Shadow's Awakening: The Shadow Warder Series, Book One (An Urban Fantasy Romance Series) (29 page)

Strange voices filtered to Hannah’s ears. Two men talking. Her eyes popped open. A flashing glare of light burned into her retinas. Too late, she slammed her lids shut to avoid blinding herself. Confusion swirled. What the hell was going on? She remembered saying goodbye to Conner. Alexa. Meeting Michael. Being led down the hall to the elevator. Then nothing.

Blobs of white drifted over her closed lids, telling Hannah she wasn’t going to be able to see for a few minutes yet. The voices continued off to her left, low and indistinct. One of them sounded familiar. A few shifts of her limbs and she discovered she was strapped to a cold, hard surface. A table?

With a flash of horror, Hannah realized she was naked. That was why she was so cold. Even as her mind told her to lie still and play possum, she jerked against the bonds, fighting both the imprisoning straps and the panic rushing through her brain. Footsteps scraped closer. The light swung away from her face with a metallic creak. Hannah had a desperate desire to disappear just before she opened her eyes.

The Warder who had collected her earlier, Michael, leaned over her. A smug smile decorated his elegant, handsome face. Behind him, a shorter, slighter man hovered. His expression was eager, brown eyes bright.

“It looks like our guest is back with us,” he said. “Continue with the exam, Henry.”

The other man, Henry, rolled a cart beside the table and leaned to fiddle with a panel just below Hannah’s right hip. A lever flipped and the table smoothly drew Hannah’s bound ankles up toward her hips and wide apart in a grotesque parody of the stirrups in a gynecologist’s office. The cold air brushing between her legs sent a flush of humiliation to Hannah’s cheeks. She’d thought she’d been through every variation of pain and fear in the past few months. This was something else. Her nudity, spread legs, and the straps on her ankles and arms pulled her to a level of vulnerability she’d never imagined.

Questions barreled through her mind. Why were they doing this? Why wasn’t she with the Shadows? What did she have to do for them to let her go?

Hannah didn’t voice her thoughts. Michael’s self-satisfied expression was enough to tell her that she had no power here. Fighting the urge to close her eyes, as if that would hide her bare body from them, Hannah watched carefully for a clue as to her fate. Michael’s hand came down on her arm, his touch an intimate violation. He squeezed, as if comforting. Nausea boiled in her stomach. Hannah tried to flinch away, but the straps across her chest and upper arms allowed no more than an inch or two of movement. Michael ignored her protest.

“We started without you, I’m afraid. You took longer to come around than I expected. Formulating spell-crafted drugs isn’t an exact science, especially when working with your kind. We don’t have enough test subjects.”

Hannah felt rather than saw Henry sit on a wheeled chair and slide between her legs, a headlamp strapped to his forehead, a shiny speculum in his hand. Vomit climbed up the back of her throat, sour and acid. Throwing up while strapped down would be awful. Still not as bad as what Henry was about to do to her. Hannah dragged in a breath, trying to find a small degree of calm. She was strapped down, but she wasn’t helpless. It was a further violation to visit her inner sanctuary with these men in the room but she needed to know that she could access her limited Shadow abilities.

Slipping back into the peaceful, wooded clearing in her mind was as natural as if she’d been doing it her entire life. Her shields were intact. Reaching for her innate source of energy, Hannah tried to use telekinesis to tear at the straps holding her prisoner. The energy lay in her mind, waiting to be guided to a purpose. But when she tried to focus it, thought about rending the thick restraints into scraps, nothing happened.

The energy was there, in a deep well within her. She tried again, imagining the power coalescing into an arrow that could tear through the straps. Again, when she released it to fly into the physical world, it dissipated as it reached the barrier of her mind. As if her own shield were short-circuiting the energy. Michael squeezed her arm again, smiling down at her with avuncular affection.

“You need to regain your strength. Our initial exam showed that you’re in fair general health, but underweight and moderately malnourished. Don’t waste what energy you have trying to use your Shadow talents. They won’t work here.”

He must have felt her trying to break the straps. A wave of desperation buried Hannah. If she couldn’t access the abilities that made her a Shadow, she was truly a captive. It had taken her months to come close to an escape from Glenn. Michael struck her as much better organized than Glenn and his motley band of Vorati demons.

Michael’s heavy hand stroked up from her arm, caressing her collarbone before his fingers curled around something circling her neck. He tugged briefly, tightening whatever it was against her windpipe, cutting off her air, then let go. Hannah gasped, so frightened by her momentary breathlessness that she almost forgot Henry examining her between her legs. A touch of cold gel, then the pressure of the speculum. A hot tear dripped down her cheek. Henry adjusted the device, pressing her tissues apart. She barely noticed the discomfort in the face of bitter humiliation.

Why couldn’t she stop them? When the Voratus had tried to touch her body months before, she’d blown him up and she hadn’t even known what she was then. Why couldn’t she stop this from happening? Reaching again for her power, Hannah let it go with a gasp as the thing around her neck tightened in Michael’s hand.

“The most ancient of our spell craft,” he said, leaning down to whisper in her ear. “Forbidden blood magics. Most of my kind have forgotten it exists. I’ve made it my hobby to study such things. A collar to restrain your Shadow talent. It won’t hurt you, won’t damage your nature as a Shadow, but you won’t be able to use your abilities while you wear it. And I wouldn’t recommend trying to remove it.”

Hannah heard a throat clear from between her legs. Michael straightened and moved to stand behind Henry. Hannah tried to shift her body backward, away from the two men, but she couldn’t get any traction in her position. The restraints held her immobile, exposed to their eager eyes.

“Recent sexual activity, sir. Either it was rough or there was a lot of it, considering the abrasions and her accelerated healing,” Henry reported in a dry voice. Hannah heard the click of a keyboard, saw the flash of a camera as Henry’s words were documented.

“The Vorati who held you or the Warder?” Michael asked, his question as dry as Henry’s recitation.

Hannah didn’t answer. She didn’t want to think about Conner now, didn’t want to drag him into this nightmare. A cold touch to the sole of her foot. Then a screaming bolt of agony that raced from her heel, up the back of her leg, along her spine to bury itself in her brain. When he spoke again, Michael’s voice was only slightly more animated.

“Was it the Vorati who held you, or were you fucking the Warder? I’m more than happy to hurt you again. I suggest you answer.”

Hannah remained silent. She knew resisting them would only gain her more punishment. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to cooperate. She’d gone from months of living hell with Glenn, to a brief respite in heaven with Conner. Now it appeared that she was back in hell, layers deeper. Not for a second did she think Conner had any idea what he’d sent her to. He might not have wanted to stay with her, but she knew to the depths of her soul that he was a good man. Pain was a small price to pay to keep her time with him private. She couldn’t protect her own body, but she could protect that.

Three more strikes to the sensitive nerves of her feet and she broke. Hannah didn’t mean to give Michael what he wanted. Panting from the pain, she felt her mouth open.

“Warder. The Warder,” she gasped.

“Good girl,” Michael said. To Henry he asked, “Is there semen?”

“Traces,” Henry answered. “Cervix is low and closed. She’s post ovulation.” The speculum was removed and placed on the cart. With a clank, her legs were drawn back together.

“Prepare the shot. Might as well hedge our bets.” Michael turned for the door. “I have a meeting. I’ll check in this evening.”

“Yes, sir,” Henry said, his back to Hannah.

She heard a clink of glass just before he appeared at the side of the table. The sharp pinch of a needle in her hip, followed by the burn of an injection. A moment later, the table began to move backward, rolling out of the exam room, down a long hall. The thought that she should be paying attention to the layout drifted through Hannah’s head. She wasn’t tracking well. Pain still ricocheted through the nerves in her legs and spine. Her head ached from the repeated assaults and the bright lights. Vaguely, she realized she’d been rolled into a small, white room with fluorescent lights in the ceiling. Beginning at her chest, Henry unbuckled the straps holding her to the exam table. When she was free, he lifted her roughly and dumped her on the narrow bed in the corner. Before she could do more than cast a longing glance at the open door, Henry was through it, closing it firmly behind him. Hannah let her eyes drift shut at the snick of the deadbolt. She’d thought she was in trouble when Glenn had her. Clearly, she’d had no idea what trouble really was.

Conner ducked before the demon’s heavy fist connected with his head. Since when did Vorati use brass knuckles? This one thought it was a thug out of a bad movie. Conner was looking forward to killing it. His fifth that night. Past his quota. He was doing a favor for Kiernan since his friend had plans and Conner didn’t want to go home to an empty apartment.

Every so often Kiernan got a call from Cameron Maxwell, one of his dubious contacts. Cameron had his fingers in all sorts of illegal endeavors—gambling, high-class girls, and an interesting assortment of weapons for sale. He had no moral issues with what he did, but he didn’t like it when Vorati infected his men. Unfortunately, in their line of work, Cameron’s men tended to be ripe targets for the Vorati. Ironic, considering how he made his living, but Cameron ran a tight ship. When he got the feeling one of his guys had been infected, he called Kiernan.

He was dead accurate assessing Vorati infection. So accurate, Kiernan had confessed he’d wondered if Cameron was as human as he appeared to be. This wannabe thug demon was the second infection this year in Cameron’s ranks. Conner was more than happy to take care of the problem.

Normally, Conner stayed out of Cameron’s business. Cameron ran a little close to the dark side for his tastes. But since Conner had left Hannah for the Shadows to collect two days ago, he’d been restless. Frustrated. As if his skin was a size too small for his body. Sleep came hard and was interrupted by fragments of dark dreams. He’d tried training in the Citadel gym with some of the other Warders. After a few sparring sessions and an accidental broken wrist, word had gotten around that Conner had a bug up his ass and no one would get on the mat if he was there. Then he’d tried running. Too many miles later, he still couldn’t settle down. Now he was doing the only thing left. Hunting and killing Vorati.

Instead of stepping into the Voratus’s sloppy guard and taking it down, Conner let it get another few hits in. Maybe the temporary pain would distract him. He’d done the right thing with Hannah. He knew he had. There was nothing that he could give her that would make up for what she’d lose if she’d stayed with him. Once she got settled in, she might call and he could see her. They’d have to sneak around, but it would be better than nothing. Better than this limbo. Better than feeling like he’d torn out his own heart and set it on fire.

A sudden burst of rage swept over him. His entire life he’d tried to do right. To protect and serve, as the humans put it. And this was what he got? A life where he had to give up the best thing he’d ever known? Unable to do anything else, Conner let his emotions surge. He planted a boot in the demon’s midsection, sending it careening into the nearest wall. Conner was on it before it slid to the floor. Fists flying, he knocked it out before he finally ended the fight with a well-placed calix. Standing, he looked down at the pale, waxy body with dismay. This wasn’t him. He didn’t drag out fights for the fun of it. Dropping a crematus disc on the dead demon, he walked away. Training, running, fighting—none of it had helped. Maybe whiskey was next.