“This is Conal Tremaine, Miss Duncan. Conal, meet Charlotte Duncan.” Armstrong introduced us, as though we were attending a formal dinner. I could sense the man studying me, his gaze flickering over the mass of purple bruises covering my face and neck.
“What the hell's going on, Armstrong?” The big man's voice was rumbling deep, deep enough that I could feel it in my chest when he spoke. “You kidnapped me and brought me here for this? Why the hell do I need to see your handiwork?”
“Yes, I brought you here for this,” Armstrong agreed silkily. “I want you to find out exactly what is in her head. Miss Duncan is not being cooperative.”
“You know I don't use my ability on humans, it's too dangerous.”
“Tremaine, keep in mind your pack is currently being held by my men. I would hate to give them orders which could cause the unnecessary deaths of your people.” Armstrong voiced his threat quietly, his voice calm. “But I will, if you don't provide me with what I want.”
The big man's eyes flashed with rage, and I felt an energy building beside me, which seemed to come from him. It brushed over my skin, like a hot wind.
“Control yourself, Tremaine. Or those orders will be given sooner, rather than later,” Armstrong warned.
The man swallowed deeply, seemingly controlling his anger and the heat dissipated as quickly as it had appeared. “I could damage her,” he finally said.
Armstrong pursed his lips as if he was considering alternatives. “I really don't care. It doesn't matter what happens to her mind, that's not what I'm after. But I want what she's hiding in that brain, and you can get it.”
Conal Tremaine scrutinized me, observing the bruises, the split lip, the cuts on my face and arms. “What exactly is this human pup meant to have in her mind that's so damn important?”
“Something I can use to my advantage, if I can get to it.”
Conal Tremaine reflected on this statement for a moment or two, his forehead furrowed as if he were considering his options. “All right.”
He turned his chair to face me and Armstrong grabbed the back of my chair, spinning it so I faced Conal Tremaine. He stared into my eyes for a second or two, before lifting his right hand as if to touch me. I reared backwards, terrified of what he intended to do, but Armstrong clutched me firmly around the throat with his arm, keeping me immobile.
Conal Tremaine raised his hand again, placing his fingertips to my forehead. Acute throbbing started up in my temples and I squeezed my eyes shut, whimpering softly. The throbbing escalated until I was sure I'd never felt such horrendous pain and I had a mental image of his fingers reaching into my brain, probing around the circuits and sections. His fingers moved slowly and vigilantly through my brain, looking this way and that, touching and feeling as he went. In a state of pure panic, I turned to my mental box, ensuring it was securely sealed. His fingers followed immediately to where it was hidden in the darkest recesses of my mind. It was agonizing, the seemingly real assault of his fingers inside my head and I began to tremble, sweat trickling down my back as I battled against him. I couldn't understand what was happening, but I wanted it to stop, needed him to take his fingers away from me and stop the relentless pain, which was making me nauseous.
I forced my eyes open and found him watching me, his black eyes staring into mine as he grappled for the lid of the box. With extreme effort, I focused all my attention on keeping the lid closed, battling against him, and shaking with the exertion it took. Against my will, he pushed harder and although I frantically tried to stop him, he pried open the lid of the box. I stared wide-eyed, mesmerized by the expression in his black eyes, as he saw my inner most secrets and the truth of what I was, what I could do. I knew he was seeing the people I spoke to often, could hear their voices swelling into my mind even as he probed.
And then he blinked.
He removed his hand from my forehead and I slumped in the chair, bile rising in my throat as my head pounded mercilessly. I couldn't stop the whimper that left my lips, or the fervent wish that he'd killed me. Death would be a better option, compared to this agony.
“She's powerful, considering she's human. There's something there, in her mind, but I can't reach it.” He sat back in his chair, dropping his hand onto his thigh and turning his attention to Armstrong.
It was fortunate Armstrong stood behind me, unable to see my expression – there was no doubt he would have seen the startled look I failed to hide. Conal Tremaine glanced back at me for a second, his face showing no emotion whatsoever. His expression was completely neutral as he turned his attention back to Armstrong. “Whatever you think she has, it's extremely well hidden. I'll need more time to break through the barriers she's erected.”
“Do it now,” Armstrong demanded. “I want it; I want the power she holds.”
“Okay.” Conal Tremaine raised his hand again and I sobbed. “As long as you're happy for her to die here and now, that's fine by me.”
“Wait!” There was silence for a few seconds, but I couldn't see Armstrong's face to see what he was thinking, what he was doing. All I could see was the man in front of me, his hand just inches from my forehead. “What's the problem?”
Conal Tremaine shrugged. “She's not like us, she's weak. There's a good reason I don't use the hand on humans, it reduces their minds to so much mush, kills the brain stem. Another attempt so soon after the first will see her die here in your study. Still,” he said, leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms over his broad chest, “it makes no difference to me.”
Armstrong was silent again and I could imagine him considering what the man had said. I couldn't see his face and I didn't dare to turn and find out what his facial expression would tell me. I was certain if I moved the pain in my head would only increase and I was having difficulty enough staying conscious. Black spots were dancing in and out of my vision, the nausea being held at bay only through sheer willpower. When Armstrong did speak, his voice was both angry and resigned. “Fine. I'll give you three days. Get the information from her in the next three days, or I'll kill you and have your pack annihilated.”
“And if I get the information?”
“You'll be free to go and our blood feud is at an end. The debt will be forgotten.”
“Agreed.” Conal glanced fleetingly at me, before returning his gaze to Armstrong. “Keep in mind there's a full moon in two days.”
“I'm aware of that,” Armstrong snapped. He grasped my arm and wrenched me from the chair, dragging me towards the door. He shoved me unceremoniously out to the guards and screamed at them to return me to my prison. Once there, I promptly vomited into the bucket, retching repeatedly until I was dry heaving, my throat stinging, and my vision blurred by the intense headache. I dropped to the floor, lay my forehead against the cool concrete, and cried.
When I could, I crawled on my hands and knees to the mattress and lay staring up at the ceiling. Why had Conal Tremaine lied? He'd broken through whatever shields I had in place. Why hadn't he told Armstrong what he'd seen? I rolled onto my side, curling into a ball and trying to conserve some heat in my body. For the millionth time I wondered why it was so cold down here, when it was so warm upstairs.
The familiar and unwelcome sound of footsteps came from the hall and I braced myself, unable to quell the frightened moan that escaped my lips. Not already, he couldn't expect me to go through that again already. I hadn't been back down here for long, it seemed only minutes had passed – I couldn't survive a second attempt so soon.
To my utter confusion, when the door opened Conal Tremaine was shoved into the room and fell to the floor in a crumpled heap. He'd been beaten, blood still pouring from a deep gash on his forehead.
The door slammed and I heard the key turn in the lock. I remained motionless for a minute, and then began to crawl towards the prostrate man on the floor. He remained utterly still, to all intents and purposes, he seemed unconscious, but I was wary. Having him imprisoned here made me nervous, I knew he wasn't a normal human, but
I hadn't figured out exactly what he was. I sighed heavily. All I knew was that he hadn't given Armstrong my secret and for that, I owed him something.
I crawled to the second bucket I'd been supplied with a day or two ago, which held fresh drinking water. Armstrong had apparently figured out I couldn't survive forever without nutrients, so I now received a bucket of water and scraps of something inedible each day. I glanced down regretfully at my beautiful dress, which looked much the worse for wear after days of abuse. “Sorry, Acenith,” I muttered, grabbing the edge of the train and tugging until I'd managed to tear a piece of material from it.
I dipped the material in the water, using it to dab gently at the wound on the huge man's forehead. Expending a lot of energy I could ill afford, I shoved and pushed until he lay on his back, only then realizing that the cut on his forehead was not the only injury he'd sustained. There were four deep scratches across his chest, visible beneath the torn shirt. After a few seconds of anxious deliberation, I undid the buttons of his shirt so I could clean the wounds, which looked like claw marks. I had no doubt who'd done this to him and why – because he'd kept my secret. The least I could do was to try to help him.
He was handsome, I mused, as I cleaned the wounds carefully. He wasn't classically handsome, but attractive in an earthy, outdoorsy way. Sooty black eyelashes framed his closed eyes, and there was a cleft in his chin, which was partially obscured by the stubble growing on his cheeks and jaw. I guessed he was somewhere between thirty and forty, exceptionally muscular with broad shoulders and an impressive six-pack. I wondered if he was married – did he have a family somewhere? A quick glance confirmed he didn't wear a wedding ring. The thought was comforting – although it didn't guarantee he was single, at least I could hope he didn't have a wife or girlfriend worrying about him somewhere. He did have a pack, which Armstrong was threatening. How many people were involved, how many would be hurt if I didn't tell Armstrong what he wanted to know?
I thought Conal Tremaine must be a werewolf, as I suspected Armstrong was. The assumption seemed to make sense with Armstrong talking about a pack. This meant I might be in a whole lot more trouble if he meant what he'd said about the full moon. I didn't know how much of what I'd read about werewolves was true, but I was positive the forthcoming full moon could only be bad. I continued my first aid efforts, fretting over the thought of this man turning into a werewolf in a few days' time. There was another smaller cut on his abdomen and I wiped it carefully, removing the blood that had spilled across his smooth olive skin. Satisfied that all the injuries I could see were clean, I was about to rinse out the cloth when he regained consciousness, gripping my wrist in a painful grasp.
I shrieked and tried to pull away, terrified when he growled deep in his chest. He opened his eyes and released his grip immediately, looking more carefully at me, his dark eyes taking in my disheveled appearance, the wet cloth still clutched in my fingers. Keeping his gaze on me, he touched his forehead, then his chest before pulling himself into a sitting position.
“You were cleaning my wounds?”
I nodded, terrified of this imposing man.
“You're in a great deal of trouble, Miss Duncan.” His voice was deep, a rumbling growl which was strangely soothing.
“My name's Charlotte,” I responded softly.
“Charlotte.” He stood up abruptly, his movements fluid and graceful for such a tall and solidly built man. Walking slowly, he scanned the walls and ceiling, studying every square inch. I sat mutely, waiting while he finished his inspection, wondering what he was looking for in the bare room.
When he seemed satisfied, he walked back to where I was and sat cross-legged on the floor opposite me. “This room doesn't appear to have any hidden cameras or bugging devices. I don't think Armstrong thought it would take this long to get what he wants – I'm sure he didn't plan to keep two prisoners here. I think we're safe to speak freely.”
Watching him cautiously, I was aware that my wrist still throbbed where he'd grabbed me. He could snap me like a twig and I wasn't convinced of whose side he was on. But he'd kept my secret, and I felt as if I should trust him, at least a little bit. What choice did I have? “Are you a werewolf? Like Armstrong?”
“I'm werewolf, Armstrong isn't. He's a shape shifter, a wolf wannabe.” His black eyes flickered around the room again as if he wanted to confirm there was nothing here, which Armstrong could use to hear our conversation. “Shape shifters are scum, they're beneath us. They have no honor.”
“He has your – people, Mr. Tremaine.”
“If we're going to be on a first name basis, you can call me Conal,” he responded. “Yeah, he's got my people. If I don't deliver what he wants, he'll kill them.”
“And you?”
Conal inclined his head. “I'm a dead man already. No matter what he says, he's got no intentions of allowing me to leave.” He gazed at me, his eyes searching my face. “I killed his brother a couple of months ago. I paid the required penalty, but that isn't enough for him. He wants an eye for an eye.”
I wasn't up to trying to understand werewolf and shape shifter code of behavior. I shivered, freezing in the thin dress I'd been wearing for days. “You saw what was in my head,” I stated, “why didn't you tell him?” There seemed little point in beating around the bush. Conal had seen my secrets and hiding anything from him now seemed pointless.
“What are you?” he questioned abruptly, ignoring my question.
“I'm just a human. I have some psychic ability.”
Conal shook his head firmly. “I'm not so sure about you being just a human. How long have you been having corporeal visitations?”
“A month, maybe a little more. I heard their voices first, for years before I acted on them. Then the… visitations started.”
“Your ability is unbelievably powerful. It surprised me, when I broke through your shield and discovered what you were hiding.”
“It surprises me, too,” I muttered and the thought was not an entirely happy one.
Conal stared at me for a full minute and I forced myself to return his gaze without looking away. It was like being studied under a microscope and I fought the urge to squirm. “You don't know why he wants that?” he finally asked.
I shook my head.
Conal inhaled deeply, letting the breath out with a sharp whoosh. “He wants to use what you have in your head as a weapon. To gain power over others around him.”
I couldn't understand what he was suggesting. How could something in my head be used as a weapon?
Conal saw my confusion and enlightened me. “Those spirits in your head, you have a great deal of power over them. More so than I would imagine any human has ever had. Your ability is unusual in a mortal. Extremely unusual.”
“I still don't get it,” I admitted.
Conal's dark gaze fixed on mine. “You have corporeal visions, don't you? You see the spirits manifested physically before you?”
I nodded cautiously.
“I saw in your mind – you have the power to make those corporeal visions do your bidding.”
I felt my eyes widening. “How do you know that?”
“I see things you've done when I'm probing your mind. My gift allows me to access your mind, comparable to searching a computer for files. You used one of the spirits to do your bidding.”
I grimaced uncomfortably. “I got my Mom to trip up a waiter.”
Conal shifted, folding his leg up and wrapping his arms round his knee. “Put that all together and you have the answer. You can use the spirits to do your bidding. Imagine being able to use an army of spirits to do your bidding.”
The penny dropped.
Chapter 5: Allied
I drew myself to my feet clumsily, still struggling with the effects of Conal's probing. The headache was still pounding, exacerbated by what Conal had laid out for me. I paced backwards and forwards, digesting the implications. He continued to sit on the floor, seemingly content to wait for me to speak.
&n
bsp; “I still don't get it. I'm not going to give him an army.”
Conal stared at me, one eyebrow raised in unconcealed amusement. “You humans aren't real quick on the uptake. Remember what he said when I warned probing might damage you?”
I thought back over the conversation and realization dawned on me. “That's why he hits me around the face, the arms, upper body. Why he said he didn't care what happened to my mind.” I shivered as understanding dawned. “He doesn't want my psychic ability. He wants my genetic makeup.”
“Good girl. Maybe you're smarter than I gave you credit for.” Conal chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. “He needs to know exactly how powerful you are. When he discovers the full extent of your abilities, I imagine he's going to harvest your eggs and fertilize them with shifter sperm. Probably his own. He'll create his own psychic children. Children who may be able to control and command an army of dead.”
“But how will that help him?” I argued. “Even if they did carry the same psychic ability, it would be years before they're of any use to him.”
Conal laughed harshly. “Back to thinking like a stupid human. Regardless of how long it takes, creating his own race of psychic shape shifters will give him tremendous power. More power than anyone could imagine. He's prepared to wait. With the correct training and encouragement, he could have them doing his bidding in eight years, maybe less. And in the meantime, he has you.” He paused for a long moment, eyeing me impassively. “And if he tortures you for long enough, you'll give in to him.”
“I won't,” I stated resolutely, but my mind screamed doubts at me. The beatings were becoming increasingly brutal. How long could I hold out against that type of physical abuse? If he threatened to kill people, if I didn't do what he said, would I be able to stand up to him? I knew I couldn't.
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