Lilith Saintcrow - Taken

Dear God. He’s emptied out the wine cellar? For a moment she was confused, then she remembered the heavy insulated doors, both on the closet and on the cellar itself. This was an ideal place for someone to scream their lungs out without being heard—and if the splashes on the wall were any indication, a lot of screaming went on down here.

She should have been more surprised. But her surprise-meter was like her fear-meter, completely busted by now. She knew where she was, she’d escaped this house once before.

It wasn’t looking like she’d escape again, though.

“There’s something called a crucion, Sophie. It’s shaped like an X, and when we catch one of those animals we like to strap them onto it and play. It’s not a nice kind of playing. First the arms break, then the legs. And if we keep turning the wheel, other bones break, too. Doesn’t that sound painful?”

You’ve been hanging around with nasty people, Mark. Not me. She tensed, her bare throat feeling very exposed. Very vulnerable. Especially with him breathing that horrible smell all over her.

He nudged her. Her flesh shrank at the idea of him actually touching her. “Are you listening? I want you to listen very closely, darling.”

Just shut up and go away. How could I ever have thought I loved you? She took a long shallow breath in, trying not to taste it.

“I asked if you were listening, Sophie.” Another nudge, rougher than the first. After Zach’s leashed strength, Mark didn’t feel so horribly, hurtfully strong. But she remembered the thing in the alley and how it twisted on itself, how quick it moved, and poor Lucy’s pale face—

The most amazing thing happened.

A pinprick of something hot dilated behind Sophie’s sternum.

Her mouth opened. “You are such a moron, Mark.” Flat, matter-of-fact, as if she was telling him about the weather. “I’m tied up on the floor. What else do I have to listen to?”

She couldn’t believe she’d said it. But the burning itch in her chest demanded she speak. It had been so long since she’d dared to feel any anger at all, and this wasn’t just anger. It was too red, too acid, too hot, to be anything but pure rage.

He was silent for almost thirty seconds. Probably shocked that she’d dared to talk to him at all. Quiet little mouse Sophie, scared of her own shadow.

Not anymore, she thought. There were other things to be scared of now. Things like vampires and werewolves and—

But she wasn’t scared of Zach, was she? Not anymore.

When had that happened?

“Sophie.” Mark’s fingers threaded through her hair and tightened, making a fist. “Where did you learn to talk like this? From your plebeian little friend?”

“The one you wanted killed, you mean? Her name was Lucy, and I hope you rot in hell .”

The blow came out of nowhere, an openhanded slap that glanced off her cheek and smacked her head back, bouncing it off the floor. Stars exploded behind her eyelids, but she didn’t cry out. He hit her twice more, bracing her head with the fist in her hair, a terrible yanking pain each time. Her lip split, and the hot streak of blood in her mouth was cleaner than the terrible smell filling the room.

He pulled her head back, her throat exposed and neck craning, and leaned close enough that she could feel meat-hot breath on her cheek. Stinging warmth dripped into her eyes, and she blinked.

Mark’s face was a caricature, flushed almost purple. The fangs were wickedly curved, needle-sharp and bone-white. They dug into his chin and thin lines of black ooze slid down from the punctures. His eyes ran with orange wetness, a dripping metallic sheen she’d mistaken for fire. It shifted, running down his cheeks and leaving an opalescent slug trail behind, as if he was weeping hellfire.

“You bitch, ” he said thickly, but his tongue wouldn’t work quite right. The fangs were in the way.

She knew that tone. He was about to beat her senseless. But instead of the cowering, complete fear and confusion, the still-hot point of rage behind her breastbone became a flood, pouring through her body.

“You were never any good in bed, either,” she said, loud and clear. “All that grunting and whining.”

He made an inarticulate noise, half roar, half wounded cry, and erupted into motion. Sophie curled away—and the second miracle happened.

The cricket voices rose around her in a swirling tide, insubstantial hands clutching and ripping. Mark’s fist glanced off her cheekbone; he leaped to his feet and kicked her, a red explosion of pain spearing through her ribs.

Something inside Sophie turned, shifted…and woke up . The feeling poured through her, like a gulp of too-hot coffee, exploding in her middle. It was so unfamiliar she couldn’t think of what it was for a long taffy-stretching second, before the realization hit her like thunder after lightning.

It was power . And it was hers. The majir borrowed from her, slid through her as if she was an open door. Now that she had ceased resisting, they filled her like water. And she wondered if the other shamans ever felt like this.

She would probably never find out, now.

The ropes loosened . They slithered like fat snakes, rasping against flesh rubbed raw. The second kick caught her in the back—she was rolling away, her muscles on fire from a long time lying on concrete, unable even to shift her weight. He screamed, the torrent of obscenities and beast sounds splashing inside her head and making it difficult to think. He was always so goddamn loud when he started in on her.

Her head hit something soft and a shower of foulness splatted over her hair. She kept rolling, squirming away—his foot caught her under the ribs again. He screamed and kicked, catching her just under the jaw. A red explosion smashed through her head; she scrambled blindly and got her feet under her.

He wants to kill me, she thought, dazed. Of course. I’ve known that for a long time. She hit the wall, the spirits crowding around her, and her legs almost failed. Cramped and bruised, she found herself hitting the wall again, her back thudding against it as Mark crouched, one hand on the floor like he was part of some crazy football game. “You bitch, ” he said, again, thickly. Or the thing that had been her husband said it with a mouth full of sharp teeth and clotted scum.

The heat and power inside her crested, her entire body shaking and buzzing. Warm salt ran in her eyes. She was bleeding, her hands held up fruitlessly, the swirling ghostlike faces crawling up her arms. Their touch was warm and forgiving, and she no longer tried to hold them at arm’s length. The rattling intensified, became a rattlesnake buzz.

Mark gave a sound halfway between a wet lip smacking and a throaty growl. His entire body bunched up, and Sophie knew she was going to die. He was going to kill her the same way another vampire had killed Lucy. She was going to die down here in a stinking wine cellar.

Three days ago she might have screamed.

Sophie opened her arms. The spirits streamed through her, whispering. Don’t worry, they said. Everything is going to be all right. Not long now.

And the world…exploded.

No, not the world. The door to the wine cellar, driven in with megaton force, broken bits of wood whickering through air gone suddenly hard and viscous. The spirits streamed away from her, a tide of quicksilver and smoke, bright eyes and claws glittering. They splattered against Mark’s face like Silly String, steam rising as they bit and clawed at him. A completely inappropriate desire to laugh bubbled up inside Sophie’s chest, right next to the simmering crimson rage. Go ahead! Burn him! Hurt him any way you can!