Darkest Misery

by Tracey Martin

The fury sighed. “I thought you might ask that.” He grabbed my arm and came around to my side. With his other hand, he opened a video on his phone.

  My hope deflated. The camera footage was dark and shitty, as cell phone videos often were, but there was no denying it was Lucen. He was tied up in unidentifiable location, his eyes wild but willful. “Jess, don’t listen to them! Don’t—”

  The garbled sound cut out, and a second later the video ended.

  Okay, they had Lucen. Shit. My last chance to do something crazy and heroic had been shot to hell because there was no way I was risking Lucen’s life. Still. “How do I know you haven’t killed him since?”

  “You don’t. Do you want to take the chance that you could have saved him? We have no use for him. You come nicely, and we let him go. Choose quickly.”

  I didn’t see what choice I had. I got in the car.

  The last thing I heard from outside was Devon’s voice yelling my name. Then the car door shut, and the driver sped off as though the devil were chasing us and not merely one satyr incapable of catching up.

  I always thought Heaven would be warm. Or maybe the truth was I’d always thought I’d end up in that other place when I died. Then Steph and I would sit around roasting marshmallows and dipping our toes in a toasty lava lake.

  But no, I got cold. Emptiness. And oddly enough, a massive headache.

  That seemed like my first clue I wasn’t dead.

  I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself, strolling through the misty wherever-I-was. All my senses felt muted. I had gauze in my ears, a white veil over my eyes, and the air was empty of smells and sensations. My energy was dulled too. I was alone. Part of me had always feared I needed to be around people to feed on their misery like the pred I was. Perhaps this confirmed it.

  I walked forever and nothing changed.

  I shivered but never grew warmer or cooler.

  I was as static as the world around me. Lost or trapped or imprisoned in my own head. It hardly mattered which if I couldn’t do anything about it.

  “There’s my Jesse-bear.”

  That voice. I turned, something my feet hadn’t felt capable of a moment ago, and now I was no longer certain about the not-dead thing.

  My father smiled at me.

  My dead father. Almost twenty years dead.

  He appeared as he always did in my memories, the way he’d looked as he’d walked out the door the morning before he was killed on the job. His reddish-brown hair was slightly thinning, but his hazel eyes were bright, and the few freckles on his nose were an unfortunate mirror of the ones I’d inherited from him.

  He wore his Gryphon uniform. We’d buried him in it. Threw dirt on the job that had gotten him killed. For my mother, I think it had been a very symbolic act, but not for me. At the time, I’d wanted nothing more than to follow in his footsteps.

  And here I was. The job had killed me too. At least the Gryphons had. They made me, therefore anything that happened to me was their fault.

  “Jesse?”

  “Dad?” I hesitated for a moment, then I ran over and threw my arms around him.

  Finally, I had senses again. I could smell his spicy aftershave and rub my cheek against his uniform fabric. His warmth chased away some of my chill. But as soon as he released me, the cold came flooding back. “Am I dead?”

  “Do the furies want you dead?”

  The furies, right. There was something about the furies I should remember. “Maybe they do, but not yet.”

  “Then you’re probably not dead.”

  “Then where am I?”

  His eyebrows chased his receding hairline. “I haven’t the faintest idea. Listen.”

  “But…”

  Where there had been no sound a moment ago, there came noise. Low and rumbling, then harsh and clanging. I spun in place, searching for the source, but nothing had changed.

  “What is it?”

  “Reality.”

  I frowned. “It’s getting closer.”

  “No, it’s getting louder. You’re waking up.”

  “No.” I didn’t want to wake up. Regardless of anything else, I was certain of that. Being lost in my unconscious, or plain old dead, had to be better than waking up. The very notion spawned fear that ballooned in my chest, suffocating me.

  He took my arms, and this time I felt it in a whole new way. My real arms, wherever they were, had been touched. Something within me knew it and struggled against it, but that Jess was paralyzed. Trapped in this Jess.

  “They have Lucen,” said my father, who never knew Lucen. “They have the Vessels. You have to stop them.”

  “What if I can’t? It’ll kill Mom if I die on the job like you.”

  He patted my cheek, but his hand was no longer warm and smooth. It was cold and rough, not a hand at all. “Then don’t die. Wake up. Fight.”

  A thick, ugly scream woke me.

  Mine, apparently. It ripped through my dry throat, and I lashed out, limbs flying blindly. My legs collided with something firm, and only then did I open my eyes.

  The fury hovering above me spat out something in an unfamiliar language and jumped out of the way. Instinctively, I lunged for him, blind to any sense of self-preservation, but my body wouldn’t cooperate. My legs shook, and my muscles gave out. I fell face first to the cold ground.

  The fury kicked me in the arm. While I moaned, his feet disappeared from view and a door slammed shut.

  I didn’t move, partially because I was afraid if I tried, I’d fail and then I’d really be panicking. So I stayed where I was, a lump on the floor, and took stock of my health and situation.

  For starters, I was cold. The damp air clung to me, giving me the impression I was in a basement. It sure stank of mildew and decay, but there was also an earthy smell to it that reminded me of my mother’s New Hampshire home.

  My eyes told me little. The room was dark, but it wasn’t true pitch blackness, so light had to be coming from somewhere. Mostly, I could see the floor, which was cold, gritty and hard. Concrete, I assumed. This told me nothing useful, so I moved on.

  My headache was my most pressing concern. It was a dull, all-encompassing pain that covered my skull and could have been brought on by anything. I had no memory of being hit on the head, yet the furies must have knocked me unconscious. If I thought hard about it, I could vaguely remember being jabbed in the arm with something. Perhaps they’d drugged me. It might explain the strange dream about my father.

  Gingerly, I tested my muscles next, sliding my legs straight against the floor, slowly moving my arms. I even wiggled my fingers and toes. Everything appeared to work, and aside from generalized achiness, I felt okay. No stabbing or throbbing pains plagued me. I was fairly certain I hadn’t suffered any serious damage.

  That was something. Not much, but something.

  I raised my head next, but it clearly was too optimistic a move. The room swam, and nausea bubbled up in my gut. Okay, never mind. I didn’t need to add vomit breath to my list of problems, and my throat was sore as it was.

  I rolled on my back instead and hoped the dizziness would pass in time. From my back, the ceiling appeared disturbingly low. Maybe this was like the basement in my grandparents’ very old Cape. Most people had to duck when they went down there.

  Wait, did houses in Europe have basements? They didn’t everywhere in the U.S., but this was not the sort of question normal people researched before traveling abroad. What if I wasn’t in a house? What if I wasn’t even in France anymore?

  I closed my eyes and tried to dredge up memories, but I had absolutely none of leaving Grenoble. I must have blacked out before we reached the city’s edge. For all I knew, I was still there or halfway to Siberia. Until I got out of this room, I doubted I’d find out.

  On that thought, sitting up, take two.

  I took a deep
breath, and more slowly than before, forced myself upright. The dizziness spun me around for a moment, then cleared. I opened my eyes and rubbed my unhappy head.

  The room’s light was coming from the gaps around a poorly hung door. Possibly it was warped by age, as it appeared far older than me. First thought: This place is seriously ancient. Second thought: I’m in a dungeon.

  That sent me into another head-spinning dizzy spell.

  The walls were a mix of rough stone and old, unpainted wood. Not nice wood, but splintery, unfinished wood. Now that I could see it better, I could tell the floor was stone too. Mismatched slabs had been thrown down over dirt. All that was missing was a pair of iron shackles. Alas, I had a feeling those could be arranged.

  But this was crazy. I knew there were plenty of old castles scattered throughout Europe, and presumably many had dungeons. Or did people call them basements in this enlightened age? Whichever, assuming my judgment—and years of watching medieval-set television shows—hadn’t led me astray, why did I have to end up in one? This was creepy, even for preds.

  Maybe this suggested I was still in Europe, or maybe not. The U.S. had freaky basements too. I’d been in my share of them.

  I had no idea. My head hurt. I’d been drugged. I had to get out of here.

  These people had Lucen.

  Whoa. That was what I needed to focus on. Priorities, Jess. Who cares where you are?

  I reached under my shirt and wrapped my fingers around Lucen’s pendant. The metal felt strangely warm, the only thing that did. What I wouldn’t give for my Gryphon jacket.

  Moving would get my blood flowing. Moving would make me warm.

  Gathering my courage, I climbed to my knees and paused, waiting to see if my head could keep it together. The nausea had faded, and the dizziness had followed. Right foot then, and left. I stood.

  The ceiling was low, but I could stand fully upright. I shuffled over to the door, breathing heavily, my body like a sack of flour on my feet.

  Think of Lucen, I told myself. Think of Lucen and what the furies are trying to do. Get angry or scared. Doesn’t matter which.

  My thoughts drifted to the way I’d left Boston. Was that supposed to be the last time I saw him? It was inadequate, not a proper goodbye.

  I thought of my mother, ignorant of the truth because I’d been too chicken to tell her. And I thought of the Vessels, the people who’d suffered and died as the furies filled the three they had. The many more who would die if they broke open the prison.

  I didn’t get angry or scared. I got depressed.

  In the end, it didn’t make much difference. Negative emotions were fuel. My own might not be as ideal as someone else’s, but in a pinch, they’d do.

  My hands clenched into fists, and my shoulders straightened. My legs steadied beneath me, and I pounded on the door. “Hey! Open up! Where’s Lucen?”

  Screaming with a dry throat didn’t work all that well. I choked on half my words, my voice weak in spite of my self-feeding. Banging on the door worked better, so I abandoned yelling and kept that up. The door shuddered and creaked, but the hinges were thick and strong and the wood heavy. It gave me only the illusion of being able to break it down.

  My door was a damned tease. That finally made me angry, and I kicked it a few times. The more I beat on it, the angrier I got, and the anger fueled my pounding. I was aware this was both stupid and futile, but if I did it long enough, maybe I’d get a response.

  At last, I heard a door open somewhere, and clunky footsteps approached. I banged the door once more for good measure, but my hands were sore, and I suspected splinters were involved.

  Someone undid the lock, and I backed up as the door opened, expecting hostility. I got it too—in the form of a gigantic fury whose appearance was hostility personified.

  Furies tended to favor outlandish dress and ornamentation, part punk, part comic book villain. Their natural appearance helped it along—their strange-colored eyes and their weird horns that could take a variety of shapes and sizes. But the rest? The tattoos, skin dye and piercings they sported were deliberate. Like the satyrs who cultivated their appearance to maximize seduction, and the sylphs who attempted to project flawless perfection, the furies decorated themselves to instill fear. Some more so than others.

  The guy in front of me didn’t need to do much. He had to be over seven feet tall, and he was built like a linebacker—a virtual wall of muscle, all covered in tattoos, including his face. He glared down at me, arms crossed, and it was a good thing I’d decided not to try to rush out the door. I’d probably have ended up with a concussion where my skull met his pecs.

  “Nice ink.”

  He grunted. “Quit your bloody banging. They want to see you anyway.”

  “British, huh?” First Bostonian furies had a Vessel, then French ones abducted me, then ones speaking an unknown language had dumped me in this cell. Oh, and I couldn’t forget the ones raising hell in Argentina and Australia. This was turning out to be quite an international affair.

  Given the mess I’d left behind in Boston with the satyrs and goblins, I had to almost admire the furies’ ability to work together and get shit done. If only human governments could do the same.

  “Let’s go.” Big Fury stepped aside so I could leave the cell. “Don’t think about running.”

  “With you chasing after me? I’m not.”

  The rest of the basement he led me through was every bit as dreary as my cell, but it was brighter. Someone had strung bulbs along the wall. Naked and dusty, they illuminated more doors and lit a path up a narrow staircase.

  I rubbed my arms for warmth, following the light. The steps, too, were stone, as were the walls. No way was this a normal basement or a normal house.

  My theory was confirmed when we reached the top, and the fury directed me through a series of rooms, also with stone walls. Finally, after yet another winding staircase, we entered the biggest room yet. An enormous table sat in the middle, and fraying tapestries covered one of the walls. Sunlight poured in through narrow windows.

  And at the table’s far end, sat three furies, including a very familiar one—Raj, Boston’s Dom. He smiled at me. “Hello, soul swapper. So we meet again.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  It was the perfectly cliché thing to say and fitting because Raj looked like a cliché of evil. Two curved horns sprouted from his head, adding to his already imposing height, and black and red glyphs covered his face. He had more of them than I remembered, masking almost all of his skin. His eyes were so dark it was hard to tell where his irises ended and his pupils began.

  His very presence unnerved me. It shouldn’t have surprised me that he’d be here—he’d disappeared from Boston weeks ago—yet standing in the same room as him made my last two months come full circle.

  I licked my lips, summoning the ability to speak. “Actually, I don’t soul swap anymore. Things changed after you left on vacation.”

  Raj clapped his hands together happily. “I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your wits. I remember you being quite a force of nature. Such an excellent and unexpected triumph at the Meat Match.”

  “You mean when I almost slit your fury’s throat?”

  “That too, but also when you beat up what’s-his-face. That killer my people were using.”

  I clenched my jaw tight to keep from retorting. Too many people were dead because of this asshole, and he didn’t sound the least bit upset that I’d stopped more from dying. That pissed me off. He was the fury. Where was his rage over me thwarting his people?

  Raj took a drink from what appeared to be a beer bottle. “Your anger is sadly muted. I hear the Gryphons marked you.”

  “Glad to know their charms are working.”

  He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Gryphon magic can be effective, but it’s not important. I should introduce you to people, and you shou
ld eat. You must be hungry.”

  Was he serious? This was getting crazier by the second.

  When I didn’t respond, Raj motioned to his companions and rattled off their names, which meant little to me. What I found curious was that Raj indentified one as the Dom for Vienna, and the other as the Dom for Beijing. So I could now add Austria and China into the unholy international mix.

  “So where are your superiors?” I asked.

  The furies glanced amongst themselves, and it was the Austrian one who answered. “We are the superiors, satyr.”

  “Ah, you’re thinking where’s our equivalent of an Upper Council?” Raj tapped his fingers together. “That’s who we’re trying to free. Unlike those weaker races, we’ve vowed only to obey those who truly are our superiors. Not mere social climbers, but gods.”

  “None of you are gods.” But a shiver ran down my spine. I’d read enough descriptions of the original preds at this point to take Raj’s description seriously. When the creatures humans used to call demons called other demons their gods… Yeah, not good.

  “Sit,” Raj urged me.

  I wanted to refuse, but it was taking an awful lot of energy to remain standing. And when a fury addict carrying a tray of heavenly-smelling food placed it at the table, my stomach overrode my brain.

  I sat. But damn it, I scowled doing it.

  All the furies were drinking beer, but they’d given me a pitcher of water, and I attacked it first. Only good sense kept me from gulping the whole thing down. The water was cold and tasted clean. I didn’t pause to consider what the furies might be tainting my food with until after I’d finished a giant glass.

  I stared at the plate, which was covered in an enormous quarter of roasted chicken, broiled potatoes and broccoli in some kind of sauce. My stomach demanded I dive in. If these people were going to kill me, I might as well enjoy a last meal. But what else might be in the food? Poisoning me made no sense when they could have killed me easily already, but it was possible to work charms and curses into anything.

  I sipped my water, holding my face steady. “What’s this for?”