Chapter 42
Arax
My teeth hurt, chewing on the glove covering the hand I’d bitten.
The annoyed groan from the man who was hauling me down the hall was a tiny win, but his fingers did not move.
They quieted my screams of pain and panic.
I rag-dolled my body, making it harder for him to cart me off, but my ankle twisted sharply under my weight.
His quick steps bounced me along the floor, causing my legs to bend and drag, not allowing my one good heel an opportunity to catch along the tile.
I heard him say something in a language I didn’t recognize or understand. His voice was low, and upon hearing the responding gibberish, I discovered I was in the company of more than just my abductor.
I dug my nails into the arm that held me, scratching frantically at his sleeve.
It was protected by the thickness of his tactical gear, so my energy was expended pointlessly, the efforts to free myself futile.
Deciding he’d had all he could take of me, my arms were twisted to the small of my back, and his other hand trapped both of my wrists in a vise grip.
The group marched down the hallway, their weapons drawn. I had eyes on the two in front of me, rotating in half circles as they escorted us wherever we were headed.
They looked nervous, their anonymity not censoring that fact. As they muttered to each other and into their comms, I came to the realization that these men were not storybook creatures. They had to be human. Who they were or what they wanted with me was its own separate conundrum.
I did what I usually did to protect myself from thinking the worst, from letting my emotions drive my actions. I started laying out the facts. Logic was my only ally, a shallow line in the sand between sanity and a complete mental collapse.
The man who lay in bits somewhere upstairs, the one who’d taken the chain to the back of the head, had been affected by the blow but not the silver.
The same could said for those handling the net used on Cyrus.
And these men who accompanied me, speaking to each other instead of mindlinking, meant some or all were human.
Not that it matters, I scoffed internally at my inane analysis.
They were armed. A thought crossed my mind of where Konstantine could be.
I hadn’t any news of him, Drake, Vallon, or Jason.
It had been hours since he and I had gone our opposite ways.
If I was being kidnapped, did that mean the aid Cyrus had sent had come too late?
I prayed to all the gods I didn’t believe in that it wasn’t so.
I swallowed, my saliva sticking in my throat, as I thought over how much had changed in such little time.
How a few hours ago, I’d had his strong, protective form lying over me, his eyes hooded with apprehension prepared to confess his dark secret, while I, complicit and starstruck and ridiculously ignorant of it all, had wanted only to give myself over to him.
Helpless was not a feeling I wished to indulge, but every part of me was shaking the farther we got from the bunker.
My body involuntarily convulsed as we passed by a mass contained by silver.
The net had been secured by large blocks of steel, weighed over him.
It was a horrendous sight, seeing Cyrus’s skin—what was left of it anyway—oozing and black through the holes of his prison.
His exposed flesh was scarred and burned, not healing.
Had he been shot?
No. He was unconscious. He has to be, I told myself. I couldn’t bear to think he had given his life to keep me safe, but my eyes watered of their own volition.
So consumed I was with guilt and sadness that I did not notice one of the men in front of me had dropped.
His partner swung his rifle, panning around.
He looked up, hearing a ping the same time as I did.
His weapon rattled onto the floor, blood squirted out of the bullet hole in his neck, and he fell in slow motion.
Elegant was the fluidity of his demise, almost poetic.
The man holding me did not waver in his steps. He gripped my wrists harder, and the hand on my mouth pressed down in a show of solidarity with his mission.
I had no eyes on what was happening at my back.
I winced, gritting my teeth at the pain shooting up and down my leg, its intensity dulling the rest of my senses.
I couldn’t hear a thing except for the throbbing pulse of my injury.
What little peripheral vision I had showed me we were climbing stairs, my feet bumping on each sharp edge.
We were nearly at the top, and if I could have, I would have gasped.
Two more men were sprawled at the stairwell—four total dead, a trail of bodies left behind us.
He quickened his pace, seemingly trying to outrun this sniper.
The tables had turned; the hunter had become the hunted.
I hoped it was Dorian or the someone Penelope had promised to send coming to my rescue, but a limited scan revealed nothing and no one but the deserted main floor of the castle.
I closed my eyes, finally knowing where I was, and steadied my breathing, directing my exhales to regain some measure of control over my body.
Tightening one small group of muscles at a time, I kept an ear out but heard no other steps but those of my captor.
I waited for my moment, and when I detected a pause, a slowing of his feet, I pushed off my working leg, jamming all my weight into his instep with the heel of my injured foot.
Pain exploded through my leg, but the grip on my wrists weakened.
On instinct rather than fighting prowess, my arm snapped out of his hold, and my elbow collided with his nose.
He let go, and I slammed chin-first to the ground.
A coppery taste filled my mouth, and blood dripped onto the hardwood, my bottom lip punctured by my teeth.
I maneuvered myself onto all fours and crawled, trying to rise to my feet, but the pain was too great. A cry escaped from me as an arm closed around my waist.
“No!”
I flipped myself over, coming face-to-mask with the man. Crawling backward, I struck my legs out at him, kicking, and made contact with his cheek with my bad leg. I screamed in agony, falling to my elbows.
“Stop!” he snarled and held my knees together.
“Let me go, you fuck!” I bucked my legs, struggling to free myself. Rolling my body sideways, I aimed for another kick.
He ducked it and threw himself on top of me. “Kuyrik stop, be quiet!” He snapped, restraining me, and pulled off his mask.
The world around me disappeared. The castle, the stairs, the bleeding bodies.
Gone. I was cold. Cold and alone with the voice speaking my native tongue.
It couldn’t be real, and I lay there wondering if I was hallucinating, disbelieving of the hazel eyes staring into mine.
Five years ago, his face had carried no scars except for the one he’d sustained as a teen during a motorbike accident.
It had split the skin down the middle of his left eyebrow.
The hair had never grown back because of the stitches.
But now it was one among many that marked his face. They’d aged him.
My hand moved through water tracing the scar I knew, and five years of pent-up tears started down my face—tears I’d thought had dried, along with the hope that I’d ever see him again.
My body tensed, bracketed by my brother and the floor, and I pushed my torso up with the bit of strength remaining in my arms and buried myself in his chest.
“Tavalodet mobarak, khahar bache,” he said, his voice so distant. His arms were locked around my back. It was so good to hear him, to feel him breathing, wishing me—us—a happy birthday, and calling me little sister, even though technically it was me who had him by eight minutes.
I grasped his arms, seeking further validation of his corporeal form. The illusion didn’t fade, and I allowed myself the joy of accepting that a piece of my family had been returned to me.
“Motherfucker,” I whispered, barely able to speak.
He chuckled. Hearing his laughter again turned my sobs into wails, and I shook in his embrace.
“You motherfucker!” I choked on my tears. “I thought you were dead!”
“Shhh. Araxia.”
I wanted to hold on to him as long as I could, but Andy stood, the reunion over as soon as it had begun.
He wiped his reddened eyes with the back of his sleeve and hauled me to my feet, giving me a once-over.
His expression was impassive yet engraved with sorrow.
Despite his scars and weathered skin, my brother’s handsomeness hadn’t lessened.
His clean-shaven face was different than when he’d sported a beard, and his dark-brown hair was cut close to the scalp.
He looked even more like our father, whereas I had always favored our mom.
“How? Who?” So many questions raced through my mind, I didn’t know where to start.
I stared at the lines on his face to see if they told me anything about the last five years.
Why had he disappeared? Where had he been all this time?
Who were these people, and how had he come to get mixed up with them? Did he know Mom was gone?
He ignored my need for answers.
“Can you run?” he asked shortly, glancing at my ankle, and at my body which was leaning on the wall.
“I can barely stand.”
He shook his head in frustration. “We need a car.”
I looked around and spotted the man I’d mistaken him for, facedown in a growing puddle of his own blood.
Static, punctuated with indiscernible words, came from the earpiece next to him.
He’d taken five of our group out, yet from what I had experienced today, there always seemed to be more to take the place of the fallen.
“Arax, we have to go,” Andy said impatiently.