Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Nina
Wychwood House
“Pearson. Pearson!” She crouched down and grabbed his chin with her free hand, angling his face toward her. His eyes fluttered open. They were darker than usual—not that she spent time contemplating his eyes. She simply noticed them. They were nice. Aesthetically, all of him was nice.
He was warm to the touch. Feverish. Did his wound become infected?
“My apologies for such boldness,” she muttered, unceremoniously yanking open his coat and the layers of fabric underneath. Fabric tore. A button clattered to the wooden floorboards of the porch.
Scales.
Scales.
That couldn’t be. The scales caught the faint light, giving a hint to texture. They completely covered what should have been ripped and torn skin. Instead, there was no indication that he had his guts torn open by a monster merely days ago.
“Impossible.” She saw the wound and it hadn’t been a scratch. Disbelieving her eyes, she brushed her fingers over the scales. They were abnormally smooth and firm. Not that she had ever seen Pearson’s bare torso, much less touched him, or had a scaly comparison, but this wasn’t normal for anyone.
She leaned back in an attempt to let the light from the house reach him. It was no good. She couldn’t see properly and needed light.
Actually, Pearson looked unwell. His skin gleamed. No. Not his skin but his cheekbones reflected the light in a way that skin shouldn’t, even feverish skin. She ran a thumb over his cheekbone. It was smoother than she expected.
Not being delicate, she jerked his head to one side, exposing the column of his throat.
Red slashes marred his pale skin as if Jollett’s claws had raked his throat, but she knew that was not the case.
He would have surely died from a slashed throat.
Only his abdomen had been caught by the beast’s claws.
He gasped, jerking awake. The slashes on his next exhaled with breath.
Gills.
She drew her dagger again, quickly pressing the flat of the dagger to his cheek. He hissed. Violet light from the blade’s edge cast a sinister glow over his complexion.
“You were bitten,” she said. He tried to move away but she tightened her grip on his chin, forcing him to look up at her. “You lied to me again. Unbelievable.”
He stared at her with those unnaturally dark eyes.
The whites had completely vanished. He could fight her off if he wanted, she knew.
He stood taller than her by a good couple of inches and he had more upper body strength than her.
No matter how tightly she gripped him by the throat, she posed no threat.
She could not say the same about him.
“I couldn’t stay. I need your help,” he said, his voice a thin whisper. “No one must know.”
Nina dropped her hold but did not remove the dagger. He had been bitten and now he was turning. The audacity of him to turn up at her home and ask for help. She kept her weapon pressed against his exposed neck. She said, “I should cut your throat.”
He flinched at the contact. It hurt. Good.
“Do it,” he said, his gaze holding hers with those unnatural eyes. “You’re the only one who will.”
She understood why he fled the NPF base. If his condition were discovered, they’d keep him alive at all cost. Feral or tame, uncontrolled or in possession of his wits, it did not matter. He’d be a prisoner like Ben Jollett.
“Nina, do your duty,” he said. He covered her hand—was that a flap of skin between his fingers?—and pressed the blade. Blood beaded at the blade’s edge.
Nina pulled back. Killing him now would be justified in the eyes of the law. He lunged at her from the dark. Unidentified. The night before the equinox.
It would be easy. He was a liar. He lied to her face for years about the fate of the beast that killed Lucas. It was only fitting that he was turned by the same monster. Poetic. A dreadful symmetry. She could end him and never think of him again.
But it wouldn’t be enough.
“No,” she said. “You don’t get out of this so easily. Get up.”
She sheathed the dagger and hauled Pearson to his feet.
Leaning on her, they staggered into the house and down the steps to the cellar.
He was heavy and his feet didn’t want to support his weight.
It took some doing, but they managed not to fall down the stairs and break their necks.
With a grunt, she pushed him into the cage.
Anthony
Wychwood House
The Cellar
A cage.
Anthony sat still in the darkness, taking in his surroundings.
Not metaphorical. A literal cage in the cellar. The iron bars were built into a stone alcove. The floor, stone. The door was secured with a simple latch. The bars appeared flimsy. No lock. Curious. He grabbed the bars to test their durability and was rewarded with a shock.
He snatched his hand back, shaking it. Silver alloy bars then. Expensive and not entirely effective. A determined beast could power their way out of a cage with enough determination and disregard for their own comfort. Iron was better.
“I was unaware that you had a personal dungeon,” he said.
Nina moved with confidence in the darkness, dragging a chair across the floor. “Don’t be so dramatic. We keep fruit preserves down here.”
His eyes had not yet adjusted to the near total darkness. They felt wrong—the wrong size, the wrong shape, and his head ached something fierce.
“I’m touched by your hospitality,” he replied, his tone thick with mockery.
No response. Disappointing. Anthony imagined a sour look on Nina’s face. She had very expressive features and vexing her had always proved entertaining. He always enjoyed the vinegar in her sharp and precise words when she was vexed.
“Don’t do that,” he said. He settled on the floor and slouched against the stone, letting his head fall back. His eyes fluttered closed. The stone was cool against his overheated body. He was tired but felt better knowing she was near. “Don’t fight your nature.”
“Stay put,” came the reply.
He heard footsteps on the stairs, followed by the slamming of a door and the turning of a lock.
Every part of him ached. When he left the base—or snuck out, to be accurate—he had felt poorly but nothing like the fire that currently burned inside him.
By the time he reached Wychwood House, it was too late for doubts.
He had thrown himself on the mercy of a woman who despised him.
Now pain was his companion in the darkness.
Somehow, knowing she was near helped. It didn’t ease the torment but it made a space in which he could retreat, where his mind would remain himself.
* * *
“What kind of prison is this? The bars are flimsy and there’s no lock.” He grabbed the bars to illustrate the fault in its design.
“I’d advise against touching that,” Nina warned.
Defiant, he grabbed the bars.
Immediately, he jumped back with a yelp.
“Oh, you didn’t listen,” Nina said in a tone reserved for headstrong children and drunkards.
“What was that?!” He shook his stinging hands.
“The consequences of failing to take heed,” she replied airily.
Parts of himself that he had been unaware of previously flexed and he growled, the rumble echoing off the stone walls. It was most disconcerting.
She set an oil lantern down on a table and adjusted the wick. A soft light filled the room. A table held a covered dish, presumably a meal for the prisoner, and a pitcher of water. He licked his lips, ferociously parched.
Anthony held up a hand to shield himself from the light.
“For future reference, when I say don’t touch something, I’m not speaking just because my voice is so melodious and captivating,” she said.
“An awful lot of words to say I told you so .”
“To answer your question, it’s the handiwork of a rather clever uncle about a century ago. The cage is infused with Nexus energy,” she explained. “It won’t open, even if you could touch it.”
“You’ve locked me away forever.” His lips curled back as he spoke, the words feeling misshapen in his mouth. He ran his tongue over his teeth, startled to find them pointy.
Nina noticed, tilting her head as if intrigued. While he enjoyed her looking at him, he’d rather it be in admiration than as an oddity.
“Not forever,” she said. “The energy will dissipate when the surge wanes and your normally charming disposition is restored.”
“How long have I been captive here?” he asked, keenly aware of his dry and rasping voice.
“Not long,” she said, speaking over him. “Step back.”
He complied. She set a glass of water on the ground. When she moved back, he rushed toward the glass of cold water.
More water poured down his face than his throat. No matter.
“More,” he said, shoving the glass through the bars, careful to avoid touching the bars. She refilled from the pitcher.
He managed to remember his manners and drank with civility. “Thank you.”
“Hungry?”
The thought of food made his stomach turn. He shook his head and requested more water.
With his thirst finally quenched, Nina tossed a wool blanket into the cage. “Strip.”
“Pardon me?” he said, incredulous.
“Or don’t. Your body is changing and we have no idea if you’ll be taller, broader, or have the correct number of limbs. The one thing we do know is that it will leave your clothes in tatters,” Nina said. “I find myself unable to muster concern, but you may wish to preserve your garments.”
A fair point.
“Very well. There’s no room for modesty in military barracks,” he said.
Starting from the bottom, he unlaced his boots and pulled them off. Next, he divested himself of his greatcoat, the uniform jacket, and undershirt. He turned his back to her before removing his belt and lowering his trousers and drawers.
The entire time he was aware of Nina watching him. Anthony had been nude several times in front of strangers, but this felt different, clinical, like he was a specimen to be examined.
“Your back,” she said, but explained no further.