by J. N. Colon
I gritted my teeth against the throbbing in my head. My skull threatened to crack wide open. It was too much.
Unable to bear the weight of their memories, I stumbled back and broke the connection. Link and Dumont dropped to their knees, trembling.
“Get up, you two!” Cyria bellowed, aiming the glowing dampener at my neck.
Violet strands of electricity shot down my arms and slammed into the queen’s sternum. She flew back, crashing into a shelf of crystals and mysterious vials. Wood splintered and glass shattered, raining onto the concrete floor like shards of ice falling from a winter sky.
I spun around, darting by Link and Dumont. My fingers skimmed the metal of the doorknob as a hand wrapped around my ankle and yanked me back from freedom.
My body slammed into the ground, pain lashing at my cheek as bits of glass slashed tiny cuts. I rolled over and brushed the stinging shards off my face
“You’re kidding yourself if you think you can get away.” Link crawled on top of me, pinning my frame to the hard floor with his weight.
Magic crackled on my fingertips. “Get off!” A powerful zap sent him across the room and into another shelf. Talismans and ritual bowls clattered to the concrete.
I scrambled onto my hands and knees, crawling through sharp debris toward the door. Blood thundered in my ears, louder than the growling demons close behind. If I could escape this room and seal the door shut, I could make a run for it.
Fingers tangled in my hair and ripped my head back. A strangled cry slipped out as heat seared over my scalp.
Cyria came into view, pits of bottomless holes for eyes and cheeks hollow like a corpse. Ice swept through my veins. The Nordic beauty had been replaced by a vicious, murderous monster. Her desire for my soul choked the air, bitter and acidic.
“Stop trying to run, Thorn.” Her voice had deepened to a chilling tenor, something straight out of nightmares.
Stop trying to run?
I’d been running for six months. And I wasn’t about to stop now.
My hand latched onto her wrist. “Go to Hell, Cyria.” My death powers unfurled like a poisonous flower blooming, taking a big gulp of the demon queen.
Her dark energy slammed into my soul, and I gagged, choking on death and pain. Muddy lines snaked over her snowy complexion as memories began to dislodge from the treacherous depths of her existence.
A shudder racked my muscles. Oh fuck. I did not have a steel wall big enough to defend against the terrors on the verge of flooding my mind. Draining a creature as ancient as her would screw me in irrevocable ways. I’d never recover from something as wicked as her.
Cyria leaned forward and yanked my left hand off her arm, severing the connection as if it hadn’t affected her at all. “You’re powerful, death raker, but I’m the demon queen. It’s going to take a lot to kill me.” She twisted my wrist until a violent pop echoed through the room.
A ragged gasp choked my airways as white-hot pain enveloped my wrist. She released the appendage, letting it limply hang.
Son of a bitch! She broke my wrist.
While I was distracted cradling my throbbing arm, Cyria wrenched my head aside and jammed the dampener onto my neck, branding the sigil on my skin.
A scream exploded from my mouth—the kind of shriek an animal released in the throes of a brutal death.
Electricity sizzled as the power of the device slithered over my body and sank into my very essence. My magic burrowed below the surface, disappearing so far down that not even a hint of it stirred within my soul.
I collapsed face-first on the cold cement floor as a tear streaked my cheek. Even when I forced my powers to the background while hiding in Chicago, they still lingered within my reach. Now, they had been tossed down a never-ending abyss.
Did they even exist anymore?
The throbbing pain in my left wrist was nothing compared to the void of my magic.
The queen’s stiletto boots passed by, and then she kneeled, her eyes returned to that vivid demon blue. “I wanted to play nice.” She stroked the sweaty hair from my forehead. “You remind me of someone I miss dearly.”
I flinched away from her touch, my shallow breaths the only sound in the otherwise silent room. Chills rippled over me, and my muscles longed to curl into a ball, but I didn’t have enough energy to move even that much.
“Dumont, Link.” Cyria waved the two demons over with the flick of her pale hand. “Grab her.”
No fight remained as they hauled me from the ground, their grips bruising my biceps. My legs wouldn’t hold me, so they resigned to dragging me out the door—back to the torture room.
My head lolled forward just before the crimson and silver hilt of the dagger peeked from Cyria’s pocket.
“What the hell kind of knife is that?” I murmured. Not even witches possessed a magical object that could turn one being into another.
“The dagger of Astrix was forged by an original demon eons ago.” Cyria strutted down the hall like she led a procession of models in a runway show. The tail of her leather jacket slapped my face a few times. “The blade has the power to transform humans into demons.”
I’d gathered that when the guy Dumont stabbed suddenly woke up with demon eyes.
Cyria opened the door, and her two minions tugged me into the room where gleaming torture devices covered nearly every inch of the angry blood-red walls. The chair had been replaced by a metal table, thick leather straps dangling from the sides.
Bile rose in my throat. I was familiar with this type of table.
“Why are you making more demons?” I tried and failed to get a foothold as Dumont and Link pulled me deeper into the chamber of hell. The door shut with a resonating bang of finality.
“The demon converts will add to our population here in Nightworld without having to summon the unruly ones from the Underworld.” Cyria removed her leather jacket, tossing it on a chair in the corner. Would she participate or just watch? “It’s only a matter of time before Lachlan attempts to steal demon territory. Look what he did with the witches.”
Link and Dumont hauled me onto the table—not gently either—and tore my jacket off. I shivered when the chilled air hit me. Link’s palm lay on my chest as he forced me back on the table, his gaze languidly roaming my curves.
“Take a fucking picture, creep,” I hissed as the icy metal seeped through my clothes. “It’ll last longer.”
The sinister twist of his lips cooled my blood. “I don’t doubt that. You’re about to become a mess, witch.”
Dumont began securing the straps around my body, yanking so hard I gasped. “The torture hasn’t even started yet.” He slowly rubbed his thumb down my arm. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll take good care of you.”
Acid oozed up my throat. I shifted against the restraints, but the magic dampening sigil had me so weak I could hardly move much less physically strike Dumont’s leering face.
An ominous squeak echoed as Cyria rolled over a cart. “Unfortunately, not all humans take to the change.” The sharp instruments meticulously laid out on the top glinted in the stark overhead lights. “We found a wonderful way to deal with the dead converts.”
The rejects became victims of this fictitious East Side Slasher.
My breath quickened as the demon queen stroked her finger over a long silver rod. The device had many uses in torture, the most popular being a tool used to drive into someone’s nose.
“Why torture me? Just for the fun of it?” Demons didn’t need a reason to inflict pain when the urge boiled in their blood.
A slow smile parted Cyria’s lips. “Maybe we don’t have to cause any suffering—if you agree to a deal.”
A heavy rock sank to the bottom of my gut. Great. Another person who wanted my death powers in their arsenal. “What kind of deal?” I gritted out.
“I’ve found the perfect solution for the humans who were unable to make the change.” She plucked a long, serrated knife from the cart and pointed the lethal tip at my nose. “
And you, death raker, are the answer.”
My eyebrows dipped as I stared at her beautiful, flawless face that masked the soul-thirsty monster beneath. “How am I the answer?”
Cyria flicked the edge of the blade, a silvery note singing through the air. “I want you to do a little spell and wake the dead converts.”
A humorless laugh bubbled out of my throat. “I can’t control the dead. I’m not a necromancer.”
She held her long, crimson-tipped finger in the air. “You can’t control the dead, but your powers are connected to death, and you’re strong enough to perform a wakening spell as good as any necromancer.”
I blinked, waiting for the punchline. How did she know I had enough juice to execute a proper wakening spell or that I even knew how?
She leaned forward and lightly dragged her nails across my cheek, not hard enough to break the surface but definitely threatening. “All you have to do is agree to this deal with a blood oath, and you can walk out of here without a lick of torture. You’ll be free.”
I’d never be free.
“I’ll take the torture.” I peeled my gaze from hers and studied the ceiling, letting numbness crawl over my body.
Cyria was insane if she thought I’d agree to bring back dozens of humans she murdered trying to turn them into Underworld creatures. They’d wake up demons, and I wasn’t going to add to her growing numbers.
She shook her head with a tsk. “That’s a shame. But I’m sure you’ll change your tune.” She took a step back, curling her hand at Dumont and Link. “Do your worst, boys.”
Link grabbed a thin knife, bringing it to my face to brush back a strand of hair, the blade just grazing my skin. “We could have been great together.”
I held back a shiver. “Doubtful. I would have killed you by the second date. I prefer my guys with a soul.”
He scoffed. “We’ll see how much spunk you still have when we’re done.” He sliced a shallow cut into my arm, barely more than a sting.
Dumont rolled over another cart with his own assortment of sharp tools, the high-pitch screech of the wheels making me shiver. His long fingers curled around a wicked, two-bladed knife, studying the way it gleamed in the fluorescents. “Torture is my favorite.”
“He’s very good at it.” The cork of a bottle popped, followed by a distinct gurgle as Cyria poured herself a glass of wine, the burgundy liquid sloshing against the sides like the blood about to spill.
Dumont drew up my shirt, his fingers purposely skimming my stomach before he dragged the knife over it.
My molars ground at the hunger radiating off of him, but I didn’t so much as flinch. I’d take the burning pain of his blade over his creepy touch any day.
The two demons took turns carving into my arms, chest, and torso. With each fresh wound, they became more agitated at my lack of response. I didn’t whimper, beg, plead, or even cry. I stared at the drab tiled ceiling, stony-faced and silent.
Link finally glanced back at the queen. “I don’t think this is working.”
Cyria peeled herself from the wall and stood at the edge of the table, scrutinizing the slick blood trickling across my skin. “Get the Devil’s Nightshade.”
I bit my tongue to keep from protesting. Ellexia had trained me to withstand blades coated in Devil’s Nightshade, but it still hurt like a motherfucker. I couldn’t lay motionless while the burn saturated my wounds.
But I wouldn’t break.
Dumont marched to a stainless steel cabinet, opened one side, and drew out two glass bottles of putrid yellow poison. The beat of my heart accelerated.
Cyria’s electric blue eyes twinkled as she noticed the sweat beginning to bead on my brow. “All you have to do is agree to a blood oath to wake my demons, and this whole torture mess will be over.”
I ignored her and turned back to the ceiling tiles, counting each one again.
The next time Dumont pressed a blade into my flesh, pain sizzling through the wound, a tiny grunt spilled from my mouth.
A leer spread the lanky demon’s lips apart as dark strands of greasy hair brushed those razor-sharp cheekbones. “I think this will work.”
Dumont cut another shallow line across my stomach. I jerked and gasped as white flashed over my vision.
Son of a bitch.
I breathed through the pain only to have Link carve into my arm. A scream broke free as acid filled my veins. Sweat rolled down my neck and collected on my clavicle.
Cyria appeared, her blonde hair so stark against the backdrop of red. “Give me a blood oath to wake my demons.”
My mad laugh bounced around the room like a witch’s cackle. Shit. My walls of sanity were wearing thin. “You think a little torture is going to make me crumble? This is nothing. I could do this in my sleep. It’s pathetic, really.”
Dumont cracked the back of his hand across my face. “Don’t speak to the queen that way.”
Blood pooled in my mouth from the split in my lip. I spat a glob of it, hitting his cheek. “You can’t break me, demon. This isn’t my first time in the rodeo ring of torture.” I gave a crazed grin. “Let me give you a piece of advice—as a torture expert myself—don’t lose your temper. It only makes you look weak.”
Dumont lifted his hand to strike me again, but Cyria reached across the table, catching his wrist.
“Stop letting her get to you.” Her words curled out like black smoke ready to strangle the demon. Or me. She turned in my direction, a storm brewing within her blue irises. A vein near her temple pulsated.
Was the queen losing her air of control?
She released Dumont’s hand. “Continue as you were with the Devil’s Nightshade. It will eventually get to her.”
It wouldn’t.
Dumont snatched a different knife off his cart, pouring a thick layer of poison across the blade. “I’m going to make you scream.” He lowered the new dagger, carving a long line down my chest and ripping my shirt.
And yeah, I did scream. A lot.
After what seemed like hours, my body throbbed on the blood-soaked table, and my raw throat longed for water.
Cyria loomed above, studying my condition. “Are you ready to make the blood oath, Thorn?”
The room blurred out of focus for a few seconds. Or maybe I’d passed out. “I’m ready to—get tortured some more.” A hoarse laugh tumbled out.
Her lips thinned as she drew away, her calm demeanor barely hanging by a thread. “I am, if nothing else, impressed by your stamina.” She crossed her arms, squeezing the silk corset around her torso even tighter. The tap of her boots against the concrete floor as she walked away echoed like the second hand on a clock.
My lids grew heavy from the lull in torture. This couldn’t go on forever. I had to get out of this basement somehow.
How much time had passed? Did Lachlan know I was missing? Caleb wouldn’t give a damn, but the king would. He couldn’t lose his precious death raker.
“How about Madness elixir?” Link’s words pierced my thoughts and stole the air right out of my lungs.
Anything but that.
The sinister twist to Cyria’s mouth returned. “Perfect, Link.”
I shuddered. Madness used the victim’s own mind as a form of torture, and the bad shit stuffed in my head would be a hundred times worse than anything these demons could physically do.
The demon queen lovingly stroked my hair, seeing the fear in my gaze for the first time. “That’s exactly what we need to help Thorn make the right choice.”
Dumont had already disappeared from his side of the table and returned with a small vial of black, viscous liquid dangling from his long fingers. “Watching you squirm is going to be so much fun.”
Without my consent, my body jerked against the leather restraints, shooting pain through every wound, including my broken wrist. A garbled cry broke free.
“Hold her down, Link,” the queen commanded as she traded places with the other demon.
Fingers dug into my scalp, keeping my head press
ed against the rigid metal of the table. My pulse exploded into a frantic gallop.
Madness elixir would toss me back into the nightmare I’d been running from for the last six months. No way in hell could I face that again.
But when Cyria pried my mouth open like the jaws of life, the horrors of my past already brewed on the horizon.
One drop of Madness, and I’d be lost.
Chapter 22
I fought against my captors as pain ricocheted through my body with every violent struggle. Unshed tears burned in my eyes. The moment that poison invaded my system, I’d plummet into a world of torment.
Nothing would be able to save me from my own demons.
Cyria shoved her fingers beyond my lips. “Open wide, sweetie.” Her sharp nails sliced my tender flesh, spilling blood across my tongue.
The rancid aroma of Madness elixir swirled up my nose.
Dumont appeared, that ever-present leer deepening as he tipped the vial of poison and poured it down my throat. Cyria clapped her hand over my mouth.
I gagged and choked, forced to swallow the foul concoction. My muscles strained to break the leather straps as the elixir slithered inside like a venomous snake.
The crimson walls spun in a sickening whirlwind. My lids grew heavy, and everything blurred out of focus, a clear sign that the poison had found a way in.
The hallucinations were coming.
The torture room disappeared, and I stood in the center of a pristine white kitchen, not a speck of dust, dirt, or even a misplaced item marring the perfection.
My stomach twisted in knots as I recognized my home in Illyria. The silver pendant fixtures illuminating the island always reminded me of interrogation lights. The hard metal stools pushed under the bar were no more than torture devices where I had to sit for hours.
How did I get here?
I whipped around toward the living room, my fuzzy bunny slippers skidding on the polished floor. What the hell? My mother had destroyed my favorite house shoes years ago, claiming I didn’t need such frivolous things.
