by J. D. Tyler
Nick studied Kalen for several long moments. The slump of the man’s shoulders, the tightening around his mouth and the weariness in his eyes told Nick that his newest recruit didn’t want to go but felt he must. “No. Not acceptable.”
The other man blinked. “I can’t stay. You don’t understand.”
“So fill me in on the problem and we’ll deal with it.”
“I don’t think it’s going to be that simple.” A sad laugh escaped his lips. “As if anything would be where I’m concerned.”
“Tell me, son,” he urged, injecting all the warmth and confidence into his voice that he could muster. After a long moment, the younger man nodded.
“My pentagram was given to me by my grandmother,” he began, gazing at his boots. “She once told me it had been crafted centuries ago by a master Sorcerer, and spelled as a protection against even the most powerful evil. I was never sure about any of that until recently, but it was a gift from her and so it was special to me.”
Nick frowned. “Then why did you give it to Mac?”
“Because she needs the protection and it’s the strongest—the only—talisman I have to give.”
“Why does she need protection? Does this have to do with the attack?” A couple of weeks ago, Kalen and Mackenzie had gone into town separately and had run into trouble in the form of one of those nasty winged creatures with the big mouth full of sharp teeth, like the one he had locked in the basement cell. The two of them had nearly been killed by the damned thing, and would’ve been if Kalen hadn’t gained the upper hand and dispatched it to hell.
“Yeah. Remember, it scratched her and bit me. What I didn’t tell you is Mackenzie started hearing a voice. A sinister one telling her to do all sorts of bad shit.” His expression was bleak. “I tried everything, every spell I knew, but I couldn’t get rid of it. The bastard, whoever he is, was driving her crazy. Literally.”
Nick stood and made his way around the desk, parking his butt on the edge and telling himself not to lambast the younger man for keeping this from him for so long. What mattered now was getting answers. He waited.
“So I put the pentagram around Mackenzie’s neck and told her never to take it off. Seems to be working.”
“Okay, so if she’s fine, why do you feel the need to leave?”
“Because now the bastard is in my head,” Kalen said miserably. “He’s a very distinct, intelligent being. Those big-mouthed ghoul fuckers work for him.”
Nick stared at him, stunned. “He admitted this?”
“Yes, and that’s not all. He said he knew that by driving Mac out of her mind, he’d force me to give her the pendant, leaving me vulnerable to his machinations. I’m the one he wanted all along. He somehow knows way too much about me, wants to use me—and I’m afraid he’s slowly winning the battle.”
The dread that had taken root morphed into fear. What entity was such a great physical force in the universe that it could manipulate a Sorcerer who had few equals?
There were only two possible beings on that list, and either of them taking control of Kalen would spell disaster for everyone. And why? What is his ultimate goal?
First, they had to contain the threat.
“Kalen,” he said, “I can’t let you leave. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
The Sorcerer stared at him for a long moment, then swallowed hard. “If I go, you’ll hunt me down and kill me.”
“If you go rogue and fight us, yes. I’ll have no other choice. But if you stay, we’ll monitor you and do all we can to free you of his influence, whoever he is.”
“Then I guess I have no other choice but to stay,” he said bitterly.
“There’s always a choice.”
“What’s going to happen to me?” Green eyes pinned Nick, begging for the truth.
The vision that had been threatening finally exploded in Nick’s brain. His head fell back as the office vanished and he found himself racked with pain, kneeling in the middle of a field as cold rain lashed down like needles and lightning split the sky, then zipped down to scorch the ground.
All around him, his men battled unearthly creatures from hell and beyond. Losing ground with every passing minute. Facing their doom.
And on a high pinnacle stood the Sorcerer with his staff, soaking wet. Screaming to the heavens for help that would not come.
A detonation shook the ground and all was lost in a maelstrom of wind and rain. Of blood and tears. The world fell away.
“Nick!”
Dead. Was he dead?
“Nicky!”
Nick’s eyes snapped open and he gasped, sucking air into his lungs. Kalen was crouched on the floor in front of him, shaking his shoulders, face panicked. “I’m okay,” he croaked.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” No.
“Jesus,” Kalen breathed. Standing, he took a step back. “You scared the crap out of me.”
“Sorry, kid.” He took a few steadying breaths.
“Nick, am I going to die?” he asked softly.
Oh, God. Don’t you understand I wouldn’t tell you even if I could? “We all die sometime. But I know what you mean, and I honestly can’t tell you because I didn’t see that.”
Technically, it was true.
“Am I going to hurt any of my friends? Innocents?”
“I don’t know.”
Seconds passed in heavy silence.
“All right.” Kalen sighed. “I’ll stay.”
“Good. Keep me posted on any developments with the creature. In the meantime, be ready to roll. I have a feeling that lead on where Aric and Micah are being held just may pan out, and soon.”
“Will do.”
With that, the Sorcerer walked out and left Nick alone.
So alone. As he’d been for the past two and a half centuries.
Three
The fierce arguing reached Aric’s ears long before the combatants came into view. A woman’s and a man’s voices. No, two or three men. Beryl and who else? He couldn’t make out their angry words over the roaring in his ears and the pounding in his head, and decided it didn’t matter, anyway. There wasn’t much left of him but a slab of meat hanging in chains, and the wicked stepsister would carve up the rest soon enough.
Was there anyone on the planet who gave a damn what happened to him?
He wasn’t a guy normally given to loads of introspection, but there was nothing to do in this hellhole but think. The longer he remained their special guest, the more the twin demons of doubt and fear eroded his confidence, unraveled the threads holding together his sanity.
But maybe losing his mind wouldn’t be a bad deal.
As footsteps neared him, he lifted his chin slightly to peer at the group through the fall of his long, dirty red hair. He wished he hadn’t, because even more than Beryl, the sight of three men, two in lab coats and one meathead that was obviously the hired muscle, chilled his soul the way nothing else could have.
Except for their heated conversation.
“. . . better be glad I’m not making a phone call,” one of the men said coldly. He was average in height and looks, brown hair. Outside of this place, nobody would give him a second glance.
“Do it, Bowman,” Beryl retorted with a self-satisfied smirk. “And see who he blames. You’re the employee, not me. You’ll face his wrath for letting a test subject get away.”
Dr. Gene Bowman of NewLife Technology. The former supervisor of Jaxon Law’s new mate, Kira Locke. Sweat rolled down Aric’s face.
Bowman remained unmoved. “If you honestly think spreading your legs for some demon is going to protect you from any fallout from what you’ve done, you’re sadly deluded. This project is much bigger and more significant than your petty games. What we’re on the verge of accomplishing is huge, and he’ll let nothing get in the way—especially not a slutty, mediocre witch who’s easily replaced in his bed.”
Aric missed Beryl’s pissed-off retort. His brain was too busy reeling at the overload of
information. Demon? Was that a slur against Orson Chappell, or had Bowman meant “demon” in the literal sense? Anything was possible—including the idea that Chappell was not the head of the snake, something Nick and the team had feared. Whoever the head slimeball might be, Beryl was sleeping with him.
Bowman turned to the muscleman and the other guy in the lab coat. “Get him down from there and take him to the lab for prep.”
Before that moment, he’d only thought he’d known fear.
The taller doctor and the meathead released his wrists, allowing him to drop. Arms dead from little circulation, limp as cooked noodles, he face-planted on the dirty concrete floor with his legs still attached to the wall, spread-eagle.
It was the single most degrading moment of his life.
Then the doc and the muscle guy hauled him up, easy as pie considering all the weight he’d lost, one taking him under the arms, one getting his ankles. Carried faceup, naked body on display and nobody caring, his carcass no better than a number to write down in their sordid files.
After an ascent in an elevator, he tried to keep track of the twists and turns they made, but he was simply too exhausted. Disheartened. Several minutes later, he found himself in a stark space that distinctly resembled an operating room.
It was then he noticed the drain in the tiled floor.
When they placed him on his back on a steel table, he began to struggle, attempted to call his fire or his wolf. Anything. But the “gifts” he usually cursed had deserted him when they counted most, and his rebellion was short-lived. A needle slid into the crook of his right arm and a cold burn seeped through the limb, stretched icy fingers across his chest. Suddenly he had trouble breathing, whether from the medication or sheer panic he didn’t know.
The freeze slowly crept across his stomach, to his groin and legs. With the cold was the realization that he couldn’t move at all—though his mind remained aware.
Bowman’s hated, innocuous face appeared over him, smiling faintly. “Console yourself with the thought that this is for the greater triumph of mankind. Now relax.” To the other doctor, he said, “Note that the experimentation on number five fifty-two has commenced.”
“Wh-what’re you doin’ to me?” he slurred. His tongue felt heavy as a wet blanket, his thoughts growing sluggish. He peered at a bright light overhead and it quadrupled, as did the faces above him.
No one answered his question. His legs were spread and fastened with restraints, and so were his wrists at his sides.
A scalpel appeared in Bowman’s hand as he continued to dictate the procedure and findings to someone Aric couldn’t see. “Subject is malnourished and dehydrated, with cuts and lesions in the late stages of infection over forty percent of his body. Taking samples of the subject’s DNA and semen to determine their viability to our cause.”
Semen? What the fuck?
“Percentage of probability of scheduling subject five fifty-two for termination?” a robotlike voice intoned.
“Will advise.”
“Thank you, doctor.”
Yeah? Fuck you very much, doc.
Focused on his task, Bowman answered with only a grunt as he lowered the scalpel to the center of Aric’s chest, just a millimeter south of his sternum. Aric’s instinct was to struggle, try to yank on his bonds, get his hands free and torch them all, but again, absolutely nothing happened. He could only watch as the small blade sliced gradually into his skin, parting the surface like hot butter. There was pressure but no pain, an odd and frightening thing when a maniac had total access to his body and he couldn’t do a damned thing to stop the asshole.
The pressure increased, the knife digging deeper. So deep he swore the doc was cutting straight to his heart. Maybe he was. Apparently satisfied with this cut, the doc removed the now-bloodied knife, laid it on a nearby tray and held out his hand for a new instrument. A large pair of what Aric thought of as oversized tweezers were slapped into Bowman’s palm and he pried apart the sliced flesh, inserting the points. A strange tugging sensation in his chest, now accompanied by some pain, took his breath away.
Bowman lifted the tweezers. Aric’s eyes widened to see a piece of his own tissue dangling from the instrument. If he’d been capable, he would’ve gotten violently sick. As it was, the procedure was repeated twice more while Aric tried desperately to think of anything but what they were doing to him. The medication didn’t prevent him from closing his eyes, but he couldn’t stop watching.
The last sample of flesh was handed to an assistant. “Log in and test the heart tissue samples from test subject five fifty-two. I want to know if his DNA and gene strands are compatible to merge with human subject two twenty-nine.”
“Yes, doctor.” The assistant disappeared.
And something chilling occurred to Aric—the fact that Bowman hadn’t bothered to put him to sleep, was openly discussing the procedure when he and his bosses knew that Alpha Pack was onto them, meant that Aric wasn’t supposed to survive.
When they were done using his body, they would kill him.
Bowman continued, moving down to stand next to Aric’s spread legs. “Now obtaining semen sample from five fifty-two.”
The scalpel was handed back to Bowman, and Aric’s brain reeled in horror as the doctor’s latex-covered hand lifted his testicles. Only when the knife descended did he realize that the numbing agent must be wearing off. Fucking bastards!
The pain was extraordinary, both bone-cold and white-hot, like nothing he’d ever felt. Not even when he’d been attacked and turned into a wolf. In spite of the paralyzing medication, his back arched off the table.
And the red wolf howled again and again, but only in his mind.
“Hello! Can I help you?”
Rowan turned to the speaker with a half-formed reply in the affirmative… which promptly died on her lips. Standing right in front of her was a tall, lithe, impossibly gorgeous man dressed in skinny jeans and a snug navy T-shirt.
And, yeah. The guy had long, flowing sapphire blue hair she would’ve thought had been colored by Miss Clairol—if it weren’t for the matching wings.
“Well, fuck me sideways,” she blurted.
Golden eyes sparkled with humor. “An interesting idea. May I at least have your name first?”
That surprised a laugh from her, and she held out her hand. “Rowan Chase, LAPD. You?”
The man, or whatever, took her hand but instead of giving it a firm shake, turned it over and placed a kiss on her palm. “Some call me Blue, but my real name is Sariel, and I’m a former prince of the Seelie court. Now I’m an assistant in Block R, where I help Kira Locke oversee the rehabilitation of displaced and injured otherworldly creatures.”
Her skin tingled where his lips had touched and she slowly withdrew her hand, blinking at him. O-kay. “Seelie? What the heck is that?”
“I’m Fae,” he said proudly. “Or faery if you prefer.”
She eyed him from his glorious head to his feet, which sported a snazzy pair of Doc Martens. While the gorgeous slice of man looked like he belonged on a Paris runway, he so didn’t look like any fairy in her book. But hey, whatever floated his boat. “Fae it is.”
“What is L-A-P-D?” he asked, spelling the letters carefully, as though they were foreign to him.
“That stands for ‘Los Angeles Police Department.’ I’m a cop, here on personal business.”
Excitement lit his face. “Oh! I’ve seen those on the television, capturing and shooting bad guys,” he said, making a gun with his thumb and forefinger.
His enthusiasm would’ve been cute if it hadn’t been for the vision of Luis Garcia dead on the dirty ground that still stalked her brain. “It’s not all fun and games,” she replied shortly. “Those people on the tube are actors and the shows rarely get it right.”
His smile fell. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m still learning so much about your world and have so far left to go that when I recognize something familiar…”
“Hey, no sweat.” N
ow she felt bad for ruining his fun.
Shrugging, he went on. “Anyway, you must be an extremely worthy female of your kind to have such an important job.”
“Tell that to the media and the general public.”
“What?” His brow wrinkled.
“Nothing.” She couldn’t believe she was having this conversation—any conversation—with a blue-haired dude wearing wings. “Say, where does a hungry person get something to eat around here?”
Sariel brightened again and offered her his arm. “In the dining room, and you’re in luck because it’s time for the evening meal. I’ll escort you.”
“Sounds good. I could eat roadkill right about now.” Taking the man’s arm, she saw him wrinkle his nose and couldn’t help but laugh. “Relax, that’s just a saying. I don’t eat dead animals off the pavement.”
“Good to know!” His relief was palpable.
Sariel led her back through the maze the way she’d come, but when they reached the hallway where her room was located, he made a turn in a new direction. After a few moments, they ended up in a big dining room, as promised. Like the rest of this place, the room was designed to create a homey feel.
Several large tables took up the space, which was made to house a number of people yet provide for more intimate conversation than it would have with just one huge table. In the center of each table were platters of food, served family style. And around the tables were quite a few men and a sprinkling of women. Most of whom had stopped talking and were checking out the newbie. Rowan looked around for Mackenzie, hoping for a familiar face, but didn’t see her.
“Hey, Blue,” someone called. “Who’s your friend?”
“This is Rowan Chase,” Sariel announced, either ignoring the slight awkwardness or unaware of it. “Apparently she’s our guest for a while. Come on.”
He tugged her to a nearby table where a small blond woman sat with a handsome, dark-haired, goateed man and two other guys she’d seen at the gate. At least now they were dressed. The body language of the blonde and the goateed man, the way they sat close, the big brute leaning into her, made Rowan think they were together. Rowan sat next to Sariel, across from the others, eyeing the steak and baked potatoes in the middle of the table.