In His Shadow (Tangled Ivy Book 1) (18 page)

We pulled to a stop then, and I noticed we were parked adjacent to Mr. Galler’s property, which was probably wise. Everyone knew he’d been murdered. Parking in front of the house would be a dead giveaway that we weren’t supposed to be there.

The snow crunched underneath our feet as we walked, much of it had melted but some patches still remained. I slipped at one point and Devon caught my arm before I fell. From there on, he held my hand, which I didn’t mind at all.

“Did Galler tell you anything else that day?” he asked as we approached the dark and silent house.

“No,” I said. “He was writing his memoirs and mentioned his father was a doctor, that he died in the war. That was all. I wasn’t there for very long. He gave me the pendant and I left.”

We walked over the large patio in the back and past the swimming pool covered with a large, black tarp. I hadn’t brought my coat and was freezing. I stood with my arms wrapped around myself while Devon fiddled with the lock on the back door. Quicker than I would have thought possible, he had the door open and we were inside.

The house was still and as silent as a mausoleum. No one lived there anymore, and I could feel it. Strange how it’s like that. I wasn’t a believer in the sixth-sense kind of thing, but couldn’t deny the shiver that went down my spine as I gazed around. Scattered moonlight filtered through half-closed window blinds and I could feel the underlying hum of electricity through the house.

Devon took the lead and I let him, the darkened house giving me the creeps. When we reached the study, he flipped on the light.

“Did you see where he kept the pendant he gave you?” he asked.

I nodded. “In his drawer,” I said, walking to the ornate desk in front of the windows. I showed Devon the drawer and the secret compartment. To my surprise, he yanked the entire thing out of the desk.

“What’s this?” he murmured, inspecting something in the back, next to the notch I’d pressed to open the drawer. I leaned in for a closer look.

The point of a needle lay hidden far up inside the recesses of the drawer.

“That must have been what pricked me,” I said, thinking out loud.

Devon glanced sharply at me. “When?”

“The night I was here,” I explained. “Mr. Galler didn’t get the pendant out, I did. He just told me where it was and how to open the drawer. When I reached in, something poked me. I thought it was a splinter.”

Devon didn’t say anything, turning his attention back to the drawer. Brute force was enough to crack open the hidden compartment farther, enough for both of us to see that the needle was attached to a spring. Taking a pen, Devon pressed lightly on the button and I watched in amazement as the spring instantly jabbed the needle forward.

“Wow,” I breathed. “That was really fast.” A disturbing thought occurred to me. “Devon? Why would he have that in there?”

Devon’s gaze met mine again. “I don’t know.”

Well.

I swallowed, wondering what I was supposed to do now, how I could find out. Devon replaced the drawer while I drifted aimlessly around the room, searching for I didn’t know what.

I ventured out of the room and down the hallway. There was enough ambient light to see. I turned into an open doorway, wondering if I could find Mr. Galler’s unfinished manuscript. It might have something written there that would help Devon. I fumbled for a light switch, the room too dark to see anything.

“Ivy, wait—”

But Devon’s words were cut off by my scream as someone reached out of the blackness and grabbed me. I blindly fought him, trying to get away and retreat the way I’d come. He grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked me around. I cried out in pain, but when I felt the cold press of steel against my neck, I froze.

The lights clicked on and I blinked in the sudden glare. My heart was pounding with fear and panic, which only notched higher when I saw Devon standing in the doorway. His gun was in his hand, but his eyes were on the knife at my throat.

I swallowed, feeling the knife slide against my skin at the slight movement.

Two other men were in the room, along with the man holding me. All of them looked menacingly lethal, as did the guns they held, all pointed at Devon.

“Drop the weapon, mate,” the man holding me said, “or I’ll slice her from ear to ear.” He yanked my hair again and my eyes watered at the pain. I pressed my lips tightly together so I wouldn’t make a sound.

Devon’s eyes flicked to the two men, then back to me, and I knew with a sinking sensation in my stomach that, if not for the threat to me, Devon could have gotten out of this. I could see it in his eyes.

And right as Devon tossed his gun to the floor was when I understood why he was so averse to feeling anything for anyone.

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

I
watched in horror as one of the men approached Devon, who stood his ground. If he was afraid, he didn’t show it. His face didn’t even register mild concern. I was terrified they were going to kill him.

I squirmed when one of the men stepped behind Devon, unable to stop myself from wanting to help him. The guy holding my hair pressed the tip of his knife to my carotid artery and I sucked in a breath as he yanked me back.

“Don’t move,” he hissed.

Devon’s head jerked toward us, his body tightening and his hands fisting, but before he could act, the man behind him coldcocked him with the butt of his gun. I watched as Devon’s eyes rolled back in his head and his body collapsed to the floor.

I was unfortunately very much conscious as they dragged me across the hall. They left Devon on the floor, but I saw someone else coming down the hallway with rope dangling from his hands. The last I saw of him, he was entering the room before the door was slammed shut.

The man with me had sheathed the knife, but still held my hair. My scalp was burning, my body bent sideways as I tried to keep up with him and ease the pressure as much as possible. He finally let go, only to backhand me. I went flying, careening right into a table at knee height. I fell on it, knocking it over and dumping everything onto the hardwood floor. The tinkling sound of breaking glass filled my ears as I lay facedown on the floor, struggling to catch my breath.

My head ached, both from the punishment my scalp had taken and the blistering hit to the side of my face. I groped for my purse, but realized too late that I’d left it in the study.

“I imagine they’ll have your boyfriend awake in no time,” the man sneered. “Let’s give him a little motivation, shall we?”

That was all the warning I had before his boot slammed into my side. I choked on a scream, pain lancing through me as I curled into a ball.

“I barely heard that, love,” he said. “Try a bit louder.”

Another kick, this time in my back and I couldn’t stop the scream that clawed its way up my throat.

“There. That’s better.”

He kicked me again. And again. I screamed, the pain excruciating. As small as I tried to get, he still found a way to hurt me.

I was suddenly hauled up by a hard grip on the back of my neck. I scrambled to my knees. My body hurt everywhere and tears leaked from my eyes.

The door opened, giving me a moment’s respite from whatever my torturer had planned. That was when I heard the yell. A man’s yell of pain.

Devon.

“Is he talking yet?” my captor asked.

“No, but he reacts when she screams, so keep it up.”

They were using me against Devon. Using my pain to force him to cooperate. I heard another guttural yell from behind the closed study door.

I could be quiet. God knows, I’d had enough practice. Jace had taught me well.

The next blow elicited nothing but a grunt from me, as did the next and the one after that.

I was lying on my side again, my breath heaving and my entire body broken out into a cold sweat. Pain radiated from everywhere now and I tasted blood inside my mouth.

“She’s clamming up,” the second guy said. “Try something else.”

“Take her shirt off.”

I had no energy to move away from the hands grasping at me. “No, stop,” I mumbled through stiff and swollen lips. But my turtleneck was pulled over my head and tossed aside.

He grabbed my arm and hauled me to my knees, my back to the other guy. His hand held the back of my neck in a tight grip, the fingers bruising my flesh. I heard the rasp of a lighter, then nothing. I trembled all over as I waited. The familiar sense of impending pain made my mind go blank in search of a way to disconnect, the same way I had so long ago.

“Hold her,” the guy said.

I braced myself, but nothing could have prepared me for the feel of the white-hot steel of the knife, heated by the flame, as it pressed against my back. A scream of pure agony tore from my throat.

Relief came when he finally lifted the blade. I choked on a sob, tears streaming from my eyes. My throat was raw from screaming.

“Please, I’ll do whatever you want,” I begged. “Please.” But I had no idea what they wanted from me. They hadn’t asked me a single question. All they wanted from me was my pain.

“Enough, gentlemen,” a new voice said.

I heard another yell from Devon and it made me want to die. He was being hurt, I’m sure worse than me, tortured just steps away. And I could do nothing. My very presence had put him in this situation. It was a very real possibility that neither of us would survive the night.

The hand holding me up disappeared and I folded limply to the floor. Staring up, I saw a man I hadn’t seen before. He was dressed expensively and was smoking a cigarette.

“Please,” I managed to croak. “Please don’t hurt him anymore.” Just talking made pain ricochet through me and I swallowed on a dry throat.

“Devon Clay, you mean,” he replied before taking a long drag.

I gave a fractional nod and forced my lips to move again. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just please, don’t kill him.”

Another muffled yell from across the hall that I felt down to my bones.

“Will you?” the man asked, eyeing me. “Will you really?”

Pain wrenched a moan from my lips and I tried halfheartedly to get away from the hands lifting me. A stab in my side forced a hoarse scream from me.

“Shhh, it’s all right. I’ve got you.”

It took an act of will to pry open my eyelids, and when I did, I saw Devon above me. He was carrying me.

“Devon,” I croaked, hardly daring to believe my eyes. His face was bruised and bloodied. I lifted a shaking hand to touch him, wanting to make sure he was real.

“Don’t try to talk,” he said, laying me down on something soft. I didn’t care enough to try to figure out where I was.

That’s when I heard the sirens. They were loud and coming closer. I focused on Devon, though, his eyes so blue even in his battered face. He was looking me over and his jaw was clenched tight, a nerve pulsing in his cheek.

“Ah, my sweet Ivy,” he murmured, his hand gently brushing my hair. “What have they done to you?”

I sighed at his touch, my tired eyes drifting shut. I wanted to stay conscious, to be with him, but the pain in my body was dragging me back under.

“You’re okay,” I mumbled, my thoughts a twisted jumble of relief, fear, and pulses of agony.

The sirens were really loud now and so close. I heard a door crash open just as Devon pressed his lips to my forehead, then I knew nothing.

Fog seemed to cloud my mind as I tried to open my eyes, but they wouldn’t open. As hard as I tried, everything stayed cloaked in unrelenting darkness. My body felt simultaneously heavy and empty, and I recognized the effects of powerful pain medication.

I relaxed, the absence of pain made me realize I was probably in the hospital. Listening closely, the noises around me confirmed it—the soft whirring of machines, the muted voices from outside the room, the soft yet scratchy linens covering my legs, and the pillow underneath my head.

Someone was with me, holding my hand, but I couldn’t squeeze or do anything to let them know I was aware of their presence.

I heard the sound of a door opening, the whoosh of air, the scuff of a shoe. The hand holding mine tightened its grip.

“What the hell are you doing in here?”

It was Logan who was next to me and it was he who spoke. His hand dropped from mine and I heard a chair scrape the floor as he stood. He sounded very upset, very angry. “Haven’t you done enough?”

“I want to check on Ivy. You don’t have an exclusive right to care about her.”

My heart leapt in my chest to hear Devon’s voice. I hadn’t been hallucinating. He really was okay.

“This is how you care about her?” Logan spat. “Look at her! She’s in the fucking hospital, you piece of shit!”

I didn’t like to hear him getting so angry with Devon. It hadn’t been his fault. He had a dangerous job. I’d been the one to follow him, to tell him I wanted to help.

“Stop yelling,” Devon ordered. “You’re upsetting her.”

“She’s asleep,” Logan said defensively.

“Look at her heart rate.”

They were both silent for a moment. The modulated beeping I’d heard earlier had indeed sped up.

I felt a hand lightly brush my cheek and forehead before sliding into my hair. Devon. The beeping slowed again.

“Don’t you think I know what I’ve done?” Devon asked quietly. “I never meant this to happen. Never wanted her to get hurt.”

“That doesn’t really matter, does it,” Logan retorted. “You’ve done nothing but fuck her over since you met her.” The acid in his tone hadn’t changed; he just kept his voice down.

“I’m not going to abandon her, just because her guard dog says so,” Devon snapped.

“Oh yes, you are,” Logan hissed. “If you care anything about her at all, you’ll walk out that door and never see her again.”

There was silence and I wanted so badly to tell Logan no, to stop, but the drugs were dragging me down again even as I tried to stay conscious. I had to hear what Devon said. He cared about me, I knew that, but was it only skin-deep? A sense of responsibility easily sloughed from his shoulders as he moved on? Or did it go deeper?

But I didn’t get to hear what he said as the arms of the drugs pulled me back into darkness and silence.

When I woke again, the drugs weren’t nearly as heavy-duty and I could move. I opened my eyes to see I was in a small hospital room. It was dark outside, and, as before, I wasn’t alone. But it wasn’t Logan or Devon in the room with me.

“Who are you?” I asked the woman who stood in the shadows near my bed. My voice was scratchy and hoarse from disuse.

“Good. You’re awake,” she replied. It was obvious she wasn’t a doctor or nurse, or if she was, I would hate to be her patient.

Tall and forbidding, her face was all sharp planes and angles. Her lips were flat and her eyes lacked any warmth or humor. It was hard to determine her age, but I guessed late fifties or early sixties. An expression of mild irritation seemed permanently etched on her face.

“You’re Ivy Mason,” she continued, taking a step closer to the bed.