The shouting voices seemed to be male. Men could be witches, but there weren’t that many of them.
Maybe Heldridge was trying to use me to barter the witches into protecting him.
“She is a threat!” another voice said clearly.
Oh hell. Maybe it was some rogue parents who’d seen me on the news, though I didn’t think any of them were the type to commit or commission a murder.
My brain felt muddy inside.
Think! It didn’t matter who had me, I had to get away. I can’t fail. Beverley will be devastated.
Despite the pain of moving, I stretched my head so I could scrape the blindfold up, little by little. Once it was off, it was obvious how futile the effort had been. Wherever I was, it was completely dark except for a sliver of dim light about ten feet away from me.
After long minutes of straining at the bindings, I had to admit my struggles were only giving me friction burns. Not very Lustrata-ish. Of course the protrepticus, my satellite phone, and my purse had all been taken from me. They’d even removed my necklace with Beau’s charm. So I pondered what magic could get me out of this. If I called to a ley line, anyone but mundane humans would sense it. Whoever had me could probably get in here quick and dole out another whack to the head before any sorcery could be completed.
Footsteps approached beyond the door. Panic seized me. I don’t have a plan yet!
The door opened and I learned who had kidnapped me.
By the shape of the shadow, I recognized Gregor. He had a long blade in his grip. He advanced and crouched over me. I held my breath. Poor Beverley. Will she ever understand how much—
He sliced through a rope behind me and the length uncoiled from my ankles. My wrists were apparently a separate binding and remained taut. He yanked me up to stand, not at all good for my aching head, and strong-armed me to the door. There, he jerked the gag from my mouth and let the drool-saturated fabric slap against my neck.
“Stir the slightest energy, witch, and I’ll twist that pretty head of yours until it pops off.” He pushed me through the doorway into another nearly dark room.
I stumbled and, because each step equaled a thudding kick in the cranium, it was only by dumb luck that I managed to keep my feet under me. When steady enough to stand upright without fearing my balance was compromised, my smart-ass mouth opened. “Hey, asshole, I had nothing against you guys until someone killed Maxine and kidnapped me.”
Gregor crossed his Mr. Olympia–size arms and gave me a smugly satisfied expression. I was like a toothpick next to him, and with me being bound and having that goose egg trying to hatch on the back of my head, he did have the advantage … unless I wanted to call to a ley line and half-form every wære in the area, which I didn’t. But I am debating how far I’d have to be pushed to willingly cross that line.
“This is the witch?”
The voice came from behind me. Slowly, I turned. We were surrounded by tarnished steel walls. At the corners where the metal panels had been secured in place were circles of rust with trails of the corrosion leaking downward. Pipes snaked across the ceiling.
Then I saw the man wearing a crown and sitting on a throne of ebony.
The Rege.
The throne seemed to be made from cylinders of wood, tall ones forming the two rear posts, shorter ones supporting the arms of the seat. The dark wood was decorated with various skulls, horns, and tusks. It was like four phallic symbols with hunting trophies nailed together to create a royal, manly-man chair. If it had a voice, it would have bellowed, “Behold! Virility incarnate!”
The phallic symbolism was continued in the black waist-high pilasters of marble on either side of him, topped with green pillar candles. They were the only source of light in the tomblike room, creating an intimate dimness while casting an eerie glow upon the skulls.
All in all, this was where I’d have expected the leader of the wærewolves to lounge. Though I’d have thought he’d look different.
Thick silver-gray hair hung from under his emerald-studded crown and brushed his shoulders. It was utterly Ricardo Montalban from Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan and I almost laughed—but choked on it when I realized he was wearing a long black robe that resembled a cassock. And the crown on his head was more of a mitre than something a king would wear. This dude was not playing “Warrior King,” he was into “Insane Holy Man Ruler.”
Johnny had pegged it. Pope-Czarzilla.
Underneath the unbuttoned robe was a collarless black silk shirt with a slitted neck embellished with bright green embroidery. I couldn’t tell anything about his pants but he was wearing riding boots—one ankle was propped upon the other knee. The pose conveyed contentedness.
His eyes were chalkboard green and he stroked his square, shaven chin slowly as he assessed me. When his hand lowered to the armrest, he lovingly fondled the skull at its end. He wore wide rings on nearly every finger.
All the iconic imagery in his carefully chosen costume was unnecessary. One look in those callous eyes, pitiless enough to match the cruel, bent line of his mouth, and I knew this was a man who had seen extreme horrors, enjoyed the show, and bought the entire season on DVD.
It made me want to be invisible.
“Do you know who I am?” His accented tone was thick with inflections of authority and his deep voice scratched in a way that conveyed age as much as his silver hair did.
“The Rege,” I answered.
“The Omori think you are a threat, little witch.” He shifted his weight on the chair, leaning slightly forward. “Are you?”
The words I’d just spouted at Gregor in my aching and anger echoed through my mind. “You’re certainly giving me reasons to think I ought to be.” It wasn’t backing down; it wasn’t admitting anything directly, either.
He stood and advanced on me, each step both graceful and threatening. Not quite six feet tall, he had probably been handsome until something ugly inside reached maximum levels and seeped out, eroding him until only an expression of scorn remained. His powerful build matched the Omori leader’s, as if Gregor was the latest version, new and improved, now ten percent bigger. Romania must have gotten rid of all the grocery stores and replaced them with GNCs.
Glowering down at me coldly, the Rege let the moment linger, as if waiting for me to lose the stare down and collapse at his feet in fear and submission. But his furrows and lines were not daunting. Johnny’s Wedjat tattoos had once scared me more than this guy’s best glare. Of course, I’d never been tied up back then.
His arm swung up, ready to backhand me.
Resolved not to reward him with evidence of how frightened I truly was, I didn’t react—not to hold my breath, not to tense against the strike, and certainly not to cower before this man. If he hit me, though, I was going to try my best to throw up on him.
“You are brave,” he whispered. His breath smelled like burnt earth. His arm lowered slowly. “Brave enough to try defiance.” He didn’t strike me, but instead put his thumb under my chin and applied pressure to the soft triangle of flesh where there was no bone.
I jerked away; it forced me to take a step back.
With a sardonic smile and a down-his-nose glare, he turned back to his macho throne, satisfied I had given ground.
He’d received the indication of submission he wanted from me, but my mouth didn’t always know when to stay shut. “I’d prefer to be known as brave enough not to back down when I’ve been wronged.”
He spun back. “It was the Omori that wronged you, killed your friend.” He flicked his fingers dismissively at me as if that would wipe the blame from my eyes. “They are within their rights to act preemptively, though I gave no such order.”