“Feel anything but pain?” Kane continued to shoot questions at her, not giving her a chance to stop and think.
“Rope against my wrists, hands high above.” They were torturing him. Rage ripped through her system, the need to draw blood filming a haze over her vision. She’d find them. And she’d rip their heads off.
“See anything?”
“No. Just darkness.” Moira leaped to her feet. “We need to go. We have to go and find him. Now!” She may be confused as hell about the man, but nobody tortured her mate.
Chapter 21
Conn concentrated on his left femur, mentally shoving the bone back into place. Except it didn’t move. The smell of earth and raw flesh filled his senses. His flesh. Water dripped somewhere in the distance, teasing him. He needed a drink.
Water would do.
Blood would do better.
He’d lost most of his. While losing all blood wouldn’t kill a vampire, it’d destroy his brain, and he’d live forever in a vegetative state. He trusted his brothers to cut his head off at that point.
Conn blinked, sending any healing force he owned to reduce the swelling around his eyes. Neurons fired with pain from every cell in his body. The steel corded ropes cut into his wrists as he hung from the ceiling. A shiny, new lock kept the ropes attached to rings in the ceiling of the cell. Ten feet wide, eleven feet deep, it had a dirt floor and one exit. Exposed rebar stuck out of solid walls where they’d built his cage into the rock. Smart. Most walls he’d plow through, but not a mountain.
The bars appeared to be steel and the door his only escape. He was aboveground, the enclosure dug into rock. A cell designed to hold Jordan, and currently trapping Conn.
His bare toes curled into the dust, his heels inches up. His shirt and most of his pants were shredded from hits with spiked metal bats.
A light haze wandered through his mind, and he shook his head to clear his thinking. The assholes had used him for target practice from safely on the other side of the bars. They’d aimed darts loaded with drugs at the space between his eyes.
And waited for the sedative to take effect before entering with weapons. Smart bastards.
Moira had called into his head. Even with pain catching the breath in his throat, pleasure fought through. For seconds, she’d been with him. His mate. Then she was gone. Hours ago, possibly a whole day. Too bad he couldn’t show her where they kept him. An hour’s flight, maybe two from where he’d raided the demon’s holding—might be in any direction. More light filtered through his pupils. Ah, good. He visualized bouncing gold healing cells to the mangled tissue, which relaxed across his brow. His focus sharpened. The blood in his veins attacked the drugs, learning to metabolize the sedative faster.
A spiked bat rested against the thick-planked wall outside his cell in another small, empty room with a door. Was this the only area built into the rock? Exposed bulbs hung from cords nailed into the rough ceilings, illuminating him enough for his captors to see when they swung the bats. Two metal folding chairs rested next to the weapon still dripping with his blood.
The door skidded open through the dirt. Marcus shoved his way inside, pivoting to force it closed. The bottom caught several times on the way. A strap held yet another dart gun over his shoulder.
Conn curled a lip. “Some moron cut the door too long.”
Marcus stilled, turning around. “Apparently not all of the darts hit the mark.” He shrugged, kicking a chair open and dropping down. His nearly yellow gaze flicked over Conn.
The vampire stared back.
Like most cats, Marcus preferred light, loose clothing in khaki and linen.
Conn would appreciate the red staining the guy’s duds more if it hadn’t been his own blood. “You know, I dated a woman centuries ago who wore her hair in a braid like that.” What kind of a guy French braided his hair?
Marcus lifted one shoulder. “Yes, well, I kept getting your blood in it. The woman I’m dating now braided it for me.” Mainly black with red tints, the mane showed the cat’s genetics. Pure panther.
“So what’s your endgame here, Marcus?” Torture hadn’t gleaned the location of the Realm’s new headquarters from Conn. He’d lose his head before giving up his family.
Marcus sniffed his feline nose, rubbing thick hair along his dark jaw line. “I want Jordan.”
“You’re not his type.”
Something lurked in the panther’s eyes ... rage went deeper than political gain.
“Why do you want him so badly? His death won’t guarantee you leadership of the pride.” In fact, there were several lions, panthers, and cougs more likely to take over for Jordan if the lion fell.
The cat’s shoulders went back. His chest puffed out. His eyes flicked green. “Let’s just say I owe him.”
Interesting. Conn’s thoughts sped up to normal. The drugs faded away like mist after a storm and he began to think clearly. Who was Marcus? Panther clan ... answered to Jordan ... Marcus Paltrow. Yeah, that was the guy’s name. Conn had met the shifter at the Realm Colloquium last year.
The dripping water continued, swelling Conn’s tongue. His fangs lowered. Time to piss this guy off. “You don’t stand a chance against Jordan. I’ve known Pride for centuries. He’d rip your head off and then go hunting breakfast while whistling.” Though it’d be severely off-key. Pride had no ear for tune.
Marcus leaped to his feet, a mottled red filling his face. “Bullshit. I could kick Pride’s ass in a second. God knows the bastard deserves it. After ...”
Conn frowned, his memories slamming back. “Dating. You said the woman you’re dating braided your hair.” A small panther with sharp little teeth had stood by Marcus’ side during the colloquium. “What happened to your mate?”
Electricity crackled against the panther’s skin as he wavered, his face shimmering, desperate fury filling his eyes. If the prick shifted, at that distance the blast would break every bone in Conn’s body.
Marcus bared his teeth, clenching his jaw until the skin rolled up into layers. With a shudder, he relaxed. “They turned her human. She killed herself.”
Conn clenched his wrists. “She was infected with the virus? When?”
“At the colloquium.” Marcus raised the gun and fired a dart into Conn’s neck. “Jordan Pride ordered us to attend, to give a show of support for the Realm. The bastard knew the virus was out there ... he knew we exposed ourselves.”
The dart stung for a mere second. Conn’s system handled the sedative, absorbing the drug into his tissues. He let his eyelids droop. “Why didn’t you tell us? We’ve been working on a cure.”
“I don’t trust you.” Marcus hissed the words, firing again. “You’ve allowed Caleb back in. You’ve failed to protect your own mates from the Kurjan virus. The demons are after you.”
Ah, the demons. “Yes. Yet you’re working with them.” The demons as a whole considered shifters tantamount to talented pets. Just slightly above humans. A demon mated a shifter once in a blue moon, but it was rare, and all the more cause for insult when Caleb’s brother mated a shifter betrothed to a demon. “Are you a demon’s pet, Marcus?”
The panther scowled. “You’re a shortsighted idiot, Kayrs. The demons agreed to assist us with this little trap, in exchange for seeing you folks in action. My guess is they’re coming up with battle plans ...”
Conn’s sneer drooped. “They sent newbies ... untrained soldiers to report back. They didn’t care if you succeeded, asshole.”
Marcus caressed his gun, his gaze assessing. “I didn’t get Pride, thus I didn’t succeed. The lion’s time will come. He’ll pay for what he did to my people.”