Chapter 3
Anna pressed closer to the bars. It couldn’t be Faelan unless he’d been captured in the last few hours. Ronan said Faelan and Bree should be home soon. Could this be Duncan? He and Faelan looked enough like to be brothers. No, this man had a beard. Faelan and Duncan had both been clean-shaven in Virginia. But that was a few days ago.
She studied him a minute longer, the length of his hair, the shape of his head. Definitely not Duncan. But she couldn’t be sure this wasn’t Faelan. Whoever he was, he needed help.
“Can you move closer?” Anna asked. All warriors had basic medical training. She didn’t know what she could do with these bars between them, but she had to try.
He must have heard her because he started sliding closer. It was slow, and she cringed as he groaned in pain.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
His eyes opened, and Anna saw a flare of recognition before they closed again. Was it Faelan? Good God. The clan must not know, or this place would be surrounded by warriors. And Bree would fight the Dark One himself to free Faelan. Anna reached through the bars and touched his hand. A jolt ran up her arm. Blimey. What was that? She’d touched Faelan dozens of times sparring with him. He’d beaten her every time, but he’d never shocked her.
She checked his hand. No wedding ring, but he did have a broken finger. He didn’t have a talisman, but the guards could have taken it. She needed to see his chest. A warrior’s battle marks were as good as fingerprints, and she knew most of the warriors’ marks from sparring with them, since males usually sparred shirtless.
She shook his arm gently, and he hissed. She yanked her arm back. Maybe he wasn’t human. But he looked so much like Faelan. Demons could shift into human forms, but she’d never known a demon that could shift into a known identity. Even if that were the case, a demon would never be able to maintain his human shell if he were this injured.
“Can you roll over? I need to see your chest.” Hopefully he’d think she was checking his injuries.
He grunted and tried to move. It took a minute, but he managed to roll onto his side. She opened his shirt. The tattoo started under each collarbone and angled down his chest. She was almost certain they were battle marks. Her heart sank. If the Mighty Faelan was trapped in here, what did that say for the rest of the clan? But something was different about these marks. She looked closer. It was difficult to see in the dim lighting, but she was almost certain these weren’t Faelan’s marks. Then who was he?
“I need to check your injuries.” She’d probably inflicted a couple of them herself. She checked his pulse through the bars. Strong. Alternating bars, she checked him over. There was a knot on his head and a couple of cuts on his neck that had already dried. She already knew his back was a mess. There were cuts on both calves and a small pool of blood at the edge of his kilt.
Easing it up, she found a gash on the front of his thigh. Warriors healed quickly and were immune to most diseases, but they weren’t immortal. If they were injured badly enough, they could die. Like Angus. And she wasn’t positive this man was a warrior. She looked around to see if there was anything she could use to clean his wounds. The cell was bare except for a toilet in one corner, a sink with a cup and paper towels, and a stone bench with a folded blanket.
She filled the cup with water and used paper towels to clean off the worst of the blood. He was shivering when she finished, from pain or from the cold. She didn’t clean his back since his shirt was stuck to his wounds. That could be done later, after they’d escaped. There had to be a way out of this place.
He shivered again, and Anna worried that he was going into shock. She got the blanket and stuffed it through the bars, spreading it over his body as best she could. Then she checked his pulse again. Still strong.
She spent several minutes searching for hidden cameras and for means of escape but found neither. The cell bars were secure, and she didn’t have anything to pick the lock. There wasn’t even anything she could use as a weapon. If the bastards got close enough, she’d strangle them with her bra.
The man moaned, and Anna went back to him. Squatting next to the bars, she slipped her hand through and touched his face. Still cold, but no fever. That was good.
He seemed unsettled. He tried to raise himself to one arm. “Piss.”
“What?”
“Piss.” The man fumbled with his kilt and lifted the front. Anna’s eyebrows rose. Was he going to do it right here on the floor? “Wait. You have a toilet.” Damn. He couldn’t walk to the toilet. He’d been drugged.
Grabbing the cup she’d left on the floor, she slipped her hand through the bars and tilted it just in time. She looked away, trying to give him privacy. His hand was unsteady, and she was afraid he’d end up soaking the floor. Anna cursed under her breath, reached through the bars and put her other hand over his, guiding his aim.
What a day. She’d gotten captured by God knew what kind of creatures, there was a monster hybrid on the loose, and now she was helping a man she didn’t know piss in a cup. When he was finished, he groaned and fell back, not moving. She lowered his kilt and emptied the cup in the toilet. When she returned, she straightened his blanket and sat on the floor next to the bars, afraid to leave him alone.
After ten minutes with her teeth chattering, she lay down as close to the bars as she could, trying to draw what little heat she could from his body
* * *
A smell woke him.Something tugged at his memory. Hugging a woman? No. Fighting... He opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor, covered by a blanket. A woman lay close by in the next cell, her back to him. All that separated them were the bars. She wore a short gown that left most of her legs bare. His eyebrows rose, and he winced at the movement. His face felt bruised and swollen. She must be a whore. What was she doing here? He pulled in her scent again, and he smelled something else. Blood. What had they done to her? Had the guard ravished her?
If that bastard had hurt a woman, whore or no, he’d wrap his hands around that thick throat and squeeze until there was no life left in the man… When he could move. Damnation, he felt like he’d been trampled by horses. He looked at the floor and saw the bloodstain. There was also one on his kilt. It was his blood, not hers. His body hurt from head to toe, but he was warmer than he’d been for a fortnight. The blanket must have been her doing. Memories shot through his head. A woman’s voice whispering to him. Soft hands checking for wounds, holding his hand while he pissed. Bollocks. And he smelled worse than a sweaty horse. He hadn’t bathed in days.
“Well, now, isn’t this cozy?” The guard stood outside the cell. His arm was bandaged.
The prisoner didn’t recall attacking him. He didn’t think he’d been capable in his condition. Had the woman done this? Not likely. What could a woman do against a guard? He heard an indrawn breath, and the woman jumped up, her back to him. All he managed to do was roll over. Since he didn’t have a sporran, he dropped his hand over his groin, but the guard had already seen his reaction to the woman.
“Nature blessed you, warrior, so you might manage it through the bars. We could use some entertainment.” An unholy light lit the guard’s eyes, sending dread to the prisoner’s heart.
He struggled to his feet, longing for his dagger. He would drive the blade up under his ribs, directly into his heart. The guard would be dead before he hit the floor. How did he know that? He must be a killer.
The guard opened the woman’s cell and stepped inside. “Time to start talking. Who are you?”
She didn’t answer.
“Did you come for him?” He nodded toward the prisoner. “Strange clothing for a rescue. You couldn’t have come for the other one. He’s been here over two years. No one knows about him.”
The woman still didn’t speak.
“Do you know her?” the guard asked the prisoner.
“No.” He didn’t know anyone. Or did he know her? Was that why he’d felt the beginning of a memory?
The guard advanced on her, but she didn’t back up. Her body tensed, balancing. She was prepared to fight. Another rush of dread filled him. The guard would kill her.
“Answer me,” the guard demanded, clenching his fists. “Who are you? How did you get in?”
“You’ll need more than your fists to get me to talk,” she said.
Was she insane? The prisoner moved closer to the bars that separated the cells. His body was still weak, but anger and fear gave him strength.
“I can make you talk.” The guard pulled out his pistol. “Lance, come here.”
Lance arrived, and the guard handed him the pistol. “If she struggles, shoot her.” The guard grabbed the woman’s arm. “Tell me who you are.”
“No.”
The guard slapped her.
The prisoner’s fingers pressed into the bars. He heard a growl and realized it came from his own throat. Then a startling thing happened. The woman punched the guard in the face then kicked him in the chest. The guard stumbled backward into Lance causing him to drop the gun.
Damnation. Lasses didn’t fight like that. Maybe his dream of fighting with her wasn’t a dream.
“Bitch.” The guard jumped up and grabbed the pistol, pointing the weapon at her head.
“Just shoot her,” Lance said. “The master will be here soon. We don’t need trouble.”
“No. On the floor. Now.”
The woman’s face was still hidden, but her anger was apparent in her stiff movements. She sat down, awkwardly, because of her short gown. The guard pointed his pistol at her chest and shoved her back onto the floor. She tried to sit up, but the guard straddled her. He ripped the top of the woman’s gown, baring part of her breasts. Not overly large, but plenty. He sneered as he unfastened his belt.
“Somebody needs to teach you a lesson. Human women are only good for one thing.”
A cry of rage rolled up the prisoner’s throat. “Get off her.”
“Sedate the prisoner,” the guard ordered Lance. “Then leave.” In one swift motion, the woman bucked hard, throwing the guard off balance, then lifted her legs, baring a backside covered in a tiny white cloth and the most bizarre shoes on her feet. Her legs caught the guard around his neck, yanking him backward. At the same time, she swung her arm toward the pistol. It fired into the ceiling. Shoving the guard off her, she scrambled to her feet.
The prisoner felt the wounds on his back open as he pulled against the bars. He wasn’t aware that Lance had entered the cell until something sharp jabbed him in the arm. He turned and swung at Lance, throwing him against the cell door. The prisoner started toward him, but Lance scrambled out of reach. The prisoner’s legs went weak as a lamb’s. His mind blurred as Lance shoved him onto the bench. As the shackles closed around his wrists, he saw the woman’s face for the first time.
But it wasn’t the first time. He’d seen those turquoise eyes before.
* * *
Anna lunged at the guard,striking him in the groin. It wasn’t a direct hit, but he groaned and staggered back. Still, he held on to the gun. She expected him to shoot her, but a roar echoed down the corridor.
The guard cursed, holding his crotch with one hand and the gun with the other. “I thought you sedated him.”
“I did.”
“He’s out of control. We’ll have to give him more.” The guard hobbled to the door.
“He’s not the only one out of control,” Lance said, looking at Anna. “We need to kill her.”
“Not until I get what I want.”
Anna backed against the wall, anger and fear making her blood pound. She didn’t know if he meant answers or rape. She didn’t mind a fight, but rape... the thought made her sick. Her mother had been raped. It had ruined her life.
The guard slammed the door. “The lock’s broken. The bullet must have hit it. We’ll have to move her.”
“Not if we kill her,” Lance said, sounding desperate. “We have too much to worry about with these other two.”
Did that mean there were only three of them being held here?
The prisoner, the hybrid, and her?
“No. The master will want to know who she is. She must be a warrior. She had one of those necklaces.”
She touched her bare neck. Warriors didn’t lose their talismans. It just wasn’t done. What a bloody mess she’d gotten into.
“Put her in with Faelan for now. I’ll deal with her later. Move,” he ordered her. He stayed out of reach with the gun aimed at her head as Lance unlocked the other cell and shoved her inside. “We’re not finished. You’ll pay for this.” The guard gave her a dark look, and the two left.
Anna turned to the prisoner. He sat on the stone bench, his hands shackled to the wall above his head, bare feet chained to an iron ring in the floor. Dried blood smeared his kilt and shirt. He was unconscious, head cradled between his upraised arms and his chest. Who was he? The guards thought he was Faelan, and he did resemble him, but they were wrong.
She touched his arm. He jerked the chains and opened his eyes. Anna leaned back. She had no doubt he could be dangerous. His dark gaze locked on her, and something zinged along her nerves. “What’s your name?” she asked.
He seemed disoriented, but his gaze was steady. “Faelan.”
He couldn’t be. He didn’t have Faelan’s battle marks. “What’s your last name?”
“Last?”
“Faelan what?”
He frowned and shook his head. “I don’t remember.”
Amnesia? They had beaten him so badly it was no surprise. “Where do you live?”
He closed his eyes for a moment. “I don’t know.”
“How do you know your name is Faelan?”
“That’s what they call me.”
“Hold on, I’m going to try to free you.” Anna tested the shackles and chains. They were strong. If only she had something to pick the lock. The metal on her hair clip might work, but it was missing. It must have fallen out when she fought the guard. She spotted it in the next cell. Lying on her stomach, she tried to reach it, but the clip was too far away. Blimey. Reaching behind her, she unhooked her bra, pulled one shoulder free, then the other, and wiggled out of it.
The prisoner watched in astonishment. If he hadn’t looked so broken, it might have been comical.
“I’m sure it isn’t the first time you’ve seen a bra.” Holding one end, she knelt and tried to snag the clip through the bars. It was kind of like fishing. It took several tries to retrieve the clip. Scooping it up, she hurried back to the prisoner. She wasn’t as good at picking locks as Ronan, but she wasn’t bad.
Her efforts paid off, and she heard a click as the shackle released. The prisoner’s arm dropped as it was freed. His wrist was raw from where he’d pulled at the chains. The second shackle proved harder. Anna glanced at his face and felt a jolt of something. Sympathy? Recognition?
He watched her with a puzzled frown. “Who are you?”
“I’m Anna. Anna MacKinley.”
“Anna?” He said the name stiffly, but there was no doubt he was a Scot. And she was almost positive he was a warrior.
A warrior with no memories.
Why hadn’t she seen him before? There were some smaller clans who kept to themselves. Perhaps he belonged to one of them. But it didn’t answer the question of what he was doing here and why the guards called him Faelan. A thought was forming in her head, but it was so outlandish, she didn’t give it credit.
“Do you remember how you got here?” she asked.
“No. They’ve taken my memories with their damned potions and injections.”
“An amnesia drug?”
“I don’t know. I woke once, and they were taking my blood. I think they marked me.”
“Marked?”
“On my chest.”
“Can I see it again?”
He looked slightly taken aback. “Aye.” He pulled his shirt aside. They both jumped when she touched his skin. Her fingers ran over the marks, confirming what she’d seen before.
“I don’t know who you are, but you’re not Faelan.”