The Dragon's Wing (Kit Davenport Book 2)

by Tate James

I should never have ignored that foreboding feeling. Everything in me had been screaming a warning that something bad was coming, but I had chalked it up to paranoia. Ever since Dupree’d had her goons try to kidnap me, beaten my best friend half to death, then revealed that I had the power to restore magic to all the dormant supernatural creatures of this world… oh, and also that I might be a fucking immortal… I had been a bit on edge.

  Groaning to myself in despair, I began pacing the small room in an attempt to work the drugs out of my system and regain the use of my stiff muscles. Once moving, a warm tingling sensation trickled through my body and the heavy fog on my brain began to thin out. More and more, I had been noticing that I no longer required the same adrenaline push to engage my healing ability; it just seemed to be acting on its own when needed.

  With my head a little clearer, I ran a quick mental analysis of what sort of crap I had landed in. I could clearly remember seeing Sergei before my world had gone dark, so at least I had a starting point. He was involved in the human trafficking ring that the guys had been investigating, which certainly didn’t bode well for my immediate future, but I had a strong suspicion this was linked to my abilities. Or, more specifically, those who might want to use my abilities. Before Dupree’s death, she had made mention of others who were pursuing the same goal as her, so it wouldn’t surprise me if this kidnapping was somehow linked.

  I turned back to the door and yanked hard on the handle, putting all of my superhuman strength into it. It didn’t move an inch. Damn thing must be reinforced steel or something.

  I tried the same thing on the bars of the window, but it was high enough up that I struggled to get a good angle and eventually gave up in frustration.

  Not stupid enough to get caught napping, I instead began running my body through some of the martial arts warm-up drills that Cole had hammered into me for months. As I moved, my mind wandered, and I found that the foreboding sense of dread I had felt before getting kidnapped had been replaced with an almost painful ache in my chest. I paused in my movements to rub the heel of my hand over my heart where the pain seemed to be coming from, but it made no difference.

  Great. That would be just my luck to get kidnapped and die of a heart attack.

  Before I could examine the weird feeling any further, the silence of my prison was broken by the heavy thud of boots coming down the corridor and the grinding screech of the rusty lock turning. My heart raced, but I prepared myself for a fight, standing light on my feet with my fists curled in preparation. This was exactly what Cole had been training me for.

  The heavy steel door groaned open, and the light from the hallway outlined an imposing figure filling the frame. He stepped inside the tiny room, and I wasted no time launching myself at him, desperate to fight my way free. The huge man was caught off guard, probably not expecting such a fight, and I connected a powerful punch square into his gut, knocking him backwards into the wall opposite my cell.

  I darted out of the cell using my superhuman speed and took off down the corridor without so much as glancing at the man or looking to see if he had backup.

  Stupid, Kit!

  My body jolted painfully to a stop before I had made it even half a dozen steps. I hit the floor hard as my dehydrated frame convulsed with shock after shock of electricity while my muscles locked tight.

  I lay on the cold and dirty floor, totally helpless as the current pulsed through me and a heavy steel-capped boot kicked me savagely in the side. The owner of the boot spat something incomprehensible at me in another language, proudly brandishing the stun gun he had just shot me with. Fucking bastard.

  Bending down, he yanked my paralyzed body off the floor and threw me over his broad shoulder, causing waves of pain to crash through my freshly electrocuted form as he sauntered down the corridor, whistling like a psychopath.

  4

  By the time my escort and I’d arrived at another room, the effects of the stun gun had all but worn off and I was ready for another fight. After dumping me on the cold concrete, he very wisely stepped out of my immediate reach and pointed his godforsaken Taser gun at me in warning. Fuck, I hate those things.

  He spat something at me in his harsh language, and I stared at him blankly, still none the wiser on what he was trying to tell me. Not that I really gave a crap; it wasn’t like I was sticking around to chat. The second I saw an opportunity, I was getting the hell out of here.

  He repeated himself in a louder voice, jerking his Taser toward the pile of fabric on the ground near where I had landed.

  “Look, buddy,” I tried to reason with him, “I have no idea what you're saying, and repeating it louder won't change that.” Unless I suddenly developed a skill for picking up languages… That would be cool.

  “He say, ‘Get dressed, whore, or I shoot you again,’” a small voice said in broken English from behind me, and I jumped in fright. Glancing around the room, I noticed for the first time that I wasn't alone with Captain Stun Gun.

  The girl who had spoken couldn't have been more than fifteen, and she was dressed like a, well, like a whore. A painted-on, red minidress just barely covered her torso, while a lacy garter belt held up the quintessential thigh-high stockings. Topped off with six-inch, platform stripper heels, the overall effect looked like a little girl on her way to a “Pimps 'n' Hoes” dress-up party. No prizes for guessing what she'd be dressed as. I looked around at the other occupants in the room and found them all dressed to attend the same party. I had a sneaking suspicion I would end up in a similar outfit before I found my escape opportunity.

  “What do you mean, ‘get dressed’?” I demanded, “I'm already wearing clothes.” I indicated the filthy v-neck and jeans that I was still wearing from when I had been abducted. I briefly wondered what had happened to my jumpsuit. Had it been left behind? Maybe the guys had found it and realized I’d been taken? I could only hope so.

  “No. You must change.” She shook her head and pointed to the clothing with a shaking finger, her face pale. She had yet to make eye contact with me at all, her gaze steadfastly glued to the floor, but the tension in her frail shoulders spoke volumes about what might happen.

  I glanced over at the man in charge and found him watching us intently, and when he caught my eye, he buzzed a few jolts of electricity from his Taser, a sick grin on his ugly face. Behind him in the corridor, I could see the shadows of several more men. I looked around the room once more. Not a single person would make eye contact with me, and I swallowed back the nervousness rising in my throat.

  “Please,” the young girl implored, “please, just do it.” The terrified crackle in her voice made me think she had seen what happened when someone refused to cooperate. I took another look at the guard with the Taser, and at his backup in the corridor, and made the decision to bide my time. For now.

  I gingerly lifted the garments from the floor and wrinkled my nose in disgust at the pleather micro-miniskirt and halterneck bustier. Under the burning gaze of the man holding the Taser, I changed into the offensive outfit as quickly as possible. The young girl who had spoken helped me adjust the cleverly placed Velcro tabs in order to make the tiny garments fit. As she leaned in close to help me do up the joke of an outfit, I eagerly seized the opportunity to try and get some answers.

  “Where are we?” I whispered, barely moving my lips. “Do you know what they're going to do with us?”

  The girl glared at me in warning, flicking her eyes to the hard man standing near the door, watching us like a hawk. She gave me a tiny headshake, right as the man barked something at us again, and she visibly flinched.

  “What did he say?” I hissed at her, growing frustrated at the foreign language.

  “Shoes,” she whispered back to me, then tugged me over to a beaten up chest, which she opened to reveal a huge pile of hooker heels. “What size you are?” Her broken English made her seem even younger, and I felt a twist of fear for what the future might hold for this timid girl.

  I reached over her shoulder
, grabbed the first pair I saw in my size, tried to ignore the white pair splattered in dried blood. I definitely didn't want to know how all these shoes had ended up in this chest. Or the clothes for that matter. I stifled a shudder of revulsion.

  “Seriously,” I tried again, my face turned away from the man in charge. “Where are we? Tell me something, anything. What country are we even in?”

  She just shrugged weakly and shook her head at me again. “I do not know, sorry.” My shoulders sagged in disappointment until she spoke again. “I know why we here, if it helps?” Her voice was so soft I could barely make it out as she helped me into the sky-high stilettos.

  “Yes, God yes! Tell me what you know!” I had to dip my head and obscure my face with hair to avoid the guard's sharp gaze, but I was desperate for any information that might help me plan my escape.

  She looked me straight in the eye, and I gasped when I saw how cold and lifeless her face was. “We are to be sold.”

  “Shlyukha!” The man with the Taser barked out, and the girl flinched hard. “Idi syuda.”

  I gave her a questioning look, but she dropped her gaze away from mine, visibly shrinking into herself as she timidly turned and approached the man in response to his command. He held out his closed fist to her, jerking his chin toward me, and dropped something into her waiting palm. He growled something to her with a threatening tone, then left the room.

  The heavy thud of a bolt shooting home on the other side of the door seemed to echo around the silent room.

  “What did he say?” I asked again, growing increasingly exasperated with the lack of answers. “What language is that, anyway?”

  I looked around the room at the assortment of attractive people but was met with identical drugged out faces and vacant eyes.

  “Russian,” the girl responded, ignoring my first question but dropping her terrified act the second the man left the room. Her shoulders lost their curled over frailty, and she met my gaze confidently.

  “Russian? Surely we’re not in Russia?” I exclaimed, grasping at the thread of information. How the fuck would they have transported me to Russia without being caught, anyway?

  She shrugged like she genuinely didn’t give a damn where we were. “No. Probably not.” She held her open palm toward me, a small, white pill sitting in the center. “Take this.”

  “What is it? I don't understand. If he is speaking Russian, then how do you know we aren't in Russia?” I frowned hard at her cavalier attitude. How could someone be so totally unaffected at the idea that we were going to be sold like cattle?

  She sighed heavily, looking up at the ceiling as if praying for patience. “They are Russian Mafia; we could be anywhere.” She waved her hand at me again. “Please. Take this.”

  “No fucking way am I taking a random pill from some creeper planning on selling me!” I scowled at her, folding my arms across my absurdly pushed up chest. Was she insane? “How do you know so much about this anyway?” My eyes narrowed in suspicion. It seemed awfully coincidental that she was the only one in this room that had any semblance of consciousness and spoke both English and Russian.

  “This the third time, for me, that I have been sold,” she stated without any emotion. “Now please, take this.”

  “No! What is it, anyway?” I resisted the urge to slap the mystery pill out of her hand, as it didn’t take a rocket scientist to work out that nothing good would come from taking it.

  “It is to make you”—she screwed up her nose, looking for the right word—“not… fight. Like them.” She jerked her head at the spaced out zombies dotted around the room, some with dazed grins on their faces, most just staring blankly into space.

  “Absolutely not!” I panicked. “There's no way I would willingly make myself docile.”

  The girl shook her head at me again, her limp, greasy hair barely moving. “You don't understand. You must take it. If you don't…” Her eyes rounded with fear, so far the only emotion I had seen from her. “I seen what happen if you refuse. Last auction, a boy, he say no. Threw it back. They, ah, you know.” She made the buzzing noise of the Taser, and I nodded impatiently to show I understood her meaning. “Then when he was down, they force three pills down his throat. When he was all sleepy and weak, they used him, then start hitting, kicking him. They broke his leg, then say he no longer valuable and…” She made a finger gun and pointed to her head, indicating that they had executed the boy who had refused their drugs. “So, just…” She grabbed my hand and deposited the pill into it.

  I looked down at it, horrified at what she was describing. These people clearly weren’t fucking around. If this was, as she’d said, the Russian Mafia, then I was in way over my head on this one.

  What are the options that don’t wind up getting me shot? The idea of willingly making myself drugged and docile made me want to scream and hit something, but on the other hand, I stood no chance against the guards armed with Tasers. As had just been proven, the electrical jolt would still knock me down just as easily as anyone else.

  “It's not so bad,” the girl encouraged me, not giving up. “It just feels… empty?”

  “How come you're not like them?” I challenged her again. Every other person in the room seemed like they were totally unaware of their own names, let alone capable of holding a conversation.

  “My last owner use this drug a lot. I am, you know.” She waved her hand at her head, and I figured she meant she had built a tolerance for it. Shit, that poor girl. I could hardly imagine the horrors she had already been through.

  “I get you want to fight, to get free. Trust me; you stand a better chance waiting until you are sold. Here… too many eyes, too many weapons. You would not last five minutes. Take the pill; wait for a better time.” Her advice was surprisingly well considered, and I wondered why she hadn't attempted it herself.

  She was probably right, and given that I hadn’t thought of a better plan, hers was looking like the smartest course of action. I looked down at the offensive little pill in my hand and sighed. My best bet was to just pretend to swallow, then ditch it when this chick wasn’t looking. Surely it wouldn’t be so hard faking that dopey, vacant look they all had?

  Placing the pill carefully and deliberately on my tongue, I then closed my mouth and tucked it into my cheek before doing an exaggerated fake swallow.

  Luckily for me, this girl was either drugged enough or simply didn’t care enough to double check that it was gone. Feeling rather pleased with myself, I looked around the room at the doped-out slaves about to be sold for who knew what. Sex, most likely.

  Shaking some of the lingering stiffness from my muscles, I moved to pace the room a little, but my stupid goddamn stiletto heel caught in a drain grate and sent me crashing to my knees. Embarrassing, yes. But worse than that, I’d swallowed the fucking pill.

  5

  Within minutes, the drug began taking effect, clouding over my thoughts and slowing my movements until I felt like I was wading through water. All of my emotions had indeed been numbed to the point that I just felt empty, just like the girl had said. I hadn't even asked her name, but no longer cared.

  It wasn't long before the Russian guard returned to the room, his beady eyes running over me with a predatory leer before he grunted his satisfaction at what he saw. He snapped something in his harsh voice, clapping his hands loudly then hauling the girl closest to him to her feet. He shoved her out the door, making her stumble in her high heels, and motioned for everyone to follow. The rest of the room’s occupants, including myself, followed along without argument. In the hallway more bored looking guards waited and made jokes in their foreign language, roughly groping several girls as they wandered past them in their drugged-out worlds. Somewhere in my foggy mind, my anger flared at their behavior, but the emotion smothered almost as soon as it arrived, once again leaving me wrapped in cotton wool.

  The leering guard, who seemed in charge, led our little procession down the long, damp corridor and up several flights of stairs bef
ore stopping at a heavy fire door, which pounded and thudded with the bass of the loud music on the other side.

  He turned and addressed our group in rapid-fire Russian, not a word of which I understood without my helpful translator, but I didn't care enough to find her and ask. All I could seem to focus on was the way my hand floated in the air, certain I could feel the vibrations of sound on my skin. I kept waving my hand back and forth in front of my face, desperate to feel more of it, and a small voice in my mind started screaming at me that I looked insane.

  But that’s silly; insane people can’t feel sound. Obviously.

  Finished with his speech, the guard opened the door he had stopped in front of, and the waves of music and chatter crashed over me like a tsunami. I staggered slightly in my ridiculous shoes and caught myself with a hand on the wall. My reaction was barely fast enough to save me from taking a face plant onto the concrete floor. One of the guards roughly grabbed my upper arm and shoved me forward, growling something at me and pointing sharply after the other captives. They were all staggering through what seemed to be an upscale strip club while shadowy figures watched with hungry eyes.

  Like juicy lambs through a den of wolves in winter.

  I blinked slowly a couple of times, trying to clear the haze, but soon forgot what I was trying to do. Smiling at the pretty flashing lights, I drifted along in the direction I was pointed.

  Across the room, a grossly obese, bearded man was organizing the captives along the wall while the booming techno music faded out, and an elegant, middle-aged woman stepped out onto the small stage, dressed in a glittering evening gown and holding a microphone.

  “Welcome,” the woman purred in accented English as she continued, “to the Onyx Auction.” She paused for dramatic effect, and the room clapped politely as though she had welcomed them to a charity gala or something.

  Thank fuck, I can finally understand something!