Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Blood pools in my mouth. It dribbles from my cracked, swollen lips and drips lazily down my chin.
John—the hellhound—paces the outside of his hand-drawn, archaic circle…
a circle he thinks he has trapped me in.
He snarls. I roll my head back against the pillar, grinding the back of my head into the brickwork.
Wearily, I keep my eyes on his prowling form.
I don’t want to be here.
If I hadn’t helped the female wolf shifter, I would be home in bed. But I did, and I’m not. I huff out a painful breath.
I don’t want to be here…here in a hellhound’s torture chamber. Everything hurts, my body is a mess, and I know, deep inside, that…that I’m done for.
I’ve been internally fighting myself, fighting my fear, fighting my own body, which is begging for me to close my eyes and let the blackness take me away.
My name is Emma, Emma, Emma. I repeat my name over and over again. It’s my anchor.
I want to go home. I want to go home. Please, God, why are you punishing me? I’m not magical like other creatures.
I’m not strong or unique. I’m just me, half human with a mix of some unimportant creature. Nothing special. I lick my lips. My tongue feels oddly big in my mouth.
My lack of uniqueness didn’t stop me from helping the female shifter, John’s sister. It didn’t stop me from doing the right thing, and doing so sent me on a direct path to this hell.
John wants information. Information that I haven’t got.
Every decision in life has good and bad consequences. That saying? No good deed goes unpunished? Yeah, that should be my motto. Crap, perhaps I should have that tattooed on my arm to remind myself to think things through before I act. That is…if I ever leave this fucked-up situation alive.
My breath rattles in my chest. John narrows his eyes at the sound.
“Fuck you,” I mouth without any venom. My rude words are a poor attempt at bravery.
A vocal shield. A cracked, broken shield.
I try to hide behind it as the thick fog of terror rolls inside me.
The cracks are spreading, and soon nothing of me is going to be left to protect.
His disapproving expression only deepens at my silly word.
He folds his arms, content to just watch me, a look of mild repulsion on his face. Yeah, the feeling is mutual, buddy.
I hate the pretty bastard.
Gosh, I really messed up this time, and now I’m reaping what I’ve sown.
No.
No, I have to be honest with myself. I knew. I knew things would go to shit when I helped that little pup.
I couldn’t have imagined this, though, a hellhound. God, I thought my demon master would have been the one doing the punishing.
Not her brother.
I thought…I thought the shifters would be grateful…ha, I’m so na?ve. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid girl. I am a kind-hearted fool. Doing the right thing, what would be the harm? A bit of risk to get my blood pumping?
Well, my blood is certainly pumping now, all over the bloody floor.
The daft thing is…I can’t blame John entirely. The hellhound has shown himself to be a primordial beast with primitive black-and-white views. If I had a family…a pack and someone had taken them, hurt them, wouldn’t I do everything in my power to get them home safe?
For a person I loved…I would burn down the world.
The entire world could burn, and I would pull them from the wreckage. That makes me a bad person, doesn’t it?
I also can’t help asking myself the question, would I make the same mistake John has, of not recognising innocence over guilt?
Ha, that’s some serious Stockholm syndrome shit right there, Emma. I have way too much empathy.
Yeah, bloody pesky empathy.
I absorb joy and stress like a sponge. My nana—my mum’s mother, was an earth witch. She had an incredible off the charts ability to communicate with the world around her.
Unfortunately, I inherited nothing witchy, as my weird immunity to magic isn’t a witch trait. I like to think my empathy and love of animals comes from her.
My nana died when I was four, so my memories of her are fuzzy. When I think of her…I can remember flashes of warmth and love. My nana would have wanted me to do the right thing. Yeah, what would be the harm.
My chains clink. I wish I could rub my face. My wrists throb, a dull pain compared to the rest of my injuries. Can you call something an injury when it’s inflicted by someone else? I don’t know; my mind is slowly shutting down, just like my body.
When I first woke up chained to the pillar in a basement, I freaked out.
Luckily I was alone, so the hellhound didn’t get a front-row seat to my frightened thrashing.
After that, I kept my dignity for those first few hours.
Only my bleeding wrists told the story of my early struggle.
Once I’d calmed, I got a better idea of my surroundings and my messed-up situation.
Redbrick walls, discoloured at the bottom from damp.
The damp was almost the same height around the room.
It was like someone had drawn a line. To keep myself from freaking out further and to gain some semblance of control, I counted the bricks.
Eight. Eight rows of the darker bricks. Except in the far corner, where I counted nine.
At the top of the wall directly in front of me, a half-circle window draws my gaze away from the hellhound and the strange hand-drawn circle at my feet.
Before, the window cast a perfect half-circle of light onto the dusty, mouldy floor.
For hours I watched, chained to that pillar as the curved light moved with the sun.
It slowly edged across the floor until it was almost gone.
That was when the hellhound returned and subjected me to his ministrations.
“Demon, you will tell me where they are, the others you stole. My mother, my other little sister. You will talk, demon, or otherwise, things are going to get much worse for you.” His voice is deep, soft, tipped with barely controlled anger.
Urm, how can things get any worse? The urge to manically laugh at this idiot, calling me a demon…Not a demon, dickhead, I want to scream at him.
Beg. Plead.
But my voice no longer works. A person can scream for only so long before their throat gives out.
I live with a demon, a first-level demon. I think he would have mentioned if I had any demon DNA. The reason my demon master likes me so much is the mystery of my breeding. I’m like a human equivalent of a lucky dip: you don’t quite know what you’re going to get.
John’s a shifter so why can’t he smell my humanity? I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.
My tummy screams at me. I pant in pain, but I bite my lip so I don’t cry out. So much pain, an endless ocean of it. With waves that try to engulf me—drown me.
I take a steadying breath and try to force down my nausea.
The pungent smell of mould with the undertone of urine stings my nose.
I gag, and the sick burns up my throat. Suddenly I projectile-vomit over myself and the floor like a character from The Exorcist. John makes a sound of disgust and walks away. I blink in shock.
In the dim light, it’s pale green. Wow, that doesn’t look good.
What does pale-green sick mean? Nothing good. His knife before…it must have internally nicked something. At least I emptied my bladder early on, and I don’t have to live with the indignity of wetting myself again.
Sick, blood, and pee…what a combination to have on my skin. I hope John is enjoying the odour.
Not long now, the helpful voice in my head pipes up. God, everything hurts. The pain is a living thing clawing at my insides.
It would be so easy to let go.
Emma, just close your eyes.
No. I grind my head against the wall. The rough scratching that is almost white noise drowns out my wicked, unhelpful thoughts and the slow pounding of my heart.
My eyes drop. I glance at a dry spot on the floor wistfully.
I wish…I wish I could sit down—the concrete looks mighty comfy.
But I can’t. The chains he has attached to my delicate wrists to hold me aloft will not let me.
My legs are now useless noodles, unable to support the weight of the bag of bleeding meat that the hellhound has made of me.
I’m such a fool.
I’m such a fool that even now after everything that has happened, I would still have helped the pup escape.
I’m such a fool.
John spins back towards me, and my heart misses a beat as his big body steps over the chalk line and into the circle.
A circle he thinks will keep me from accessing my demon powers.
The circle pulses. I don’t hear it, but I feel it. It reverberates through me. It echoes deep in my bones. Whatever magic it contains doesn’t touch me.
Ha, still not a demon, dickhead.
His body dwarfs my own, and I lift my eyes to his. My throat bobs and the heavy chains rattle as a full-body shiver takes me. I am so cold.
He leans half an inch closer, his bright eyes full of the orange fire that is his fire magic.
Those eyes are so terrifying. Yeah, beautiful and terrifying.
Even after everything, he is still painfully beautiful.
His proud cheekbones and that square jaw…
unnaturally handsome, a vicious sort of beauty.
What is wrong with me?
I’m so confused—my attraction to him makes little sense —it’s magically enhanced…it must be.
I flinch away as his hand reaches out, and he tucks a piece of my matted blonde hair gently behind my ear. He is so close, breathing deep, so warm…I feel the heat radiating off him and into me. Scalding.