Chapter Four
The bathroom breaks definitely didn’t seem to fit a schedule, or so it seemed.
It was likely more of a case of some guy upstairs saying, “someone should probably go downstairs and get that scum to the bathroom before he pees himself. We don’t need the stink.
” Then, in Ewen’s mind, someone would draw the short straw and make their way down the stairs.
Ewen couldn’t say if that was true or not, but sitting alone for hours on end meant his imagination was running wild.
He was reduced to tracking time by the ache in his bladder and the shifting patterns of light that filtered through the door at the top of the stairs anytime anyone came down them.
He thought he’d been sitting in the same damn chair for ten days, although it could be eleven.
Ewen had dozed off a couple of times. Despite his whole body aching, except for those parts that had gone completely numb, his eyes could only stay open for so long.
In truth, he had no idea how long he’d been stuck where he was, and he was well past the point of caring.
Bread and chunks of mutton arrived in the same erratic pattern as bathroom privileges.
Nothing more than food scraps that were so dried out they scratched at Ewen’s throat going down.
He was always given just enough water to make sure he didn’t die from dehydration, but it was a close thing.
His body felt hollow, completely emptied out.
The constant gnawing hunger had faded to a dull ache, replaced by a floaty sensation that worried him more than the pain had.
Getting weaker. His fox knew it too, whimpering in the back of his mind, getting increasingly desperate.
The woman had visited twice more since that first interrogation. Yesterday - or was it the day before? - She’d slammed her hand on the metal table hard enough to make Ewen flinch.
“Names.” She’d leaned close enough that Ewen smelled her perfume, something floral and expensive that clashed with the mold and his body odor.
“Give me names, Mr. Cross, and this ends. We want the source. We want to know who you’ve shared your work with.
Was it the man from the restaurant? Lamont. Does he have them?”
“I told you.” Ewen’s voice came out scratchy. “Don’t know him.”
“Liar.” She’d straightened, smoothing down her blouse. “We have contacts everywhere in Cairo. You spoke to him for three minutes. You gave him something.”
“My business card.” That wasn’t a lie. “I thought we could catch up the next time he was in New York. Maybe grab a coffee.”
Her pale blue eyes narrowed.
You’ll give yourself wrinkles.
“You’re protecting him.”
“You think I’d stay stuck in this chair protecting someone I don’t know?”
“You’ll get out of this chair when you give me your source.”
A likely story. Do you mean get out of the chair when I fall on the floor dead thanks to the man who will probably cut my zip ties and my throat all in one go?
Ewen kept his mouth shut. Protecting sources wasn’t just journalistic ethics - it was his personal mantra.
It was the core of his being that allowed sources to trust him - the only thing he had left that reminded him that his work, his life, still mattered for something.
She’d left soon after, taking her attitude and her perfume smell with her. Scar-eyebrow had come in later with half a pita and four mouthfuls of water. The bread tasted like cardboard soaked in diesel fuel, but Ewen ate every crumb.
His fox whined near constantly now. The animal was suffering from more than captivity and the inability to shift, though both wore at Ewen’s control like sandpaper against his skin.
It took a few days… hours…whatever…for Ewen to realize he was likely suffering from mating sickness.
He’d heard that could happen from other shifters when he was younger - whispered stories about what happened when one half of a mated pair rejected or abandoned the other.
The issue was that Lamont hadn’t rejected him as such. He clearly didn’t even know what they were to each other. In the meantime, Ewen’s fox had taken in the scent of the man and was now suffering because of it.
It’s worse. His fox was miserable. He doesn’t want us enough to even find us.
They didn’t know that for sure, but Ewen could see why his fox would think that.
Ewen could imagine Lamont being a busy person – much like he was when he wasn’t tied to a chair.
Perhaps he always looked at people like they were special, perhaps the concern was Lamont trying to stop himself from farting. He’d clearly just finished dinner.
In the meantime, the bond was pulling at Ewen’s chest like a fishhook lodged behind his sternum, tearing at his insides.
His poor animal side kept reaching for something that wasn’t there, searching for a connection that should have snapped into place the moment their eyes met at Pier888.
Instead, Lamont had watched two men drag Ewen away and had done absolutely nothing.
He clearly doesn’t know. It wasn’t like he could go bouncing up to a random man – even a fellow journalist – in the entrance of a restaurant and say, “Hey, I’m Ewen. I’ve read your stories. Did you know we’re mates?”
It would’ve helped if Ewen knew what type of paranormal Lamont was.
For him it was simple. Shifters recognized their mates through scent.
It was instinctual, bone-deep, and undeniable.
The fact that Lamont hadn’t reacted meant one of two things - either Lamont wasn’t a shifter but a different paranormal type who didn’t rely on scent for mate recognition, or he was and simply didn’t care.
If he’s a shifter, then he’ll be getting sick, too. That didn’t make Ewen feel any better. No matter what he thought about the stunning man, any option made Ewen’s chest ache in ways that had nothing to do with hunger. It was just my luck to meet a mate who wasn’t blessed with a decent nose.
His fox, already weakened by captivity, was fading faster than he should be. Ewen could feel the sickness spreading through both halves of himself, human and fox tangled together in misery.
We have to escape. The thought circled like water down a drain. Have to try something.
The plan, such as it was, came to him during a particularly grim bathroom break.
Scar-eyebrow had cut the zip ties at Ewen’s wrists - leaving his ankles bound - and hauled him upright.
Ewen’s legs nearly gave out completely. His feet had gone numb hours ago, and pins and needles shot through his calves as his blood flow slowly caught up to the fact they were supposed to be walking.
“Move,” Scar-eyebrow grunted, shoving Ewen toward the door.
Ewen shuffled forward, zip ties cutting into his ankles with each hop-step. His fox stirred, his whine hopeful this time. His animal spirit understood freedom, even if it came in three-minute increments between a moldy basement and a bathroom that smelled like something had died in it.
You could shift, his fox suggested. During bathroom time. Hands free. Could shift.
Ewen’s pulse kicked up. His fox feet were smaller than his human ones - the zip ties on his ankles would slide right off.
So long as his fox didn’t get caught in his clothes after the shift, they could make it work.
He might not be able to fight his way out of a paper bag, but his fox was used to slipping out of the neck of his shirt.
We wouldn’t have to fight, Ewen reasoned. Maybe get in a few snaps of teeth to make people think we might fight if they get too close. But basically, the best idea would be to run. He was a fast runner when he was motivated, and small enough to slip through gaps a human might ignore.
But…there was always a but…Scar-eyebrow, or any of the other goons never left him alone.
The guard stood outside the bathroom door, sometimes inside if the guy was particularly paranoid or being creepy.
That meant if Ewen did shift into his fox form, in front of a human, he’d be breaking the first rule every paranormal learned - don’t reveal your true nature.
The paranormal community survived by staying hidden, blending in, making humans believe shifters, vampires, and magic were nothing more than stories.
Ewen didn’t have any idea what would happen if he broke that rule - especially in his current circumstances.
Who was going to believe the word of a criminal mind if the guards ever told anyone?
But he couldn’t forget the lectures he’d had from his parents before he’d even shifted for the first time, about shifter council guards who would just appear out of nowhere, and the shifters who broke the rules who were “disappeared.”
A bit like I have been already, Ewen thought.
It would be better to die trying to escape than rot in this basement, his fox pointed out.
Another fair point. I’d rather we didn’t die if we can help it.
The knife complicated things. Scar-eyebrow wore one strapped to his thigh, his right hand always resting near the hilt, as though he was worried Ewen would try and grab it.
Ewen had cataloged the weapon during previous bathroom breaks - it was a six-inch blade, partially serrated, and the handle was wrapped in black paracord.
The kind of knife that said its owner knew how to use it.
A fox, even a healthy one, wouldn’t survive a knife fight at close quarters. And Ewen was so far from healthy that his vision grayed when he stood too fast.
But if I don’t try soon, I won’t have the strength to shift at all.
That was the real problem. Ewen could feel himself fading, human and fox both withering under the combined weight of captivity, starvation, and mating sickness.
Another few days and he’d be too weak to manage the shift.
His fox would retreat so deep into his mind that coaxing the animal out would be impossible.
It was only a matter of days before his fox could die, and if that happened, it wouldn’t be long after that before Ewen did, too.
The mating sickness, apparently, was a real bitch in that respect.
It’s now or never.
Except if he shifted and failed - if Scar-eyebrow caught him, or the woman decided a dead journalist was easier to handle than a stubborn one - Ewen would never see Lamont again.
He’d never find out why the man hadn’t helped him, or the answers to any of the other questions that had haunted his captivity.
His fox perked up at the thought of Lamont, some distant hope flickering in the animal’s eyes. Find mate. Explain. Make him understand.
“Pathetic,” Ewen muttered to himself as he shook himself off.
“What?” Scar-eyebrow looked up from his phone.
“Nothing.”
The guard grunted and went back to scrolling.
Ewen shifted his weight, testing the zip ties still around his ankles.
They were tight enough to bite but not tight enough to cut off circulation completely.
His wrists ached where the previous ties had rubbed skin raw, scabs cracking every time he moved.
Blood crusted under his nails and in the creases of his palms.
Back in his chair, fresh ties cutting new lines into his wrists, Ewen kept thinking about a way out.
If I can shift during the next bathroom break.
.. The plan started to form, disjointed and desperate, but a plan, nonetheless.
If I can get the ties off my ankles… If I can get past the guard.
.. If I can find a way out of the building…
There were so many ifs. But the alternative was waiting like a lump on a log until the woman decided he had nothing left to give. The disposal conversation he’d overheard made it clear how that was going to end.
I’ll do it, Ewen decided. It’s not like he had any other choices left. At the next bathroom break. I shift, I run, and I don’t look back.
His fox yipped approval, tail wagging for the first time in days.
And when we get out, Ewen promised his animal half, we’ll find Lamont. We’ll track him down and get our answers.
The fox settled, happy with the make-shift plan.
Ewen wished he shared his animal’s optimism.
The more likely outcome was that they’d both die in a murky basement, forgotten by everyone except maybe Louise back at the office.
I hope she waters my fern. That poor thing shouldn’t have to die just because I did.
It was some hours later when the sound of footsteps on the stairs pulled Ewen from his spiraling thoughts.
Heavy ones. One of the guards. He straightened in the chair, his spine cracking as his vertebrae realigned.
His body protested the movement, his muscles seized after being locked into position for so long.
Scar-eyebrow appeared in the doorway, face impassive. “The boss wants another round. You ready to talk this time?”
They’re asking my permission now? “Can I use the bathroom first? That meat…” He left the sentence hanging, hoping the guard would fill in the blanks and get the wrong idea.
The guard studied him for a long moment, then shrugged. “Make it quick.”
He moved forward with the knife, cutting the wrist ties first. Ewen shook out his arms. That last set of wrist ties had been far too tight, and his fingers were numb and swollen. Scar-eyebrow grabbed his arm and hauled him upright.
Ewen’s knees gave out. He caught himself on the chair, breathing hard as feeling returned in agonizing waves. His fox stirred, gathering what little strength remained.
This is it, Ewen thought. It’s now or never.