by Jo Carlisle
Forcing himself to remain calm, he took stock of his situation. The room was damned cold. Where the fuck were his brothers? But he recalled that hardly anyone ever visited this wing of the house. He was screwed.
He shivered, teeth chattering, realizing for the first time that he was naked. And immobile. He tried pulling his arms and legs into his body to conserve warmth, but couldn’t move them. His wrists and ankles were bound—no, stuck—to something that was holding him suspended in an upright position. The web he’d seen before she rendered him unconscious. He was hanging spread-eagled, feet not quite touching the floor, each wrist and ankle bound with sticky threads.
He rested for a while, letting his strength return. When he finally managed to open his eyes and focus on his surroundings, he wished he hadn’t.
The room, formerly used for lighter consensual play, had been turned into a torture chamber. There was no other possible description. The walls were affixed with chains and manacles designed for prisoners awaiting their gruesome end. The room itself bristled with every imaginable device capable of causing pain. A table in one corner had leather straps at each end, wound around hand cranks at the head and feet. Dark stains bathed the wood where a man would be placed, screaming as he was being pulled apart.
Where had the witch gotten these awful devices, much less smuggled then into the mansion undetected? By using her magic? If so, he’d terribly underestimated her.
Soren shivered harder, horror spreading with the icy cold through his limbs. Menacing whips, chains, and blades of every sort hung in neat rows on one wall. A metal vat large enough to hold a man rested over the remnants of a fire—not in use, thank God. What—or whom—might be boiled in the thing, he didn’t want to guess. More grisly tools adorned the space at intervals.
A coffin filled with spikes pointing inward. Choke collars attached to a pulley system. A large ax and chopping block. Many earthen jars containing God knows what. And resting on a table in front of him was an implement with a handle and several longish leather strips attached to the end. Instantly, he knew what it was and why it had been removed from the wall and placed where he could see it.
A cat-o’-nine-tails.
“Jesus,” he whispered, eyes wide.
Surely they didn’t intend to use any of this stuff on him. They were playing head games with him, trying to scare him. They’d succeeded.
Was this part of the transformation Leila had spoken of? The second part of her plan to break him? As though the beast he’d acquired wasn’t bad enough.
“Son of a bitch.”
Heart pounding, he swallowed the wild urge to call out, to give in to rising panic. No one would hear him, and no way in hell would he give her the satisfaction of seeing him lose it.
Keep your head, he told himself. There had to be a way out of this bargain he’d made with Leila. Think!
Soren closed his eyes, letting his mind drift back to his first encounter with her, in the modest shack in the swamp. Soren concentrated, digging into the fog, searching for an answer to his dilemma. Something evaded him, something important.
The deal was that she would give him back the love of his life, and in return he would give Leila anything she wished. Creature comforts she could easily obtain for herself using magic. No, that wasn’t truly what she wanted.
The Council seat. Power. Those were her true aims, and she needed Soren to get them. Why?
His lineage. Descendant of Azrael. Surely not . . .
The archangel of Death?
Oh, gods. He didn’t know how that could be true, but Aldric probably would—if Soren ever got the chance to ask him. And if it was true, and the witch—or whatever she was—succeeded in turning him into her monstrous creation, everyone he loved was doomed. Under the beast’s and Leila’s influence, he’d destroy them all. She would rule the Southern Coalition first, and then move on to taking the entire continent.
That was her ultimate goal: total power. And Soren was the instrument. If he was truly a descendant of Azrael, no wonder he’d become such a threat to everyone around him. Soren was death, and with the proper amount of influence, a tool of evil.
As their children would be. That explained why she wanted to conceive. To pass on their legacy of destruction.
Her destruction is your own.
That’s what his beast had said. Anguish pierced his heart, drowning him in despair. His death was the only salvation for himself and his loved ones. Leila wasn’t human at all, was much more than a priestess. Valafar had some answers, and Soren would get them. He had to discover how to kill her.
And then himself.
He hung his head, drifting until voices penetrated the gloom beyond the heavy door, moving closer. As he looked up, it swung inward. Leila entered in a swirl of black silk, but as before, it was the tall man trailing in her wake who commanded his attention.
The pair halted a couple of feet from him. Soren noticed how Arron remained a step or two behind her, his posture straight and proud, head up yet holding his silence. Clearly, he deferred to her only with great reluctance.
He was very tall, his bearing regal, and Soren could easily imagine him as a leader of his kind. Auburn hair streaked with gold swept well past his broad shoulders. His brows arched over eyes of the clearest sea green, framed by long, dusky lashes. Faint lines bracketed his wide, chiseled mouth, indicating a man who’d once smiled a lot. In the past, Soren thought, because he couldn’t imagine what anyone stuck with the bitch-demon would have to smile about.
“Would someone mind telling me what’s going on?” Soren asked, striving to keep his tone neutral. “You won. I surrendered. So why the macabre little show?”
Her companion’s expression betrayed nothing, but Leila smiled evilly as she spoke. “My pet, have I done anything for mere show thus far? Not to worry, we’ll make a believer out of you yet.” She turned to the man just behind her.
“I’m already a believer, so you can let me down before my brothers or one of the servants catch you both.” It was an idle threat and she knew it.
She leveled him with a look of malice. “You are not truly mine yet, or you would’ve finished Jordan as you were told. As for your brothers, Aldric has been called away on Council business indefinitely, and Luc will be out of commission very soon.”
Fear rode him hard, and he pulled futilely at his bonds. “What are you planning to do to Luc? Let me down from here, you bitch!”
“Now, that’s not very nice,” she said with a mock pout. “Arron, darling, you may proceed.”
Soren fought the fear clogging his throat as Arron retrieved the cat-o’-nine-tails from the table. He’d made a horrible mistake in underestimating Leila once again.
“How many lashes, my queen?” the man inquired, voice devoid of emotion.
“Twenty.”
Arron’s lips thinned and a muscle in his jaw tightened. “As you desire.”
Soren felt the blood drain from his face. Twenty lashes from a whip with nine tails! Oh, gods . . .
The man moved around behind Soren, and the vampire’s mouth went dry. Numbing disbelief that this was happening to him suddenly transcended the fear. There wasn’t anything he could do to stop it. Determined not to cry out, he tried to brace himself. Nothing could have prepared him for the eerie whistle of the tails flying through the air just before they struck.
White-hot, agonizing pain ripped through his back, stealing his breath. Tears sprung to his eyes, blinding him. The excruciating shock rocketed to every nerve ending. Before he could recover, another blow fell. And another.
The room began to slide away, a buzzing noise filling his head. He thought he heard a low, animal moan escape his own lips but wasn’t sure. Warm wetness began to slip over his buttocks and down his legs. He was being torn apart, inches at a time.
See what you’ve brought down on us? the beast raged. Now you’ll learn.
When the blows finally ceased, he hung limp, chin on his chest. His breathing came in harsh gasps an
d tears streamed down his cheeks. By God, he wouldn’t beg. I won’t.
“It is done,” Arron said from behind him. A shuffling noise indicated that he was preparing to take his leave, but her voice halted him.
“It’s done if he answers a simple question. Soren, where do you and your brothers keep the famed swords?”
The swords? Of course she wanted them in her possession; they could kill any creature in existence. “Fuck. You.”
“No,” she said coldly. “He isn’t finished. Twenty more.”
Soren jerked his head up, struggling to see through the hazy film clouding his vision. His pulse hammered wildly. Even a vampire might not survive another round if he lost too much blood.
For the first time, Soren heard a hint of tension—even animosity—in the other man’s voice.
“Leila, I don’t think—”
“It’s not your place to do the thinking, damn you! Do it! And when you are finished, come to my room.”
“Why are you doing this?” Soren rasped.
She looked at him, malice shining from every pore. “In order to fully appreciate the gift I’m bestowing, you must experience the depths of torment. By the time you’ve seen the error of your ways and given in, you’ll be begging for the agony to end.”
She whirled and stalked from the room, slamming the door in her wake. Arron came to stand in front of him, and Soren was surprised to see sympathy in the depths of his green eyes.
“I am very sorry,” he said softly.
Hope flared. “You don’t have to do this. You’re not like her, Arron. I can sense it.”
He hesitated before answering, anguish etching his handsome face. “You are correct. I am nothing like Leila. . . . I am much, much worse.” With that, Arron moved back into position.
Panic returned, and he abandoned his vow not to beg. “Please, for the love of the gods, don’t do this—”
The blow set his back afire and shattered his senses. The leather tore into his flesh again and again, until he could feel nothing except blood running down his legs, dripping off his feet. Until he could see nothing, and the beast roared at his surrender.
Until he understood, at last, that there was indeed such a thing as a fate worse than death.
Harley was sunning herself by the pool, chatting with a handsome faery, when she spotted a big male with a familiar black head of hair making his way to her side. Breaking off her end of the conversation, she smiled at Valafar and gave him a jaunty wave.
He returned it, but appeared far too serious as he approached and stopped at the foot of her lounger. “Hi, pretty,” he greeted her. “I need to speak to you. Alone.” He shot a pointed glare at the other male, who quickly left for greener, and friendlier, pastures.
“Now, you didn’t have to scare off my new friend! What gives?” When he didn’t respond to her teasing tone, she began to worry. Her smile wilted. “What’s wrong?”
“Have you seen Soren?”
She curled her lip. “Not since the bitch-witch decided her play toy was spending way too much time with me and hustled him off someplace. Why?”
He paused. “How about Luc?”
“No, I haven’t seen him today. Maybe Aldric is around?” she suggested.
“He’s been called away on Council business,” Val said grimly. “Council people are disappearing left and right, and no one seems to know where the blazing Hades they’ve gone!”
She frowned. “Soren said you didn’t have much to do with the Council, Prince Valafar. So why do you care?”
He sighed. “So he told you about me? I hate the bullshit that goes on in the Council and I’m too old to stomach it anymore. But when members of my clan start to vanish, and then I investigate to find out that high-ranking members of the city are going missing all over, I have no choice but to find out what the fuck is going on!”
“Maybe Leila ate them?” She was only half joking. “I hear she has quite the appetite.”
“You’re probably closer in that guess than you realize.” He didn’t crack a smile.
“What do you know about her?”
“Plenty, but I need to speak with Soren first. He has to know what he’s dealing with before it’s too late.” Val’s fists clenched at his sides.
That had her pushing from her lounger to poke him in the center of his broad chest. “If it’s so dire, why haven’t you told him already? He’s made some sort of awful bargain with that sneaky woman, and I have a feeling it’s one skewed in her favor.”
“What do you know of this bargain?” he demanded, ignoring her question.
“She agreed to bring back his lost mate—me, they think—in exchange for his putting her up in style and pretending to be her mate. But I don’t know what else he has to do or what she gets out of it.”
Val’s expression darkened. “No doubt the only thing she’s ever really wanted: power. Very few know this, even the Fontaine brothers, but the Coalition tossed her out of the Council centuries ago for her nefarious practices. She changed her name and appearance decades ago, and has been trying to worm her way back in ever since.”
Harley goggled at him. “Centuries? Changing her looks? How old is she and what the hell is she?”
“Ancient and lethal,” he said cryptically. “Let’s find that vampire of yours.”
Why wouldn’t Val say more about Leila, or whatever that thing was? A shiver of fear went down her spine as he took her hand and led her to search for the vampire who was starting to get under her skin.
9
Soren had never been brought low enough to pray for death, and he wouldn’t start now. He wouldn’t give that she-devil the satisfaction. He would take every abuse she meted out and more. If she wanted a monster, she’d get one. In spades.
He’d turn her own creation against her.
The beast seethed. You can’t do that.
“Watch me.”
Hang on; concentrate on that, he told himself. Feel nothing. Pain, grief, despair—gone. All of it. Nothing left except the hatred that fed the beast awakening within.
His companion shifted and rolled in his chest like a caged thing, uneasy. Eager. A chill whispered along his spine, but he tamped down the cloying fear that once unleashed, he wouldn’t be able to control it. That it would consume him completely, his identity lost forever, even to himself.
The gamble wasn’t a choice. If it got to the point he could no longer control the beast . . . somehow, he’d do what needed to be done.
Chin resting on his chest, he stared absently at the inky pool widening under his feet. What was Harley doing right now? Was she having sweet daydreams of their rendezvous in the gazebo, or was she enjoying the pleasures at the resort? Did she miss him, wonder why he wasn’t back yet? Gods, he’d give anything to take her to his bed tonight and wake up tomorrow, all of this nothing but a nightmare....
“You must learn to guard your thoughts, vampire.”
He jerked his head up to find himself looking straight into Arron’s knowing green eyes. “I’ve got a better idea. Stay the hell out of my head. How does a shifter do that, anyway?” He winced at the lack of force in his voice, betraying his weakened state.
Arron lifted a tawny brow. “Stay out? Impossible. Your musings couldn’t resound more loudly if you stood at the very summit of the Temple of the Gods and bellowed them to the entire city. You have much to learn.”
“And I suppose you’re going to teach me?” he gritted. In spite of his resolve to block out the pain, it returned in sickening waves. Lack of sleep in the days since he’d brought Leila here, and now this torment, had left him faint with exhaustion.
Arron’s full, sensuous lips turned up in a ghost of a smile. “I’m going to enjoy your lessons, and so will you.”
“Yeah? Wake me up when the fun starts, ’cause I’m not real impressed so far.”
The smile vanished. “Take care to curb your foolish sarcasm in Leila’s presence. You will gain nothing, save prolonging the torture until she believ
es you’ve been beaten into submission—physically and emotionally.”
Soren blinked, trying to hold the dizziness at bay. “What the hell does she want? Is death the fate Leila has planned for me?”
Arron looked away, his expression solemn. “Perhaps.”
The wolf was lying. “I heard the two of you talking earlier,” he whispered past the agony radiating throughout his body. “Why does she believe I’m a descendant of Azrael? How is she going to use me?”
“All will be made clear to you in time.”
“You know,” he hissed, “I’m getting damned tired of that answer. What’s she going to do—turn me into some sort of demon from Hades? Is that what I somehow agreed to when we made our so-called bargain?” The man gazed at him with such sorrow, Soren’s blood ran cold. “Sweet, merciful gods . . .”
“Never make a deal with the devil, vampire. The game favors the house, without exception.” He paused. “One thing more—no matter what, do not let her get her hands on your family’s swords. When your mind betrays you, remember that, if nothing else.”
It was too much, and he couldn’t think anymore. Couldn’t reason out this madness and what he’d done to deserve it.
All he’d wanted was to have his mate and be happy.
“I’ve lost everything,” he rasped. “My mate—”
“You have another, at least for now.” Arron gave him a look filled with pity. “Your mate is the least of your concerns, unless she gets in Leila’s way. As your brother has done.”
Fear liquefied his guts as he remembered. “Luc. What has she done to him? Tell me!”
“Your younger brother is dead,” he answered quietly. “I am sorry.”
“You—You’re lying.”
“I’m not. I heard her order the attack myself. The assassin was a werewolf in half form. Luc never stood a chance.”
The wolf spoke the truth; it was in his eyes, his voice. No one escaped a half-form wolf. The blood drained from Soren’s face. Hanging his head, he fought the urge to howl. To go mad and tear apart everyone in sight.
