Chapter 9
The acrid stench of the demesne, a foul cocktail of decay and rot, was worse than a beating.
Tanner’s agreement to follow Avelunne grated against every protective instinct.
Her bare shoulders were set with resolve as she took the lead, her pale form a beacon in the sulfurous gloom, and plunged into the winding, fleshy tunnel.
Hell was an understatement. Avelunne had tried to warn them, but no words in any language were up to the task of describing the grotesque reality.
The curving corridors reminded him of a museum exhibit he’d once seen, a walk-through model of an enlarged small intestine.
Here, though, the walls pulsed with a sluggish, irregular rhythm, and the floor yielded under his feet like a tongue.
A fresh wave of nausea roiled in his empty stomach, and he swallowed hard against the bile.
How had she survived twelve years of this?
“I’d give my left tusk for a blowtorch for my sinuses,” Keteng muttered.
The powerful mammoth shifter, whose shifted form could likely stop a charging rhino, was pale and sweating.
Beside her, Rumnaan moved with a thief’s economy, his face a carefully blank mask, though the tightness around his eyes and clenched jaw betrayed the strain.
They were all warriors, seasoned and capable, but this place fought with poison in the air and horror in its architecture.
His gaze returned to Avelunne. She moved with enviable ease, though she was probably terrorized. Her slender build, the gentle curve of her hips, and the elegant line of her spine seemed so delicate. Yet here she was, leading them through hell.
Shifters were casual about nudity, but he somewhat guiltily admitted that his focus on Avelunne was anything but casual.
He watched the subtle play of muscles in her back as she navigated a particularly slick patch of floor, a possessive heat coiling low in him.
His thunderbird half was torn between wanting to claim her and kill for her.
He forced his eyes forward, re-focusing on the mission.
“Rumnaan?” Avelunne waved a hand to encompass the corridor. “Can you mark our path? Something they won’t notice, but that we can follow back.”
Tanner’s respect for her deepened. In his own tactical assessment, he’d been focused on the objective, the insertion and extraction. She was already planning the exit, a detail a commander should have thought of.
Rumnaan gave a short nod. Without breaking stride, he reached out and pressed his fingertips to the rippling wall.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the flesh puckered and healed over, leaving behind a thin, silvery line that looked like old scar tissue.
It was subtle, almost invisible unless you knew to look for it.
He repeated the action every forty or fifty paces and at every intersection, leaving a breadcrumb trail through hell.
They rounded yet another tight curve that opened into a wide oval area that reminded Tanner too much of a mammalian stomach.
Two branching pinkish corridors beyond it added to the impression.
Avelunne stopped and pointed at a grotesque, fleshy version of a mechanical door.
It was a flat, hexagonal shape embedded in the wall.
The skin-like surface swirled with faint, discordant patterns.
Waves of dark, suppressive magic pulsed from it, a dissonant jangling along Tanner’s nerves.
Rumnaan stepped forward, his expression one of deep concentration. His fingers curled in a pattern that looked like crocheting with air.
The hexagonal door quivered, then began to melt. Thick, viscous goo, the color and stench of spoiled meat, pooled briefly. The wall and floor absorbed it like a thirsty sponge.
The moment the last of the door vanished, the blowback hit. It was like plummeting into a sudden sandstorm, ears popping, senses overloading. Tanner staggered as a thousand tiny needles bombarded him.
The pressure subsided. He shook his head, the phantom stinging already fading. The air from the now-open pen washed over them, different from the corridor’s stench, but equally bad.
“Avelunne! You made it!”
The baritone voice came from within the pen. She stepped through the raw, gaping portal.
Tanner finally understood. She would have come back — alone, if she had to — because she promised she would.
Even though she was scared witless, even though she was certain she would fail them.
The thought stole his breath, filling him with an icy rage at everyone who had broken her, and a profound, humbling awe for the woman and dragon who had refused to stay broken.
He followed Avelunne into the pen, his bare feet sinking into an even more lumpy, resilient surface that squelched under his feet like packed, water-logged moss.
The space was larger than the corridor suggested and lit by a sickly, pulsing bioluminescence from the ceiling.
It was chilly but not unbearable. It smelled of unwashed bodies, fear, and a cloying sweetness he couldn’t place.
Rumnaan stepped through behind him, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow. “Sorry about the door. The demesne’s magic suppression rules fought mine. It siphons energy. The good news is, everyone in this pen is now on central lab time, which Avelunne said is approximately real-world time.”
The words barely registered. Tanner’s eyes scanned two gaunt figures standing in the ugly light, and his heart beat faster. They were thin, bruised, and filthy, but their faces were achingly familiar. “Timoki? Rutera?”
They stared at him, their expressions a mixture of disbelief and dawning hope.
He closed the distance in three strides, pulling their too-thin bodies into a fierce, desperate hug.
He felt the sharp angles of their joints and the bones of their arms against his ribs.
“I’m sorry.” The words felt jagged in his throat. “I should have looked for you harder.”
Rutera pulled back slightly, her hand still gripping his arm. “Yeah, we all should have done better after the clan disbanded.” Her gaze was direct, forgiving. “But you wouldn’t have found us anyway. This place is probably responsible for half the missing-magical-persons complaints for centuries.”
His attention shifted to the other side of the pen.
The remaining shifters were gathered around Avelunne.
An older black woman, a younger white man with visible bruises, and a solemn Indonesian man all touched her, their faces alight with relief.
She murmured their names, Naima, Wiley, and Sayyan.
They had put their faith in the woman he had treated with cold suspicion. A fresh wave of shame washed over him.
Avelunne was asking about someone, her voice low. “…Gudrati?”
Timoki’s face hardened. “Right after you left, the keepers beat us up and took him.” From the looks on their faces, the captives didn’t expect to see Gudrati ever again.
“Avelunne,” said Rutera, “to us, it’s only been three, maybe four hours since you left. How long has it really been?”
“Seven days. One hour in this pen is like three days in the real world.”
A sharp whoop came from the young white man named Wiley. “I win the betting pool!” He pumped both fists in the air. Wiley’s defiant exuberance brought fleeting smiles from the captives.
Tanner moved to her side. “I owe you an apology. You were right. About everything.”
“It’s okay.” She waved off his words. “I wouldn’t have believed me, either.” Her forgiveness made him want to sweep her into his arms. But the only comfort he could offer right now was a successful escape.
“Not to be rude,” said Rumnaan, “but time isn’t on our side. Let’s get out of here before we’re caught.” He pointed a thumb toward the still-oozing portal doorway.
Tanner counted eleven captives. “Any mobility problems?” When no one spoke up, he nodded. “Okay, let’s go. Follow Rumnaan and Keteng. Avelunne and I will bring up the rear. We have to assume blowing the portal door will get priority attention.”
Rumnaan poked his head out the doorway. “Clear.”
The captives moved with urgency that belied their underfed looks. Shifters’ will to live often amazed him.
As they began to file out, Rutera and Timoki stepped in front of Tanner and Avelunne. “There’s something else,” said Rutera. “Tippizoars have a collection of Ice Age shifter children in the central lab. They’re in the experiments section.”
Anger ignited in Tanner’s blood. “How many?”
Rutera frowned. “Don’t know. When they took Gudrati, one of the keepers was complaining about having to deliver food and clean up after them in an empty back lab storeroom.”
“Not many, if it’s the room I’m thinking of.
‘Tis little more than a closet.” Avelunne closed her eyes.
For a long moment, she was perfectly still.
When she opened them, her expression was diamond-hard.
“You two and Naima convinced me to memorize the pathways for a reason. I know how to get to them. Only Tippizoars can revoke magical access, and they think I’m gone. They won’t have bothered.”
He wrestled with a near-overwhelming thunderbird instinct to stop their mate from going and carry her to safety instead.
No, he ordered himself. He’d disrespected her enough since meeting her.
He visualized the map she’d drawn in her sketchbook, the layout of the corridors and the hub. “I’m coming with you.”
She shook her head. “You can’t get into the lab.”
“I can keep the way out clear.” He met her gaze. “I’m not telling you what to do. But let me support you.”
She hesitated, drew a breath as if to speak, but let it out without a sound. She glanced at Timoki and Rutera, then returned her gaze to him. A flicker of something new — trust, he hoped — warmed her eyes. “I’d like that.”