Chapter Twenty
FRANKIE
The sight of the men draped in chains guts me to my core, an image that will forever haunt my nightmares. I’m not sure how they will ever forgive me, especially when I can’t forgive myself for dragging them into this mess.
I’m so horrified by my actions that I barely notice the cuffs locking around my own wrists. A heavy weight drags on my arms, spreading through my body until a crushing pressure threatens to drop me to my knees. My body feels too tight, like I’m being crammed into a cell that’s too small.
Just when I swear my skull is seconds away from being crushed, my wolf snarls in outrage and lashes out with her teeth and claws, snapping at the magic trying to contain us. My eyes widen when I realize she’s actually devouring the spells, gulping down each bite like she’s been starved.
I’m not even breathing when I spot the runes etched along the outsides of the chains gradually begin to dull and fade.
Slowly but surely, the metal deteriorates as the magic is drained away.
My wolf chuffs at my awe, dismissing their pathetic attempt to restrain us with a flick of her tail.
She hunkers down, content to wait for our prey to become complacent before we attack.
It makes our victory all the sweeter.
I quickly duck my head, pretending defeat, not wanting anyone to guess that we are no longer restrained. Her snout curls in amusement, and she snorts at the absurdity of anyone thinking we are meek.
Fools!
The crowd jeers and shouts slurs as we’re shoved and dragged up the steps by the chains. A few brave souls spit on us, a couple more throw rocks, and the guys carefully nudge me into the middle of them, protecting me from the worst of the attack.
They grunt at the blows but refrain from retaliating.
I’m not sure I would be so passive.
When the scent of their blood saturates the air, I nearly lose my resolve.
I desperately try to push my way between the guys, but Garth blocks me with a gentle nudge of his shoulder, shaking his head in warning.
Staring into his calm blue eyes eases the worst of my anger.
It’s not the warning that stops me—it’s his resolve to protect me at any cost that finally convinces me to remain docile.
If I do anything foolish, he will take the brunt of the attack.
I reluctantly turn away, vowing that before I leave this place, I will get vengeance for every wrong done to us.
We’re roughly dragged up the rest of the steps to the chapel and hauled through the double doors.
If I expected the interior to resemble a classical church of some type, I would’ve been sorely disappointed.
The inside is gutted of everything but an ominous altar that rests in the center of the room.
Markings are etched along the floor in preparation for the rituals they will perform.
Several old books circle the outside of the room, resting on various pedestals, their pages brittle with age.
Faint magic sparks from all the witches who used the grimoires in the past, as if the very tomes themselves are trying to lure me to claim them.
When I resist their call, the grimoires fall dormant again, waiting for another witch to touch them and activate their magic.
My wolf raises her head curiously, sensing something hidden in the chapel, something powerful.
Before I can investigate further, we’re dragged to a door in the corner of the room and hauled down a steep set of steps.
The space under the chapel is dark and dank, smelling of stale water, mildew, and dirt.
We’re forced to duck as we’re prodded across the piss soaked dirt floor, and my nose crinkles with disgust. Garbage and rotted boxes fill almost every foot of space, leaving only a small passageway through the junk.
Rats squeal at being disturbed, scurrying deeper into the trash. The critters are so large that the stacked boxes sway in alarm. Cobwebs cover almost every surface, the nets so big, they must be home to hundreds of spiders…or one colossal arachnid.
Shudder.
Gramps raised me to live without fear, so the sharp spurt of terror is almost a novel experience.
New phobias unlocked.
I eye the cobwebs warily as I pass, uncertain whether I would stomp on the horrible arachnid or run away screaming.
A smaller man leads us toward a shadowed corner, and I didn’t realize there was another way out until a carnivorous hole gapes in the wall. Malevolence radiates from the darkness, evil saturating the air, and my beast balks at being dragged into whatever hellhole awaits.
I pause for only a second, but the delay is enough. A loud crack booms in the room, then the lash of a whip slices through my shirt and bites into my flesh. My skin splits open, and a trickle of blood drips down my back.
I tense, clench my teeth, then release a slow breath through my nose.
No fucking way am I going to give them a reaction.
Snarls escape my men, and they immediately spin to face the new threat. Our odds might be better down here, but the guys are without their shifter strength and speed. It would almost be a fair battle…if the cowards weren’t armed to the teeth and pointing guns at our heads.
I shove my way between the men, holding up my bound hands. “We’re going. Hold off on using your weapons, and no one will get hurt.”
A large man with a nasty scar running along his jaw steps forward with a sinister smile, a bloodstained whip dangling loosely at his side. “And why would I do that when we were just getting acquainted?”
Garth presses close, gently peeling the edges of my shirt away to peer at the wound, and a deadly rumble vibrates from his chest. Even with the cuffs blocking him, his beast won’t be quieted.
It’s impressive.
When he probes the injury, my muscles instinctively tense, and fire ripples down my spine. Though my eye twitches slightly, I refuse to allow any other show of emotion. The brute wants to see my pain, wants to revel in it, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
I raise an eyebrow at the asshole, unamused by his taunt. “Because if it comes down to a fight, you will lose. Even if you somehow managed to survive, what will Geoffrey do when he finds out you injured or killed his money ticket?”
A muscle ripples in his jaw when he grits his teeth, his hatred for shifters practically oozing from his pores. He fondles the whip handle, his face twisting into a mask of disgust as his gaze sweeps over every inch of me.
When he stomps forward, the men behind me tense, and I force myself to remain relaxed. “You’ve already got your warning,” he spits out. “Fuck up again, and I won’t be so gentle.”
The guys surge forward, and I lift my arms to hold them back, sucking down a groan when the muscles of my back protest the move. “Don’t. It’s what the asshole wants.”
As much as I want to stomp the fucker’s ass, I force back my rage.
We’re so close to Tyler that I can practically feel him.
Displeasure twists the soldier’s face at being denied his fun, the jagged scar puckering grotesquely, but my point has been made.
I turn on my heel and march back into the creepy ass corner and step into the thick darkness.
The tunnel is small, narrowing more and more the farther we travel, leaving us to march single file.
The air grows heavy the deeper we head underground, dust and despair settling in my lungs. As the temperature drops, the hair on my arms lifts, and my wolf whimpers before she retreats. While she’s okay with closed spaces, she does not like being underground.
It’s fucking unnatural.
From the distance we traveled, I gauge that we are no longer under the chapel. The tunnel is an escape route—a safety measure put into place ages ago by witches in case humans decide to hunt them again.
While most humans seem unaware of the supernatural community, it’s impossible to escape detection completely. Mistakes happen. There are just too many humans to guard against. Not to mention paranormals are a little too cocky, many of them believing they’re superior.
The few humans who are aware of the supernatural community usually keep quiet about it, not wanting to be hunted down by the paranormals.
Others flat out refuse to accept the truth, thinking the creatures that go bump in the night are just a figment of their imagination.
A small percentage try to tell the truth, but many of them are often labeled insane by their fellow humans.
Remaining hidden is a delicate balance, the truth becoming harder to contain with overpopulation and the dawn of the digital age. More and more information is being leaked before it can be scrubbed from the internet.
After what feels like an eternity, a faint light sways in the distance. My feet should automatically quicken to escape the oppressive darkness, but I slow instead. Something tells me that I don’t want to know what happens in that room. It’s only sheer stubbornness that keeps me shuffling forward.
The new space isn’t overly large, more of a forgotten underground cellar.
Rocks of all shapes are stacked on top of one another in a haphazard retaining wall.
The mortar has long since been crushed, disintegrating to dust decades ago.
The walls bulge out alarmingly, barely holding back an avalanche of hundreds of tons of dirt and stones.
The ground is nothing more than packed dirt, while the ceiling is barely held in place by rotten railroad ties.
Roots are pushing through the ceilings and walls, trailing down in a snarled mess.
Naked bulbs dangle from the ceiling, the light slowly brightening and dimming as the electricity surges off some generator humming in the distance.
Slimy water drips in the background, but the view is blocked by row after row of cells. Some are just three-by-three-feet crates, the metal barely large enough for a mutt, much less a human. Others are built more like an old-timey jail cell.