Jess Haines - Enslaved By the Others

“The other humans you mention are one thing. I was intending to have any other captives my people came across brought back here. However,” Royce continued, still choosing his words with care, “I may not always agree with Max, but if he has an Other wearing a collar that suppresses magic or shapeshifting, it’s probably for very good reason. Removing it may not be wise.”

“That’s true, but she helped me when she didn’t have to. She’s probably not going to be a danger to anyone but Max. Besides, I promised I would help her.”

He made a soft, frustrated sound. “Very well. I’ll pass on the request. What is she? Do you know?”

“No,” I replied, trying to hide my embarrassment. I could practically feel his disapproval radiating through the phone. “Her name is Iana, if that helps. She mentioned being with him since a police riot or something.”

“The police strike in Boston?” The disapproval turned to alarm. “I thought she was dead. She cannot be released. Keep your distance from her if she ever finds her freedom.”

“She might be dangerous, but she’s my friend, and she’s more broken than anyone I’ve ever met. I made a promise to her and I’m keeping it.”

Royce didn’t respond immediately. I held my breath, praying he would understand how important it was to me to keep my word to Iana. Out of all of the people in Max’s menagerie of slaves, she was the only one who had done anything to help me or show me any compassion while I was there. Something about the thought of her being left that way, trapped forever as something she wasn’t, rankled too deeply for me to shrug off my promise to help her.

“As you wish,” he said.

If only it hadn’t sounded like a condemnation.

Royce didn’t keep me on the phone long after that. He asked to speak to Kumiho, who took the phone with an exaggerated eye roll and flapped her other hand in the universal gesture for talking too much. Her antics did dredge a smile out of me, even if I wasn’t feeling too great just then. Her expression soon shifted to one that looked too serious for her candy-coated exterior and she moved away from me, disappearing into the hallway, an unseen door soon shutting with a quiet click behind her.

Whether Royce was asking more favors of her or giving her some instruction to sit on me to keep me from pulling a Lone Ranger, it didn’t matter. I had talked about this with Sara while we were in Los Angeles. I was going to do what I could to be smarter about how I dealt with my problems. Rushing in, as Royce had said, would be suicide. Even if he was plotting with Kumiho to keep me out of the action, for once I would consider those plans without disregarding them on their face.

I could admit to myself that I wasn’t strong enough to face Max alone and maybe not even with an army at my back. The thought of being in the same room with him again filled me with a terror so deep that the constant, minor trembles in my hands became full-body spastic shudders. Though I wanted to be brave and strong, to think that I was capable of better, I knew the limits of my courage.

Taking a deep breath to quell the growing fear and frustration, I finally did what I had been avoiding since it happened.

I peeled the loose shirt and pants off my left side to see how badly I had been burned. The brand didn’t hurt the way it had yesterday. It had subsided to a dull heat that grew into a sharp burn when I moved in a way that rubbed or pulled the damaged skin, but it was still an ugly, irritated red around the edges. The mark itself was a mottled indentation of black and red, with a touch of yellow.

The scar it would leave would be a permanent reminder that my time with Max was not some impossible, horrible nightmare. That bird and that circle of olive leaves, once the symbol of the currency of Max’s homeland, was now a symbol of how I was some form of currency to him. Property. The sight of it fixed me with a confusing mix of fear and fury and a hollow emptiness, but there wasn’t anything I could do to erase it.

He hadn’t been lying. No matter how long I lived, I could never, ever forget.

A box of tissues landed in my lap. I jumped, stifling a scream and scrambling to adjust the clothes to cover up the mark.

“You looked like you could use them.”

Kumiho padded on silent feet to the kitchen, leaving me to wipe my shame away in relative privacy. I wanted to promise myself that these would be the last tears I would shed over what Max had done to me, but I knew that promise would be a lie. There was so much about it that hurt, more than I had words for, more than what was etched into my skin.

It took a bit of time for me to shove that hurt back into a locked box and bury it in the region of my heart. The discontent stayed there, lodged deep in my chest, ready to burst open again at any moment—but I would keep it hidden away for as long as I could.

Dashing the last of my tears away with a wad of tissues, I took a deep breath, held it until my lungs felt they would burst, then let it out. Thus composed, I got back to my feet and limped to the kitchen, leaning my good hip against the counter.

Kumiho turned, looking me up and down as though she’d never seen me before. Maybe she was seeing me with new eyes after whatever Royce had discussed with her.

“Well. Apparently I am to be your bodyguard for a bit longer than expected,” she said. “The war has reached my doorstep, whether I wish it or not.”

“War? What war?”

Her scrutiny turned sharp, her brows knitting. “Were you not aware that there have been uprisings— vampires wresting control of long-held cities from each other, werewolf packs destroying or consuming one another, shifters and the undying clashing in terrible battles in contested cities? New York was one of them, and I thought there were some rumors of your involvement with the werewolves there.”

I started to shake my head, but then paused and considered. The night I broke into Royce’s apartment building, urged by the spirit of a dead man inhabiting the hunter’s belt I’d been wearing at the time to take some twisted form of revenge against the vampires inside, there was supposed to have been some big fight between two local packs of werewolves. The Sunstrikers, led by my ex-boyfriend Chaz, had some kind of beef with the Ravenwoods. The human hunters—White Hats—who had been helping me at the time had chosen to side with the Sunstrikers, but I refused to join their fight.

“Maybe,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “I know there were some problems in New York, but I was trying not to get involved.”

“That’s probably for the best. Unfortunate business. You’re lucky you missed Alec’s show of temper after his properties were burned down. I heard the carnage was a marvel to behold.”

Her eyes glinted with a vicious light, her teeth bared in a feral grin that said better than words that she enjoyed the thought of bloodshed. That slick pink lipstick, like her lips had been coated with melted taffy, somehow made her appear more fierce and predatory. Then what she said sank in, and I had to collect my jaw off the floor before I could sputter out a few words of my own.

“Wait ... excuse me? Did you say burned down?”

“Yes. I take it he didn’t tell you?” She rubbed her chin, musing. “There was some fracas with a Were pack. They destroyed one of his clubs, and then that apartment building near Central Park. Burned them down. Alec has kept his battles in the courts and shadows since ... oh, the 1700s, I’d expect, but since the arson he’s been raging a rather bloody war with the wolves. If he kept it from you, I imagine he didn’t want to alarm you.”