The Darkest Whisper lotu-5

by Gena Showalter

  “We going to do this or just stand here and wait for them to find us?” Aeron grumbled. “I’m ready.”

  “Look at you, all unenthusiastic and shit,” Gideon said with a smirk. “I’m not impressed.”

  Time to take charge, Sabin mused. He considered the best strategy. These last few centuries he’d gotten nowhere with the Hunters, rushing heedlessly into battle with only a single thought: kill. But the enemy’s numbers were growing, not shrinking, and to be honest, their determination and hatred were growing, as well. It was time for a new way of battle, of cataloging his resources and weaknesses before charging ahead.

  “I’ll go first since I’m the least injured.” He curled his finger under the trigger of his gun before reluctantly sheathing it. “I want you staggered, a less injured man paired with a more injured one. You’ll work together, most injured acting as backup while the healthier takes out the target. Leave as many as you can alive,” he commanded. “I know you don’t want to, that it goes against every instinct you possess. But don’t worry. They’ll die soon enough. Once we ferret out the leader—and learn his secrets—they’ll be useless to us and you can do what you want to them.”

  The trio blocking his path broke apart, allowing him to sail inside the narrow hallway without pause, then everyone filed behind him, their footfalls offering only the slightest whisper. Battery-powered lamps illuminated the hieroglyph-covered walls. Sabin allowed his gaze to rest on those glyphs for only a second, but that was long enough to burn the images into his mind. They showed one prisoner after another being ushered to a cruel execution, hearts removed while they still beat inside their chests.

  Human scents coated the stale, dusty air: cologne, sweat, an assortment of foods. How long had the Hunters been here? What were they doing here? Had they already found the artifact?

  The questions skated through his mind, and his demon latched on to them. As Doubt, it couldn’t help itself. Clearly they know something you do not. It might be enough to topple you. Your friends could very well take their last breaths this night.

  Doubt could not lie, not without causing Sabin to pass out cold. It could only use derision and supposition to topple its victims. He’d never understood why a fiend from hell couldn’t utilize deceit—best he could come up with was that the demon carried a curse of its own—but he’d long since accepted it. Not that he’d allow himself to topple this night. Keep it up and I’ll spend the next week sequestered in my bedroom, reading so I can’t think too much.

  But I need to feed, was the whined reply. The worry it caused was its greatest nourishment.

  Soon.

  Hurry.

  Sabin held up his hand, stopped, and the warriors behind him stopped as well. There was a chamber up ahead, its doorway already open. The sound of voices and footsteps echoed, perhaps even the buzz of a drill.

  The Hunters were indeed distracted and begging for an ambush. I’m just the man to give it to them.

  Are you, really? the demon began, Sabin’s threat unheeded. Last time I checked—

  Forget about me. I’ve supplied you with food as promised.

  There was a gleeful exclamation inside his head, and then Doubt was opening its mind to the Hunters inside the pyramid, whispering all manner of destructive thoughts. All for nothing…what if you’re wrong…not strong enough…could soon die…

  Conversation tapered away. Someone might even have whimpered.

  Sabin held up a finger, then another. When he raised the third, he and the warriors jumped into motion, a war cry echoing.

  CHAPTER 2

  Gwendolyn The Timid Shrank against the far wall of her glass cell the moment the horde of too-tall, too-muscled, too-bloody warriors charged into the chamber she’d both loved and hated for over a year. Loved, for being inside of it would have meant she was out of her cell, freedom a possibility. Hated, for all the torturous deeds that had taken place there. Deeds she’d witnessed and feared.

  The very men who had performed those deeds gave startled cries, dropping their Petri dishes, needles, vials and various tools. Glass shattered. Savage roars boomed, the intruders leaping forward with practiced menace, their arms slashing, their legs kicking. Down, down their targets fell. There was no question about who would win this fight.

  Gwen trembled, unsure what would happen to her and the others when things settled. The warriors were clearly inhuman, like her, like all the women locked in the cells surrounding hers. They were too hard, too strong, too everything to be mortal. Exactly what they were, however, she didn’t know. Why were they here? What did they want?

  She’d known so many disappointments this last year that she didn’t dare hope they’d come on a rescue mission. Would she and the others be left here to rot? Or would these men try and use them as the detestable humans had done?

  “Kill them!” one of the captured shouted to the new warriors, the sound of her hard, angry voice causing Gwen to draw her arms around her middle. “Make them suffer as we have suffered.”

  The glass that kept the women removed from the outside world was thick, impenetrable by fist or even bullet, yet every heartbreak inside the chamber and cells was a blast inside Gwen’s ears.

  She knew how to block the noise, something her sisters had taught her to do as a young child, but she desperately wanted to hear her captors’ defeat. Their grunts of pain were like midnight lullabies to her. Soothing and sweet.

  But strong as the warriors obviously were, they never once delivered a deathblow. Oddly, they merely wounded their prey, knocking them unconscious before focusing on the next opponent. And after what seemed too-short seconds but had probably been minutes, only one human was left standing. The worst of the lot.

  One of the warriors stepped forward, approaching him. Though all the newcomers had possessed lethal skill, this one had fought the dirtiest, going for the groin, the throat. He raised his arm as if to render the final blow, but then Gwen’s wide-eyed gaze caught his and he paused. Slowly he lowered his arm.

  Her breath caught. Brown hair soaked with blood was plastered to his head. His eyes were the color of brandy, deep and dark, and they, too, were threaded with crimson. Impossible. Surely she imagined the wild glow. His face, so roughly hewn it could only have been carved from granite, promised destruction in its every line and hollow, though there was something almost…boyish about him. A startling contradiction.

  His shirt had been slashed to ribbons, rope after rope of sun-kissed muscle visible every time he moved. Oh, the sun. How she missed it, craved it. A violet butterfly tattoo wrapped around his right rib cage and dipped into the waist of his pants. The points of its wings were razored, making it appear at once feminine and masculine. Why a butterfly? she wondered. Seemed odd that such a strong, vicious warrior would have chosen it. Whatever the reason, the mark somehow comforted her.

  “Help us,” she said, praying the immortal could hear through soundproof glass as she could. But if he heard her, he gave no indication. “Free us.” Still no reaction.

  What if they leave you here? Or worse, what if they’re here for the same reason as the humans?

  The thoughts filled her head suddenly, and she frowned, perhaps even paled. The fears weren’t out of place; she’d wondered the exact same things only a short while ago. But these were somehow different…foreign. They were not her own, not spoken in her own inner voice. How…what…?

  Sharp white teeth sank into the man’s bottom lip as he clawed at his temples, clearly infuriated.

  What if—

  “Stop!” he snarled.

  The thought forming inside her head halted abruptly. She blinked in confusion. The warrior shook his head, scowl intensifying.

  Distracted as the immortal clearly was, her human tormentor decided to act, closing the remaining distance between them.

  Gwen straightened, calling, “Look out!”

  Attention remaining fixed on Gwen, the granite-faced warrior reached out an arm and grabbed the human by the neck, choking and stopp
ing him at the same time. The man—Chris was his name—flailed. He was young, perhaps twenty-five, but still leader of the guards and scientists here. He was also a man she despised more than captivity.

  Everything I do, I do for the greater good, he was fond of saying, just before he raped one of the other women right in front of her. He could have artificially inseminated them, but had preferred the humiliation of forced intercourse. I wish this was you, he had often added. Every one of these females is a substitute for you.

  Despite his desires, he’d never touched her. He was too afraid of her. They all were. They knew what she was; they’d seen her in action the day they came for her. Unintentionally maul a few humans to death, and a girl gained a reputation, she supposed. Rather than eliminate her, however, they’d kept her, experimenting with different drugs in the ventilation system in the hopes of knocking her out long enough to use her. They hadn’t yet succeeded, but they hadn’t given up, either.

  “Sabin, no,” a beautiful, dark-haired female said, patting the once again red-eyed warrior on the shoulder. Her voice was so laden with sorrow, Gwen cringed. “Like you told us, we might need him.”

  Sabin. A strong name, reminiscent of a weapon. Fitting.

  Were the two lovers?

  Finally that all-consuming gaze left her, and she was able to breathe. Sabin dropped Chris and the bastard fell to the ground, unconscious. She knew he still lived because she could hear the rush of blood in his veins, the crackle of air filling his lungs.

  “Who are these women?” a blond warrior said. He had bright blue eyes and a lovely face that promised compassion and safety, but he was not the one Gwen suddenly imagined herself curling next to and sleeping beside peacefully. Deeply. Safely. Finally.

  All these months, she’d been afraid to sleep, knowing Chris would have loved to take her unaware. So she’d slumbered in short, shallow spurts, never relaxing her guard. Sometimes she’d had to refrain from simply giving herself to the evil man in exchange for the prospect of closing her eyes and sinking into dark oblivion.

  A black-haired, violet-eyed mountain stepped forward, eyeing the cells surrounding Gwen’s. “Dear gods. That one is pregnant.”

  “So is that one.” This speaker had multicolored hair, pale skin and eyes as brilliant a blue as his blond friend’s, though this man’s were rimmed with a darker shade. “What kind of bastards keep pregnant females in these conditions? This is low even for Hunters.”

  The females in question were banging on the glass, begging for help, for freedom.

  “Anyone hear what they’re saying?” the mountain asked.

  “I do,” Gwen answered automatically.

  Sabin turned to her. That brown gaze no longer sleeked with red once more honed in on her, probing, searching…perusing.

  A shiver danced the length of her spine. Could he hear her? Her eyes widened as he strode to her cell, sheathing a knife at his waist. Heightened as her senses were, she caught the barest hint of sweat, lemon and mint. She inhaled deeply, savoring every nuance. For so long, she’d smelled nothing but Chris and his overpowering cologne, his pungent drugs and the terror of the other females.

  “You can hear us?” Sabin’s timbre was as rough as his features and should have grated her nerves like sandpaper, but somehow soothed her like a caress.

  Tentatively, she nodded.

  “Can they?” He pointed to the other prisoners.

  She shook her head. “Can you hear me?”

  He, too, shook his head. “I’m reading your lips.”

  Oh. That meant he’d been—was—watching her intently, even when his head had been turned. The knowledge was not unpleasant.

  “How do we open the glass?” he asked.

  Her lips pressed in a stubborn line, and she dared a quick look at the heavily armed, blood-coated predators behind him. Should she tell him? What if they planned to rape her fellow prisoners, just as the others had done? Just as she’d feared?

  His harsh expression softened. “We haven’t come to harm you. You have my word. We just want to free you.”

  She didn’t know him, knew better than to trust him, but pushed to shaky legs anyway and lumbered to the glass. Up close like this, she realized that Sabin towered over her and his eyes were not brown as she’d supposed. Rather, they were ringed with amber, coffee, auburn and bronze, a symphony of colors. Thankfully, the glow of red was still gone. Had she imagined it those times?

  “Woman?” he said.

  If he opened the cell as promised…if she could gather her courage and not freeze in place as was her habit…escape would finally be possible. The hope she’d denied earlier sprang to life, unstoppable and tantalizing, tempered only by the thought that she might cruelly and brutally destroy these possible saviors without meaning to.

  Don’t worry. Unless they try to harm you, your beast will remain caged. One wrong move from them, though…

  Worth the risk, she thought, saying, “Stones.”

  His brow furrowed. “Bones?”

  Swallowing the lump in her throat, she lifted one of her nails—a claw when compared to a human’s—and carved the word STONES in the glass. Each etching would hold only long enough for her to finish a letter before wiping clean. Damned godly glass. She’d often wondered how the humans had acquired it.

  A pause. A frown, his attention remaining fixed on her too-long, pointed nail. Was he wondering what type of creature she was?

  Then, “Stones?” Sabin asked, gaze once more meeting hers.

  She nodded.

  He spun in a circle, eyeing the entire chamber. Though the look-over lasted only a few seconds, Gwen suspected he’d cataloged every inch of the place and could have found his way out of it in the dark.

  The warriors lined up behind him, all staring at her expectantly. Mixed with the expectation, however, was curiosity, suspicion, hatred—for her? — and even lust. One step, two, she backed away. She’d take hate over lust any day. Her legs trembled so violently she feared her muscles would give out. Stay calm. You cannot panic. Bad things happen when you panic.

  How did one combat the desire of others? There was nothing she could do to cover herself more than she already was. Upon her imprisonment, her jeans and T-shirt had been replaced with a white tank and short skirt her captors had given her—easier access that way. Bastards. One of the tank straps had ripped months ago and the shirt now gaped. She’d had to tie it under her arm to keep her breast covered.

  “Turn away,” Sabin suddenly growled.

  Gwen spun without thought, long red hair swaying at her sides. Breath sawed in and out of her mouth, and sweat beaded over her brow. Why had he wanted her back? To better subdue her?

  There was another of those heavy pauses. “I didn’t mean you, woman.” This time, Sabin’s voice was soft, gentle.

  “Aw, come on,” someone said. She recognized the rich, irreverent tone of the male with the blond hair and blue eyes. “You’re not serious about—”

  “You’re scaring her.”

  Gwen peeked over her shoulder.

  “But she—” the heavily tattooed one began.

  Once again Sabin interjected. “You want answers or not? I said turn!”

  A few groans, the shuffling of feet.

  “Woman.”

  Slowly she pivoted back around. All of the warriors had turned as Sabin commanded, giving her their backs.

  Sabin placed a palm against the glass. It was large, unscarred and steady, but streaked with blood. “Which stones?”

  She pointed to a grouping in a case beside him. They were small, about the size of a fist, and each had a different way to die painted on the front. The highlights: a beheading, limb removal, a stabbing, a pike through the gut and a wildfire climbing the body of a man nailed to a tree.

  “Good, that’s good. But what do I do with them?”

  Now panting with the need to be free—close, so close—she pantomimed the placing of a stone into a hole, like a key into a lock.

  “Does
it matter which stone goes where?”

  She nodded, then pointed to each particular stone and which cell it opened. She’d come to dread the use of those stones, as it meant she would be forced to witness another rape. Sighing, she began to scratch the word KEY into the glass when Sabin slammed a fist into the stones’ case, shattering the outer shell. It would have taken the strength of ten humans to do such a thing, yet he made it look effortless.

  Several cuts branched from his knuckles to his wrists. Beads of crimson appeared, but he wiped them away as if they meant nothing. By that time, the injuries were already in the process of healing, torn flesh weaving back together. Oh, yes. He was something far greater than mortal. Not fae, for his ears were perfectly rounded. Not vampire, for he didn’t possess fangs. A male siren, then? His voice was rich enough, delicious enough, yes, but perhaps too harsh.

  “Grab a stone,” he called, never taking his focus from her.

  Instantly the warriors spun on their booted heels. Gwen purposely kept her gaze on Sabin, afraid that looking at the others would cause her fear to spike. You’re in control, doing good. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—falter. Already she carried too many regrets.

  Why couldn’t she be like her sisters? Why couldn’t she be brave and strong and embrace what she was? If necessary, they would have cut off a limb to escape—and they would have done it long before now. They would have pounded a fist through the glass, then Chris’s chest, and eaten his heart in front of him, laughing all the while.

  She experienced a pang of homesickness. If Tyson, her former boyfriend, had told them of her abduction—which he probably hadn’t, scared as he was of her sisters—then they were looking for her and they wouldn’t give up until they found her. Despite her weaknesses, they loved her, wanted the best for her. But they would be so disappointed in her when they learned of her captivity. She’d failed herself, as well as her race. Even as a child she had run from conflict, which was how she’d earned the degrading moniker “Gwendolyn the Timid.”

  Her palms were damp, she realized, and she rubbed them on her thighs.