by T. A. White
Tate was conscious and aware. She just couldn't summon any motivation or effort—including enough to consider escape.
Two people wearing the mask of a snow cat and an abyss bear waited outside. They wore similar clothes as her captor, sand-colored and tight around the forearms, calves and waist, with a red underlayer that showed when they moved.
The bear and cat fell into step beside Tate and the fox, flanking them as they moved silently down the hallway. Tate's head lolled on her neck as she blinked dumbly, her surroundings passing in a dreamy haze.
Part of her knew this apathy wasn't normal. That part screamed and rebelled against her inaction. Sadly, that wasn’t the part in charge. It couldn't convince the rest of her to act, leaving her strangely malleable.
There was a clink and seconds later a brightly colored ball rolled slowly down the hall toward them.
There was a guttural command from the person dragging her as they retreated back the way they’d come with the bear and cat racing forward to cover them.
There was another clink, and a second ball rolled into the corridor in front of them, blocking their escape.
The fox backpedaled, but not quickly enough.
A hiss of air filled the space before there was a small explosion. Lilac colored smoke spilled from the balls and filled the space. The fox staggered several steps before slumping forward. Tate slid off his shoulder and hit the ground with a muffled grunt.
She stared up with a slight smile on her face as the lilac smoke curled in on itself, forming patterns in the air. A purple-colored sloth smiled back.
Christopher's brown eyes appeared above her, a peculiar contraption covering his mouth and nose. "There you are."
Here I am, Tate thought but couldn't quite get out.
"Kind of the Morain to do all the hard work for me," he said as he reached down for her. "I'll have to send them a thank you note."
Tate didn't say anything as she felt her body being lifted. The last thing she heard as she was tossed facedown over his shoulder was Christopher whistling a jaunty tune as he dashed through the smoke.
*
This time there was nothing confusing or disorienting about Tate's launch into consciousness. She burst upright, her eyes wild as she took in her surroundings. Canvas loomed above her and she became aware of a rocking sensation under her.
It was hot, startlingly so. And dusty. Her throat tickled with the need to cough even as she suppressed the urge.
The low murmur of voices from the other side of a flap of cloth warned her she wasn't alone.
She was in a carriage or wagon, she decided, looking around. The sway of the vehicle rustled a small cloth screen dividing the space and Tate caught a glimpse of two men, one driving, the other propped up on one hand looking out at the landscape.
Memories from the last time she was conscious rushed back to her—Blade’s visit, then passing out shortly afterward. People in animal masks appearing from the darkness—then that cell.
She'd been kidnapped. Twice, if her memories of the violet smoke were to be believed.
That had to be a record of some type, she thought with a grimace. Dewdrop and Night were never going to let her live this down.
She struggled to her knees, careful not to make a sound. She didn't waste time questioning the lack of restraints or the absence of guards. The need for speed and stealth outweighed such thoughts. Everything else could wait until she was safe or at least not in imminent danger.
Tate rose to a crouch, moving quickly and silently to the rear of the covered wagon. A sheet hung over the back exit, blocking any hope of a breeze reaching inside, while turning the wagon into a hot box. She twitched it aside, careful to stay out of sight of anyone who might be following.
A stark landscape greeted her. Endless jagged hills of red and brown, dotted with the occasional small, scraggly shrub. Ground so dry and parched, it had jagged cracks spreading out like spider web strands.
She was in an arid climate. Vegetation practically nonexistent. Just rock and dirt and sand.
Saviors above and below, she had a feeling she was lost somewhere in a desert with no clue how she'd gotten there or how long she'd been unconscious.
She was far from any rescue, her friends and the port city likely hundreds of miles behind her. This time she was on her own.
She let the canvas fall into place as she settled back to think. At least there were only two kidnappers. She hadn't seen any sign of wagons or horses behind them, no indication of additional guards who might sound the alert when she slipped out the back and disappeared.
On the cusp of doing exactly that, she hesitated. It would be so easy. She doubted her kidnappers would even notice, given the lack of supervision or effort that had gone into securing her.
Concerns about food and water prevented her. She wouldn't last long in this heat without them—especially water.
Slow death from dehydration, or possible torture and then death from the people who'd kidnapped her? Choices.
She threw one leg over the rear edge of the wagon. She'd take her chances.
A bright laugh from the front of the wagon froze her in place. She stared out at freedom, unseeing.
She knew that laugh. Her shoulder throbbed in memory of an old wound, courtesy of the last time she’d crossed the laugh’s owner.
Tate slowly faced the front of the wagon, unable to stop herself from creeping forward. She remembered now—Christopher appearing out of the purple smoke like a macabre phantom, then throwing her over his shoulder as the Morain collapsed.
Her feet were whisper silent as she prowled closer. Her fingers curled into loose fists at her side.
A white-hot need to attack filled her. She yearned to tear him apart limb from limb before stomping his head into the ground. Thoughts of escape seemed far away now.
She forced herself to stop, to think. Acting rashly would do nothing but make her situation worse. Escape was the safest option. There was no need to face him now, from a position of weakness, when the odds favored him. She could retreat and regroup to find him again at a time of her choosing.
Everything in her wanted to reject that option. She'd spent months working toward this goal, yet in all that time, this was the closest she'd come to confronting him.
Crouching, she drew the curtain back a fraction to catch a glimpse of her nemesis.
Christopher's head tilted back, an anticipatory smile on his lips. "You might as well come out. I know you're awake."
Tate's breath stuttered, fear and fury locking her into place.
She jolted into action, her muscles coiling as she sprang forward. She hit him in an elegant tackle. He grunted, toppling out of the wagon with her on top of him.
They landed with a jarring force, separating and rolling.
Tate scrambled to her feet as Christopher lay there wheezing and laughing. She didn't hesitate, kicking him in the stomach.
His breath expelled in a whoosh. Tate grinned. Who was laughing now?
A force hit her from behind. Her head snapped back as she staggered forward, falling to her knees as the driver slipped an arm around her neck before hammering two vicious punches to the back of her skull.
Tate reached back and grabbed the arm around her neck. She bent forward, tucking her shoulder and used her other arm to grab the person’s shirt. She yanked. Her assailant catapulted over her head, hitting the ground on his back. Tate used the grip she had on his arm to twist, flipping him onto his stomach, and placing a knee on his back.
Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of Christopher pushing himself to his feet, his motions lazy and unconcerned.
She reached down and grabbed her assailant’s collar, yanking him up before letting go and sinking a hard right into his jaw.
That should keep him down while she took care of the real threat.
Tate stalked toward Christopher as he reached into his pocket. She began to sprint. She remembered the nasty little device he’d used on her the
last time he’d kidnapped her. She couldn't let him gain the advantage.
She tackled him, grappling for the weapon as they rolled on the ground with Christopher’s mad cackles as accompaniment.
Tate wrenched the device away and flung it across the hard-packed ground.
He head-butted her in retaliation, his eyes slightly unfocused as blood dripped down his forehead.
Tate reeled from the blow for a moment, before surging forward again. She grabbed his collar with one hand and pressed it into the ground before doing the same on the other side. The press of her forearms on either side of his throat, accompanied by the strong chokehold of the collar held him immobile. If she put just a little more pressure into her arms, she'd cut off his oxygen and the blood supply to his brain.
"I see the dragon isn't the only reason you've survived so long," he gasped. "You're more than just the beast. Good to know."
Tate didn't understand what he was saying, nor did she care at this point. She constricted her grip around his throat. Death by strangling seemed as good an end as any for him.
His eyes widened as understanding dawned. He laughed again, the sound cutting off midway.
"You don't realize, do you?" he mouthed.
Tate’s grip didn't relent.
His hand came up as he tapped the webbing between her right hand where Ilith's tail dangled.
"Talk to your dragon lately?" he choked out.
Tate held the pressure for several more seconds, watching Christopher's face grow redder and redder.
She relaxed the hold abruptly. Not all the way, just enough so he could breath.
He stayed pliant under her, his lips twitching up in his familiar mad grin. The sight of it made her want to finish what she'd started.
Ilith, she asked mentally.
There was no answer. Tate couldn't sense the faintest whisper of pressure from Ilith's mind.
Tate refused to panic. Her ability to speak mind to mind with Ilith was still developing, and she hadn't quite mastered it yet. The lack of response could very well be because of that, not due to any nefarious reason, as Christopher implied.
Ilith! Tate mentally shouted.
Silence echoed up from her soul. The spot in her mind where the dragon normally resided was empty and still.
Tate glanced from Christopher under her to her arm, the panic she'd pushed back before threatening. "Ilith. Answer me."
Christopher's lips curved in a devious smile, the madness fading to be replaced with slyness. "Aw, you've named her. How adorable."
Tate's hold tightened on him, her teeth bared as she barely restrained herself from snapping Christopher's neck. Two things stopped her. One—snapping a human's neck wasn't as easy as it sounded, no matter how enraged she currently was. It took strength and the exact right leverage. Second—she needed to know what he knew and she wouldn't get that information if he was dead.
"What did you do to her?" Tate hissed, her voice sounding like her dragon's just then.
Relief helped beat back the tide of desperation threatening to drag her under. If she could still do that, it meant the dragon wasn't gone. There was hope.
She could work with that.
"Not I," he said with a taunting grin.
"Enough of this." Tate released her grip on one side, punching him in the nose. A spurt of satisfaction filled her at the sight of the blood now dripping out of it.
Getting hit there wouldn't damage him long-term, but it'd hurt like a bitch. The cartilage was sensitive and he'd feel that blow for a few hours.
"Don't play games with me," she warned.
Tears filled his eyes as he chuckled, revealing bloodstained teeth. "So sensitive. You should thank me rather than assault me. Unless, of course, a forearm across the throat is your culture's idea of a thank you."
Tate went still, her breath panting in and out as the words resonated with her. She'd said almost the exact same thing once upon a time.
Where had he heard that? He hadn't been there during her first encounter with the Kairi when they had tried to kill her after she'd returned the hairpin Dewdrop had stolen from them.
"Ah, now you're thinking. Who betrayed you, I wonder?" His eyes never moved from hers.
Tate's breathing was still fast and she wanted to stop the words coming out of his mouth by any means necessary.
"Was it the brawny Danny? Or maybe the slick Ripley? Oh, I know, maybe it's the innocent Trent?" he said, his expression thoughtful.
Games. It was always games with him.
"Or maybe it was Umi or Kadien," she said with a nasty smile. Both of those traitors could have recounted their first meeting to him before they died. They'd had plenty of time.
He was trying to get in her head and force her off-balance.
She picked him up slightly and then slammed him back into the ground. "How about you answer my first question? What did you do to Ilith?"
"I did nothing to your dragon," he said reasonably. "The drugs they dosed you with are still in your system. It'll take a few days to work their way back out. Until then, your dragon is sedated and sleeping."
Overpowering relief filled Tate's chest despite cautioning herself against it. She couldn't trust anything out of Christopher’s mouth. He was a liar and took pleasure in misdirection.
"You should be thanking me, you know," he said conversationally, drawing her focus back to him. "If not for me you'd still be in those animals’ clutches, so drugged you wouldn’t even know up from down. I saved you."
He relaxed back into the dirt, sending a sultry expression her way.
"What's that look for?" she asked.
"I'm waiting for your gratitude to commence."
Several seconds passed before Tate barked out a laugh. "You'll wait an eternity for that—especially since I suspect you’re the mastermind behind it all."
The flirtation fell from his face as his lips curved down into an exaggerated moue of disappointment. "So suspicious. You should really work on that. You never know when it'll make you miss out on an opportunity."
Tate rolled her eyes before pressing her forearm against his throat again. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't just kill you now."
"Oh, you should. You definitely should," he assured her. "But you won't. It's not who you are."
"Funny thing that. I'm not really sure who I am half the time. What's to say this version of me wouldn't take pleasure in snapping your neck?" Tate asked. In that moment she meant every word.
Who she had been before her long sleep was gone. Who she was now, was up to her. Yes, she didn't believe in taking a life without a damn good reason, but Christopher had tried to kill her more than once. He'd placed those she cared about in danger on more than one occasion and was likely to do it again if she didn't end this once and for all.
"Ah, but the present you is so annoyingly similar to the past you," he said bitingly. "Why else would you have the whelp and the animal stuck to you all the time? Tatum Allegra Winters with her misfits and outcasts, hero to the disenfranchised and rejected."
Tate didn't bother asking how he knew all this. It'd become clear over their past few encounters that Christopher knew way more than he should about her and who she'd been.
From what she'd pieced together, Christopher had been a guardian at one point before he’d been exposed to something that had turned him more than a little crazy. Or so she was told.
She stared down at him, her gaze as hard as the hold she kept on him. He looked back, his eyes clear and expression guileless. Too clear; too guileless.
He was buying time.
Tate's gaze shifted to the side, noting the shadow of a person. Fuck. She'd forgotten about the driver she'd knocked out.
Tate glared down at Christopher in realization.
He shrugged. "Oops."
Bastard.
The shadow's arm raised.
Tate rolled off Christopher, the blast from the weapon missing her by millimeters. She ignored Christopher’s howl of pain as she
found her feet.
The driver looked horrified as he watched Christopher writhe in agony. He spotted Tate coming for him and lifted the oblong weapon in defense.
She was there in the next instant, striking his arm and knocking it away before punching him in the throat.
He choked and sank to his knees. She grabbed his head and jerked it into the path of her upraised knee. He hit the ground, cradling his face as she stood over him.
She bent and picked up the device he'd dropped, pointing it in the general direction of both of them.
Christopher's screams had faded, leaving him panting as he stared over at her.
"Nice try," she told him.
"Can't win them all."
She gave him a bloodthirsty grin. "No, I guess not."
She looked down at the device in her hand.
"What now? Are you going to just continue knocking one or the other of us unconscious? I'm thinking that might get tiring eventually."
Tate didn't listen to him, feeling along the smooth metal, the ridges on one side, the slight opening on the other.
A piece depressed slightly under her thumb.
"You might as well give it up. You're not going to figure it out," Christopher called, making no attempt to rise.
Ah, so that's how that worked.
She aimed the oblong device at Christopher and slid the button before pressing down. A blast left the device, the quiet hum almost ominous, when it was followed by Christopher's screams. His back bowed with the force of his convulsions, his shrieks piercing.
The other man lifted his head, his expression horrified as he watched.
Tate gave him a cool look. "Behave, or you're next."
He nodded and moved both hands to where she could see them, careful to keep his posture low and non-threatening. Good, at least one threat had been neutralized.
Christopher panted as the pain receded. "Mean."
"That was for the last time you used this thing on me," Tate said pleasantly. "Keep reminding me of all the reasons I hate you. I dare you."
Christopher made a face but didn't say anything else.
Tate crouched where she was, tired all of a sudden. It seemed the drugs and whatever that smoke had been hadn't fully worn off. Her lips felt chapped and her throat burned with thirst. Both things she'd ignored in the adrenaline rush of waking to her current situation.