Chapter Twenty #2
And each one houses a group of people—different types of shifters, some vampires, a few fae, even a couple of witches.
The one thing they have in common is a sense of helplessness weighing them down.
Their spirits are all but broken. Each of them is wearing similar chains to ours.
Some are so emaciated that they look like they’ve been down here decades instead of weeks.
Most don’t even bother glancing up as we enter, and I struggle to take in the horror.
My wolf slinks forward, her snout pulling back in a snarl, the fur on the back of her ruff standing on edge at the gruesome sight.
Her sense of justice is as strong as mine.
Our need to make things right is so instilled in us by Gramps that we barely resist the urge to slaughter everyone responsible.
She slowly memorizes the different scents of the guards, a silent promise to hunt them down and make them pay for their crimes. I don’t realize we’ve stopped until one of the guards roughly pushes us toward a tiny cell no bigger than a closet.
The men instinctively fight back, everything inside them protesting the idea of being locked in a kennel. The mages gleefully use their metal batons to force them to obey, herding us into the tiny cell.
Dante knocks one man out cold, but the distraction costs him when another guard sneaks up behind him and cracks him across the shoulder with his baton, a vindictive smile twisting his face into a caricature of evil.
Bellamy doesn’t hesitate to wrap his chains around the fucker’s neck before he can rain down another blow, the dragon heaving back with all his strength.
The sound of a gun cocking has everyone pausing, and I don’t have to look behind me to know the jackass with the scar has a gun pointed at the back of my head.
“Make another move, and I’ll start placing holes in the girl,” he snarls, slamming the barrel of the gun into the back of my skull so hard that my scalp splits. I lurch forward under the force, and the only thing keeping me upright is the tangle of his fist in my hair.
The men instantly release their prey. The mages aren’t gentle as they shove the men into the cell, the thuds of their batons hitting flesh churning my stomach. The guys don’t flinch or grunt under the attack, their silence freaking the mages out even more.
The guards aren’t used to their victims being able to fight back.
I’m the last one shoved into the cage before the door is slammed shut and the locks engage.
Garth catches me before I can crash to the ground, and he immediately clutches me to his chest, turning so I’m partially behind him.
My hair sways, and I twist to see Dante investigating the wound on the back of my head.
Now that we’re safely locked away, the mages are more confident.
Their cocky attitudes rub me the wrong way.
They ooze a certain malevolence that says they enjoy their job and would do it for free, just for the pleasure of hurting others.
We’re obviously not the first supernatural creatures they’ve subdued over the years, they’re too efficient at their job, and I shiver as I imagine just how many dead bodies must litter in their wake.
Glancing around our new accommodations, I grimace and ask myself why anyone would build containment cells connected to the chapel. The only saving grace is that, outside of the current occupation, they don’t look like they’ve been used in years.
The whole cellblock is full of a variety of species. It’s almost like they were given a shopping list of creatures, and I can only imagine what bounties they were offered to capture them.
The scarred bastard saunters up to our cell, menacingly tapping the handle of his whip against the bars.
Though he scans my men, his eyes settle on me, and a hideous smile twists his lips.
“I should be thanking you. The going rate for an alpha is hefty, and you walked four of them right through the front door.”
The fetid stench of his breath wafts into the cell, avarice gleaming in his eyes as he leans closer. “But you, girl, they’re offering a king’s ransom for you. We’re going to be set for life. Easiest million I’ve ever made.”
He leers at me and grabs his crotch, shaking his junk at me in a way that no woman finds attractive.
“Maybe I’ll take a little sample before I turn you over.
It’s not like they would know. If you’re a good girl, I might even take it easy on your boys.
After all, an extra lover is no big deal to a girl who travels with her own harem.
I bet your snatch is so stretched out that you can no longer feel it if anyone fucks you. You’ll need it rough and hard.”
Snarls fill my ears, and the guys lunge toward the bastard, their blunt teeth snapping.
Though they might be locked in their human form, no one would mistake them for weak.
Men like scar are all the same. I call it tiny dick syndrome.
They act all tough, unable to get it up without violence because no girl would willingly touch them otherwise.
“You’re an idiot.” Laughter bursts out of me, and I snicker at his naivety. “You might as well be the bad guy in a cartoon, rolling your mustache.”
I shoot him a pitying look and shake my head. “Did they promise you a spot with them? Because if not, what happens when the shifters and witches figure out what you’ve really been doing? Do you think they’ll just let you escape without claiming retribution?”
Booming laughter escapes him, the fool obviously not believing me.
“I’d almost feel sorry for you…if you didn’t deserve every horrible thing coming.” I shake my head pityingly. “I’m just sad I won’t be there to see it happen.”
Displeased at having his authority challenged, a snarl darkens his face, and he snaps the whip forward. It slithers between the bars, the tip slicing across my stomach. It happens so fast that blood soaks my shirt before the searing pain registers.
“Mouthy bitch.” He shakes the whip threateningly, murder darkening his dull green eyes. “You’re just like the witches—thinking you’re better than everyone else. You don’t know your place, but you’ll learn.”
A sinister smile crosses his face. “It will be a pleasure to give you your first taste of what the rest of your life will be like.”
I snort at the idiot and lift my chin, refusing to be intimidated by a lowly goon. “A lot bigger, stronger men than you have tried to break me and failed. Do you think a little beating will have me falling at your feet?”
A moue of disgust curls my lips. “Geoffrey won’t be around to protect you forever. He’s barely able to keep himself sane. At the first sign of trouble, he’s going to cut his losses and leave you holding a bag of skeletons.”
Scar only shrugs at the claim, and I’m a bit disappointed that he’s not as stupid as he looks. I brace myself for retribution, because how dare a woman talk back? Except, instead of going after me, a triumphant smile spreads across his face, and he gestures to one of his henchmen.
Two goons disappear farther underground, chuckling to themselves, and dread tightens my throat. Keys jingle in the silence, then rusty hinges creak so loudly, it sounds like a dying squawk of a pterodactyl. A slight scuff ensues, then the men emerge, dragging a badly beaten Tyler between them.
All my bravery evaporates at the sight, the fox so bruised and battered that bile rises in my throat. His face is a mess, his eyes nearly swollen shut, his nose broken, his lips busted, while blood drips from the many nicks and cuts littering every exposed inch of skin.
They didn’t just beat him with their fists—they used fucking silver. Not only does the metal hit harder on shifters, but the wounds are deeper, ensuring slower healing. From the raspy way he’s breathing, it’s obvious they didn’t keep their blows to his face.
Tyler haphazardly tries to keep pace but fails spectacularly when his legs refuse to hold his weight.
The fox is barely aware of anything happening around him.
A deadly quiet sweeps through our tiny cell, Garth and Dante silent as they watch the mages parade their injured packmate in front of them.
Even with the cuffs containing their beasts, the sharp peppery scent of their alpha rage burns in the confined space.
“Step back,” a guard barks, and keys jingle as he reaches toward the lock on our cell. No one says anything as we crowd against the far wall like silent witnesses as they open the door and toss Tyler at our feet.
Even as we surge forward to catch him, the door slams shut with a resounding bang, and the locks engage.
The guys drag him to the back of the cell and out of danger, leaving a bloody trail behind in the dirt.
I stare at the streaks of bright red blood, then stalk toward the door, every ounce of my soul demanding retribution.
I wrap my hands around the bars, uncaring when my skin protests the amount of silver coating the metal.
The stench of burned flesh lingers in the air, and I swear rotten pieces of charred skin remain embedded in the bars, where some poor soul ripped their hands away when the pain became too much, leaving behind a layer of skin and flesh.
Bile rises in my throat as I think of all those who have died at their hands, and I vow, if it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to kill every single one of them.
Scar swaggers forward, his whip twisting at his side like it’s a living beast. The leather slithers ominously against the stones, like a snake waiting to strike, and a sense of dread creeps over me. It takes all my courage to stand my ground.
That’s when I feel it—the tingle of magic no heavier than a snowflake.