Chapter 4 Zaria
ZARIA
My head throbs with a pain so intense I can't think past it at first. Every pulse feels like someone is driving a spike through my skull and twisting.
I try to move my hands to touch my temple, to press against the ache, but they won't budge.
Panic flares as memories try to come. The last thing I remember is the bag over my head. The blow to my skull. The SUV. The men speaking in that language I didn't understand, and then nothing. Until now.
I open my eyes, or try to. The dark is so complete I can’t tell the difference at first. A dim, low light flickers somewhere to my right, hazy and weak, illuminating shadows.
The world tries to come into focus, but the edges are still blurry and distorted.
I see gray walls, exposed beams. A warehouse maybe?
Shit, where the hell am I?
Matei Ionescu.
The name surfaces through the fog. I remember them saying that name.
I yank against the restraints, twisting my wrists, trying to find any give, but all I find is a pain that shoots up my arms.
"It's no use," a voice says from somewhere in front of me. "You'll just cut yourself."
My eyes adjust enough to make out a figure sitting maybe ten feet away. A man. He is leaning back in a chair, one ankle crossed over his knee, completely relaxed. Like this is a casual meeting and not a kidnapping.
The light catches his face and I can see him properly now. Dark hair. Strong jaw. Sharp eyes that watch me with something between amusement and assessment.
He is wearing a black suit, no tie, the top button of his shirt undone. There is a silver watch on his wrist that looks expensive.
"Who are you?" My voice comes out hoarse, cracked from screaming and running and whatever they hit me with. "Where am I?"
The man doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even tilt his head in acknowledgment. He just keeps watching me with an expression unreadable.
Then he leans forward slightly.
"Zaria Quinn," he says. Not a question. A statement.
My stomach drops.
I stare at him. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my wrists where the zip ties cut deeper with every panicked breath.
He knows who I am. Not just the name I was given. My actual name. The one the Order pretends doesn’t exist. The one I wasn’t supposed to hear again once they took me in and replaced everything else with their doctrine.
"Why are you in Germany?" he asks.
If he is asking while I'm tied to a chair in what looks like an abandoned warehouse, then he already knows. He knows exactly why I was there. Knows about the Order. Knows about the ritual. Knows about Darragh Killaney.
Which means this isn't an interrogation.
It's a game.
"You already know," I say, forcing the words past the tightness in my chest.
For a moment, silence.
Then he laughs.
It is a low, genuine sound that makes my skin crawl. He turns his head slightly and says something to the other men in the room, men I hadn’t noticed until now, standing in the darker corners of the room. They respond with quick bursts of laughter too.
I look at the man in front of me, confused and furious and so scared I can barely think straight. "What? What are you saying?"
"It’s Romanian," he replies, rising from his chair. "I'd love to teach you, but we don't have that kind of time."
Romanian. Why would they be in Germany? Why would they care about me?
"What would the Romanians want with me?"
He steps closer and crouches down in front of me, bringing himself level with my chair, level with me.
He reaches out and I flinch so hard the chair creaks beneath me, but there is nowhere to go. His fingertips run along the side of my face, rubbing my cheekbone.
"You're very pretty, you know that?"
I shake my head, trying to pull away, but his hand follows the movement. Not forceful, just persistent.
"Easy," he says. "What I want is obtained by keeping you alive."
My pulse is racing. I don't understand what I could possibly give them or what they think I'm worth.
"We know all about you," he continues, pacing slowly around my chair now. I can't see him anymore, but I can hear his footsteps. "Why you're here. That you were at the hospital when he died."
He leans down again, close enough that I can feel his breath against my ear.
"The Killaneys will be very happy to meet you."
My stomach drops.
No.
No, no, no.
The Killaneys.
Everything I was ever told about them floods back in a sickening rush. The monsters of Boston. The family who murders without mercy. Who butchers anyone who crosses them. Who burned half of Boston to the ground in the war with Cormac's people.
They are the reason we came to Germany. They are the reason Darragh Killaney is dead.
And this man, this Romanian stranger, is going to hand me over to them.
"No," I breathe. "Please, you can't. You don't understand, they'll kill me."
A door swings open somewhere behind me.
I twist as much as the restraints allow, trying to see, and catch a glimpse of another man entering. Younger. Clean shaven. He steps inside and says, "Matei," then continues speaking in rapid Romanian.
So this is Matei Ionescu, the man I was told I was being sent to.
Matei listens, then nods once and waves a hand dismissively.
Then another man approaches. He is older with broad shoulders and is wearing doctor gloves and carrying something in his hand.
I focus in on it.
A syringe.
"What the hell is that?" I gasp, pulling against the restraints instinctively.
Matei walks back around to face me.
"You've got a long flight," he says. "This is so you don't cause any trouble."
I shake my head violently, the chair rattling underneath me. "Wait. Please, don’t."
The man grabs my arm, pushing the sleeve of the filthy ritual robe up. I twist away, but Matei suddenly grips my jaw in one strong hand, forcing my head still.
"Stop moving," Matei says, his tone almost bored now. "It'll hurt less if you stay still."
The needle bites into my arm and I scream, but it is pointless. The drug burns as it enters my bloodstream.
Within seconds, my vision starts to blur.
The edges of the room soften, the sounds of the men talking growing distant and muffled.
I try to focus on Matei's face, try to memorize it, try to hold onto something, but everything is slipping.
"Sleep well, Zaria Quinn," he says. "And don't worry. The Killaneys are brutal, but efficient. They'll make your death quick."
Then, darkness swallows me whole.