A chorus of battle-hardened men chirped, “Yes, Boss.”
Today was a good day to spill some blood.
Chapter 8
It felt like a jackhammer banged around in my head as I came to. My surroundings swam into focus—two groups of men standing around in a modern room decorated in gobs of money. Unlike the mansion, which did classic refinement in its sleep, this place tried to keep up with the times, having no idea what that actually meant. Strange looking chairs and couches, some without backs, many without arms, crouched around the space, uncomfortable looking and spindly. Loud paintings hung on the walls, blasting the eye with colors a four-year-old wouldn’t put together. The rug, some sort of new age shag thing, didn’t match with one piece of décor.
It looked like someone took acid then decorated this room.
“Ah, she is awake. Wonderful.”
That voice…where did I know it?
A man swam into focus, tall and lithe. He approached me with a graceful, aristocratic saunter.
Andris, the man who had tried to take Jared in the past. Lovely.
“And, we meet again.” His gaze scanned my body. “And, not hurt too much, I trust? My minions can be rather rough, but we did need you unconscious.”
I stood in the middle of the room, hands and legs still clamped to my body with an orange glow. In the corner rested a cage, human height. It didn’t take a genius to figure out where I was going next.
“You can resist my pheromones. Interesting. I had heard that, of course, but didn’t believe it. Such a rare trait for a human. And a magic wielder, however terrible…my, my, Stefan does unearth the modern marvels, does he not?”
“Is this a monologue, or did you expect some input?” I asked in a gruff voice, strained with the magic roped around my neck. It attached me to a pole. Through the link, I felt Stefan, fear eating away at him like acid, but trying to mask the vulnerability with boiled rage and vengeance. He knew, then.
“It’s just that, without accepting the pheromones, you might not have a wonderful time of it. I’m not sure what the White Mage plans to do with you, but you are too pretty to waste.”
“A dose of foreshadowing from an excelled storyteller. What a treat. Say, listen, how about you transfer me over to that cage now. My feet hurt. I want to sit down.”
A smile erupted onto his face. “What fun. A human with spirit. The screamers do get tiring. The White Mage will be along shortly.”
“Goodie.” I slouched against the magic, letting the pole take my weight. It wasn’t the most comfortable of arrangements, but it was better than some things I could think of. And given that this situation was so far messed up, fear could potentially drag me under and cause Stefan unneeded stress (which would road block his effectiveness at a rescue), I had to focus on only the most positive of circumstances.
A cage and sitting down was it. My life had really taken a turn from cramming for a mid-term.
As people murmured around me, I randomly thought of my rape whistle. While it wouldn’t help right at the moment, it had been a trusty sidekick to my independent battles thus far. I felt a little underprepared without it.
Loving support pushed through the link, forcing a tear from my eye. Stefan knew I was awake and he used our shared connection to speak to me, to remind me I wasn’t alone.
Steeling my courage, I focused on that damn blockage cutting off my magic. If I could just reach my magic, I could at least get free. Then, with an arsenal of pointy objects and my illustrious butt pucker, I could turn this whole place into a giant, angry garden while I made a run for it. I didn’t know many useful spells, but I did know some damaging, hard to clean-up ones. Plus, I could make almost anything explode.
I tried to suck in magic through that block. It felt like trying to suck a thick milkshake through a tiny straw. I tried to punch at it, shake it, suck harder. Nothing.
Just then, the double door at the far end of the spacious room swung open. A progression walked through—a short, thin man at the head wearing a white, velvet cape. His pale eyes, almost anemic, swept the room, landing on me and sticking. His neck glowed like a flashlight, the skin a solid mass of colorless tattoos so as not to mar the brilliant, pure light. He didn’t look like much, except his magic, but those eyes had my stomach crawling.
“You’ve been caught,” he said as he approached. His voice was flimsy and squeaky.
“Jesus, your genetics didn’t do you any favors, did they?” I blurted, past manners.
My legs hurt, I was a prisoner, and being nice wouldn’t grant me any favors. Not with this lot. Best I could hope for was triggering anger that might help me push past that blockage.