A massive metal door took up one wall of the four-by-six prison. He’d tried to break the locks for so long without success. Now the sound of the locks engaging sent peace through his body.
Something told him that wasn’t a good sign.
But for now, he was late for a golf game with his brother Kane. He and Kane played golf once a week, well, approximately. Time had ceased to be linear during Jase’s captivity, but he was fairly sure today was golf day. So he shut his eyes, resting his head against a smooth area and sending healing cells to the kidneys his captors had beaten with metal poles earlier.
The image took longer than usual to fill his brain. Evening out his breathing, he dug deeper.
Sun shone down through pretty pine trees to glint off the grass, which was a lovely turquoise. Or should the fairways be green? His memory failed him. The scent of freshly cut grass infused his senses, and he inhaled deeply.
Kane strode out of the trees, two golf bags over his shoulders. He dropped one in front of Jase. “You’re still visualizing. Nice job.”
Yeah. Their oldest brother had taught them necessary skills for dealing with captivity and torture. Every time Jase played an imaginary game of golf, he won a small victory over the demons. Those victories kept him from going completely mad. At least, they had for some time. “I’m trying. I kicked Dage’s ass in a boxing match yesterday.” Or had it been last week?
“Now I know you’re imagining things,” Kane said with a smile on his angular face. “We’re getting closer to finding you.”
“No, you’re not.” It seemed shitty his imagination was fucking with him. “The real Kane wouldn’t lie to me. I need the real Kane to show up.” Of course, Jase was arguing with his own brain.
A tapping against metal jerked Jase from the daydream. Fury filled him. They’d interrupted his golf game. He shoved to his feet. “Bastards,” he muttered to the morphing face in the rock.
Needles instantly ripped into his brain. The pain shot neurons into life and he gasped, dropping to one knee. The sharp stabs of pain cascaded down his spine to his tailbone. “Now that’s new,” he hissed.
The rock face nodded.
The door slid open.
He lifted his head, and his breath caught in his throat. “Female.”
“Yes.” The demon wrapped a chilled hand around his chin, turning his face. Her mental attack faded.
Jase shrugged away, stumbling to stand tall, at least a foot taller than the woman. Female demons were notoriously tiny. Blanking his expression, he stared down.
Black eyes, white hair, smoother than possible pale skin marked her as a demon. “I’m Willa.”
“I don’t need your name.”
Her smile revealed even white teeth. “Oh, you might change your mind about that.” She retreated, and two demon guards moved to grab his arms and haul him from the cell.
He rolled his eyes. At least, he thought he rolled his eyes. Months ago he’d lost some muscle function in his face. “Field trip?”
Long hair cascaded over her shoulders as she threw back her head and laughed. Throaty, hoarse, the chuckle confirmed her lineage as a purebred. Only pure demons had the odd configuration of vocal cords that created such hoarseness. Unfortunately, on the female, the tenor was almost sexy. She led the way through the underground labyrinth dressed in a tight blue sheath that showed off a toned butt.
“I bet I could bounce a shilling off your ass,” Jase muttered.
The guards tightened their hold on his arms. The woman laughed again.
Shit. He’d said that out loud.
They reached a fork in the tunnel, and Jase braced himself for the right turn toward the room he’d dubbed “the torture cell.” The demons had used both physical and mental torture in the rock-covered room, usually at the same time. In fact, the red stains on the walls were from his blood.
Sometimes he spent hours counting the different colors of red in the old blood versus the new, just to keep his mind on anything but the pain. Oddly enough, the rock faces never ventured into the torture cell with him.
They probably figured they’d never make it out.
The woman turned the opposite direction.
Eying the two huge guards dragging him along, Jase counted the closed doorways along the way. Then he cataloged each step for when he escaped. That probably wouldn’t be soon. While he stood to six-foot-five, the demon guards were several inches taller, and certainly broader. How much weight had he lost, anyway?
Willa opened a door into a spacious room and swept inside, settling herself on a feminine divan. A plush Persian rug covered the rock floor, and priceless oil paintings adorned the walls.
Jase eyed an oil of the Northern Sea. Dark thunderclouds mirrored the tumultuous ocean, the scene both mysterious and somehow threatening. “I doubt Brenna Dunne would appreciate demons having her painting.”
Willa shrugged. “Her oils will be worth a fortune someday, and our people need money as much as yours. Besides, Dunne seems to understand the demon mind-set with dark works like that.”
Odd, but Jase hadn’t noticed that dimension to Brenna before. “If you say so.”
Will nodded. “The value of that work will soon increase—considering she won’t have time for painting with Virus-27 affecting their kind.”
Jase stumbled. The virus did affect witches?
The demon smiled. “Oops. That’s news, huh?”
“Yes.” His mind reeling, Jase allowed the brutes to shove him into a plush leather chair situated off the rug. Virus-27 had been created by his enemies to harm vampire mates—to take them with their twenty-seven chromosomal pairs from immortal down to human or maybe worse. Nobody had realized the virus would affect witches. But considering witches only had twenty-eight chromosomal pairs, apparently they were susceptible.
Vampires with their thirty chromosomal pairs were safe.
The tallest guy reached for a set of restraints hammered into the floor.
“No. I want his hands unbound.” Willa crossed her legs, revealing silky skin.
The closest guard stiffened, turning toward her. An apparent, silent battle of wills ensued. Finally, the guard dropped the restraints and grabbed another set, clasping them around Jase’s ankles. With a growl, he and the other guy stomped from the room, slamming the door.
What kind of game was this? Jase tugged a little on the restraints—not very impressive . . . he could probably break free. Even in his state, he had to outweigh the small demon. He lifted an eyebrow. Maybe.
She smiled, sliding to her feet and sauntering over to a bar set in the corner.
The stunning painting of the Northern Sea caught his eye again. There was a time he’d spent hours running along the beach, feeling the salty spray on his face.
Willa turned with a low hiss. “You like the painting.”
“Yes.” Lying seemed to be a waste of time.
“Or is it the artist who has captured your attention?” Willa asked softly.
Jase settled into the chair, surprise jerking his head. “Brenna? Well, she is a sweetheart.” Or at least she was last time he’d seen her.
Willa laughed, the sound grating. “That witch is the reject of all rejects. Imagine an eighth sister being born to a seventh sister.” The demon shook her head. “They should’ve killed her on sight.”
Jase lifted a lip in irritation. While it was true that a seventh sister of a seventh sister was known to be the most powerful of witches, like his sister-in-law, Moira, maybe it was just coincidence that no eighth sister had ever been born. Well, until Brenna. The young witch’s fathomless gray eyes had always intrigued him. “I like her.” The words tumbled from him as if he were talking to the rock faces.
“Lucky Brenna Dunne.” Willa turned back to the heavy antique. The bar matched the sofa and end tables. Late eighteenth century. Crystal chinked. Turning toward him, she carried a goblet full of red liquid. The smell hit him when she was two feet away.