by Kiersten Fay
“Enough with your curiosity and tests. We can find another for that. This one is special, and I don’t want you damaging her beyond repair like the others. Your artificial substances are not measuring up. I want results.”
“But with her unique blood, I’m closer than ever to…”
The vampire speared him with a dangerous glare. “There will be no more testing on this one.” He slowed his speech so as to be very clear. “Bring her to number seven.”
“O-Of course.” The doctor emphatically nodded. “It will be done right away.”
“See that it is.” With sure steps, the vampire made for the door. Business finished? He didn’t even spare Cora a second glance. He did, however, turn another fierce expression on the doctor and, his tone dropping to a threatening octave, added, “If this one dies, Doctor, so do you.”
The doctor turned a revolting shade of green.
As soon as the vampire was gone, the doctor’s expression became heated and he hurled the scalpel at the wall. It lodged halfway in. Then his irate gaze shifted to Cora. “Ready to meet your new beau?”
“My what?”
Without another word, the doctor positioned himself at the head of the gurney and wheeled her into the hallway. The walls here were a shade darker, rougher, with various-sized rocks protruding in naturally random patterns. The floor, too. The whole gurney shook as the doctor heaved it forward. Occasionally a wheel got stuck in a dip and he had to give a great shove to get it moving again.
“Where are you taking me?” she demanded.
He didn’t respond.
She frantically surveyed her surroundings as if the answer might be written on these stony walls.
A thin black wire ran along the right side of the jagged corridor, connected every fifty feet or so to a caged light fixture that offered dim illumination at best. Thick wooden beams provided bearing support for the ten-foot high ceiling, making her wonder if this had originally been a mine. Her ever-harshening breaths drew in cool dusty air.
When they came to a T-section, the doctor took a left. An S-bend came next. The ground was somewhat smoother here, but that didn’t last long. With another left, it was as if loose rock made up the floor, jostling her gurney roughly.
As they maneuvered farther through the dark maze, harrowing sounds began to rise in the distance. Sounds that made her skin crawl and her intuition take note—It wasn’t just her who was being held captive here. This was a kind of prison. A place where scientific studies were conducted…on mandatory volunteers!
Her rushing adrenaline had her breaths coming faster. There was a twinge of a metallic aroma in the air that steadily grew stronger.
Or maybe what she smelled was blood, not metal.
It was all too likely.
Was it her imagination, or were the walls taking on a crimson shade? Was the cavern shrinking? Closing in on her? Suffocating her? Was that the rumbling of the gurney moving along rough soil or an earthquake, readying to bury them alive?
Entombed forever in blood and rock.
She got the impression this place had been drenched in the blood of the innocent. Been made into a kind of isolated shrine to debauchery, vileness, and inhumanity. And that those who worshiped here, coveting blood above all things.
This pace and those who reside here should drown in it as well.
At the thought, her mind produced unwanted images of rising blood. Rivers of red gushing through these halls like a dam had been breached, the deluge overwhelming, the dark liquid reclaiming every nook and cranny in its unrelenting, silky embrace.
An unfamiliar power rippled through her, shocking her into stillness.
The doctor halted. His swift glance to the left drew her attention. He reached out and swiped a finger along the wall where something was dripping.
“What the…?” he muttered.
He moved his finger close to one of the lamps. Cora just managed to hold her gasp. The bud of his finger was red!
Had she done that? Had she used magic? The implication sent a shock wave of alarm through her body. Had she nearly brought forth a tsunami of blood to drown them all? She might want the doctor dead, but she didn’t want to take herself out in the process!
Seemingly unconcerned, the doctor wiped his finger on his hip and then resumed their journey.
No, she told herself as the doctor shrugged off the anomaly. She couldn’t possibly manifest something of such magnitude. Although, now that she dismissed the possibility, she kind of wished she had that kind of power.
The eerie sounds in the distance grew nearer: moans, cries, whimpers. They weren’t the sounds of suffering, at least not the kind that torture would inspire. They were the kind that made Cora think of loss and hopelessness. Of despair and, oddly enough, grim acceptance.
Was that to be her ultimate fate? Whimpering in self-pity? Was there a lonely, decrepit cell in this hole with her name on it? Was this where she would die? With no goodbye to Mace? No answers about her past, her parents? No learning about her magic and what kind of witch she might have become?
Saraphine had declared her powerful.
Ha!
Does a powerful witch end up like this? Strapped to a gurney? Studied like a rat? Humiliated?
Does a powerful witch give up?
Just when the dreadful chorus of misery grew unbearable, they came across a steel door recessed into the cavern wall. By the caustic sounds coming from within, a man resided inside, babbling incoherently. She thought she caught the word hungry grated out in a haggard, drawn out tone. And as she was brought closer, the man became more boisterous, restless, as if he could tell she was near…could sense her.
A numbered plaque on the door read one.
Were they holding other witches here? Performing tests on them? Not bothering to feed them properly?
She recalled the doctor had given her food: something that tasted like a meal replacement bar, hard yet chewy, and mostly flavorless.
The harrowing door drew closer, the raucous cacophony berated her eardrums, and her heart thundered. At first she feared the doctor would take her in there. She had seen some horrible things in her life. She could do without a few more in the end.
Thankfully, they passed by.
Her relief was short-lived. Yet another cell rolled into view, denoted two, and then another, three, the captives in each just as boisterous as the first. Part of her wanted to dismiss her imaginings of what might be happening on the other side of those doors, but she didn’t have the luxury of pretending. Whatever it was, it wasn’t pretty, and it certainly wasn’t where she wanted to be.
The doctor continued pushing her along.
Another set of doors, four, five, another set of victims, more snarls to join the others still echoing several feet behind them. Whoever the victims were, they were definitely reacting to her, or the doctor, or maybe just the racket of their passing. Either way, fear snaked sharp tendrils through to her bones, making her shake. When they passed door number six, panic swelled as realization clicked.
Her stop was coming.
She pleaded for mercy, tears in free fall, her pathetic voice shrill and unmanageable. She begged the doctor to let her go. Begged for her freedom, saying she wouldn’t tell anyone what went on here. Begged, even though she knew it would do no good. That dark-haired vampire had made his interest in her clear. There was no way the doctor would betray his master for her. Yet here she was, wasting her breath. Begging.
In the end, she supposed everyone pleaded for their lives, no matter the inevitability of their fate. It was only natural. Nothing to be ashamed of.
Except she was ashamed. Ashamed of her weaknesses, considerable as they were. Ashamed how easily she’d been spirited away. Ashamed that she’d be leaving Mace with no knowledge of what had become of her. No closure. Ashamed of the pathetic pleas spewing from her like a busted hose.
In her mind, powerful witches did not beg for their lives. Powerful witches did not get captured so easily and submit to
weeks of imprisonment, torture.
Powerful witches did something. They took revenge. Made their enemies pay! They didn’t lie on a gurney, sniveling. Helpless.
Still moving through the tunnel, contrasting voices joined the din. These ones were relaxed, controlled, with an undertone of humor.
After another moment, two male voices called out a greeting to the doctor. She lifted her head to glance down the length of the gurney, desperately blinking away her tears so she could see clearly. One of the men leaned against the raw earthy wall, a lit cigar clamped between half-blackened teeth. A noxious cloud of smoke gathered at the apex of the passageway, too sweet to be pleasant.
Above her, the doctor’s voice boomed at them. “The rust is coming through the walls back there. There could be an iron deposit next to a water pocket that is about to break through. We might have to cement over that section.”
“Any iron was extracted long ago, Doc.” The second man came into view. He stood taller than the first, straighter, more precise, as if he’d been schooled by a drill sergeant against relaxing his stance. But there was also a defiance in him that belied the army-like facade, reminding her of the many young men who’d joined the ever-dwindling human resistance and had been trained by undisciplined militia leaders. “These mines were stripped clean. You sure what you saw was rust?”
“It was reddish in color and damp. I don’t care what it is. We should keep an eye on it.” By his tone, he meant that they should keep an eye on it.
The first man clamped the cigar between his thumb and forefinger and drew it away from his mouth. “Don’t let a little condensation scare you, Doc.” Smoke escaped from his cracked lips as he spoke, while his eyes slithered over Cora’s body. “What’s this?”
Cora didn’t like the soft hiss at the end of his question. Or the licentious gleam sliding into his gaze. Or the fact that he’d said what instead of who as if she wasn’t even a person.
“An experiment,” the doctor replied, adding, “The one I told you about. She’ll be bunking with number seven from now on.”
“That one’s too wild for such a good looking gift. Lately, we have to keep him sedated just to bathe him.”
“Orders from the top.” The doctor began pushing her forward again.
A strong hand landed on her ankle and the gurney rocked to a halt. The shocking heat from the cigar man’s palm seeped through the thin blanket that covered her lower half, alerting her to the fact that she was freezing—although that wasn’t why her shaking intensified.
“Leave her with us, Doc. Well take her the rest of the way. No need for you to bother yourself.” He gave a let-me-do-my-job smile that looked more like let-me-test-out-the-merchandise.
Adrenaline laced greasy fingers around the inside of her throat, tightening her breaths into shallow gulps.
“This one’s off limits,” the doctor informed them.
A dawning of relief crested. Would the dark-haired vampire’s claim be enough to save her from this man’s depravity?
His hand tightened around her ankle. Her composure snapped and she jerked her leg in an instinctual kick, hoping to dislodge him, but she only managed to disturb the inflamed skin under her bindings. Instead of letting go, he dug stubby fingers into her flesh; might have drawn blood if he hadn’t been inhibited by the blanket.
She swallowed a whimper as her leg muscles screamed under his grip.
“Keep your hands off, boys,” the doctor warned. “Unless you don’t mind having your throat ripped out by the master. Nikolai has taken special interest in this one.”
The man snatched his hand back as if she were poison incarnate. He took a slow drag of his cigar, then studied her with a mixture of curiosity and agitation. “Lucky for me Nikolai’s interests are short-lived.”
When his lips formed a cool smile, any bravado she had left fled into her stomach.
Chapter 17
The familiar metal tip of the gun barrel slipped between the bars of the door’s tiny window, and the bastard behind it shot a tranq straight into Brayden’s thigh. Another lanced his right ab. He knew what to expect next: thickly veiled smog would engulf his brain, making it difficult to think; his muscles would weaken more than they already were; keeping his legs strong under his sagging body would take what was left of his concentration.
Only then would the men feel safe to enter and steal from him his essence.
Afterward, they would once more leave him alone, locked away, and ever weaker. Put him on a shelf for later. It would take several days to recover from the loss and regain a measure of strength. Unless they saw fit to feed him this time. It was long overdue.
The voices outside turned fuzzy, muted, with an unnatural echoing lag.
The sedative was taking hold.
“Give it a few more minutes,” one voice said from outside the cell.
“Is two darts enough?” another asked. The tone was stiff and authoritative. Not Bray’s usual visitor…again. Well, wasn’t he the popular boy?
“He hasn’t been fed in a while. Two should be enough,” the first man replied.
“This isn’t a normal procedure. Better do another one to be sure,” the second man insisted.
A third tranq found Bray’s gut.
Motherfuckers! That one hurt.
His head lulled as his mind fought to understand why today was different. What have they planned for him now?
His vision split into two halves, both blurred and skewed and out of sync. When his knees turned soft, he locked them in place, making them into steel beams for his torso to rest upon. Otherwise he’d be hanging from his arms. A good way to dislocate a shoulder.
The jingle of keys sounded, then the click of the lock. A rusty squeak accompanied the opening door. Cautiously, the men entered. Two at first, their backs to him as they dragged in a large object. A third man pushed from the other end, maneuvering it past the threshold over the rough terrain.
Bray’s neck gave out and his head dropped forward, but he forced his eyes up, trying to make sense of the scene. He sickened with dizziness. His stomach wobbled and lurched, but it was too empty for anything other than to grind at the scent of fresh, living blood so close. Yet so out of reach.
He gave in to the nausea and closed his eyes, waiting for whatever would come.
A soft cry reached his ears, the lilting timbre out of place in this hellhole.
His head jerked up, his gaze zeroing in on the sound. And though the world rolled fiercely to the right, he’d caught a glimpse of the oddity.
A woman.
For a second he was captured by a set of golden-brown eyes as large as a harvest moon.
Despite her evident fright, she was beautiful to behold. Sun-kissed yellow hair, lush pink lips, perfect upturned nose, and her skin was flawless. At first glance, she reminded him of an angel.
He must be hallucinating.
She was lying in a gurney. Was she sick? A paying customer straight from her death bed to drink from the spring of life? She didn’t smell ill. No, she smelled tempting.
One of the men approached him, a glinting object in one hand. The other two men fumbled with the wide-eyed female.
“What are you doing?” she called out, setting Bray on edge. She didn’t sound like she wanted to be here any more than he did.
The men separated her from the gurney and dragged her toward him. She struggled weakly. As Bray squinted, trying to focus on the unusual drama before him, pain jetted up his arm.
The man to his right had sliced his bicep open!
Bray managed a rough growl, attempting to make eye contact with the bastard. Not that it would do any good. He was too doped up to compel anyone right now, but he wanted to convey a very clear message. One day, maybe not today, maybe not even a year from now, but one day, he would have that man’s jugular as a prize.
The man didn’t bother to take note of his foreboding demise.
The scent of the woman’s fragrance tugged at Bray’s nostrils, bringing his
head around. Again the world rolled, this time to the left.
They lugged her closer and her struggles turned frantic. She was staring at the warm blood flowing down his arm—fixated—as they brought her closer still. She met his gaze for an instant.
Through his muddied mind, he deciphered a few emotions: horror, fear, and something else that looked like hunger.
Or maybe he had just imagined the last, the tranq clouding his mind, his own hunger playing tricks on him, gnawing at his insides.
Her scent was sweet, teasing, calling forth his fangs. If they allowed him to feed from this poor girl, he would. He would drink deep and savor every drop.
“No!” she cried just before a heavy hand on the back of her head shoved her face first into his wounded arm.
Interesting.
Through bleary vision, he watched her resist. But then, after her first real mouthful, she succumbed, drawing from him as he wanted to from her.
——
With cigar man’s hand planted firmly on the back of her head, Cora bit down hard on the restrained vampire’s wound, opening it wider and forcing more blood into her mouth. She figured if they were going to force her to do this, she might as well take as much as she could. The blood would sooth her aching muscles, heal the flayed flesh on her wrist and ankles caused by her bindings, and strengthen her body.
If she was lucky, the strength would come before the crippling lust. There was the smallest chance she could surprise these men and wrench herself from their hold. Maybe make it to that door where the keys still dangled in the lock, slam it shut, and lock them all inside…if she was lucky.
She swallowed a heaping gulp, willing herself not to gag. By now, after taking from Mace so many times, she was used to the silky sensation slipping down her throat. She was used to the warmth and taste: rich, salty, and metallic.
It was the concept that made her stomach roil with the threat of rejection. She was drinking the living blood of another being! It was unnatural. Disturbing. A violation.
Once, this vampire could have been every bit the creature of her nightmares, but that didn’t make him any less helpless now. Same as her.
