She sent out a message to Conn.
Pain slammed into her solar plexus. She cried out, drawing her stomach in, dropping the ball. The energy burned a hole in the antique rug, whishing out to nothingness. She jerked her head into the cushions. “He hurts. So bad. Ribs, neck, well ... everywhere.” Tears stabbed behind her eyes.
“Focus, Moira.” Kane leaned forward, his hands cupping her knees. Heat flowed from his palms. “Where is he? What do you see?”
Nothing. She didn’t see a damn thing. Pain ripped along her spine. Conn?
Moira? While faint, his voice filtered across her consciousness.
Yes. Where are you? Open your eyes.
Can’t. Swollen shut. Love you.
Pain exploded in her head. Then nothing. Whatever connection they’d found disappeared.
She scrubbed away tears. “He’s hurt. No clear vision, doesn’t know where he is.” He said he loved her. “I think he fell unconscious at the end because everything went dark.” Conn passed out. He wasn’t dead. “I didn’t feel a knife at his neck or anything like that.” Her voice quivered, and she cleared her throat as she wondered who she was trying to convince—Kane or herself?
Kane wiped a rough hand across his mouth, his eyes shifting to black. Vampires had dual-colored eyes; the tertiary color emerged only in times of great emotion. She’d wondered what Kane’s color would be. Now she wished she didn’t know. “Did you smell anything?”
She lifted her chin, shutting her eyes. “Blood and dirt.”
“Hear anything?”
“The drip of water ... like on stone. An echo, something hollow.”
“Feel anything but pain?” Kane continued to shoot questions at her, not giving her a chance to stop and think.
“Rope against my wrists, hands high above.” They were torturing him. Rage ripped through her system, the need to draw blood filming a haze over her vision. She’d find them. And she’d rip their heads off.
“See anything?”
“No. Just darkness.” Moira leaped to her feet. “We need to go. We have to go and find him. Now!” She may be confused as hell about the man, but nobody tortured her mate.
Chapter 21
Conn concentrated on his left femur, mentally shoving the bone back into place. Except it didn’t move. The smell of earth and raw flesh filled his senses. His flesh. Water dripped somewhere in the distance, teasing him. He needed a drink.
Water would do.
Blood would do better.
He’d lost most of his. While losing all blood wouldn’t kill a vampire, it’d destroy his brain, and he’d live forever in a vegetative state. He trusted his brothers to cut his head off at that point.
Conn blinked, sending any healing force he owned to reduce the swelling around his eyes. Neurons fired with pain from every cell in his body. The steel corded ropes cut into his wrists as he hung from the ceiling. A shiny, new lock kept the ropes attached to rings in the ceiling of the cell. Ten feet wide, eleven feet deep, it had a dirt floor and one exit. Exposed rebar stuck out of solid walls where they’d built his cage into the rock. Smart. Most walls he’d plow through, but not a mountain.
The bars appeared to be steel and the door his only escape. He was aboveground, the enclosure dug into rock. A cell designed to hold Jordan, and currently trapping Conn.
His bare toes curled into the dust, his heels inches up. His shirt and most of his pants were shredded from hits with spiked metal bats.
A light haze wandered through his mind, and he shook his head to clear his thinking. The assholes had used him for target practice from safely on the other side of the bars. They’d aimed darts loaded with drugs at the space between his eyes.
And waited for the sedative to take effect before entering with weapons. Smart bastards.
Moira had called into his head. Even with pain catching the breath in his throat, pleasure fought through. For seconds, she’d been with him. His mate. Then she was gone. Hours ago, possibly a whole day. Too bad he couldn’t show her where they kept him. An hour’s flight, maybe two from where he’d raided the demon’s holding—might be in any direction. More light filtered through his pupils. Ah, good. He visualized bouncing gold healing cells to the mangled tissue, which relaxed across his brow. His focus sharpened. The blood in his veins attacked the drugs, learning to metabolize the sedative faster.
A spiked bat rested against the thick-planked wall outside his cell in another small, empty room with a door. Was this the only area built into the rock? Exposed bulbs hung from cords nailed into the rough ceilings, illuminating him enough for his captors to see when they swung the bats. Two metal folding chairs rested next to the weapon still dripping with his blood.
The door skidded open through the dirt. Marcus shoved his way inside, pivoting to force it closed. The bottom caught several times on the way. A strap held yet another dart gun over his shoulder.
Conn curled a lip. “Some moron cut the door too long.”
Marcus stilled, turning around. “Apparently not all of the darts hit the mark.” He shrugged, kicking a chair open and dropping down. His nearly yellow gaze flicked over Conn.
The vampire stared back.
Like most cats, Marcus preferred light, loose clothing in khaki and linen.
Conn would appreciate the red staining the guy’s duds more if it hadn’t been his own blood. “You know, I dated a woman centuries ago who wore her hair in a braid like that.” What kind of a guy French braided his hair?
Marcus lifted one shoulder. “Yes, well, I kept getting your blood in it. The woman I’m dating now braided it for me.” Mainly black with red tints, the mane showed the cat’s genetics. Pure panther.
“So what’s your endgame here, Marcus?” Torture hadn’t gleaned the location of the Realm’s new headquarters from Conn. He’d lose his head before giving up his family.
Marcus sniffed his feline nose, rubbing thick hair along his dark jaw line. “I want Jordan.”
“You’re not his type.”
Something lurked in the panther’s eyes ... rage went deeper than political gain.
“Why do you want him so badly? His death won’t guarantee you leadership of the pride.” In fact, there were several lions, panthers, and cougs more likely to take over for Jordan if the lion fell.
The cat’s shoulders went back. His chest puffed out. His eyes flicked green. “Let’s just say I owe him.”
Interesting. Conn’s thoughts sped up to normal. The drugs faded away like mist after a storm and he began to think clearly. Who was Marcus? Panther clan ... answered to Jordan ... Marcus Paltrow. Yeah, that was the guy’s name. Conn had met the shifter at the Realm Colloquium last year.
The dripping water continued, swelling Conn’s tongue. His fangs lowered. Time to piss this guy off. “You don’t stand a chance against Jordan. I’ve known Pride for centuries. He’d rip your head off and then go hunting breakfast while whistling.” Though it’d be severely off-key. Pride had no ear for tune.
Marcus leaped to his feet, a mottled red filling his face. “Bullshit. I could kick Pride’s ass in a second. God knows the bastard deserves it. After ...”
Conn frowned, his memories slamming back. “Dating. You said the woman you’re dating braided your hair.” A small panther with sharp little teeth had stood by Marcus’ side during the colloquium. “What happened to your mate?”
Electricity crackled against the panther’s skin as he wavered, his face shimmering, desperate fury filling his eyes. If the prick shifted, at that distance the blast would break every bone in Conn’s body.
Marcus bared his teeth, clenching his jaw until the skin rolled up into layers. With a shudder, he relaxed. “They turned her human. She killed herself.”
Conn clenched his wrists. “She was infected with the virus? When?”
“At the colloquium.” Marcus raised the gun and fired a dart into Conn’s neck. “Jordan Pride ordered us to attend, to give a show of support for the Realm. The bastard knew the virus was out there
... he knew we exposed ourselves.”
The dart stung for a mere second. Conn’s system handled the sedative, absorbing the drug into his tissues. He let his eyelids droop. “Why didn’t you tell us? We’ve been working on a cure.”
“I don’t trust you.” Marcus hissed the words, firing again. “You’ve allowed Caleb back in. You’ve failed to protect your own mates from the Kurjan virus. The demons are after you.”
Ah, the demons. “Yes. Yet you’re working with them.” The demons as a whole considered shifters tantamount to talented pets. Just slightly above humans. A demon mated a shifter once in a blue moon, but it was rare, and all the more cause for insult when Caleb’s brother mated a shifter betrothed to a demon. “Are you a demon’s pet, Marcus?”
The panther scowled. “You’re a shortsighted idiot, Kayrs. The demons agreed to assist us with this little trap, in exchange for seeing you folks in action. My guess is they’re coming up with battle plans ...”
Conn’s sneer drooped. “They sent newbies ... untrained soldiers to report back. They didn’t care if you succeeded, asshole.”
Marcus caressed his gun, his gaze assessing. “I didn’t get Pride, thus I didn’t succeed. The lion’s time will come. He’ll pay for what he did to my people.”
Another mate had been infected and the bastard hadn’t even contacted them. Conn forced his shoulders to slump and his words to slur. “Who else, Marcus? Who else did they get?”
The cat studied him for a moment, rage and pain flickering in his eyes. “They got five from my clan. I haven’t heard of any others.” He shrugged the gun off his shoulder to lean against the wall. “Two are females, who lost the ability to shift.”
Conn barely kept his head from jerking up. Drugged. He needed to appear drugged. “Any males infected?” The virus didn’t infect vampires, all whom were male and had more chromosomal pairs than every other race except for demons. The scientists believed that was what protected them from the virus. They’d been waiting for confirmation that the virus infected male shifters.
“Three males.” Marcus gripped the bars with whitened knuckles. “And guess what, Kayrs?” His voice lowered to a hiss. “They didn’t lose the ability to shift. Sure, the moon had to be full. They shifted into something that ...” The color drained from his angular face. A snarl ripped from his throat. “We had to kill them all.”
Jesus. The Kurjans might be successful in creating a werewolf slave class from shifters.
“So going after Jordan isn’t a political move. You want revenge.” Conn understood. If someone killed Moira, he’d burn the earth dry for vengeance. But he’d go after the right people, the ones at fault.
“Turning against the Realm won’t help you find justice.” He concentrated, and his femur popped back into place.
“Sure it will.” Marcus smiled. “I know about you, Kayrs, and your great friendship with Jordan Pride. His buddy, his comrade in war, dying in his place? This will kill him.” Marcus cracked his knuckles. “Taking you out serves revenge and my political agenda. Good thing you showed up in that tunnel.”
A vehicle rumbled by outside. Men’s voices echoed in the distance. Ah. Conn’s senses were returning. But man, he needed blood.
The door shoved open again, catching at several points and scattering dirt. Metal glinted from a tripod as a teenager quickly set a video camera on top, his movements smooth and economical. He took a moment to glare over his shoulder, his eyes full of hate, his features a younger version of Marcus’. “We’re gonna make you truly immortal, vampire scum.”
Even annoyed, empathy for the boy slid through Conn. He’d lost his mother when a mere twenty years old, and the wound still cut deep. He doubted the surly teenager would appreciate the sympathy, though, and wondered if the kid had streaked his hair a bright blue and pierced his nose, chin, and ears before his mother died. Adrenaline began to pump through Conn’s meager amount of blood.
Marcus jerked his head toward the door. “Tell Roland to bring in the blowtorch.”
With another venomous glare, the teenager loped away.
“Your son?” Conn asked.
“Yes.” Marcus fiddled with the camera until a green light blinked.
“I’m surprised you’d let him witness you torturing someone.” Jase had been thrust into war at the age of fifteen, and it had been a mistake. Kids should be protected from life.
“He deserves vengeance.” Marcus grabbed the gun in one hand, levering the barrel toward Conn’s chest. “I can’t broadcast your death in real time, as the king would trace our location. But I can video the removal of your head for the entire Realm to enjoy.”
“You’ll die before I do, Marcus.” Conn’s head lolled on his shoulders as he formulated a plan. He was getting tired of pretending to be drugged. When the hell was Marcus going to make a move?
“Even if you didn’t, my brothers would spend their last breath hunting you down like the vermin you are, taking turns slicing the skin from your body.” Not to mention his mate. Moira would track the bastard as well. Pride filled him along with unease. While the woman was trained, she lacked the physical strength to really fight. Good thing she made her own weapons with energy.
“Your brothers are weak.” Marcus kicked the chair out of the way. “Even the Coven Nine is aligning with the demons against you, which means the end. For the Kayrs lineage at least.” He angled the tripod closer to the bars. “First I’m going to beat you bloody. Well, bloodier. Then I plan to start you on fire. Finally, we’ll slice your head off. Everyone will see the weakness of the Realm.” Grabbing the gun, he fired three darts into Conn’s abs.
Conn let out a fake snarl and jerked against his restraints, turning to face the back wall and sagging down.
“Damn it,” Marcus huffed. “Kayrs, turn around. I need your agony to be seen.”
Conn let out a low groan, his body staying lax.
The bars rattled and the earthy scent of panther wafted closer. The air swished around Conn, and pain immediately exploded at the base of his spine. He hadn’t expected Marcus to swing the bat. Three more hits came in rapid succession, the metal spikes ripping flesh from his bones. Half of his remaining kidney ripped apart, staying attached to the bat.
No more. With a growl that came from beyond his soul, Conn twisted around, kicking the bat and pulling himself up high enough to clap his knees to Marcus’ neck. The bat slammed against the rock wall with a vibrating hum. Marcus bellowed in protest. Conn balanced himself with the steel ropes and his prey’s body.
He levered back, tightening his knees harder against the panther’s jugular, ignoring the shards of pain shooting through his internal organs.
Marcus grabbed for Conn’s thighs, his face turning purple, his mouth opening to gasp for air. His fingertips dug in, seeking release. A shimmering glowed along his skin.
Conn twisted, anger hazing his vision. “You start to shift and I’ll break your neck.” He needed to keep the guy alive to get out of there safely. “Give me the key.”
Marcus’ cheeks billowed out like those of a fish in a cartoon. He clenched his hand into a fist, pummeling Conn’s battered thigh. Shredded tendons and destroyed muscles screamed in agony. With a quick jerk, Marcus reached for his back pocket, swinging up and plunging a double-edged knife into Conn’s knee. Tissue and muscle opened up like a sardine can.
Fire cascaded through his leg. He roared, his nervous system igniting to fight. A twist of his hips snapped the panther’s neck. Marcus dropped to the ground with a dull thud.
Don’t feel. Think. Conn spit out blood, his mind roiling, his gut clenching. Moira’s pretty green eyes flashed into his head. Dizziness swamped him. The bastard had pierced his femoral artery. Blood he couldn’t afford to lose washed down his leg. Sparkling dots scattered across his vision.
Conn? Where the hell are you? Feminine, not so sweet, Moira’s voice whispered through his consciousness. Insistent, demanding and ... concerned.
Dunno. His head rolled to the side for re
al. Need a snack.
You can snack on me when you return. Her voice strengthened. They were getting better at telepathics. Look around. What do you see?
The urgency in her tone centered him. His eyes snapped open. Hold on, Dailtín. This was going to fucking hurt. Shoving pain away from the surface, he grabbed the steel ropes, swinging his head back and his legs into the air, bending at the knees. The knife handle smacked into his hand. His low growl of pain competed with the shrieking one he kept inside.
Biting his lip, he rotated his hold, yanking the knife out. His breath caught in his gut. His heart may have stopped. He was unable to control his legs. They dropped back to the ground, one foot landing on the dead shifter’s chest. Pain hurled through Conn and he sucked the waves in. Rode them. Welcomed them until they ebbed. Time wasn’t his friend. Someone would come looking for Marcus soon.
His wrist rotated, and he shoved the blade into the lock, twisting until scraps of metal fell onto his face. He jabbed the blade up harder. The lock released with a snap. Sparks flew as the rope unraveled. Like a newborn foal, he dropped to his knees into a pool of his own blood, prickles detonating along his neck and shoulders.
Conn? Where the hell are you? Moira snapped words into his head like a drill sergeant counting push-ups. Jesus. He was half-dead here. Shouldn’t the woman be whispering sweet nothings into his brain ... cajoling him to return to her?
Hold your horses. Eyeing Marcus with distaste, Conn grabbed the shifter by the shoulders. His fangs shot down, and he dug them into the panther’s neck, drinking deep, allowing the nutrient-rich liquid to balm his insides, if not his outside yet.
A jolt of power washed through his body. His connection with Moira snapped closed. Damn. He actually felt bereft.
Energy filtered up Conn’s spine, even as he tossed the shifter away. The spicy taste of panther, especially male, lingered on his tongue. He needed a mint. Taking a deep breath, sending healing cells to the worst of his wounds, he patted Marcus down.
Oh yeah. Conn slid a cell phone from the shifter’s back pocket, flipped it open, and dialed.
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