by Nikki Sex
I turn to Hope’s spirit wolf. His red eyes are glowing. “Thank you, my friend.”
Tongue lolling, he gives me a wolfy smile, lopes off through a wall, and disappears.
The iron door to this smaller cavern swings open.
The vampire steps inside, scans the room, perceives what’s transpired as rapidly as the wolf. No surprise there. Both are hyper-alert predators.
I’m so freaked out, for once I don’t notice the vampire’s handsome face, broad shoulders, or his compelling magical allure. This time, his irresistible glamor doesn’t arouse me. I don’t think of his bite, or sex. Nor do I feel a desperate need to please him.
My face stretches in a broad smile of triumph, joy, and a sweeping sense of relief. I endured this trial through sheer luck and force of will.
I imagine raising a spear and jubilantly doing a tribal dance of gratitude over the slain corpse of my enemy.
In a state of euphoria, caused by escaping hideous agony and an ugly death, I grin wildly like a mad woman.
I’m free! I survived! I did it!
Promptly, the vampire shoots me with something very much like a Taser—only instead of electricity, the zap packs a huge magical wallop. Every ounce of power I have instantly vanishes.
What the hell? Why?
As a dark blanket of unconsciousness creeps over me, I suddenly understand.
How could I have been so incredibly stupid?
Yet after living the sorcerer’s last week of torturing others, after all my physical pain ending from an infusion of death and earth magic, after taking down a powerful demon, and managing to escape my own torment—I obviously hadn’t been thinking too clearly.
I’d been victorious, and my power levels had been off the charts.
I’d given the bossy vampire a good, long look. Forget my expression, which must’ve seemed perfectly demented. Unthinkingly, I’d stared at him with blood-red eyes.
Now this Jugulo thinks I am demon-possessed by Legion. He assumes the sorcerer’s malevolent spirit has transferred into me!
Fuck.
Chapter 72. At Home with an Assassin
Two months later…
While asleep, I astral travel with my demon again.
The winds of our weakened powers blow us. My inner monster is adapting to less energy. Free of my aching physical form, soundless, skinless, boneless—my conscious perception swells, unrestricted by physical barriers such as matter, space, or time.
I visit other planets, other suns, other worlds. My demon refuses to take me to the magic lands or to allow me to see my friends at MacLeod International. He won’t even let me check on Wonder Dog.
He’s still upset with me.
Instead, we watch the death of suns, the birth of worlds, the struggle to survive, and the inventive refrains of a myriad of developing cultures. Together, we scrutinize countless advanced civilizations. We view an infinite variety of sentient life.
I know what he’s doing. It’s the paradox of Pandora’s box all over again. How do you kill an idea? Answer: you can’t.
My demon can’t unknow what he knows.
Fruitlessly searching, my inner monster is looking for his home in the demon dimension. He’ll never find it. Only my death will allow him to escape and return to the home he’s never known.
I can’t help but feel for him. He’s out of place and isolated from his own kind. It must be a terrible thing to realize you’re completely different from everyone else. Then to find another like you, only to have them taken away.
My demon only communicates through sensations, impulses, images, and impressions. He can’t even have a heart-to heart with anyone—a problem I certainly identify with.
My mother brought him here, but other than me dropping dead, there’s no way to change it. As for me dying? Well, that’s certainly a possibility with the pile of steaming shit I’m currently sitting in.
In my case, even death won’t free me. The last thing I want is to join the Jugulo’s vast army of ghostly hangers-on. Talk about a fate worse than death.
A psychic pull returns me. My demon has run out of magic. Unprepared for physical reality, I slam back into my body.
Ouch!
My head throbs as I wake with a start, rattling the chain attached to my leg.
Well, crap. I’m still here.
I’m lying on the cement floor of my cold, dank cell, wearing only a cotton shift and underwear. It doesn’t keep me warm, but at least I’m not naked. Naked, I’d feel more vulnerable. Why does he leave me clothes?
I glance at the marks I’ve scratched into the wall. Thin lines in a series of sevens to show each week I’ve been here. Eight weeks and three days. My, how time flies when you’re having fun.
My boss at MacLeod International won’t be looking for me. Neither will my colleagues in the Missing Persons Department. Pretty ironic, really, but how could they find me when they don’t even know I’m missing?
They all believe I’m in Florida taking care of my sick aunt. No doubt they’re annoyed with me. I haven’t called or even sent a postcard to say I’m OK.
Stafford will be searching high and low. The knowledge, energy, and experience of his entire pack will be hell bent on finding me. Maybe Maloo, the pack shaman, will figure it out.
My ties to the Beast Lord are long gone. I was mad as hell when he bonded me, but now I miss our connection.
I miss him.
Hope’s wolf stops by occasionally, but he’s powerless against the Jugulo. He still can’t communicate with Hope, so he’s no help. I worry about Hope and Owen. I miss my dog!
What have I got to look forward to?
Another day of misery. I push down a spike of primal panic threatening to bubble up. I manage to bury it under my increasingly mutinous soul.
“Sod the bastard,” I think for the thousandth time. “I can take anything he can dish out.”
It isn’t true, of course, but the thought cheers me. If there’s one thing I know after two-hundred years, I’m a survivor.
The iron door of my cell swings open, loudly clanging against the stone wall. I feel the weight of his presence before I see him.
My vampire.
Oh, he’s mine, alright. I call him my vampire because we’re locked in a contest of wills. Perpetrator and victim, master and slave, captor and caged—we’re connected. What relationship could possibly be more intimate and intense?
My vampire and I will be joined in battle until one of us conquers or kills the other.
Like a stubborn knot impossible to work loose, we’re tied together. It reminds me of kids putting their tongue on the cold metal in the freezer. Or getting your big toe caught in the bathtub faucet until the fire department has to rescue you.
When we part, someone is going to get hurt.
Standing there, calm and confident, he points his Taser at me in unspoken threat, then tosses me the key to my ankle cuff. It hits the floor in front of me with a loud clink that echoes off the walls of my prison.
“Demon.” The word has the tone of an imperious command.
“Vampire,” I reply, pushing my long brown hair behind my ears.
What would it be like to be him? To mesmerize humans, to take anything, to travel anywhere, and do anything he wants? Yet Mr. All Powerful has no power over me. His magic can’t compel those from the demonic realm.
He never shows it, but it must be frustrating. A super scary supernatural being, I bet he hates having to use a Taser to gain my compliance.
My vampire never comes near. He enthralls humans off the street, and makes them do his dirty work—although they don’t come near me, either.
He can’t risk my demon escaping by jumping into someone who is too close to me.
The Jugulo leaves during these sessions, preferring to watch on CC TV. After an hour or two of instructing blank-eyed strangers to beat the hell out of me, he sends them on their way.
He thirsts for my blood, but he’s frightened of my inner monster. Bloodl
ust can be as devastating to a vampire as being moonstruck is to a werewolf. My fresh blood may become too much to resist.
Someday, he could come too close. My vampire fears becoming possessed.
Without taking my eyes from his, I smile and pick up the key.
I like that I scare him.
Chapter 73. The Daily Grind
“So, what’s on the agenda today?” I ask, as I unlock my iron ankle cuff. I keep my tone carefree and relaxed, although I am anything but. “Are we tearing out fingernails? Maybe putting out an eye?”
My eye would grow back, but it would hurt like hell. Perhaps that’s why I casually mention it. It’s an effort to face my fear and manage the horror of it.
Firm-lipped, his spine straightens as if fortifying himself against what I may say next. “If I choose to put out your eyes, I will.” His voice is glacial as he pretends a cool indifference he doesn’t have. “I’ll do as I like, when I like. Get moving.”
I finish uncuffing my leg and stand.
I’m not sure why, but I could swear he doesn’t want to hurt me—which makes no sense. Does he draw the line at disfiguring my face? Some of the ghosts in his entourage are missing eyes, so that can’t be what’s holding him back.
He gestures with the Taser for me to walk ahead of him.
As I do, I view everything around me as a potential weapon. Yet even if I held a sword, I doubt my inner monster would allow me to use it. My demon loves my tormentor, the traitor.
Over the last two months, I’ve been beaten, starved, left isolated and alone in the dark. I’ve been stabbed, burned, and I’ve lost body parts (the Jugulo was understandably shocked when they grew back).
You don’t need the gory details. Suffice it to say, it involved fingers, toes, and an ear.
My vampire uses physical pain as indifferently and concisely as pounding in a nail—although, unlike me, a nail never screams or cries. His lack of reaction is almost as unnerving as the pain itself.
In the face of torture, you hope to be strong. In the end, it makes no difference. Some torments are beyond one’s capacity to endure. Ultimately, everyone abjectly weeps, surrenders, begs.
I’m past the point of worrying about it. I know now, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Under torment, one’s prospective changes. The things one values fall to the lowest common denominator.
Sometimes, they disappear altogether.
It’s one way to find out who you really are. Like a fire that consumes all your worldly possessions, torment burns the unessential away. Naked and exposed, all that is left is you.
Everyone cracks at least once in their life. It’s easy to be pushed past your limit. Anyone—human or supernatural—who reaches fifty and says they’ve never had a nervous breakdown is a liar.
Everyone can be broken. Life is tough.
Even without torture (although torture certainly speeds the breakdown process!)
I know who I am now. I know my own strength.
All my life I’ve acted meek and biddable in order to hide under the radar. I’ve avoided calling attention to myself. You’d think with my history, I’d be naturally compliant. I laugh to realize this is not the case.
My vampire has been trying to make me obedient.
Instead, he’s made me rebellious.
Chapter 74. Jugulo
I walk into a larger room, not unlike a dungeon in a medieval castle. Perfectly crafted, it’s masonry is in large stones, cut four feet long, two feet high. The walls are adorned with shields, axes, swords, whips, and heavy clubs with spiked metal heads.
Where am I? For all I know, I’ve been transported to some stronghold in the UK.
His striking blue eyes seem almost black in the dim light. His gaze is cold. “Get into position. Now.”
So many replies to this one. My mind jumps to the Karma Sutra. I bite my tongue on, “Missionary? Doggie style?”
Humor is my natural coping mechanism. Nothing seemed funny the first six weeks I was here. See how much better everything is already?
Too bad the serious bastard has no sense of humor.
When I move to where and how he wants me to be, he throws me a different key and nods. “You know what to do.”
“Yes, but do you?”
I ask this with a direct look and an intentionally sardonic smirk. I can’t resist teasing, but geez Louise, it’s hard to meet his gaze.
Fucking magic tricks.
With his vampire mojo, he’s so overwhelmingly attractive. My core tightens, my nipples harden with lust. I try to ignore it. Torturing asshole or not, thanks to his glamour, I’m achingly aroused at the sight of him.
He rarely answers my questions, but that’s part of our game. I’m an anomaly. The square peg he tries to fit into a round hole. I don’t conform, so he’s at a loss. I’m a mystery to him.
My vampire frowns and looks away.
Oh, yay. I’ve made him uncomfortable. Point for me!
His jaw clenches. “Do you want to be punished?”
This shuts me up. “No, thank you.”
He disciplines me by leaving me alone to starve. Better to be alive and tormented. When my demon can’t feed, I feel as if I’m dying inside.
“Good. Put the shackles on.”
I do as he says—it’s not worth the energy to fight him. This will be a couple hours of something unpleasant, followed by a magic feast where I can hopefully work on my escape plan. Then an hour or two answering questions, and possibly even a conversation.
His company is better than no company at all.
Besides, my vampire is a mystery to me, too. Despite his actions, he isn’t evil. His emotions remain tightly under wraps, but I sense a world of hurt within him.
Once I cuff my wrists, the Jugulo winds a winch, raising my hands over my head. My feet remain flat on the floor, which I genuinely appreciate. When he’s done, I stand with my wrists shackled, chained to a ceiling beam.
From a distance of ten feet, he focuses his attention on me. “What are you?”
“I’m human. You and I both know I’ve answered this question before.”
His eyes are cold and hard as ever. Man, he really makes me nervous. My throat is dry, but I refuse to swallow. That’s how I live now, by stubbornly controlling what few small things I can.
He shakes his head. “You have a human body but you’re no longer human. You’re a demon but you’re different. Better.”
“Wow, was that a compliment? You bestow a compliment on insignificant little ‘ol me?” My broad grin is genuine. “Thank you, you charmer, you. I’m flattered.”
The outward signs are subtle, but I know him now. My vampire appears dispassionate, yet once again, I’ve made him uncomfortable. Another point for me.
Woo hoo!
Take that, Mr. Unemotional-Bossy-Boots! I wonder why my remark upset him? Maybe Jugulos aren’t permitted to praise malevolent spirits. Is it against the torturing-and-assassinating-your-demon code, or something?
He disregards my comments. “You weren’t a common mortal before you became possessed. You were something more.”
I give him a wry smile. “Nice of you to notice.”
“You have the power of healing and you speak with the dead. These are not demonic gifts.”
I sigh and say nothing. I’ve told him the whole truth so many times, but he never believes a word I say. I can’t be bothered repeating myself.
“I’m trying to help you,” he admits, then instantly regrets it.
“Oh, really?” I snort and roll my eyes so far back in my head I’m in danger of seeing my brain.
I glance up at his ghosts, gibbering and floating near the ceiling. They won’t even acknowledge my presence without his permission. The Jugulo can’t sense his non-corporeal followers. How does he have such mastery over his dead?
Ignoring the mystery of his ghostly groupies is easy. Fixated, fascinated, and royally fucked up, all my attention is for my sexy vampire.
He has a handsome face, a Roman
nose, and the perfect masculine physique. My tormentor is captivating, and not only because he’s smoking hot. Sure, whatever musky cologne he wears smells divine. There’s also those three-thousand-dollar suits that make him look like a million bucks.
I’ve recently come to realize how much he conceals behind his impassive, uncaring persona. I long to strip that mask away and see what he’s hiding.
Although I’m beginning to have a pretty good idea.
Knowledge is power.
I’ll figure a way out of this mess. I don’t often play for stakes this high, but when I do, I make sure I win.
I stand shackled before him, but I am the one who is beginning to take the reins. For weeks, we’ve been in close proximity. He thinks he’s starting to understand me. In truth, it’s me who’s beginning to understand him.
My abilities intrigue him. I even think he likes me. Torture is the high and the low point of my day. He’s imprisoned me and he hurts me, yet every single day I stupidly look forward to seeing him.
Go figure.
As strange as it seems, I’ve decided the Jugulo has an unshakable sense of honor. If I knew what the hell he wanted, trust me, I’d give it to him. Is he attempting to torture my demon out of me?
I don’t understand him, yet I can’t hate him. Somewhere under there, buried deep, I believe he has a heart and even a conscience.
I know one thing for sure, even if he doesn’t. My vampire doesn’t want me dead. I’m unique and I have a shit-load of power—something every supernatural wants.
No, my vampire doesn’t want to destroy me.
I think he wants to possess me.
Chapter 75. What Doesn’t Kill Me…
Crack!
I cry at my helplessness. I writhe, scream, sob, and cuss.
It’s always like that, at first.
Two people, a man and a woman, beat me. Both Caucasian, they could be from any English-speaking country. If they would only say something maybe I could figure out their accents and have an idea where I am.
One uses a riding crop; the other a many tailed whip. Intent at their task, with vacant gazes, they won’t remember any of this—which is a good thing.
