This was a wærewolf. One exposed to the energies a witch can stir, the insufficient energy that leaves them half-formed.
This man, this thing, snarled at me and saliva dripped from its horrible maw. There was nothing even remotely human in the eyes that were locked onto me. They were feral. They were hungry. And they saw meat.
He lifted his head at an angle no human neck would be able to match, and howled. But that howl wasn’t wolfish. It was the scream of a man being tortured.
“Admiring the handiwork of your peers, witch?”
Snapping my head around toward the voice was a mistake. My head complained mightily about it even as my limbs prepared to get my feet under me and flee. But Gregor didn’t come after me. He simply crossed his body-builder arms and fixed me with his usual scowl.
This time, the nausea wouldn’t be denied. I threw up. When the nasty-tasting nothingness on my stomach was gone, I dry heaved for several minutes.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
About an hour later, after an elevator ride down to a familiar parking area beneath, I realized that I’d been brought to the den. Maybe without a concussion I might have realized sooner, but the upper floors, which had no windows, were nothing like the lower area, and the elevator had steel secondary doors, not just a wooden gate.
They had bound my hands again, this time in front of me, but there was so much of the prickly rope wrapped around them that it was, truly, overkill—like eight pounds of anchor line. If my arms didn’t ache, I could have started building up my biceps. Enough reps with this load and I could give Gregor some competition.
A black limo was waiting. Gregor, three Omori, the Rege, and I all climbed in. Omori thugs sat on either side of and across from me. Gregor opened a brown paper grocery bag and set it on the floor space before my feet. “In case you vomit again,” he said mockingly. “Do not miss.”
Other than that, no one spoke. We were subjected to some classical music that was much too upbeat for the state of my head. Watching out the windows made my stomach very unhappy, so I focused on the floor and the beat of the throbbing inside my head. But I wanted to know where they were taking me, too. I recognized Carnegie Avenue and East Seventy-ninth Street. We took a right on Superior, then a left on Martin Luther King Jr. Drive.
Are we going to the Cultural Gardens? I lowered my eyes again as my stomach shuddered.
Nana and I had picnicked here a few times in my childhood. She liked, predictably, the Greek Garden with its Doric columns framing the entrance to a reflecting pool. Nana and I ought to bring Beverley here next summer and picnic. If I make it out of this, that is.
My stomach squeezed; I fought against it. Back at the den I had asked for a drink of water and Gregor had declined, saying I would only “make a mess” if he did. He was right. I leaned over the paper bag just in case.
The Omori thugs beside me inched away.
The limo zipped past the Greek Garden area, pulling over to the left just before the stone bridge that supported St. Clair Avenue. The arched stonework in the bridge was gorgeous, reminding me of the entrance to the Arcade that Mountain had shown me. There was no time for daydreaming, however. The men unloaded and I was expected to stay with them. Damn it. I want a bottle of water and a nap.
I thought the wealth of rope around my wrists would be a red flag to drivers passing by, but one of the Omori thugs was wearing an overcoat. Gregor ordered him to remove it, then draped it over my arms as if I was merely holding my jacket as I strolled along.
I made sure to breathe my puke breath on him.
So, in the dying light of the day, we walked up to the life-size statue of a man in a long coat, seated comfortably, yet clearly deep in thought. The Rege seemed particularly glad to see it.
The bronze had taken on the green patina of age and local pigeons had added their artwork as well. The plaque told me it was George Enescu, the years of his birth and death, and that he was a composer. A Romanian composer.
Maybe the long cassocklike coats are a Romanian thing.
If this was just a little sightseeing trip around Cleveland to take in spots that offered some cultural homage to these foreign visitors, hooray. But there was no reason to take native-Ohioan me along for the ride. I was no tour guide.
So what is going on? “Are you guys all fans of Mr. Enescu’s?”
“I am,” the Rege said. “That was his Romanian Rhapsodies we were listening to.”
Gregor’s cell phone beeped. He gave it to the Rege.
“We’re waiting,” he said tersely. Pause. “Not coming? What do you mean not coming?” The displeasure in his voice was succinct. That someone could irk him that much made me smile. Then, whoever was on the other end said something in response that caused the Rege’s attention to shoot to me. He stormed away, snarling whispers into the phone that I couldn’t understand.
Smiling at Gregor like I’d just won the lottery, I asked, “Things not going according to plan?”
He said nothing, but simply gave me a fine example of what utter contempt looks like. If he’d been on our team, it would have been a plus in our column. We started another stare down. The wounds Johnny gave him had healed nicely.
“We have her, so get your ass down here and claim her!” The Rege shut the phone so hard the sides clacked together and he tossed it at Gregor with such aggravation he didn’t realize his best pal wasn’t paying attention. Gregor took it in the face.
Shoved into the back of the limo, I climbed onto one of the side seats. These guys were definitely not gentlemen.
The Rege sat inside with me. Gregor remained just beyond the car door.
“Who’s coming to claim me?”
“Ah.” He gave a snort of laughter. “A witch with so many enemies she cannot tell whom to fear first. How many lives have you befouled and besmirched?”
I scowled at him. Surely he understood that I could tap the ley line and change all of them into the things I’d seen in the upper floors of the den—
Even as I thought it I knew I could never do that to a person on purpose. I felt the hardness fade from my features.
“Who do you think would pay the most?”
Chin lifted proudly, I asked, “The Rege is an extortionist?”
The Rege backhanded me with enough force to propel me against the side seat. “Never. But I cannot refuse the opportunity to add to the coffers.”
My already-concussed head did not take that blow well. I blacked out for I don’t know how long. When I woke, I lay there dazed and reeling for several minutes before feeling recovered enough to sit up.
I wondered what time it was. The road through the Cultural Gardens wound through like a meandering stream at the bottom of a valley, and here the day’s last light was blocked by the sloping heights of the garden. The tinted limo windows made it even darker. I hadn’t detected Menessos waking, so this had to be dusk.
“I always get my way, witch. As you should recall. Or do you need another lesson?”
In answer, I scooted as far from him as I could and tried to rub at my now puffy jaw. The way they had me tied up, all I could do was scrape the rope over it. I’ve been abused enough for one day.
Considering his words, however, I had to infer that he believed he did rape me when I had invoked that power and influenced him. I’d said, “You’re finished here.” Maybe in his mesmerized mind, that implied the deed had been done.
Another car pulled in behind the limo. Because it was now the time period of civil twilight, this car had the headlamps on and they were the new Xenon kind. They made me squint even through the tinted rear windshield.
Then another car arrived behind that one, and another. I detected nearly a dozen dark figures coming toward the limo. The driver of the first car exited and joined those moving in.