by RJ Blain
Pain lanced up my arms, especially from where I’d punched the leopard in the mouth, but I got my shoulders through the gap and struggled to escape from the prison.
Hands grabbed hold of my ankles, and with a grunt, the lycanthropy shoved me up. “Make space.”
I obeyed, scooting away from the opening. Like me, Henry struggled to pull himself through the opening. I grabbed his arm, dug in my heels, and dragged him out of the prison.
The lycanthrope’s gaze unfocused, and he stared, his expression turning neutral. “Are you sure you know the way out?”
I decided the minotaur—if it was a minotaur—toyed with someone’s mind rather than creating an decent physical maze. What I didn’t understand was why Henry was affected by it and I wasn’t. Then again, it could be anyone with the right talent.
Damn it. Someone capable of rewriting what someone perceived would be a difficult hunt at best. Taking hold of Henry’s wrist with my uninjured hand, I limped in the direction of the stairwell.
Everything was as I remembered when I’d tumbled, and having learned from my mistakes, I tested every step on the way up, finding several disguised holes. Henry followed, silent and subdued, obeying my every word without question. It made my work easier, but I worried, too.
How would he react in the so-called maze? I guided him, tensing every passing minute.
At the top of the stairwell, Henry stumbled to a halt, his breaths bursting out of him in short gasps. He twisted around, his gaze darting, as though we stood at an intersection of many halls rather than at the beginning of a straight corridor with an easy run to freedom; the first intersection was at least twenty feet ahead. I tightened my hold on his wrist. “Henry?”
“It’s impossible. We’ll never get out of here.”
I wondered what would happen to him once he reached freedom. Under normal circumstances, my human nose couldn’t detect fear or other emotions, but his was so strong it overwhelmed even the pervasive stench of death from below. “Follow me,” I ordered, taking a step forward.
“But that’s the darkest path.”
Whatever magic had been used on Henry, it was strong enough to completely override his reason. Vampires could beguile their victims, but I’d never seen any other magic like theirs. The possibility of a minotaur behind the dungeon, even a juvenile one, worried me. Minotaurs had one use for female sentients: breeding. As far as I knew, males were considered competition or food. Why keep Henry?
Then again, if it was a minotaur, a lycanthrope might be able to survive the not-so-tender care of a young minotaur. Stories claimed infant minotaurs teethed on human bones, which explained why there’d be so many imprisoned men.
They were food for future young—or for their captor.
Henry might survive the teething process until he was destined to become the youngling’s first meal, something that had likely ensured his survival—for the moment.
I really hoped there was some other nasty behind the lair and not a minotaur. If another sentient viewed me as potential breeding stock, I’d start biting, then I’d beat the bastard to death before my venom could finish the job.
Henry whimpered, but he shuffled along behind me without fighting. At the first actual intersection, he dug in his heels and jerked in my hold. “You’re going to run us into a wall!”
“There’s no wall,” I assured him, dragging him forward. He cried out and fought me. Had he been in his right mind, he would’ve had the strength to defeat me, but while he struggled against me, I overpowered him and pulled him forward. He yelped before sucking in a breath.
“The wall disappeared!”
“As I said, there’s no wall.”
“That mother fucking minotaur!” the lycanthrope howled.
I had my doubts the minotaur was real, but I wasn’t going to gainsay him without proof. It could be a minotaur. It could be something equally vile, too, playing tricks with his head. It didn’t matter; whatever hunted in the Black Hills viewed people as dinner, and I’d been forced to kill out of mercy.
I hoped the man I’d left alive would survive. A better person would’ve tried to save both men, but with one hand mostly out of commission and my ribs throbbing, I’d have a hard enough time getting Henry out without getting us both killed.
Thanks to whatever was screwing with Henry’s head, the lycanthrope would be more of a liability than a help. I found a silver lining, though. Even with him fighting me, it wouldn’t take long to escape. I’d moved a hell of a lot slower as a black mamba, checking everything for traps—except the damned stairs.
I really regretted I hadn’t checked the steps.
The magic perverting Henry’s perception of the hallway strengthened the closer he got to freedom, until he shuddered and closed his eyes, shaking his head.
If I didn’t do something, he’d probably run right back to captivity. “Henry, just trust me. Keep your eyes closed. I’ll guide you the rest of the way.”
The lycanthrope growled but jerked his head in a nod.
With his eyes closed, Henry was a lot easier to manage, although he still flinched every few steps, as though he still perceived something I couldn’t. By the time we reached the last staircase so we could crawl out of the damned tree, I shook. Tension, anxiety, and pain conspired against me, but I couldn’t stop, not until we returned to civilization.
I wondered if a black mamba could ride a wolf. The thought amused me, and I took a few minutes to catch my breath while regarding the dirt steps with equal measures of trepidation and disgust. “We have to go up more steps, Henry.”
“All right,” he growled, sounding more like a beast than a man.
Once I got him to the surface, if he showed any sign of shifting, I’d bolt up the nearest tree and hope he’d been telling the truth about only having the wolf form. A hybrid lycanthrope would just rip the tree out by the roots and use it to bludgeon me to death. I’d never met a wolf capable of climbing a tree, so I’d be safe until he lost interest and found something else to hunt.
If push came to shove, I’d spend a few days in a tree as a black mamba, wait until he fell asleep, and go about my business.
Henry kept his eyes closed and stumbled up the twisting, earthen staircase with my help. When we finally reached the top, he shuddered, then he straightened, as though a massive weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Opening his eyes, his gaze locked on the opening, and he scrambled for freedom, a howl bursting from his throat.
The instant he emerged into the moonlight, fur sprouted from his flesh, his bones cracked and twisted, and he shifted from man to beast. He continued to howl, and I shivered at the sound.
I dove out of the trunk’s confines, angled for the nearest tree, and grabbed the lowest branch, hauling myself up, jerking my feet out of the reach of the lycanthrope. As I had no idea how far a wolf could jump, I kept going, hissing at the throbbing in my abused, battered hand. My ribs hated me, and the sharp pains made it difficult to breathe.
Given the choice between some torture and a messy death at the jaws of a newly freed lycanthrope drunk on freedom, I’d endure, climb as high as I dared, and play the same game. A human would be an enticing target for a wolf.
A black mamba might not be noticed at all.
With no other choice, I shifted and settled in to wait.
Chapter Fifteen
Unlike lycanthropes, when I shifted, I didn’t ruin my clothes. Henry’s shirt tangled in the branches and, despite the abuse, made an ideal place for me to nest. Below, the shreds of Henry’s jeans littered the ground, and the wolf bounded in circles, howled his head off, and rolled in the fallen leaves. I assumed he’d gone mad from the joy of freedom, and if he’d been fed nothing but rabbits for years, he’d be hungry enough to eat anything to cross his path.
One day, I’d need to thank my mother and father for their contribution of genes. While accidental, they were the reason I wasn’t easy prey for the lycanthrope frolicking below. After years in captivity, I expected he’d
start running on instinct, and male lycanthropes had three main objectives: sleeping, eating, and securing a mate.
While lycanthropes interested me, the last thing I needed in my life was trying to be something I wasn’t. Henry needed help I couldn’t provide. Someone far more patient and nurturing than I would have to ease him back into civilization. Once he calmed—if he calmed—I’d find someone to help him.
Henry rolled to his paws, shook out his coat, and howled. Something was different about the sound, and intrigued, I listened.
Understanding hit me moments later when other wolves answered. With his ears pricking forward, the lycanthrope listened before adding his howl to the chorus, and their song filled the forest. Once they quieted, Henry left, his tail bannered high. Every now and then, a wolf’s cry broke the quiet of the forest, and I hoped they guided the lycanthrope somewhere safe beyond his captor’s reach.
Whether he’d found a pack of mundane wolves or lycanthropes, it didn’t matter. Even weakened, normal wolves were no match for a lycanthrope, and lycanthrope wolves belonged in packs.
They’d welcome him, and they’d care for him. I’d also pay good money to watch a pack of lycanthropes tear Henry’s captor to pieces. I’d even deal with the disappointment of a stolen kill for the pleasure of watching.
After I rested, I’d handle the necessities.
I would tell the police of the odd dungeon I’d found underground. I’d warn them of the maze, too, although I had no idea how I’d explain the situation without betraying I’d set a crazed lycanthrope loose in the Black Hills. It occurred to me he was probably a lot saner than I was. I needed to crawl home, hide under my blanket, and reevaluate my choices while trying to make sense of the hot mess my life had become.
Had I been in my right mind, I would’ve focused my attention on the killer of my serial killer. Loose ends could get me killed, and until I found out who had killed him and why, Matthew Henders’s story wasn’t over—and mine could come to an end if the killer had connected me to my would-be victim somehow. It was possible.
To isolate Henders as the serial killer, I’d tested hundreds of samples, inquired with numerous missing persons databases in the northern United States, and even pretended to be a victim’s friend. I was tired of the life I led, and that led to mistakes. I’d flitted from interest to interest, looking for something to make life worth living.
That Justin Brandywine and his bacon topped my list should’ve been warning enough I’d begun self-destructing. Too many changes in my life didn’t help, although when I thought about it, my life was nothing but one change after another.
I didn’t know what it was like to have a house I could call a home like my father did. I didn’t understand what it was like to have my loyalties bound to a kingdom like my mother did. I had goals, but they shifted from day to day, murder to murder. I’d considered the idea of retiring, but the truth had always prevented me from turning my desire into an obtainable dream.
My story was one of isolation and loneliness, of a solitary predator in search of purpose, wrapping horrific deeds in the thin veneer of justice. In that, I’d done well enough. I’d found justice for many. I’d found peace for many others, and I’d given it to them as a gift, offering the closure the police couldn’t—or wouldn’t. I was never sure which. If I, working alone, could find the truth, why couldn’t the police?
I was determined and dedicated, but I wasn’t special. Anyone could do as I’d done—and I suspected some could do it better. Hell, many could do it better. Most would’ve been satisfied with finding the truth and allowing the legal system to do the rest.
I’d strayed by taking matters into my own hands and spilling more blood. Imprisonment never seemed enough, not for the criminals I hunted. Only death could secure safety for potential victims. I’d told myself that until I believed it.
And I did. People like me couldn’t just step back and reform. We were, to our very cores, killers. I chose to kill those who deserved to be killed. Others chose to become predators for the thrill of the hunt and to satisfy demented desires. No matter how I boiled it down, we were all the same breed of bird. I just dyed my feathers a slightly different color so I could pretend I was better than my brethren.
Everything circled back to the same realization: I was tired.
Before I returned to civilization, I needed to rest and recover from my descent into the hell lurking beneath the Black Hills. While I waited, I’d watch. After sunrise, I’d return to civilization and hope the lone survivor trapped below would hold on long enough to be saved.
A monster prowled through the forest below, and at first glance, I could understand why someone would believe it was a minotaur. It was huge, easily ten to twelve feet tall, had the head of a bull with horns sharpened to lethal tips, and sported massive cloven hooves, which sank into the forest floor. Then, a whisper of wind blew through the forest, and its tracks disappeared, the scattered leaves rustling while the soil reshaped itself to mask the presence of the beast.
Minotaurs weren’t supposed to have feathers, nor were they supposed to have tentacles. The monster beneath me had four tentacles sprouting out of his shoulders, and they swayed in the air, the suction cups gleaming with slimy fluid. The pervasive stench of death clung to it, a match for the horrors of its den.
Maybe it had started its life as a minotaur, but whatever it was, it wasn’t just a minotaur anymore. I kept still and quiet, watching from my hiding place within Henry’s shirt.
The hooked claws on its long-fingered hands would make short work out of me—and my tree—if it discovered my presence. I expected to die, but I didn’t want it to be at the hands or jaws of a monstrosity. Worse, I understood Henry’s reaction to freedom.
I would’ve gone mad from joy if I’d escaped the horror beneath me, too. Had I counted my captivity in years, I doubted I would’ve made it half as far as Henry had before becoming overwhelmed. I’d hope the monster’s magics couldn’t reach Henry beyond his lair. Guilt, apprehension, and self-preservation waged a brief but fierce battle. If I left, I’d save myself from the risk of becoming its prey, too.
If I left, Henry might become a victim again. If I left, I might be able to save the survivor within.
I’d have to hope my venom could down a beast like the one stomping around the trunk of his tree, snorting and huffing, lowering his head to breathe in the mixed scents.
I bet the damned thing smelled me, a female, near his territory, as he snuffled and searched, going down on all fours to nose through the leaves near the opening. Then it found the scraps of Henry’s jeans and bellowed its fury.
If the minowhatsit found Henry’s shirt, he’d find me, so I abandoned my impromptu nest and slithered higher into the tree, wrapping around the trunk and a branch, hoping to blend in with the bark and avoid notice. Being noticed wasn’t a part of any of my plans, and I didn’t want to know how a fight between us would work out.
I expected to join the bones lining the damned thing’s lair, although if things worked well, he’d join me in the grave. Unless I got exceptionally lucky, I wouldn’t emerge unscathed—if I emerged alive at all. Nope, I had zero intentions of fighting a mutant minotaur.
Maybe I was crazy, but I wasn’t completely off my rocker yet.
At least I could verify Henry hadn’t been off his rocker, either, although I had no idea how I’d avoided the minotaur’s influence. I’d heard the myths, legends, and rumors about them. My first step into the minotaur’s lair should’ve been my last as a free woman, easy prey for him to capture me at his leisure.
And since I, just like the poor woman I’d killed in its lair, refused to become breeding stock for some damned minotaur, I’d come too close to death for my comfort. Not only had I come close to death and captivity, I wouldn’t have died doing something useful or paying the consequences for my version of vigilante justice.
The minotaur bellowed again, slashing at Henry’s torn jeans, leaving deep grooves in the soil. His magic once aga
in whispered on the wind, undoing the damage he caused. I hated that part of his foul magic almost as much as his ability to create mazes and toy with his victims’ minds. Without evidence a large predator lurked within the forest, I understood how so many had fallen prey to him. Too many relied on trails and other signs to keep safe, especially centaurs and lycanthropes.
Vanilla humans wouldn’t know the difference between a man-eating minotaur and a goat unless slapped in the face with one. Then again, no one expected a minotaur, especially not a mutant one.
The minotaur continued to bellow, pausing only to snort and suck in great breaths. Pawing the ground with a hoof, he lowered his head and charged one of the neighboring trees. His head collided with the trunk, which exploded in a shower of splinters and bark, and the entire thing toppled with a ground-shaking boom.
Yep, if I let that damned thing get a hold of me, I’d be pulverized. All I could do was sit tight, wait, and hope he didn’t take offense to my tree. While the wind blew and the minotaur’s magic whispered in the air, not even it could hide the evidence of his fury, leaving behind the fallen tree as testament to his preternatural strength.
I needed a new life, stat.
The sun rose, but the minotaur remained, stomping around the entrance to his lair, slashing at the remains of Henry’s jeans, and snorting, punctuating his displeasure with the occasional bellow. I wanted to hiss at him for his persistence, but I remained still and silent.
Three trees had fallen prey to his temper, and he was running out of targets before he’d inevitably smash my tree into mulch. I’d become a black mamba pancake.
There were better ways to die, and I spent an unhealthy amount of time considering them in turn. Choking on an ice cream cone topped the list, with tripping over my own feet and falling into traffic, a paper airplane to the eye, and a thousand infected paper cuts making a good showing. I’d rather choke to death on my own spit, too.
