Armstrong looked taken aback and caught more than slightly off-balance at my words. “What are you talking about?”
I glared at him defiantly, drawing myself up straighter in the chair. “That Sebastian. He touched me.”
“Touched you?”
It was apparent I was going to have to spell it out. “He put his fingers… inside me.” I fought against the rush of heat that rose across my cheeks, and failed miserably.
His eyes grew colder and he bellowed, making me jump. “SEBASTIAN!”
The door opened at once, giving the impression Sebastian had been loitering outside. He strode in; closing the doors and standing beside the chair where I sat. I could smell the stench of his potent aftershave and wrinkled my nose in distaste.
“Yes, Sir.”
Armstrong stood up abruptly and he was a good couple of inches taller than Sebastian was. He was irate, tendons visible in his neck as he glowered at the shorter man. “What were your orders regarding Miss Duncan?” he snapped angrily.
“You told me to collect Miss Duncan from Montana and bring her here, Sir.”
My assumption was correct; I was no longer in Montana.
“What were your express orders regarding contact with Miss Duncan?” Armstrong's face had reddened with anger, a vein pumping visibly in his temple.
Sebastian looked confused. “Sir?”
“I told you there was to be no sexual contact. Under any circumstances.”
“But, Sir, the blood sucker told me he was her mate. I had no option but to check—”
I wasn't sure it was my imagination, or my own fear, but Sebastian appeared scared. His dark eyes had rounded owlishly and he was clenching and unclenching his fists.
Armstrong crowded the smaller man, fury clearly visible in his expression. “You were to leave her untouched! I made my orders exceedingly explicit in that regard!”
What happened next took only a split second, but I was subjected to every horrifying detail, as if time had deliberately slowed down so I couldn't miss it. I heard a quiet click; similar to the latch of a door being turned, and then Armstrong raised his left arm and slashed his hand across Sebastian's neck.
Sebastian dropped to his knees, clutching spasmodically at his ruined neck. I could see tendons, veins, muscle – even the glossy white bone of his spine through the shredded skin. Blood poured from the wound in a torrent, rapidly soaking his white shirt before he slumped face-forward onto the carpet.
I shrieked and screamed as Sebastian lay dying before me. Gurgling sounds emitted from his throat as blood pumped endlessly from his neck, a pool of scarlet forming on the carpet around him. I held my hands over my eyes, trying to block out the macabre spectacle. It stopped me from seeing his death throes, but didn't protect me from the mental image of seeing his throat reduced to so much meat and blood.
Now I was certain of what I was dealing with. Werewolves.
A hand gripped my arm, gentler than Sebastian's had been, but still firm. Armstrong hauled me to my feet as I continued to shriek. I struggled ineffectively against his grip as he pulled me from the room.
“Clean up the mess,” he ordered the stunned guards. He drew me further down the hallway, pushing me before him into another room. He lowered me gently onto a leather armchair, crouching before me. “My apologies, Miss Duncan. I'm sorry you had to see that.”
Inhaling deeply, I began to gain a little control, but I couldn't look him in the eye. He terrified me, more than any person I'd ever met before did.
“Would you like something to eat? Or perhaps a drink? Some coffee, perhaps?”
As if I could think about eating or drinking when I'd just witnessed a man getting his throat ripped out. Stupid, Charlotte. Stupid. You need your strength. Accept the offer. I nodded mutely.
Armstrong rang a bell near the doorway and I glanced away from him, concentrating on bringing my ragged breathing back under control. This room was large and luxurious, with couches and armchairs in sleek black leather. The walls were decorated with velvet-flocked wallpaper in pale gold and the floor was covered in plush white carpet. Antique lamps sat on elegantly carved wooden coffee tables. I stole a glance at the window, hoping for some clue to our whereabouts. Bright sunshine was casting shadows on the green lawn and the plants definitely seemed tropical. Where the hell was I?
A middle-aged woman appeared in the doorway, wearing a pale blue uniform with a white apron tied around her waist, sensible white shoes on her feet. She didn't look at me and seemed unperturbed by my presence. “You called, Mr. Armstrong?”
“Bring a plate of sandwiches and some coffee for our guest.”
The woman curtseyed and closed the door quietly when she left the room. Armstrong walked back across to where I sat, lowering himself into an armchair opposite mine and resumed his unabashed study of my face.
“You really are a beautiful young woman.”
I stared at him, waiting uneasily for whatever was coming next.
“Hmmm. The silent treatment. While I can understand your revulsion, I must warn you, I find the silent treatment very tiresome.” He leaned forward, a frown creasing his tanned forehead. “Your blood-sucking friends weren't nearly as quiet when they were executed.”
Startled by this admission, I blinked at him uncertainly. “He— Sebastian— he promised they wouldn't be killed.”
“As you have just discovered, Sebastian isn't good at following orders. After you were removed from the Tine house, my men finished the job I'd ordered. The bloodsuckers, all their human friends. All dead. We couldn't take the risk of any of them trying to locate you.”
For a few long seconds, I was numb – utterly devoid of conscious thought or feeling. Then pain rippled into my chest, as though my heart had been stabbed with a cold, sharp knife and it was all I could do to remain upright in the armchair, not fall to my knees with the pain.
“I don't want to hurt you.” Armstrong's voice was gentler now, less harsh, and more persuasive. “All I want is information. When you have given it to me, you'll be free to leave.”
I kept my gaze lowered, focusing on my hands and Lucas's gold ring on my finger. Could Lucas really be dead? Rowena and Marianne— everyone? Was this a trick, or was he telling the truth? I doubted his honesty and certainly didn't believe he would let me go if I told him what he wanted to know. More likely, he would kill me as soon as I gave up the knowledge.
I inhaled a deep breath and forced myself to look up into his cold eyes, speaking quietly and firmly. “I don't know what you want from me. I don't have a clue about what you're saying. I have nothing I could tell you.”
Armstrong was furious as he launched himself from the armchair. I squeezed my eyes shut, convinced he was going to hit me, but instead he wrenched me up from the chair, his grip unyielding around my wrist.
He dragged me unceremoniously from the room, along the hallway and back down the stairs. He flung open the metal door and pushed me into the concrete cell. I stumbled and fell, hitting my shoulder and hip hard against the unforgiving floor.
“You will tell me everything you know. You can be absolutely sure of it,” he shouted angrily.
The door slammed and I heard the key turn in the lock, the noise echoing throughout the empty room. I dragged myself to the mattress, sobbing with terror as I dropped down onto it. I curled up into a ball, my body trembling so violently I wrapped my arms around my legs to try to control the shakes. Tears flowed freely as I considered whether the only people I truly considered family in this world could possibly be dead.
Chapter 3: Knowledge Revealed
There was no telling how long I'd lain on the mattress, whether it was day or night, or how many hours had passed. Since Armstrong threw me back into the concrete room, I'd had nothing to eat or drink. My throat was parched and my stomach rumbled ominously, aching with hunger. The room was still freezing and I'd spent most of my time trying to retain what little body heat I could manage.
I'd dozed on and off and when I w
oke, a bucket, which hadn't been there before, was sitting in the corner of the room. I investigated and discovered it was empty, and with a sinking heart, I realized this was my bathroom. This was where I was to apparently deal with physical necessities during my imprisonment.
Before falling into a troubled sleep, I'd spent a lot of time considering if what Armstrong had said could be true. Could Lucas and his friends be dead? Not only them, but also all those guests at the wedding? Whether it was wishful thinking or not, I discounted the idea. I'd calculated the number of men who'd appeared so suddenly at the wedding and came up with fifteen. Even if they were all werewolves and vampires, I didn't believe fifteen people could take on over two hundred people and kill them all. Someone had to survive, I was certain of it. I needed to believe Armstrong was lying and stubbornly clung to hope.
In the meantime, I needed to stay alive and that was looking increasingly doubtful if I didn't get something to eat and drink soon. I huddled in the corner, legs tucked up to my chest and my arms wrapped around them. There was a good chance sustenance wouldn't be an issue soon, because in all likelihood I would freeze to death. This room was disorientating; trying to figure out whether it was day or night, or how much time had passed was hopeless. It was impossible to tell and the light over my head glowed constantly.
Like a mantra, I ran through the little information I'd managed to accumulate. As much as I loved Marianne, I knew her psychic power was haphazard at best and couldn't be relied on. Ripley might be able to hear my thoughts and it was the only hope I had. I didn't know the distance his mind reading could work across, but it was my only hope and I was clinging to it. For hours at a time, I repeated it in my head. Gerard DuBonet, Laurence Armstrong, Gerard DuBonet, Laurence Armstrong. I was certain if Ripley could pick up my thoughts, if they could track down Gerard DuBonet or find out about Laurence Armstrong, they might be able to find me. My rescue hopes relied on a lot of ifs and maybes, but it was all I had to cling to.
I heard footsteps approaching and listened intently. The door opened and one of the guards I'd seen upstairs came in, silently wrenching me to my feet and dragging me along the corridor. I was taken upstairs and into the living room I'd been taken to last time.
The guard shoved me down on a chair and I found Armstrong waiting for my arrival. He was seated opposite me, wearing black trousers and a sky blue shirt, his legs crossed at the ankle. On the coffee table was a plate filled with sandwiches and a pot of coffee; sugar and creamer neatly laid out beside it.
“You must be hungry,” he remarked quietly.
I eyed him suspiciously, wondering if this was a ruse. Was he going to allow me to eat, or was this his idea of a sick joke?
“Please, help yourself,” he said, waving his hand towards the food.
Snatching up a sandwich, I crammed it into my mouth, watching him cautiously as he poured coffee. He didn't speak again until I'd stuffed another half dozen sandwiches into my mouth, desperate to eat as much as I possibly could before he stopped me. The coffee was too hot to drink, but I grabbed the jug of creamer, gulping it down quickly.
Armstrong laughed; the sound cold and humorless in the room. “You are quite the little animal, aren't you?”
When I'd eaten every sandwich, I leaned back in the chair and eyed him suspiciously. “What do you want?”
“Now, Miss Duncan. You know exactly what I want. I want you to tell me how your gift works.”
“What gift?”
He sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over his bearded chin. “I'd hoped you might have come to your senses by now. You've been here for three days and as you can see,” he waved around the room expansively, “nobody is coming to your rescue.”
I remained silent, watching him apprehensively. At least I knew now how long I'd been here, although it seemed much longer than three days.
“Alright, let me tell you what I already know.” He paused, staring at me with those intense brown eyes. “You have a psychic ability. I am aware of it because your little band of bloodsuckers attacked some associates of mine. They released two of them, and one came to me with information. He told me about you and it was a very interesting conversation. This particular associate overheard the discussion you were having with your mother. Imagine his surprise, when he discovered your mother wasn't in the house, yet managed to warn you of their impending arrival. Although he was too stupid to consider the possibilities, I did, and a little investigation confirmed your mother has been dead for two years. So, I asked myself, how does this girl talk to a mother who is dead and buried already?” He leaned forward, tapping his forehead. “She obviously has some sort of psychic talent, a very powerful talent.”
I continued to watch him, trying to keep my face neutral, wondering where this was going and how much he really knew.
“Still not going to talk? No matter. You will – one way or the other. For the moment, I will continue my little tale as you are listening with such rapt attention.” He settled back on the couch, stretching his arm along the back of it. “Now, I think to myself, what use is a girl who can speak with her dead mother? There is nothing to be gained from such ability. What possible benefit could it be? But I admit, I was intrigued, wondering just how much psychic ability you had. You were having a complete conversation with your dead mother. A two-way dialogue. In the interests of conducting a full and complete investigation, I decided to send another blood-sucking colleague of mine to the Tine home.”
“Gerard DuBonet?” The name slipped from my mouth unbidden and I wished I hadn't said anything. I didn't want to help him, no matter how close his conclusions were to the facts.
“Yes. Mr. DuBonet has a remarkable talent of his own. Through touch, he gets a snapshot of a person's history. Almost like flicking through hundreds of old photographs at once. And what do you think Mr. DuBonet discovered when he touched you?”
I didn't like where this was going. “I don't have a clue.”
“He tells me you have a remarkable psychic aura. The only trouble is, Mr. DuBonet couldn't access the information I wanted. He tells me you have a shielding ability which he can't breach.”
He stood up, walking slowly around the table to crouch beside me. I heard the odd clicking sound and enormous claws sprouted from the ends of his fingertips. He used one claw to stroke leisurely across my neck and I fought rising panic, struggling to remain seated and not give anything away in my expression. “That tells me you have something remarkable hidden in that pretty head of yours, but it seems I can't get to it. Which is why,” he pushed the claw against my neck, where my jugular vein pulsed rapidly, “I want you to tell me about it.”
My hands were shaking and I clutched them in my lap. I didn't know what he intended to do with any information I gave him, but I was certain no good would come from it. “I'm afraid you've been misinformed, Mr. Armstrong. I have no idea what you're talking about and I can only tell you what I've told you before. My name is Charlotte Duncan and I'm an artist. There is nothing unusual about me.”
He didn't use the claws. His fist rushed towards my face and I shut my eyes, cringing from what was to come. His closed hand connected with my cheek, slamming me back against the chair with enough force to tip it over, spilling me to the floor. Pain registered only briefly, before I slipped into unconsciousness.
Chapter 4: Conal
Waking up in the concrete room after a beating became a regular event after that first punch, one I faced with increasing dread and despair.
Any information I came across was added to my mental S.O.S., although I was growing more convinced, nobody was coming to my aid. Despite the hopelessness, which was intensifying, I didn't want to give up. If I gave up, what else was there? So I continued to broadcast what I knew, uncertain if it would ever be heard by Ripley. Every time I was dragged up the stairs, I took mental note of anything that might be important. I'd begun estimating the number of guards, based on the area of the house to which I was escorted. I had a good eye for faces and could recogn
ize new people as the shifts changed. Each time I saw someone new, I added him or her to my list. For hours on end, I ran through the information in my head. Gerard DuBonet, Laurence Armstrong, fifteen guards, sunny and humid. Gerard DuBonet, Laurence Armstrong, fifteen guards, sunny and humid.
Each time I was taken upstairs, I expected it to be the last time. Armstrong was becoming increasingly frustrated, the beatings he dished out more brutal with every day that passed. My face and arms were black and blue, my body aching almost constantly.
Once more, I heard footsteps approaching and I cringed, squeezing my eyes shut at the thought of another session with Armstrong. Eventually, he would tire of this game and kill me. I would be grateful when that time came. I wasn't sure how much longer I could do this, didn't know how long I could keep up the strength to deny him what he wanted. Even as I feared giving in, I knew I had to keep fighting against him. I still couldn't imagine what he intended to do if he found out about me, how my psychic ability could possibly be useful to him.
I was hauled back upstairs and taken into the study. I avoided looking at the patch of carpet where Sebastian had died. The blood had been cleaned up, but a faint stain remained and the vague notion occurred to me that Armstrong would have to replace the carpet. Why that particular thought crossed my mind, I didn't know, but it seemed better to think of practical things than what was about to happen. Maybe he was waiting until after he'd ripped my throat out, so he didn't have the expense of replacing it twice. I shook my head, knew I was surely losing my mind, and glanced up at Armstrong. I was surprised to discover there was a second man in the room with us. It made me instantly more wary – this was something different and I didn't trust it.
“Miss Duncan. How delightful of you to join us.” Armstrong indicated a chair beside the stranger and the guard pushed me down onto it. I peeked cautiously at the stranger, not willing to make eye contact with him. He was a bear of a man, tall and muscular with broad shoulders and bronzed skin. He had a mop of unruly black hair, which curled across the collar of his shirt and his strong jaw was shadowed with the beginnings of a beard. He glanced down at me and before I could lower my gaze, I noticed his eyes were unusual. So dark, they seemed pitch black and they were animal-like in shape, something not completely human about them.
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