camera above was aimed toward the corridor we had just walked. We made another left and on our right were two cells. The last wall held six more cells. And another camera in the corner, covering the last corridor. The center of the basement had twelve, totaling thirty-two cells.

  Each cell had been built at five-foot increments. Because a full foot of cement divided each, four feet remained for the cell. Five foot in depth might seem like decent enough dimensions to any normal person, except each space was only three feet high, so no prisoner could ever fully stretch out. The minimal cell height allowed another row of cells above. Thirty-two cells became sixty-four and all of them had an occupant.

  The cells could have been constructed with the floors level to allow a little comfort. But no. All the cells, both top and bottom, sloped toward the entrance door. No beds or blankets, but the tiny space did have an extremely short toilet and a low sink. Unlikely that Mortimer felt enough compassion for his prisoners to provide these two amenities. I figured he thought that having a toilet available was better than dealing with their feces.

  The dungeon’s tiny windowless rooms weren’t built with cinder blocks which could’ve been easily compromised with enough digging or clawing. Instead, they were constructed using one-foot thick slabs of concrete with a steel gate for entry and exit. Impossible to escape without knowing the code.

  All the prisoners were out cold.

  “Grab that guy.” Punch in star-three-one-two. “I’ll be prepping my room.”

  Prepping for what? Not only did I have to pretend to be loyal to this scumbag, but I had to help him torture shape-shifters too?

  I punched in star-three-one-two and opened the gate, then dragged the shape-shifter out. Aware of the cameras that were placed in the corridors, enabling every inch of the hallways to be monitored except the small blind spot at the entrance, I wasn’t gentle with the guy. Anything I did with the prisoners outside their cells, someone would see. I didn’t want anyone who might be monitoring the cameras to think I cared about these people. Werewolves weren’t compassionate. They had to believe I was like any other werewolf.