"Very." I smiled softly and laid my head back on his chest.
"We have one week here in the hotel before we'll have to make some decisions for the future," he said. I knew what he meant. Would we stay in Sweden? Would we move on? I laughed lightly, recognizing the we in his statement and wondering how we had become an almost permanent couple. We were good together—and we were good for each other.
Theron had been right when he said our broken pieces fit together, making us whole. I wiggled around and kissed him on the cheek.
"Hold it," He stopped me, holding onto my arm.
"What is it?" I asked.
"These gashes." His brow furrowed. "I can't figure out how he could have made these with his fingernails."
"Maybe he has bad hygiene?" I offered with a small smile. "And hasn't trimmed his nails for a month."
"Yeah, right. More like a year. We need to get some medicine on those," Theron said, looking concerned. He went to the pack, assumably for the first aid kit.
I walked over and locked the door then drew the drapes closed. We were on the second floor so it would be tough for anyone to see in, but what I was about to do I had never done before and I wasn't going to take any chances, no matter how paranoid I was probably acting. I turned to wash up in the bathroom. Sure enough, Theron was at the table with the first aid kit open and was rummaging through it.
The bathroom was luxurious with marble floors and fixtures. I washed my face, hands and forearms in the swirled marble sink and patted them dry with a fluffy, ivy green hand towel. When I came back into the room Theron was sitting on the edge of the bed shaking a tube of antibiotic ointment at me.
"Let's get some of this on your arm," he said.
"Okay," I said, smiling at his attentiveness. I set the hand towel onto the table then went over and sat next to him. He gently dabbed the ointment onto my gashes with a clean cotton ball. "They're too uniform to be random scratches." He examined them more closely. "It's almost like they were done deliberately. They're perfect lines."
"Why would Mikkelsson want to scratch me on purpose?" I asked. "They'll be fine."
He held onto me and looked into my eyes. "You believe it now—about your mother—don't you?" he implored.
I nodded. "Yeah, I believe it now. It's still sort of hard—weird to get used to—but I think it's real."
He nodded back at me, looking a little nervous maybe. It had been a big day. Before he could start up another conversation, I went back to my intended idea. I reached my hands back underneath my hair and behind my neck to search out the clasp of my necklace with my fingers.
"Hold on! Wait a second. What are you doing?" he asked, concerned.
"Something I maybe should have done a long time ago," I stated.
"You're taking it off?"
"I should have examined this thing eons ago." I unclasped my necklace and carefully laid it on the ivy green towels from the bathroom that I had laid on the table. I dropped my hands to my side. "In the past five years, I have never taken this necklace off."
"Freya, I think you should put it back on," he said with a change in his voice.
"I've never seen the back before, and with all the information about my mom and everything"—I stammered a little—"I just—wanted to see if there were any inscriptions on the back or some kind of clue."
"You've never seen the back of it before?"
I laughed a little. "It's always been up against my chest."
We both leaned over to look at it more closely. I examined its intricate design and the way the gold curved and flowed. But Theron was jumpy.
"Something doesn't feel right," he said, going over and laying his ear against the door.
"I've felt like that since this morning. I think it's just nerves. Now, we feel freaked out by everything we learned today," I reasoned.
"Freya."
"What?"
"Put it back on," he said seriously.
I tore my eyes away from the gems. The necklace seemed to look the same on both sides, but I hadn't looked long enough to notice any differences. Theron looked worried—more worried than when we faced the tornado.
"Okay," I complied. He appeared to be on high alert for some reason. I knew him well enough now to follow his instincts.
Suddenly, we heard screams and desperate cries for help coming from somewhere inside of the hotel. We glanced quickly at each other, but before we could react, the window to our room shattered violently. Three Takers rolled through the glass onto the floor followed immediately by three more and three more after that. All of them vaulted to their feet and pointed some kind of gun at us. Simultaneously, our hotel door blew off its hinges from some intense force and more Takers (at least ten more) stormed in through the splintered doorway. We were utterly blocked in and completely surrounded.
A tall, regal man in his mid-fifties with wavy dark hair and vibrant violet eyes swept into the room. Dread chilled the blood in my veins. He was fit and looked strong. He was dressed in a pair of white slacks and a white unzipped ski jacket with a black, form-fitting turtleneck underneath. He was very handsome save for the jagged scar that ran the length of his face from temple to chin. He could have been a movie star or a wealthy tourist on vacation.
"Finally." His eyes bore into mine. He came so close to me I could smell his breath—wintergreen and malice. He inspected me—especially my eyes and face—then finally took a tiny step backward. When he smiled he reminded me of a poisonous snake.
"Theron, I was beginning to doubt your capabilities," he said, never breaking eye contact with me.
"Yes, sir."
Could that have been my Theron's voice?
"What happened to the tracer?" the man with the impossibly beautiful ethereal eyes purred.
"Destroyed on atmospheric reconfiguration, sir."
That is Theron! I ripped my eyes from my attacker's and leaned to my right to get a better look. Incredulously, Theron was standing erect—like a soldier at attention in the midst of the Takers—like he was one of them.
"Sir, I had no choice but to stay and monitor the subject's movements and wait for your advance."
Wait for your advance?
The man's grin widened venomously. "Is the nightmare beginning to sink in?"
I tried with all my being not to let him see the terror spread through me like an electrical charge. But it was causing a tremor to my core as if I had been struck by lightning and I began to shake.
"Very well done, Mr. Hawk. You will be richly rewarded." The man lavished my betrayer with praise.
A burning fire superseded the terror, thrusting itself into preeminence over all caution—it was rage.
"I trusted you." I watched for Theron's reaction. There was none. He stood emotionless—his face completely unfeeling. "I. TRUSTED. YOU!" I screamed against his silent apathy. His demeanor remained untouched and uninterested.
The man's lips curved upward in amusement. "Theron Hawk is one of my best. That is why I sent him."
I was darkly aware that I was completely and utterly alone. And, even worse—I had been forsaken. I held onto the rage. At least it was an empowering emotion.
"Where is the necklace?" the man demanded in a calm, feigned politeness.
"I don't know what you're talking about." My voice shook. I lied out of instinct, even though I knew it was hopeless. Surely Theron would tell him where the necklace was at any moment.
"Of course you do. It belonged to your mother."
I wondered what he might do if he lost his patience. "Where is my mother?" I countered.
He chortled sinisterly. "I'll ask only one more time—WHERE IS THE BRÍSINGAMEN?"
"I'll ask you one more time"—the ferocity in my voice surprised me—"WHERE IS MY MOTHER?"
He grabbed hold of my face, pressed his cold fingers into my cheeks and snarled, "Where. Is. That. Necklace?"
"I haven't seen the necklace or my mother for five years."
It couldn't have still been sitting out on the t
able or certainly one of them would have seen it. I didn't dare look in the direction of the table or to see if it had fallen to the floor. I kept my eyes on his. Theron would tell him soon enough. I couldn't figure out why he hadn't already. I couldn't make sense of any of this.
The man relaxed and caressed the side of my face with the back of his hand like a lover. "We will locate it, I assure you," he said soothingly. "I am much too pleased with the finding of my lost treasure to be vexed." As soon as he said this he gripped my right forearm and viciously squeezed the etched slashes made by Mikkelsson until fresh blood pooled. I grunted under his exertion. He regarded the liquid like a prize.
I jerked my arm but couldn't escape his grasp.
"Where are all the innocent people you've taken?" I lashed out at him.
The man laughed a little. "My, she is spirited," he said to his group. He turned back to me. "All in due time, my dear Freya," he cooed, dropping my arm with force and then smearing the blood he had collected across my collarbone where my necklace had lain.
"I am not your dear," I spat in his face.
The Taker nearest to my right angled his weapon backward and slammed it ferociously between my right shoulder blade and spine. My body exploded in agony. I cried out involuntarily and dropped to my knees. I looked pleadingly at Theron. He looked like he couldn't have cared less.
"This would be so much easier if you didn't fight me, Freya. We could be beneficial to one another," the man said.
"I will never stop fighting you!" I raged back.
"Will the Cattens never learn their lesson?" he asked.
Before I could think about what he meant by his words, he motioned to the man who had broken or dislocated my shoulder. The Taker raised his weapon and struck me brutally against the side of my head. Everything went black.
Chapter 23 Hell
Theron and I were inseparable. We lay under the petal yellow blanket in the luxuriously comfortable bed in the plush Scandic hotel, embracing. But the building around us did not look like the Swedish hotel—no, these were the walls of my tent. How did we fit a queen sized bed in my tent? I began to ask him.
But then there was a noise—a horrible static that buzzed relentlessly through my head.
I knew that rushing sound.
"TORNADO!" I tried to warn, but my voice wouldn't work.
I tried to move—to shake Theron awake and into action. He could get us out of this. But my limbs betrayed me. They seemed frozen—locked in their positions. My legs were extended straight down on the bed; my arms were stiff at my sides. I squeezed my eyes closed, Think Freya. Think!
When I opened my eyes again I saw Captain Max's huge cargo ship sailing out into the distance away from me. The horizon line swayed and rocked, and I realized I had been left out in the open ocean. I looked around me frantically—there was nothing: no life preserver, no raft or jacket. I couldn't calm my thoughts. I was alone and it was only a matter of time—no way to stay afloat, no rescue in sight, only blue endless ocean as far as my eyes could see in every direction. I was already exhausted. Mercilessly, I began to sink.
Hopelessness choked my throat and filled my nose. If I cry I will lose every bit of strength I have left, I whimpered. But the sobs overtook me. My body was engulfed with excruciating pain. The salt inflamed the gouges Mikkelsson had slashed up my forearm. The burning was unceasing. My head throbbed without relief and my right shoulder was broken and deformed, my mouth and nose were barely above the surface.
I had never been much acquainted with physical pain. I had never broken a bone or pulled a muscle—I had never even had a toothache. Nothing prepared me for the intimate agony that had now completely and utterly inhabited my poor, wretched body. I'd be under the water sooner than I thought. Perhaps there was mercy in that.
Then I noticed the red wispy ribbons spreading out around me—dancing grotesquely from the veins in my arm. My blood! MY BLOOD! I panicked. It ghosted around my torso and legs, wrapping my ankles and feet. I was a grisly Maypole. Each time my mouth and nose dipped under the water line I tasted my death—a beverage of salt and blood.
The first white fin appeared and circled around me. No! NO! Not this way, please! NOT THIS WAY! I appealed to divinity.
A second fin surfaced, then a third. Soon five fins surrounded me, stalked me, terrorized me.
I'd rather drown! I let myself plunge downward, away from the glittering sunlight, into my blood and tears—and sucked them deeply into my lungs. I fought to submerge myself further and further so it would become impossible to reach the air again.
But my self-preserving mechanism overrode my will. As my motionless legs struggled to kick I begged myself not to—I don't want to be torn to pieces.
Then I remembered. The memories flooded me as the ice cold water covered my head. It was Theron who had thrown me out here. He did this to me. It was his fault I was going to die.
Theron pretended to love me.
He deceived me.
He killed me.
~
"She's coming around, sir." A woman's voice spoke.
"It has been twenty-four hours since transfiguration and her fever is still rising," a man said matter-of-factly.
"How high?" a rough man's voice asked.
"Over safe levels."
"We've already removed two pints. If we continue to syphon her blood at this rate she'll die," a third man pointed out.
I had been dreaming. The nightmare had been awful, but the reality I had awakened to— was so much worse. Theron had given me over to the Takers. Theron was a Taker!
My mother was gone, my necklace was gone, and soon… my life would be gone.
I used to fake sleep when my mother tried waking me up at dawn to check the snares. I would part my eyelids into just the smallest slits and peer through my lashes to judge her expression to see if I could get another half an hour of sleep or if she meant business. That's what I did now.
I saw five figures all around me dressed in white lab coats. My wrists were strapped down to a table. In each of my upturned forearms were tubes inserted into my veins with long slender needles. On the right side I could see that the tube was filled with crimson liquid. The tube on the left was clear.
I contemplated opening my eyes and letting them know I was awake. But I wondered if that was a smart move.
"Her blood and DNA are vital to the project. We don't even have the necklace yet. It would be foolish to bleed her out," the woman said.
"Not yet anyway." I knew that voice. It was the man who took me—the leader of the Takers from the hotel room. "Remove the extractor for now." He leaned into my face. His breath was warm and putrid. I tried not to gag. "Stop the morphine. I want her to writhe so that she may know my power and understand that I hold her very existence in my grasp." He paused. "She will reveal to me where the Brísingamen is." I knew he wasn't speaking to anyone but me. "Cease hydration."
"Sir, without liquid intake her human body will be unable to lower the fever and her blood loss—"
"Do you assume I am simple?" the leader seethed.
"No, sir." The man cowered.
"We will let her burn. Perhaps it will render her more… cooperative." His spittle rained over my cheek.
Both needles were yanked harshly out of my arms. The jolting pain caused me to cry out.
"Are you coming out to play?" the leader asked sadistically. I didn't respond.
"No, do not cover her."
They all left the room, turning out the lights and shutting the door behind them. "No matter what you hear, do not open that door until I give you direct orders," I heard the man say through the closed door.
"Yes, sir," was chanted simultaneously by more than a few voices.
I opened my eyes to the darkness around me. It was pitch black. There wasn't even a window. The only light I detected came from the narrow slit under the door. How are you going to get out of this one? I jeered. I didn't even know where I was. I worked to move my fingers. Maybe I could rea
ch the constricting wrist cuffs. But just that tiny exertion sent ripples of pain shooting through me.
All too soon my body tensed—tormented with a new level of agony. The clear tube must have been a wonder medicine because it now felt like every cell in my being was on fire. As if to increase the torture, tremors of feverish chills tore through my body. My fingers stiffened, and I felt the gold band that was still on my ring finger.
My fake wedding band from my fake boyfriend!
I tried to clear my frightened, feverish mind to assess my damage. What did that guy say? Twenty-four hours since transfiguration? What did that mean? Think. Trans means change.
It was no good. My body was twisted with misery. My right shoulder was either dislocated or broken and certainly my captors did nothing to fix it. Or even secure it. Each fevered, shaking fit rocked it with anguish. And something else was terribly wrong.
I had had a fever before with the flu and this was nothing like that! I had never felt anything like the fiery hell that plagued me now. Oh, and the nausea was relentless—even though I had nothing in my belly to come up—it churned and lurched and my head spun and whirled.
Then there was my heart.
'I've never felt this way before.' 'We could just stay here, you and me.' 'I could take care of you.'
Oh yeah, you took care of me all right! LIAR!
It was immediately clear that anger would not help my physical condition. The sobs started back up. Wuss! Tears and mucus dripped into my hair. Theron's betrayal burned and tortured me as cruelly as my fiery cells. "I was such an idiot," I whispered against the darkness.
I attempted to lift my head from the hard table. My right shoulder seized. I cried out loud and dropped my head. I would have stood a better chance in the water, I thought bitterly.
Time became irrelevant. It held no bounds. I didn't know how long I lay there or if it could be counted by minutes, hours or days. To keep the unnerving panic at bay, I played every song I could think of in my head as if I were wearing my iPod. I'd fall asleep for an unknown amount of time and wake back up in darkness. I knew I wasn't dead because the pain continued. I recited every book storyline and movie plot I could think of. When Theron's image appeared in my mind—I imagined myself sinking my arrows deep into his vital organs.
Hunted (Dark Secrets Book 1) Page 22
