Infinity Key (Senyaza Series Book 2)

by Chrysoula Tzavelas

  “What about him? You think he’ll miss you? But he understands these games. I’ll make sure he gets his Machine and, well… you wanted to steal my daughter. It’s only fair I get you.” He turned to the door where his pack crowded, scooping up Branwyn and dropping her over his broad shoulder with a slap on her butt. “Easy as pie, boys. Two counts of being exactly the dumb bitch I expected her to be.”

  AT whispered, “I’m so sorry.. So sorry.” Branwyn tried to struggle, to show AT she wasn’t beaten. She tried to mouth something reassuring. But her limbs wouldn’t obey her. She felt as weak as a kitten, the pain using up all her available energy. All she had left was hate, and hate alone didn’t mean a thing.

  -eighteen-

  Hunter carried her to a room in the basement and dumped her on a futon on the floor. While fireworks of pain lit up the red-black darkness behind Branwyn’s eyes, he moved back to the door and waited until her whimpering faded. “Now, I’ve got to go exercise the boys. You got them all riled up. I’ll be back for breakfast in the morning. If you’re a good girl, I’ll send somebody down here to splint your arm.” He flashed that horrible, hateful grin. “If you’re bad, I’ll splint your arm and break your leg.”

  The door closed while Branwyn was still struggling to work up enough saliva to spit with. Alone, she turned her face to the futon, letting the pain wash over her and carry her away from hatred and fear into true darkness

  She woke smelling the unfamiliar scent of perfume that lingered on the futon. It seemed like only a few moments since she’d let go of consciousness. Perhaps it was; she heard feet moving above her, possibly Hunter going to “exercise the boys.” She had a watch, she remembered. If only she’d thought to check her watch when she was assaulted, or at any time since she’d arrived in this monster’s den. She giggled, then sighed. If only.

  The footsteps above went away. Carefully, she sat up. The room she’d been placed in—well, let’s be honest, the cell she’d been placed in—was stripped bare. It had nothing but the futon, which was blue and stained in places, tossed haphazardly on a grubby white tile floor. The light above was an old-fashioned fluorescent tube. The door was made of heavy wood. It didn’t have a handle.

  There were some marks on the floor that suggested that a table and a chair had once been bolted to the floor. Branwyn wondered if they’d been removed for her sake, or because of some other prisoner’s peccadilloes.

  Her arm didn’t hurt as much as it had. As long as she didn’t move it, it was a dull, distant ache. But when she did move it, even just by bending her elbow to try to see her watch, the pain exploded. So she fumbled with her watch strap, unbuckling it awkwardly and painfully, then checked the time. She thought she still had a few hours before dawn. Nobody ate breakfast before dawn, did they? She had time to come up with something.

  She had to come up with something. If Hunter had taken his pack out of the house—and the silence above suggested it—she would never have a better time to escape.

  Dropping the watch onto the futon, she emptied her pockets of coins and keys and a pebble and a penknife. She still had her hammer dangling from a belt loop, which she told herself was lucky and not a trap. She added them all to a pile, staring at it. Then she inspected the futon for buttons and a zipper. Surely she could make something from all of this stuff. She was learning magic. She’d influenced the acrylic casing of the Machine even if she hadn’t actually broken it. She'd coaxed the roof and the metal rod into clinging together. This would be a learning experience.

  She realized her teeth were chattering and she was freezing, which was ridiculous. It wasn't cold. She didn’t think she had a fever, and the bone fracture hadn’t broken the skin—there was no way she could have acquired an infection so soon. She activated Zachariah’s poison ward charm again, just the same. Infection was a kind of poison, wasn’t it? She didn’t have time for being hurt or sick; she had work to do. She could probably make a splint herself by tearing up the futon and—but that was stupid. By the time she finished it, Hunter would be back, and he would splint it. No, she had to be out of here, preferably in an ER with a police officer writing a report, before he showed up again.

  The chills faded and she felt warm.

  She woke up again, her face pressed against the tile floor, her knees on the futon. She stumbled to her feet, her arm screaming at the jarring movement. Her little pile of pocket junk was untouched. She’d lost half an hour this time.

  She moved slowly to the door. She didn’t use wood nearly as much as metal, but she had a penknife and if she could access the lock mechanism for the door—

  Severin’s unwelcome voice said, “What are you going to do when he breaks your leg? Crawling doesn’t seem like your style.”

  Branwyn said without looking over her shoulder, “Have you come to splint my arm?”

  “Now, why would I do that?”

  She did look at Severin sharply then. He leaned against the wall in the corner of the room near the futon, like he’d just stepped out for a cigarette. “Hunter said—never mind. Obviously not.”

  “I’m no one’s errand boy, cupcake.”

  “Could have fooled me,” Branwyn muttered, and tried to concentrate on the door. He’d just come to torment her. She could ignore him just like she could ignore her arm.

  But he straightened up, mouth thinning, and took a step closer. There was still the width of the medium-sized room between them, but her stomach clenched all the same.

  “You’re in a bad situation, cupcake.” His voice was soft, insidious. “You thought you could go toe to toe with the big boys, you thought you could matter.” His words seemed to resonate off the walls, surrounding her. “And you know what? You’re right! He’ll break your legs and your spirit, but he’ll fix your arm so you can work and you’ll matter so much to him. And that’ll make you matter to others. They’ll want to kill you if they can’t steal you. A ragdoll, torn apart between rivals.”

  A gurgle of bitter laughter escaped Branwyn. “That won’t happen. Shut up and go away.”

  “You want me to go? Find him? Send him here right now to see what a naughty girl you’re being? All right.” But he didn’t vanish immediately, as she knew he could.

  “Of course not,” Branwyn said. “Stay here then.” She caught his smile out of the corner of her eye and wished she hadn’t.

  He moved closer. “Just think, you wouldn’t be down here if you hadn’t fallen for his bait.”

  Branwyn whirled around. “Oh, come on. He was never going to voluntarily let me leave.”

  He laughed. “Oh, but he would have. He’s a sportsman. And taking you this way involved his daughter. That was important, too.” Conversationally, he added, “He used to beat her, until he realized she’d never fight back.”

  Branwyn clenched her fists and immediately regretted it as pain flared up her broken arm. “Have you ever cared about anything? Or were you born this monstrous?”

  “You think this is monstrous? How precious,” he drawled.

  “I think dragging an abused girl back to her abuser is unforgivable.” She turned back to the door, blinking to hold back unexpected tears. She stared at its wooden surface, trying to remember what she was doing.

  Right, she was escaping. Escaping and–

  “Leaving her behind,” said Severin softly, too close to her. “Leaving behind the Machine, too.”

  She pressed her head against the door. “No. I’ll get them. I will.”

  “You won’t. You’ll fail in every way.” She could feel his breath in her hair.

  Branwyn gritted her teeth and tried to focus on the door, but her vision was too blurry. Since he wouldn’t go away, she had to ignore him. But he was making everything worse.

  “I could help you,” he whispered. “Save you.”

  Horror and shame surged through her and she half turned around. “No!”

  A feral smile flitted across his face. “But here you are, a helpless princess in a tower.”

  “No!”
she said again, raising her voice. She caught herself, forced herself to speak to him calmly. “It’s a basement. I don’t want your help.”

  Severin gave her an amused, disbelieving look. “Your actions say otherwise.” His foot moved, pushing aside the penknife Branwyn had dropped at some point.

  Branwyn ran her hand through her hair. “Look, if you’re having some kind of charitable impulse, get AT out. I can take care of myself.”

  A finger and a thumb wrapped lightly around the wrist of her injured arm. “Liar.”

  “That’s nothing—” she said, before pain crashed over her at his lightest tug. “It’ll heal,” she gasped, and made the mistake of meeting his dark eyes. The pain became a tide of self-loathing. She was an idiot. She was a stereotype. She was nothing but a dreamer—

  —but then the tide crashed and parted against her glittering core. She would make her dreams real. She always had. She was Branwyn, and that was that.

  She used the tools she had. But she couldn’t accept Severin’s help. She wouldn’t be his pawn.

  She caught her breath and blinked away the blur. Her back was pressed against the door. “If you rescued AT, that would be enough. A distraction. I can get through this door—”

  “I’m not going to steal AT away from Hunter,” said Severin calmly. “I’m going to steal you.” The fingers around her wrist moved up her arm, a warm light touch against the red throb.

  “No,” she repeated, frustrated. He watched her like a cat watching a bird. “I don’t want that. Just listen—”

  “But it isn’t about what you want, cupcake. It’s not up to you.” He dipped his dark head, his mouth brushing her ear. “It’s up to me. I can save you, or not. My choice.”

  He rested his head against hers. “You’ve never understood that I can do whatever I want to you.” His voice was a barely audible murmur that ran down her spine. “And if I bothered to make the effort, I could make you love it.”

  A dark feeling she dared not identify roiled through Branwyn, mixing with bitter loathing and a boneless, rubbery fear into a poisonous black cocktail. She tried to speak and her voice came out as a whimper. She tried again. “That wouldn’t be fun for you.” Her voice was small and weak and the shame added its own cherry to the black cocktail.

  He pulled his head back and regarded her with a wry amusement. “Oh, the idea has a certain charm.” Making you scream, she felt rather than heard him add. Then he tilted his head. “But I can exert myself to resist even the sweetest temptations when I want to. You wouldn’t last long, and I have plans for you yet.”

  Her breath came quick and shallow. “I—I can’t go without the Machine. I’d rather you broke me, killed me now.” She struggled to resist the terrible intoxication of the black cocktail; it led only to oblivion.

  Very gently, he lifted her injured arm, inspecting it. “Oh, of course,” he said absently. “How else will I get my hands on Tarn? But first we have to deal with this.” Coolness and heat spiraled up her arm in turn, followed by a tingling that became the jolt of a thousand needles. It hurt in a whole new way, like shards of crystal were growing inside her arm. She made an animalistic moan and tried to squirm away.

  “Shh,” Severin said and dropped his mouth onto her skin between her collarbone and shoulder. At first she thought he was going to bite her, but if he did, she couldn’t tell. A cool numbness spread out from his lips, flowing down her arm and taking away the needling pain. It faded as it reached her elbow, and by the time tendrils of coolness reached her wrist, she could move the fingers of that hand without wanting to sob. She hardly even felt like wincing.

  Blearily, she craned her head to look at her arm. It looked almost normal: a bit swollen but already visibly better. She tried to figure out if she should be doing something in response. But the pain had only masked exhaustion and Severin’s head close to her own was disorienting. She could no longer remember if she needed to pull away or cling to him.

  It was important, she recalled, that she make sure he knew she wasn’t enjoying this. She was still herself.

  “Asshole,” she said weakly. “I’m going to remember this.” And the black cocktail was an ocean she teetered over.

  He pulled back and regarded her. Drunkenly, she met his eyes, but they were different now. Shadow-grey and fathomless. They’d never had a color before, other than “evil.”

  “Yes,” he said, almost gently. “You will.” And the soul-devouring darkness flared in his eyes again before she lowered her gaze. “We’ll go now.” He closed his fingers around her wrists and tugged her sharply toward him.

  She fell against his chest and the world changed around her like a window sliding past. Her few things, abandoned on the futon, hovered in the air. They were in front of a display case. One of Severin’s hands moved and glass cracked and splintered. The shards joined her belongings in a glittering spiral dance around them as an alarm screamed.

  Severin caught something up in his free hand and yanked Branwyn again somehow, despite the fact that she was already pressed against him. The picture window of the world changed again. Images of several places spun around them, beyond the backpack she’d left in the bedroom and the hammer and coins and a nebula of broken glass. For a moment they floated freely at the center of a maelstrom of place and thing. Then one of the windows darted in and dropped on them.

  Severin let her go and she fell into a heap amidst her belongings. The shattered glass darted to his hand and hovered there, gathering itself into a sphere.

  She was on her own worn, familiar carpet. They weren’t alone. Marley and Simon were both there, and they looked startled.

  “Am I ruining something?” inquired Severin, solicitously. “Something heroic? Oh dear. Well, I must be off. Can’t play with you,” he said to Simon. “There’s bigger hunters to tease.” As he spoke, the sphere of shards above his hand acquired a red gleam. Orange light beamed out of it as it fused into… something else.

  With a lazy smile, Severin vanished.

  “Branwyn!” Marley dropped to her knees beside her and started checking her over. Through gritted teeth, she said, “I am going to end him.”

  Branwyn thought she ought to explain, but instead she felt the carpet on her cheek and inhaled the familiar smell of her home. Some part of her had been sure she’d never be here again.

  Corbin’s voice emerged from Marley’s phone, sitting on the counter. “What just happened?”

  Slowly, Simon said, “Whispering Dark just appeared, deposited the girl, and left. You know, Corbin, I’m starting to see why you dislike the fellow so.”

  “He brought back Branwyn? Marley, is she all right?”

  Branwyn ignored Marley trying to coax her into accepting her shield, but let her best friend hold her close. She ought, she thought hazily, to show them she was fine. “Hey,” she managed. “You called Corbin just like I said. Way to go!”

  But she was very tired. And there was something else she had to do. She looked around the floor, trying to catalogue the fallen items.

  “She doesn’t seem injured, but there’s this mark—Branwyn!” Marley fell back as Branwyn lunged away from her, scooping up the acrylic-bound Machine part. He’d brought it. She had it. It had cost her more than she had hoped, but she had it.

  She curled protectively around her prize and, laying her head in Marley’s lap, relaxed the tiny amount required to pass out.

  -nineteen-

  Branwyn woke up in her own bed, sunlight falling in slices across her face through half-closed blinds. Her mouth was dry and she had to pee, which was always an awkward combination. Her throat hurt and her eyes felt gritty, too. Other than that, she felt only the ache of a long hike in her legs. Her broken arm might have just been a nightmare. But the acrylic-bound Machine was on the nightstand.

  Marley sat in the corner, in Branwyn’s comfy chair, her legs curled under her, a book on her lap. Instead of reading, she was regarding Branwyn. Marley’s gaze was shuttered in a way Branwyn had only seen when
she was acting with great restraint. For a moment, they looked at each other. Then Marley offered Branwyn a folded bath towel in silence.

  Branwyn rolled out of bed and took the towel. “Thanks.” She hesitated, then added, “Don’t go anywhere, okay?”

  Marley’s closed-off expression became one of a deep, sad, disturbing sympathy. “I’ll be here.”

  Branwyn hurried to the bathroom and took a long shower, scrubbing herself down, then letting the heat seep into the places that had been chilled by her encounters the day before. She felt almost normal as she stepped out of the shower. She was angry about the past but excited about the future and ready to get to work on finishing the key. Art had always given her something to move toward in the wake of any relationship yuck or deeper shock. It was almost like... magic.

  But she defogged the mirror and peered at herself, wondering what had inspired Marley’s expression. She wasn’t exactly sure what Marley’s nephil magic told her, but she thought it was about what might happen, not what had happened. And even if she somehow knew what Branwyn had gone through, it wasn’t that bad.

  She shied away from that line of thinking and looked at the bags under her eyes. More sleep was definitely called for. She’d get it, eventually. Her gaze slid down to her arm, and all the psychological good of the shower was undone as her blood froze in her veins. Right between her left collarbone and shoulder was a black mark shaped like a stylized pair of skeletal black wings.

  I’m going to remember this, she’d said, but she’d been willing to remember in a distant, fuzzy way.

  He wanted the memory of his assistance to linger.

  Branwyn dropped her towel and went back into the shower. Rationally, she knew it wouldn’t scrub off, but she just couldn’t help trying. Instead, it felt like the black mark was spreading all over her. She recalled Marley’s sympathetic expression again and bit her lip so hard it bled. Eventually, the hot water ran out. When she emerged this time, she toweled off without looking in the mirror, then padded out of her room and went to the acrylic-bound Machine part beside her bed.