by Amy Sumida
“Look, there are no holes.” The nurse showed me the lid of the chocolate pudding, then handed me the container. “I promise you, it's not been tampered with.”
We'd been playing this game since I woke up that morning. At least I could hold the pudding now. My strength had returned rapidly with the influx of fluids, electrolytes, and real food. The benefits of immortality. Breakfast would have been eggs and toast, but I had refused. The nurse, who wouldn't tell me her name, brought me a sealed container of applesauce and one of those single-serving cereals which, after inspecting repeatedly, I ate dry. It was ridiculous, which she now pointed out.
“If we wanted to drug you, Your Majesty, all we'd have to do is put it in your IV,” she pointed out. “Please, let me bring you a hot meal.”
I sighed and gave in at last. Now that I was stronger, I was thinking clearer too. “You're right.” I set the pudding down. “Bring me a damn pizza. Pepperoni and olives. And breadsticks. With cheese on them.”
“A pizza and breadsticks it is.”
“And a Coke.”
She laughed. “And a Coke. Anything else?”
“Tacos. Crispy shells, mild sauce.”
Her eyes rounded, but she nodded. “You got it.”
I frowned after her as she left. She definitely wasn't a fairy. She looked human, and her aura registered as human, but so did that of most witches. I didn't think she was human, but I suppose she could have been. She could simply be an employee, hired to care for a captive queen. Money can be a great motivator. The same went for the doctor. He looked human, but I wasn't sure. I fell back against the pillows and sighed, my gaze going to the window. They'd moved me into a room on the second floor—or maybe higher, I couldn't be sure—and they'd even opened the window to give me some fresh air. Of course, it was barred, and I assumed there was a containment field around my room, but it was still nice to know that I was above ground again.
“I hear you've consented to a hot meal,” the doctor said as he strode in with a bright smile on his swarthy face. “A huge meal.”
He looked Arabic, which would make sense if he was a Flame Witch. Several of them had at least a hint of the Middle Eastern looks of their fey ancestors.
“Are you one of them?” I asked.
He froze. “One of your captors?”
I nodded.
“No, I was hired to look after you.”
“Oh, so you're just a greedy human.”
He flinched. “I was told you were in desperate need of medical attention and would not receive it if I refused.” He lifted his chin. “I thought it better to help than not.”
“Oh, sure, but you'll keep your mouth shut when you leave.”
“It's either that or they kill my family,” he whispered with a look over his shoulder.
I sighed. “I'm sorry.”
“It's okay.” He came forward. “I can't imagine what you've been through. I understand that you feared they were drugging you and that's why you stopped eating.”
“I know they were drugging me.”
“Why would they?”
“That is a good question. I believe it's to torture my husbands, but I'm not sure.”
“What is your next course of treatment, Dr.?” A man strolled in, interrupting us.
I sat up straight. This guy wore a suit with shiny shoes and a disdainful expression. His hair hung straight to his shoulders in a pitch black line. He had a darker complexion than the doctor's and his eyes were a rich brown, but I couldn't place his features; definitely not African-American, possibly Middle Eastern. There was a hint of smoke on him, but he wasn't a fairy. He had to be one of the flamers.
“Uh, well, her vitals are good. We'll get some food in her, continue with the fluids just to be safe, and she should be right as rain in a few days,” the Dr. stammered. “Her recovery is astonishing, as you said it would be. She's already gained significant strength.”
“Good. I'd like to speak with Her Majesty now.”
The doctor cleared his throat, gave me a heavy look, and left the room.
“The man behind the curtain,” I said as I looked him over. “I was expecting more.”
“More what?” He lifted a brow at me.
“Just more.” I shrugged. “You look like an Italian playboy.”
He chuckled. “Do I? I'll have to remember that.” He breathed in deeply, his eyes closing in apparent bliss. When he spoke, it was breathy, “You gave us a scare, Your Majesty.”
“Oh, I'm terribly sorry,” I said, sarcasm dripping venomously. “The last thing I wanted to do was scare the bastards imprisoning me.”
He chuckled again, it sounded like the laughter you might hear in a dark alley after midnight. The kind of laugh that made your skin crawl. He blinked his eyes lazily and looked me over.
“Where's Drostan?” I demanded.
“The Baron is fine. Don't worry about him.”
I didn't trust the guy for a second, but I let it go. He might want revenge on Drostan for killing Verisande, but it would be more beneficial to keep Drostan alive. “Okay, let's try another question. Why did you drug me?”
His eyes widened slightly, the only indication that I'd surprised him. “I was ordered to.”
Holy shit, he finally admitted it.
“So, you're not in charge?”
“No.” He grinned. “More of a second-in-command sort of thing.”
“I see. Where's your master?”
“I don't have a master, but my boss is indisposed. You'll meet him tomorrow if you're feeling up to it.”
“Lovely. I'm looking forward to having a nice chat with him.”
“I'll bet you are.” His grin held malice and glee; it sent shivers through me.
This guy was setting off my creep radar like crazy.
“How long have I been here?”
“Can't remember, eh?” His grin turned smug.
“Just fucking tell me.”
“We took you sixteen days ago.”
I gasped. Sixteen days? I'd been starving for sixteen days? Or at least fifteen. I glanced down at my body. I had lost a lot of weight but I hadn't thought it had been that long. Holy shit.
“What about my husbands?” I demanded.
“What about them?”
“Do they know I'm all right?”
“They have received daily videos.” He grinned wickedly. “But none have been as exciting as those that we collected on your first day here.”
“So, it was to torture them,” I concluded. “You sick fucks. I'm sorry to have ruined your plans.”
He shrugged. “You haven't. You've just made us adjust them a bit.
“What has the Human Council said?”
“They've given in to our demands. The pictures of you wasting away helped with that.”
“You fucking evil bastards!”
“That's not the first time I've been called that.” The man shrugged. “Your world is about to change, Your Majesty. Make sure you eat up; you're going to need all your strength.”
Then he walked out.
Chapter Twenty
He, whoever he was, was right, I needed my strength. But it wasn't to meet his boss. I ate lunch and, after a tense twilight when I still didn't feel the surge of my magic, I had dinner. I may not be able to twilight, but I could walk, and I could use my magic within their stupid containment field. So, that night, when everything was silent, I removed my IV and climbed out of bed. They had me in a hospital gown, but I found some clothes in a little closet next to the bed. It was the stuff they'd provided for me—a knee-length designer dress and heels—but it was better than the open-back gown.
I got dressed and crept out the door. The hallway was empty, dark, and quiet. I slid along one wall until a soft light, shining around a break in the wall, warned me of the possibility of a guard. I crept up and peered around the corner. It was a nurse's station with a desk, monitors, and a nurse. She was reading a book.
I lifted my palm and blew across it to dream-d
ust her. Nothing happened. No dream-dust! But I had sensed my magic before, in the room with Drostan. Why wasn't it coming now?
“Having a bit of trouble, Your Majesty?” a man's voice came from behind me.
I jumped and spun. He stood a few feet away, grinning—the Italian playboy.
“Missing something?” he drawled.
I reached for my firethorns, lifting my hand before me to summon a small ball of them. Nothing appeared and no hint of magic rose inside me.
“What did you do to me?!” I shouted at him.
“We didn't drug you with Dark Kiss this time, but we did add a little something special to your fluids.” He grinned. “We would have simply cuffed you, but you're immune to iron. So we had to find another solution since there's no containment field up here. My boss is a brilliant scientist. He whipped up a little concoction to put your magic to sleep; it's like a containment field inside you.”
“Sweet Danu,” I whispered.
The man grimaced. “Since you're up, the Boss wants to see you. Come along, Your Majesty.”
He walked past me, and I followed because I didn't want to find out what he'd do if I didn't. His dress shoes were quiet on the linoleum floor, and he held his back ramrod straight as he led me through the clinic. Even without the nurse's station, the place had the sterile look and scent of a hospital ward. All white, no pictures on the walls, institutional overhead lighting. Another man stood behind the nervous nurse now, and her book was laid on the desk. The guy with me nodded to this man, and the man set a hand on the nurse's shoulder. She flinched.
“Your work is done,” he said in a deep voice. “Come with me.”
I met her eyes and saw the stark fear in them. She'd just realized that being terminated was likely to have more than one meaning for her. I clenched my teeth together in frustration; I couldn't help her. I couldn't even help myself. At least she had chosen to be here.
The man opened a door and took me into another part of the house. The clinic was left behind, replaced by old-world luxury. Hardwood floors covered with rich rugs in somber colors lay beneath my feet, and antique sconces—real antiques, not replicas—hung on the walls to either side of me, casting warm light over paintings that belonged in museums. And that was just the hallway.
We entered a stairwell at the end of the corridor and ascended to the top floor. The stairs ended there, so I assumed it was the top. And that's where things got really extravagant. This witch was loaded, so this wasn't about money. Whoever he was, he was doing this for power. My world-domination theory was looking more likely. I glanced at the rooms we passed, all of them dark and empty. He could have an army of witches in that house, but they were confined to the lower floors; he kept the top for himself. Sounds about right for a megalomaniac.
Light filtered out of a room at the end of the corridor. My stomach clenched nervously, wondering what the witch in charge really wanted from me and what he'd do to me now that I'd ruined his entertainment. Oh, fuck, Drostan. What was he going to do to Drostan? He wouldn't hurt a Seelie Baron when he could use him as leverage instead; that would be foolish. Drostan had to be safe. And I'd be all right too. I just had to hang in there until an opportunity to escape presented itself. Fuck, sixteen days! And I'd been half out of my mind for most of them. My family must be losing their minds too.
We entered a spacious room done in rich green, deep maroon, and polished wood. More green, just like my luxurious cell; it must be this guy's favorite color. The bedroom wasn't as big as the one I'd been in with Drostan, but then, it didn't have to be. This was just a bedroom, not an entire living suite. A bedroom. Sweet Danu, I was meeting this man for the first time in his bedroom. What kind of man does that? But then again, he'd captured two people after murdering who knows how many; impropriety was the least of his crimes. Plus, it was the middle of the night. They might have woken him up to tell him of my escape attempt. Aw, poor crime lord, losing his beauty sleep.
I glanced at the massive bed against the left wall—one of those medieval box types with carved wood panels instead of posters and a top to enclose it. It made the bed look like a separate room, especially beneath the vaulted ceiling. We'd entered from the right corner, the room stretching out toward that bed, with huge windows on the wall opposite the door, their drapes shut tight against the night. The chandeliers—masculine monstrosities of blackened metal and glass—were on but dimmed so that the room had a sleepy look. A fireplace sat cold in the right sidewall, but my escort waved his hand at it, and it flared to life. I clenched my teeth at the show of magic; it was practically a confession. He was a Flame Witch, no doubt about it now.
He took me to the collection of leather seats before the fire, a thick rug defining the space. A couch strewn with fur blankets sat in the center, facing the fire. He waved a hand at it imperiously. I sat down, irritated that I appreciated the warmth, then glanced up at the painting over the mantle. I did a double-take and winced. It was obviously an original and probably worth a fortune, but it also stirred up emotions and created a mood—all of them dark.
In the forefront of the massive painting, two men grappled, one with dark hair and one red. Both were naked but nothing naughty showed. The nudity wasn't the point, nor was the theme sexual. The dark-haired man was on his knees, back arched painfully, forced into the position by the redhead. The redhead had a knee in the brunette's back and a ferocious grip on the man's wrist, pulling and pushing him into the awkward position. Both were posed dramatically, their muscular bodies beautifully golden beneath a crimson sky. The brunette had his head lifted, staring at that bleak sky with a tortured expression while his free hand tried to push away the redhead, who was biting his throat like a vampire.
Vampires were another type of witch—the Bite Clan.
But that was just the focal points of the painting—the in-your-face aspects. In the background, a mountain of people writhed, fire roaring up around those poor souls on the bottom. Between that morbid mountain and the struggling men, another man laid, looking dead, likely drained of blood. To the left of the fighters, a priest and a Roman emperor stood, the latter holding his cloak to his lips in horror and wearing a gleaming, golden crown of leaves. And above the scene, right in the middle, like the star on a fucking Christmas tree, a demon hovered—wings spread, arms crossed, and bat-like face grinning wickedly.
It was a depiction of Hell, and this fucker had it in his bedroom. The damn thing would have given me nightmares.
I looked away from it, to my escort, who was standing beside the fireplace, waiting patiently. His gaze intensified abruptly, focusing on something over my shoulder. No, not something—someone. He inclined his head respectfully, then sent me a smug look. Without a word, he left, closing the door behind him. I didn't turn around; I refused to give the bastard that much even though my skin crawled and my stomach shivered in fear. I just waited, staring at the fire.
I heard his soft footsteps approaching. The burning wood crackled and popped, the scent of smoke lightly drifting out from it. I suppose the mantle of a fireplace was a good place to put a painting of Hell, and a Flame Witch might even find it amusing, but the painting and its placement had given me a picture of its owner as well as a peek into the fabled Underworld. The man approaching me, the crime lord who had orchestrated my abduction, delighted in pain and subjugation. The image of one man tearing out the throat of another excited him. This was his porn—displayed in a place of honor where he could see it while he had sex. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck lifted as he drew closer. I'd have to be careful with him; he may value me, but he wouldn't be above torturing me just for the fun of it, especially since he'd know I'd heal. And only Anu knew what other kind of drugs this man had cooking in his lab.
He stepped around the armchair on my right, and I finally turned to face him. My gaze moved up a dress shirt worn casually open at the neck and then reached his face. Our stares collided and my whole body went cold. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't even gasp, though I wanted to.
My throat constricted on air and sound. Emotions warred inside me, battering my baffled mind. I simply couldn't process fast enough. And then the most horrible thing happened; a tear trailed down my cheek.
“Seren!” Drostan cried out as he rushed to me. “Don't cry, sweetheart.”
He wiped away my tear and his touch startled me out of my shock. I jerked back. Away from him. Drostan. Sweet Danu, it was Drostan.
“Seren, it's still me.”
“No, it isn't. I don't know who the fuck you are,” I whispered.
“I'm still the man you know,” Drostan vowed. “I just have a few secrets I haven't told you.”
“A few secrets!” I shrieked as I stood up and backed away from him. My brain was finally catching up, and it had decided on an emotion—fury. “You backstabbing, slimy, son of a bitch! It was you? All along it was you?”