When he advanced, I kicked up—stopping him with one heel planted firmly on his chest. The steel behind me bowed as he leaned into it. I thrust my foot against his breastbone even as my other foot kicked up. The steel made a warping sound as it gave under the pressure and rust rained down. The toe of my hiking boot caught him on his square chin and knocked his head back.
It was a struggle to get my feet back under me—my back scrubbed down the tarnished and corroded steel wall as I plummeted a few inches. I barely kept my ass off the floor.
My actions had surprised the Rege enough to force him back a few steps. He recovered instantly.
Fighting for balance, I spun away. The wall flapped open, broken through on one side, revealing studs and a block wall. I ran from him. It wasn’t as easy to do as it should have been; my vision blurred and refocused just in time for me to stop short in front of the throne and turn to keep him in sight.
He stayed on the far wall, watching me. Maybe his age had slowed him some, but he was physically in such good shape that it was doubtful. I had the feeling that the Rege would gladly allow me to tire myself out.
Reaching out mentally, sweeping metaphysical arms back and forth as if signaling to a landing airplane, I searched for nearby energies to stir. Not big energies like a ley line—though I was getting ever closer to crossing that destructive line. For now, I still wasn’t willing to risk every wære in the vicinity. I could target ley energy just on the Rege, but others nearby would sense it and come to his aid. I’d be forced to defend myself even more aggressively, and I didn’t want to do that. Calling just enough energy to make a point to him, and calling it from nearby to avoid alerting the others, was my best option.
But the steel and cement left me wanting.
The Rege pushed from the wall, slowly, cautiously closing in just as I found latent energy in the stones of his mitre: they weren’t emeralds at all, but green tourmalines. Knowing I could use this man’s status symbol to help me keep him at bay, I hid my smile and sank down on his throne, projecting defeat while my fingers stretched toward the mitre.
Green tourmalines are supposed to increase the wearer’s self-confidence and aid communication by creating openness and patience, as well as sincerity toward others. But not these tourmalines. These had been tainted by him. They had become overconfident and boastful. Oppressive. Even better. Drawing that energy around me, that ostentatious disdain prickled over my aura like a porcupine’s quills.
The Rege halted six feet from me, gauging me and surely deciding how to proceed.
“Touch me, and what happens to you is your own fault.”
His hostile frown remained as he said, “And the black widow witch spun her delicate web.” He laughed. “The risk is minimal; I secured my Regency by proving resistant to magic.” He inched forward, hand stroking downward on my aura.
I knew he would now stroke upward and feel the quills. I put every ounce of my will and belief into meeting his merciless eyes. “What you want to achieve will not be accomplished this way.”
A single barb, primed to convince him I was more dangerous than he had assumed, pricked his finger. His features slackened momentarily, then he blinked, shook his head, shifted his weight back.
I stood and willed every barb to rise defensively.
His scornful smile resumed its place on his face. “I assure you, I have accomplished many things this way.”
“You don’t even know who I am.” The edge of conviction in my voice was sharp. It stalled his steps again.
He held his position on the verge of my aura’s circumference. “It matters not.”
Though he was aiming for snide, I heard a note of doubt in his tone. It was the signal for me to laugh at him and try to reinforce the idea that the advantage here was mine, and he just hadn’t seen it yet.
“If you’re so proud of who you are, then, tell me.”
Borrowing lines from Johnny and others, I said, “I am a pure-blood witch, a caster of spells, an element master, and ringer of bells.” Feeling an empowering swell of energy swirling inside me like raging rapids—and hoping it wasn’t just some bad side-effect of brain trauma beyond a concussion—I advanced on the Rege. “I am the witch of old,” I said as my aural quills sank into him, “delivering justice and voicing truths untold. I’ve been called the moonchild of ruin … don’t make me ruin you.”
As I spoke, his eyes glazed over. His jaw slackened.
It was the same reaction I’d witnessed in the policeman at the Botanical Gardens when Menessos had mesmerized him. I wasn’t certain it was even possible that I had impressed my will upon him, but if it was … “You’re finished here. Leave. Now.”
The Rege walked away.
I held my breath, waiting for him to return and attack, to announce that he’d played me for a fool. When the door shut behind him, the reality of what I’d done hit home and left me stunned.
But I couldn’t be too impressed with myself. After he had gone I realized I should have said: “Untie me and then leave.”
So. Getting free of the ropes was my new goal, but I took a moment to collect the icky-feeling energy of those tourmalines from my aura and release it from the stones on his mitre.
The candles could have burned through the rope, but before I gave myself third-degree freedom burns, I considered other options. I discovered that the teeth on one of the skulls adorning the throne were serrated and sharp enough that I was able to saw through the rope at my wrists and get free in about ten minutes. Though I’ve seen TV protagonists free themselves similarly, none of them ever acted like their triceps ached with effort afterward. Just then, lifting a glass of water—and I badly wanted something to drink—would have proved painful.
Now that I was free, I had to choose my next move. Redoing what I’d just done to the Rege was questionable, and unlikely en masse, so staying here waiting until more wæres showed up wasn’t an option. That meant it was up to me to quickly get my ass out of here.
There were two doors to the room. One led to where I had been when I woke; the other was used by Gregor and the Rege as an exit. A quick inspection with one of the candles established that the former led to an empty chamber without any other doors. The floors of both rooms were cement and had drains in the floor.
I glanced up at the old pipes winding their way across the ceiling, studied the walls. The place had me wondering if I was up to date on my tetanus shots. The lack of windows made me think this place was underground.
Not good.
I knew which way to go, but I couldn’t guess what to expect once I passed through the door.
Making an assessment of what was available, my options were few. I considered the candles, rope, marble pillars, and throne. Since pointy things usually made good weapons, I tested the horns on the throne to see if any could be detached.
Just as I mentally whined about the ache in my arms, one of the horns broke off. And I do mean broke. The base of it stuck jaggedly up from the back of the throne quite obviously.
Great. Now the Rege has another reason to be pissed at me.
What I now held was dark and grooved, more of an antler or a prong than a horn. It was as long as my forearm and thicker than was comfortable to grip, but this was no time to be choosy. It was unquestionably pointy enough to be dangerous and that was sufficient. With the rope coiled around my shoulder—because if they discovered I had escaped, they would think I was still bound and that might give me an advantage if needed—I hurried toward the door.
Rushing made my footfalls harder and faster, which brought a resurgence of nausea. I slowed down and moved carefully. The door’s strange push handle gave freely. Hooray, he didn’t lock me in. I opened it with such patience I impressed myself. But the sneakiness wasn’t necessary. Beyond was a block hallway, industrial wide, dirty and lit by bare, dim bulbs. To my right was a dead-end; I had to go left.
Cautiously, and with a white-knuckled grip on the antler, I walked down the hall. My ears burned, straining fo
r a sound.
This place felt like it was underground, so I wanted to go up. Up meant out and away. My brain whispered about the underworld and how the goddess Persephone was escorted back to the world by Hecate and Hermes. But that same brain seemed to be throbbing as relentlessly as a metronome keeping time.
As the hallway ended on a wide space, I saw no one, heard nothing. After sniffing and smelling nothing but the dusty cement, it was easy to decide to hit the stairs. Up and out. Chanting that to myself kept the underworld whispers at bay.
I climbed one level, peeked into a similar open space, and stepped out to head up the next level. Here, the silence finally ended.
That didn’t surprise me. Of course there would be people guarding the exit. As I neared, however, the sounds weren’t what I expected. They weren’t the noises of guards playing cards or watching sports. They weren’t human sounds at all.
I inched around the final turn and slinked along the wall at a snail’s pace. What I could see was a re-creation of the previous floors. With my cheek against the cold concrete blocks, I peeked out into the open area. Empty.
It seemed every floor had the same layout, and the noise was coming from down a hallway not unlike where I’d been kept. Wary, I eased into the open area and edged onward, only to find there was no stairwell cutting back in. If there was a way out from here, it was down that hall. Past the noise.
I wiped my sweaty palms on my thighs, then resettled my grip on the antler and moved into the hall. From my new position I could tell the doors were different. The sound was coming from within the rooms ahead; the doors might be open or altogether absent.
Nearer, the smell of barn straw filled my nostrils. The dried grass rustled as something inside moved. It was followed by the sound of brusque sniffing. Definitely animal. If there are animals of some kind in there, they would be out roaming if not confined.
That reasoning steeled my nerves enough to proceed. I could see the doors were recessed just a little, and the first one was barred. A relieved sigh deflated my lungs; glad to know whatever they had in there wasn’t coming out.
I passed without seeing anything inside but cement and straw in the first caged room. If there had been steel on the walls here, it had been removed. The second cage was on the opposite side. There was more of the same movement and sniffing sounds, followed by a whine. I could see the tip of a furred tail, but that didn’t tell me much.
The third room seemed empty. No shifting straw to reveal movement, no sniffing.
Just as I passed, something launched itself against the door, paw swiping out. I threw myself to the hallway floor, but even so, I felt one of the claws catch on my jeans pocket and tear it.
Landing on my forearms with a thud, heels kicked up, I saw stars again. The antler skittered away.
Lying there until the dizziness faded would have been my preference, but something was snarling a few feet away and my instincts didn’t allow me that luxury. I rolled to my side and the rope slithered away from my shoulder. Keeping my knees bent so my feet were clear of the still-grabbing paw was the priority.
The claw that had reached for me was scrabbling over the floor between us. But it wasn’t like any claw I’d ever seen before. There was only one actual claw … the rest of it was—
—a human hand.
My mind couldn’t make sense of what I was seeing at first. I chalked it up to the concussion, but even in hindsight, I don’t think I could have comprehended it any faster if I’d been clear-headed and fully caffeinated.
It was a human arm, stretching through the bars, an arm lightly covered in fine gray hair like the downy feathers on a chick. The fingers were shortened, the palm lengthened, and the index had a single dark claw on it instead of a fingernail. At the shoulder, the arm attached to a deformed body, one with a doglike rib cage, deep rather than wide. The fur here was darker, thicker. The creature had human buttocks, human thighs, but at the knee the limb became the lower leg of a wolf.
Again my eyes scoured the grotesque, misshapen body. My brain screamed at me, Don’t look! But I couldn’t help it. My rebellious gaze locked on its face. The all too-human head had fangs—more teeth than any person should have in their mouth. There was no snout, just a human jawline and human nose turned dark at the tip. The ears were elongated. The eyes, one wolf-gold, and one human-blue, slammed home the realization of what I was seeing.
This was a wærewolf. One exposed to the energies a witch can stir, the insufficient energy that leaves them half-formed.
This man, this thing, snarled at me and saliva dripped from its horrible maw. There was nothing even remotely human in the eyes that were locked onto me. They were feral. They were hungry. And they saw meat.
He lifted his head at an angle no human neck would be able to match, and howled. But that howl wasn’t wolfish. It was the scream of a man being tortured.
“Admiring the handiwork of your peers, witch?”
Snapping my head around toward the voice was a mistake. My head complained mightily about it even as my limbs prepared to get my feet under me and flee. But Gregor didn’t come after me. He simply crossed his body-builder arms and fixed me with his usual scowl.
This time, the nausea wouldn’t be denied. I threw up. When the nasty-tasting nothingness on my stomach was gone, I dry heaved for several minutes.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
About an hour later, after an elevator ride down to a familiar parking area beneath, I realized that I’d been brought to the den. Maybe without a concussion I might have realized sooner, but the upper floors, which had no windows, were nothing like the lower area, and the elevator had steel secondary doors, not just a wooden gate.
They had bound my hands again, this time in front of me, but there was so much of the prickly rope wrapped around them that it was, truly, overkill—like eight pounds of anchor line. If my arms didn’t ache, I could have started building up my biceps. Enough reps with this load and I could give Gregor some competition.
A black limo was waiting. Gregor, three Omori, the Rege, and I all climbed in. Omori thugs sat on either side of and across from me. Gregor opened a brown paper grocery bag and set it on the floor space before my feet. “In case you vomit again,” he said mockingly. “Do not miss.”
Other than that, no one spoke. We were subjected to some classical music that was much too upbeat for the state of my head. Watching out the windows made my stomach very unhappy, so I focused on the floor and the beat of the throbbing inside my head. But I wanted to know where they were taking me, too. I recognized Carnegie Avenue and East Seventy-ninth Street. We took a right on Superior, then a left on Martin Luther King Jr. Drive.
Are we going to the Cultural Gardens? I lowered my eyes again as my stomach shuddered.
Nana and I had picnicked here a few times in my childhood. She liked, predictably, the Greek Garden with its Doric columns framing the entrance to a reflecting pool. Nana and I ought to bring Beverley here next summer and picnic. If I make it out of this, that is.
My stomach squeezed; I fought against it. Back at the den I had asked for a drink of water and Gregor had declined, saying I would only “make a mess” if he did. He was right. I leaned over the paper bag just in case.
The Omori thugs beside me inched away.
The limo zipped past the Greek Garden area, pulling over to the left just before the stone bridge that supported St. Clair Avenue. The arched stonework in the bridge was gorgeous, reminding me of the entrance to the Arcade that Mountain had shown me. There was no time for daydreaming, however. The men unloaded and I was expected to stay with them. Damn it. I want a bottle of water and a nap.
I thought the wealth of rope around my wrists would be a red flag to drivers passing by, but one of the Omori thugs was wearing an overcoat. Gregor ordered him to remove it, then draped it over my arms as if I was merely holding my jacket as I strolled along.
I made sure to breathe my puke breath on him.
So, in the dying light of the day, w
e walked up to the life-size statue of a man in a long coat, seated comfortably, yet clearly deep in thought. The Rege seemed particularly glad to see it.
The bronze had taken on the green patina of age and local pigeons had added their artwork as well. The plaque told me it was George Enescu, the years of his birth and death, and that he was a composer. A Romanian composer.
Maybe the long cassocklike coats are a Romanian thing.
If this was just a little sightseeing trip around Cleveland to take in spots that offered some cultural homage to these foreign visitors, hooray. But there was no reason to take native-Ohioan me along for the ride. I was no tour guide.
So what is going on? “Are you guys all fans of Mr. Enescu’s?”
“I am,” the Rege said. “That was his Romanian Rhapsodies we were listening to.”
Gregor’s cell phone beeped. He gave it to the Rege.
“We’re waiting,” he said tersely. Pause. “Not coming? What do you mean not coming?” The displeasure in his voice was succinct. That someone could irk him that much made me smile. Then, whoever was on the other end said something in response that caused the Rege’s attention to shoot to me. He stormed away, snarling whispers into the phone that I couldn’t understand.
Smiling at Gregor like I’d just won the lottery, I asked, “Things not going according to plan?”
He said nothing, but simply gave me a fine example of what utter contempt looks like. If he’d been on our team, it would have been a plus in our column. We started another stare down. The wounds Johnny gave him had healed nicely.
“We have her, so get your ass down here and claim her!” The Rege shut the phone so hard the sides clacked together and he tossed it at Gregor with such aggravation he didn’t realize his best pal wasn’t paying attention. Gregor took it in the face.
Shoved into the back of the limo, I climbed onto one of the side seats. These guys were definitely not gentlemen.
The Rege sat inside with me. Gregor remained just beyond the car door.
“Who’s coming to claim me?”
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