Knowledge Quickening E-Book

D.S. Williams

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Abducted by an unknown enemy and fearing for her friends, Charlotte Duncan must draw on determination she never knew existed - and trust a mysterious stranger - to find a way out.

When Charlotte is suddenly kidnapped, she struggles to find a way to escape. Filled with worry for the man she loves and her friends, she must rely on her strength - and trust in a stranger's help - to evade her captor's clutches.

In the second book in the Nememiah Chronicles paranormal romance series, Knowledge Quickening follows Charlotte as a new cast of demons, shapeshifters, werewolves, and vampires make an appearance. Unable to embrace her psychic gifts but determined to live, Charlotte will discover things about herself she never believed possible - and face a future wildly different than she ever imagined.

Leseprobe

Knowledge Quickening

The Nememiah Chronicles Book II

D.S. Williams

Copyright (C) 2015 D.S. Williams

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Chapter 1: Peril

It was patently obvious that I was in trouble. Serious trouble.

Regaining consciousness, I rolled over, blinking against the stark brightness in the room. I found myself lying on an old mattress, the dark cover stained and soiled. The room smelled musty, like worn socks that had lain in the bottom of the laundry basket for too long before washing. The last thing I could recall was being dragged away from Striker and Marianne's wedding celebrations by a group of men. What had happened between then and now, how much time had passed – I didn't know.

I pushed myself upright on the mattress and looked around. There wasn't much to see, the mattress lay on a concrete floor; the walls too, were made of solid cement. A tiny window, filmed by a thick coating of grime was situated in the top of one wall. It gave the impression this room must be positioned at least partially underground, to need the window so high. In the wall opposite the window, there was a door, made of metal and deadlocked. There was no handle. I raised my hands to my head, pressing my palms against my temples and squeezing my eyes shut as fear overwhelmed me. I had a funny taste in my mouth and felt groggy, slightly disorientated, which made me believe I'd been drugged. Shaking my head firmly, I tried to remove the last vestiges of fuzziness – I needed to be alert, knew I had to think logically about this situation if I was going to get out of here alive. My eyes were tired and dry, and I rubbed my fists against them.

With a quick glance, I confirmed I was still wearing the beautiful pewter dress and I sighed with relief. It gave the illusion nobody had touched me while I was unconscious and I clung to it, not wanting to consider the alternatives. Anything could have happened while I was out to it. My mouth throbbed and I touched it lightly, wincing when my fingers brushed across my lip. There was a deep split in the skin and it was swollen. Running my tongue across my lip, I discovered one of my teeth was a little loose. There didn't seem to be any other physical damage. It was satisfying to discover that the edge of the ankle cast was damaged, where I'd kicked the goon who'd touched me so intimately. He'd deserved it.

The biggest question to answer was what did these people want from me? My heart began to race as I pondered the question and I made a conscious effort not to hyperventilate. Panic was the last thing I could afford to do, not when I was in so much trouble. Breathing slowly and deeply, I tried to examine the situation logically, working my way through the moments before I was snatched away from the wedding.

I recalled Lucas and the others reacting in an identical fashion, mirroring one another's movements. They'd all raised their heads and sniffed the air, aware of something, or someone, approaching. Their sense of smell was acute, heightened beyond normal human ability and I suspected what they'd smelled was something supernatural, rather than human. It was the only logical explanation for their reaction, when they'd already been surrounded by dozens of human scents at the reception.

There was no doubt in my mind that the wedding planner had been vampire. When I'd met him and he shook my hand, his skin had been cool to touch, but I'd been fooled when he carried the bags of ice through the house to the marquee. No doubt, he'd done it deliberately to confuse me. I focused on his name, repeating it in my head, trying to think if I'd met him before, or heard his name mentioned in the past. I drew a blank. He meant nothing to me, yet he'd told the black-haired man I was the one they wanted. Why? What was it about me that they wanted so badly?

I got onto my knees and pushed up to a standing position, leaning against the concrete wall until the dizziness subsided. When I'd recovered my equilibrium, I began to pace backwards and forwards across the concrete floor, thinking through the situation incessantly. It was freezing in the small room and my dress wasn't suitable for low temperatures, so I wrapped my arms around my chest, rubbing my arms briskly to try to warm myself. The only viable motive for kidnapping me was my psychic ability. Without it, I was a normal human woman. But if they wanted my ability, what possible use could they have for it?

I was positive I'd met Gerard DuBonet for the first time this morning, but even that piece of information was open to conjecture – how long had I been held? How long was I drugged? Was it even the same day? The room was lit by a single fluorescent tube and it was impossible to know how long I'd been here, what time it was, what day it might be. The window was filthy, impossible to see through. I couldn't tell if it was day or night through the grime-caked glass. Stretching up against the wall, I tried to reach the window in the hope I could clear some of the grime, but it was too high. There wasn't a stick of furniture to help gain some height, only the mattress and its measly couple of inches wouldn't help. With a humph of frustration, I gave up the attempt and resumed pacing.

Another idea brought me to a standstill. Gerard DuBonet shook my hand when we met. Did he have some sort of ability, could he read me through touch? Was that possible? I almost disregarded the idea, but I was dealing with vampires – anything was possible. In the past few months, I'd met Rowena, who could sense my emotions through contact, and Acenith and Striker, who could keep me calm with the touch of their hand on my shoulder. I knew some of the vampires could converse telepathically and Ripley could read other people's thoughts. It seemed plausible to think Gerard DuBonet might learn something about me through touch. I certainly couldn't disregard the notion. But I couldn't figure out how he could have met me in the morning and planned to kidnap me by evening. I couldn't force that part of the puzzle to make any sense.

There were still other questions to answer; for instance, why didn't Marianne foresee the strangers arriving at the wedding reception? The answer came almost immediately – her ability wasn't known for being faultless and with the excitement of her wedding day, maybe it had been misfiring more than usual. Although she seemed to be linked to me in some way with her ability – seeing many things involving me – perhaps this time it just hadn't worked.

Which led back to my first question. Even if Gerard DuBonet did recognize my ability, how did he find out about it in the first place?

I resumed pacing, thinking back uneasily through the day and beyond. My contacts were limited; my only friends outside of Lucas and the others were Lonnie, Hank, and Maude. Only Lucas and the vampires knew of my ability. I didn't think they'd even told Nick Lingard and his group of shape shifters. So where did the information come from?

Maybe I was on the wrong track altogether, although I couldn't think of anything that would single me out for kidnapping, other than my ability to speak with the dead. The black-haired man told Lucas I had something they wanted. The only logical option was the psychic gift. I had no idea why they thought it would be useful, nor what they could want to do with it. They didn't strike me as yearning to make contact with long-dead ancestors. Did they realize I only ever had contact with spirits who were important to me in some way? I doubted I could make contact with spirits, merely because someone tried to force me into doing it.

It was incredibly tempting to open the box in my mind and talk to Mom and the others. I was angry with myself for keeping them shut away so much, it had been a mistake. I'd been so smug about having the ability under control, only allowing contact when I wanted it. By doing so, I'd had no warning of the danger I faced. I clenched my fists in frustration and rolled my eyes at my own stupidity. I'd been so happy about gaining some control over the spirits, I hadn't thought about the possible repercussions of keeping them silent. If I'd kept the lines of communication open, they'd have given me warning about the impending danger I faced. Why hadn't Mom warned me though, at the wedding? Maybe she could only warn me if she was given enough contact to see danger approaching. By only releasing her for a few minutes, I hadn't given her a chance to recognize the imminent threat. It was the only logical explanation.

Now I wanted to talk to them desperately, but I was certain it would be reckless. If these people – whoever they were – wanted to use my ability, allowing the spirits out could be a mistake. I didn't know how or even if, they knew about my gift or what means they could employ to discover it. What if they had some way to recognize the spirits in my head? Could someone touch me and know about them if they were speaking with me? No. Releasing the spirits seemed like a bad proposition right now.

I circled the room with increasing frustration, knowing there was nothing to indicate where I was being held, but searching anyway. When they'd dragged me away, they'd taken off at a run through the woods. I'd been carried by the man who'd touched me so intimately and I shuddered at the memory. He'd smelled strongly of aftershave and when he'd thrown me over his shoulder, he'd taken great delight in holding his hand on my backside as he ran. I couldn't estimate how far we'd travelled through the darkened woods, before I was bundled unceremoniously into a car. A cloth held across my nose and mouth had been soaked in a sweet-smelling liquid, which knocked me unconscious. From there, I had no idea of where I'd been taken, how far we'd travelled, or where I was now.

Was Lucas searching for me? My heart lurched – would he be able to find me? The vampires might be able to track our path through the woods, but what happened when they reached where the car had been parked? Was there any hope of them tracking me from there? I assumed my scent would have disappeared into thin air from that point. I wasn't sure how their tracking ability worked, but I was certain they must need some scent, some trace of me to follow. When that was gone, there was probably no way of them following the direction in which we'd travelled. My already-shaken confidence took a further nose-dive at the thought of them being unable to find me. What if I was held here forever?

Shaking that thought from my mind, I mulled over my chances of rescue. The only thing I'd been able to do was attempt to get a message to Ripley about the wedding planner. The very same wedding planner, who wasn't a wedding planner. I cursed at myself – why hadn't I told Lucas about Gerard DuBonet? I should have mentioned how cold his hands were, even if I'd been stupid enough to believe his ruse with the ice. With everything going on in the lead-up to the wedding, the thought had completely slipped my mind. I'd been under the impression they knew him, and he'd seemed so confident and in control, I'd had no reason to think otherwise.

Breathing deeply, I tried to compose myself and keep the dread, which was bubbling away beneath the surface, under control. I had to keep it under control. Fear wasn't going to keep me alive.

Heavy footsteps approached and I stopped pacing, anxiously watching the door. The footfalls stopped outside and a key was slipped into the lock and turned.

Whatever they wanted, I was about to find out.

Chapter 2: Deep Trouble

To my utter disgust, the black-haired man stood in the doorway, his gaze lingering suggestively at my chest. “It's about time you woke up.”

He strode across the room and captured my arm, dragging me out into a narrow hallway. He turned to the left, pulling me along beside him and tears welled in my eyes from his painful grip. There was no doubt; it was going to leave a bruise.

He hauled me up a flight of roughly hewn wooden stairs and I stumbled along beside him as he strode down another hallway. This one was lavishly decorated with flocked wallpaper, a claret leaf pattern on cream. The floor beneath my feet was polished and stained oak, the surface gleaming beneath the overhead lights. He stopped in front of a set of double doors, guarded by two heavyset men in dark suits. Neither of them glanced at us, their eyes focused on the opposite wall. The black-haired man rapped sharply on the door.

“Come.”

One of the guards pushed the doors open and I was dragged unceremoniously into the room. It was a study, oval shaped with rows of leather-bound books adorning wooden shelves, flawlessly fitted into the curved walls. A man sat behind an enormous wooden desk in the centre of the room. A large window was open behind him, sunlight streaming into the room and the lace curtains wafted softly in the breeze. Carefully tended gardens were visible outside, planted with a selection of majestic palms and bright, tropical flowers. Vast swathes of lawn were richly green and meticulously mowed. We were nowhere near Montana – that much was obvious. The man who'd dragged me upstairs shoved me down onto a straight-backed chair before letting go of my arm.

“Leave us, Sebastian.”

“Yes, Sir.”

I glared at Sebastian as he strode past and left the room, shutting the doors soundlessly behind him.

“Miss Duncan.”

I turned my attention to the man in the chair. He was tall and slim, with blonde shoulder length hair, which fell around his face in gentle waves. He was bearded, the hair clipped neatly around his jaw. The fine lines around his chocolate brown eyes suggested he was in his mid-forties and he was dressed casually in a white silk shirt, the neckline open to reveal a small 'V' of tanned skin.

“How do you know my name?”

He smiled. “Oh, I know quite a bit about you, Miss Duncan.” He drew himself to his feet and strode around the desk, his movements curiously graceful given he was so lanky. Perching on the edge of the desk, he regarded me with a tight smile. “My name is Laurence Armstrong.” He held out his hand and I shook it warily, not taking my eyes off him. His skin was warm, his hand smooth with long fingers and neatly manicured nails. With his eyes focused on me, I felt a whisper of power travel through his hand and into mine, an increase in warmth and a vibration, which made the hair on my arms stand on end. I pulled my hand away from his, rubbing it on my thigh. I didn't know what it was, or how he'd done it, but there was something strange about him, some sort of power I couldn't recognize.

“You're not a vampire?” I questioned warily.

He laughed dryly. “No, of course not. Tell me, what do you think I am?”

I shook my head. “I don't know.”

“No matter. It's not important.” He stared at me for a long moment, his eyes piercing and unemotional. “What is important is what you can do for me.”

Playing dumb seemed like the best option. In fact, my only option, as I didn't have a clue why I was here. There was no valid reason to suspect this stranger knew about my ability, but it was still the only logical explanation I had for being kidnapped. Laurence Armstrong was trying to be charming and I didn't want him to know what I suspected. Better to hold the knowledge to my chest and see what I could learn from him. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

His gaze was piercing, as if he instinctively knew I was lying. “Oh, come now, Miss Duncan. We both know what I'm talking about.” He leaned forward, so his face was inches from mine and spoke quietly. “You have a power. A unique power. I want it.”

I shrugged, trying to keep my expression neutral. “I don't know what you're talking about. I'm an artist. I paint.”

A long silence followed this statement. His brown eyes were calculating as he stared into my own, as if he could read the truth in my irises. I stared back, too frightened to blink, keeping my face as smooth, and relaxed as I could manage. When he spoke, his voice was hard, the polite composure gone. “You will tell me what I want to know. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way. It doesn't matter to me.”

“What, like getting your cronies to feel me up?” I retorted angrily. “Are you going to let them rape me next?” The revulsion incited me to anger rapidly and I remembered Sebastian's fingers probing me, and shuddered at the strong memory.

Armstrong looked taken aback and caught more than slightly off-balance at my words. “What are you talking about?”

I glared at him defiantly, drawing myself up straighter in the chair. “That Sebastian. He touched me.”

“Touched you?”

It was apparent I was going to have to spell it out. “He put his fingers… inside me.” I fought against the rush of heat that rose across my cheeks, and failed miserably.

His eyes grew colder and he bellowed, making me jump. “SEBASTIAN!”

The door opened at once, giving the impression Sebastian had been loitering outside. He strode in; closing the doors and standing beside the chair where I sat. I could smell the stench of his potent aftershave and wrinkled my nose in distaste.

“Yes, Sir.”

Armstrong stood up abruptly and he was a good couple of inches taller than Sebastian was. He was irate, tendons visible in his neck as he glowered at the shorter man. “What were your orders regarding Miss Duncan?” he snapped angrily.

“You told me to collect Miss Duncan from Montana and bring her here, Sir.”

My assumption was correct; I was no longer in Montana.

“What were your express orders regarding contact with Miss Duncan?” Armstrong's face had reddened with anger, a vein pumping visibly in his temple.

Sebastian looked confused. “Sir?”

“I told you there was to be no sexual contact. Under any circumstances.”

“But, Sir, the blood sucker told me he was her mate. I had no option but to check—”

I wasn't sure it was my imagination, or my own fear, but Sebastian appeared scared. His dark eyes had rounded owlishly and he was clenching and unclenching his fists.

Armstrong crowded the smaller man, fury clearly visible in his expression. “You were to leave her untouched! I made my orders exceedingly explicit in that regard!”

What happened next took only a split second, but I was subjected to every horrifying detail, as if time had deliberately slowed down so I couldn't miss it. I heard a quiet click; similar to the latch of a door being turned, and then Armstrong raised his left arm and slashed his hand across Sebastian's neck.

Sebastian dropped to his knees, clutching spasmodically at his ruined neck. I could see tendons, veins, muscle – even the glossy white bone of his spine through the shredded skin. Blood poured from the wound in a torrent, rapidly soaking his white shirt before he slumped face-forward onto the carpet.

I shrieked and screamed as Sebastian lay dying before me. Gurgling sounds emitted from his throat as blood pumped endlessly from his neck, a pool of scarlet forming on the carpet around him. I held my hands over my eyes, trying to block out the macabre spectacle. It stopped me from seeing his death throes, but didn't protect me from the mental image of seeing his throat reduced to so much meat and blood.

Now I was certain of what I was dealing with. Werewolves.

A hand gripped my arm, gentler than Sebastian's had been, but still firm. Armstrong hauled me to my feet as I continued to shriek. I struggled ineffectively against his grip as he pulled me from the room.

“Clean up the mess,” he ordered the stunned guards. He drew me further down the hallway, pushing me before him into another room. He lowered me gently onto a leather armchair, crouching before me. “My apologies, Miss Duncan. I'm sorry you had to see that.”

Inhaling deeply, I began to gain a little control, but I couldn't look him in the eye. He terrified me, more than any person I'd ever met before did.

“Would you like something to eat? Or perhaps a drink? Some coffee, perhaps?”

As if I could think about eating or drinking when I'd just witnessed a man getting his throat ripped out. Stupid, Charlotte. Stupid. You need your strength. Accept the offer. I nodded mutely.

Armstrong rang a bell near the doorway and I glanced away from him, concentrating on bringing my ragged breathing back under control. This room was large and luxurious, with couches and armchairs in sleek black leather. The walls were decorated with velvet-flocked wallpaper in pale gold and the floor was covered in plush white carpet. Antique lamps sat on elegantly carved wooden coffee tables. I stole a glance at the window, hoping for some clue to our whereabouts. Bright sunshine was casting shadows on the green lawn and the plants definitely seemed tropical. Where the hell was I?

A middle-aged woman appeared in the doorway, wearing a pale blue uniform with a white apron tied around her waist, sensible white shoes on her feet. She didn't look at me and seemed unperturbed by my presence. “You called, Mr. Armstrong?”

“Bring a plate of sandwiches and some coffee for our guest.”

The woman curtseyed and closed the door quietly when she left the room. Armstrong walked back across to where I sat, lowering himself into an armchair opposite mine and resumed his unabashed study of my face.

“You really are a beautiful young woman.”

I stared at him, waiting uneasily for whatever was coming next.

“Hmmm. The silent treatment. While I can understand your revulsion, I must warn you, I find the silent treatment very tiresome.” He leaned forward, a frown creasing his tanned forehead. “Your blood-sucking friends weren't nearly as quiet when they were executed.”

Startled by this admission, I blinked at him uncertainly. “He— Sebastian— he promised they wouldn't be killed.”

“As you have just discovered, Sebastian isn't good at following orders. After you were removed from the Tine house, my men finished the job I'd ordered. The bloodsuckers, all their human friends. All dead. We couldn't take the risk of any of them trying to locate you.”

For a few long seconds, I was numb – utterly devoid of conscious thought or feeling. Then pain rippled into my chest, as though my heart had been stabbed with a cold, sharp knife and it was all I could do to remain upright in the armchair, not fall to my knees with the pain.

“I don't want to hurt you.” Armstrong's voice was gentler now, less harsh, and more persuasive. “All I want is information. When you have given it to me, you'll be free to leave.”

I kept my gaze lowered, focusing on my hands and Lucas's gold ring on my finger. Could Lucas really be dead? Rowena and Marianne— everyone? Was this a trick, or was he telling the truth? I doubted his honesty and certainly didn't believe he would let me go if I told him what he wanted to know. More likely, he would kill me as soon as I gave up the knowledge.

I inhaled a deep breath and forced myself to look up into his cold eyes, speaking quietly and firmly. “I don't know what you want from me. I don't have a clue about what you're saying. I have nothing I could tell you.”

Armstrong was furious as he launched himself from the armchair. I squeezed my eyes shut, convinced he was going to hit me, but instead he wrenched me up from the chair, his grip unyielding around my wrist.

He dragged me unceremoniously from the room, along the hallway and back down the stairs. He flung open the metal door and pushed me into the concrete cell. I stumbled and fell, hitting my shoulder and hip hard against the unforgiving floor.

“You will tell me everything you know. You can be absolutely sure of it,” he shouted angrily.

The door slammed and I heard the key turn in the lock, the noise echoing throughout the empty room. I dragged myself to the mattress, sobbing with terror as I dropped down onto it. I curled up into a ball, my body trembling so violently I wrapped my arms around my legs to try to control the shakes. Tears flowed freely as I considered whether the only people I truly considered family in this world could possibly be dead.

Chapter 3: Knowledge Revealed

There was no telling how long I'd lain on the mattress, whether it was day or night, or how many hours had passed. Since Armstrong threw me back into the concrete room, I'd had nothing to eat or drink. My throat was parched and my stomach rumbled ominously, aching with hunger. The room was still freezing and I'd spent most of my time trying to retain what little body heat I could manage.

I'd dozed on and off and when I woke, a bucket, which hadn't been there before, was sitting in the corner of the room. I investigated and discovered it was empty, and with a sinking heart, I realized this was my bathroom. This was where I was to apparently deal with physical necessities during my imprisonment.

Before falling into a troubled sleep, I'd spent a lot of time considering if what Armstrong had said could be true. Could Lucas and his friends be dead? Not only them, but also all those guests at the wedding? Whether it was wishful thinking or not, I discounted the idea. I'd calculated the number of men who'd appeared so suddenly at the wedding and came up with fifteen. Even if they were all werewolves and vampires, I didn't believe fifteen people could take on over two hundred people and kill them all. Someone had to survive, I was certain of it. I needed to believe Armstrong was lying and stubbornly clung to hope.

In the meantime, I needed to stay alive and that was looking increasingly doubtful if I didn't get something to eat and drink soon. I huddled in the corner, legs tucked up to my chest and my arms wrapped around them. There was a good chance sustenance wouldn't be an issue soon, because in all likelihood I would freeze to death. This room was disorientating; trying to figure out whether it was day or night, or how much time had passed was hopeless. It was impossible to tell and the light over my head glowed constantly.

Like a mantra, I ran through the little information I'd managed to accumulate. As much as I loved Marianne, I knew her psychic power was haphazard at best and couldn't be relied on. Ripley might be able to hear my thoughts and it was the only hope I had. I didn't know the distance his mind reading could work across, but it was my only hope and I was clinging to it. For hours at a time, I repeated it in my head. Gerard DuBonet, Laurence Armstrong, Gerard DuBonet, Laurence Armstrong. I was certain if Ripley could pick up my thoughts, if they could track down Gerard DuBonet or find out about Laurence Armstrong, they might be able to find me. My rescue hopes relied on a lot of ifs and maybes, but it was all I had to cling to.

I heard footsteps approaching and listened intently. The door opened and one of the guards I'd seen upstairs came in, silently wrenching me to my feet and dragging me along the corridor. I was taken upstairs and into the living room I'd been taken to last time.

The guard shoved me down on a chair and I found Armstrong waiting for my arrival. He was seated opposite me, wearing black trousers and a sky blue shirt, his legs crossed at the ankle. On the coffee table was a plate filled with sandwiches and a pot of coffee; sugar and creamer neatly laid out beside it.

“You must be hungry,” he remarked quietly.

I eyed him suspiciously, wondering if this was a ruse. Was he going to allow me to eat, or was this his idea of a sick joke?

“Please, help yourself,” he said, waving his hand towards the food.

Snatching up a sandwich, I crammed it into my mouth, watching him cautiously as he poured coffee. He didn't speak again until I'd stuffed another half dozen sandwiches into my mouth, desperate to eat as much as I possibly could before he stopped me. The coffee was too hot to drink, but I grabbed the jug of creamer, gulping it down quickly.

Armstrong laughed; the sound cold and humorless in the room. “You are quite the little animal, aren't you?”

When I'd eaten every sandwich, I leaned back in the chair and eyed him suspiciously. “What do you want?”

“Now, Miss Duncan. You know exactly what I want. I want you to tell me how your gift works.”

“What gift?”

He sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over his bearded chin. “I'd hoped you might have come to your senses by now. You've been here for three days and as you can see,” he waved around the room expansively, “nobody is coming to your rescue.”

I remained silent, watching him apprehensively. At least I knew now how long I'd been here, although it seemed much longer than three days.

“Alright, let me tell you what I already know.” He paused, staring at me with those intense brown eyes. “You have a psychic ability. I am aware of it because your little band of bloodsuckers attacked some associates of mine. They released two of them, and one came to me with information. He told me about you and it was a very interesting conversation. This particular associate overheard the discussion you were having with your mother. Imagine his surprise, when he discovered your mother wasn't in the house, yet managed to warn you of their impending arrival. Although he was too stupid to consider the possibilities, I did, and a little investigation confirmed your mother has been dead for two years. So, I asked myself, how does this girl talk to a mother who is dead and buried already?” He leaned forward, tapping his forehead. “She obviously has some sort of psychic talent, a very powerful talent.”

I continued to watch him, trying to keep my face neutral, wondering where this was going and how much he really knew.

“Still not going to talk? No matter. You will – one way or the other. For the moment, I will continue my little tale as you are listening with such rapt attention.” He settled back on the couch, stretching his arm along the back of it. “Now, I think to myself, what use is a girl who can speak with her dead mother? There is nothing to be gained from such ability. What possible benefit could it be? But I admit, I was intrigued, wondering just how much psychic ability you had. You were having a complete conversation with your dead mother. A two-way dialogue. In the interests of conducting a full and complete investigation, I decided to send another blood-sucking colleague of mine to the Tine home.”

“Gerard DuBonet?” The name slipped from my mouth unbidden and I wished I hadn't said anything. I didn't want to help him, no matter how close his conclusions were to the facts.

“Yes. Mr. DuBonet has a remarkable talent of his own. Through touch, he gets a snapshot of a person's history. Almost like flicking through hundreds of old photographs at once. And what do you think Mr. DuBonet discovered when he touched you?”

I didn't like where this was going. “I don't have a clue.”

“He tells me you have a remarkable psychic aura. The only trouble is, Mr. DuBonet couldn't access the information I wanted. He tells me you have a shielding ability which he can't breach.”

He stood up, walking slowly around the table to crouch beside me. I heard the odd clicking sound and enormous claws sprouted from the ends of his fingertips. He used one claw to stroke leisurely across my neck and I fought rising panic, struggling to remain seated and not give anything away in my expression. “That tells me you have something remarkable hidden in that pretty head of yours, but it seems I can't get to it. Which is why,” he pushed the claw against my neck, where my jugular vein pulsed rapidly, “I want you to tell me about it.”

My hands were shaking and I clutched them in my lap. I didn't know what he intended to do with any information I gave him, but I was certain no good would come from it. “I'm afraid you've been misinformed, Mr. Armstrong. I have no idea what you're talking about and I can only tell you what I've told you before. My name is Charlotte Duncan and I'm an artist. There is nothing unusual about me.”

He didn't use the claws. His fist rushed towards my face and I shut my eyes, cringing from what was to come. His closed hand connected with my cheek, slamming me back against the chair with enough force to tip it over, spilling me to the floor. Pain registered only briefly, before I slipped into unconsciousness.

Chapter 4: Conal

Waking up in the concrete room after a beating became a regular event after that first punch, one I faced with increasing dread and despair.

Any information I came across was added to my mental S.O.S., although I was growing more convinced, nobody was coming to my aid. Despite the hopelessness, which was intensifying, I didn't want to give up. If I gave up, what else was there? So I continued to broadcast what I knew, uncertain if it would ever be heard by Ripley. Every time I was dragged up the stairs, I took mental note of anything that might be important. I'd begun estimating the number of guards, based on the area of the house to which I was escorted. I had a good eye for faces and could recognize new people as the shifts changed. Each time I saw someone new, I added him or her to my list. For hours on end, I ran through the information in my head. Gerard DuBonet, Laurence Armstrong, fifteen guards, sunny and humid. Gerard DuBonet, Laurence Armstrong, fifteen guards, sunny and humid.

Each time I was taken upstairs, I expected it to be the last time. Armstrong was becoming increasingly frustrated, the beatings he dished out more brutal with every day that passed. My face and arms were black and blue, my body aching almost constantly.

Once more, I heard footsteps approaching and I cringed, squeezing my eyes shut at the thought of another session with Armstrong. Eventually, he would tire of this game and kill me. I would be grateful when that time came. I wasn't sure how much longer I could do this, didn't know how long I could keep up the strength to deny him what he wanted. Even as I feared giving in, I knew I had to keep fighting against him. I still couldn't imagine what he intended to do if he found out about me, how my psychic ability could possibly be useful to him.

I was hauled back upstairs and taken into the study. I avoided looking at the patch of carpet where Sebastian had died. The blood had been cleaned up, but a faint stain remained and the vague notion occurred to me that Armstrong would have to replace the carpet. Why that particular thought crossed my mind, I didn't know, but it seemed better to think of practical things than what was about to happen. Maybe he was waiting until after he'd ripped my throat out, so he didn't have the expense of replacing it twice. I shook my head, knew I was surely losing my mind, and glanced up at Armstrong. I was surprised to discover there was a second man in the room with us. It made me instantly more wary – this was something different and I didn't trust it.

“Miss Duncan. How delightful of you to join us.” Armstrong indicated a chair beside the stranger and the guard pushed me down onto it. I peeked cautiously at the stranger, not willing to make eye contact with him. He was a bear of a man, tall and muscular with broad shoulders and bronzed skin. He had a mop of unruly black hair, which curled across the collar of his shirt and his strong jaw was shadowed with the beginnings of a beard. He glanced down at me and before I could lower my gaze, I noticed his eyes were unusual. So dark, they seemed pitch black and they were animal-like in shape, something not completely human about them.

“This is Conal Tremaine, Miss Duncan. Conal, meet Charlotte Duncan.” Armstrong introduced us, as though we were attending a formal dinner. I could sense the man studying me, his gaze flickering over the mass of purple bruises covering my face and neck.

“What the hell's going on, Armstrong?” The big man's voice was rumbling deep, deep enough that I could feel it in my chest when he spoke. “You kidnapped me and brought me here for this? Why the hell do I need to see your handiwork?”

“Yes, I brought you here for this,” Armstrong agreed silkily. “I want you to find out exactly what is in her head. Miss Duncan is not being cooperative.”

“You know I don't use my ability on humans, it's too dangerous.”

“Tremaine, keep in mind your pack is currently being held by my men. I would hate to give them orders which could cause the unnecessary deaths of your people.” Armstrong voiced his threat quietly, his voice calm. “But I will, if you don't provide me with what I want.”

The big man's eyes flashed with rage, and I felt an energy building beside me, which seemed to come from him. It brushed over my skin, like a hot wind.

“Control yourself, Tremaine. Or those orders will be given sooner, rather than later,” Armstrong warned.

The man swallowed deeply, seemingly controlling his anger and the heat dissipated as quickly as it had appeared. “I could damage her,” he finally said.

Armstrong pursed his lips as if he was considering alternatives. “I really don't care. It doesn't matter what happens to her mind, that's not what I'm after. But I want what she's hiding in that brain, and you can get it.”

Conal Tremaine scrutinized me, observing the bruises, the split lip, the cuts on my face and arms. “What exactly is this human pup meant to have in her mind that's so damn important?”

“Something I can use to my advantage, if I can get to it.”

Conal Tremaine reflected on this statement for a moment or two, his forehead furrowed as if he were considering his options. “All right.”

He turned his chair to face me and Armstrong grabbed the back of my chair, spinning it so I faced Conal Tremaine. He stared into my eyes for a second or two, before lifting his right hand as if to touch me. I reared backwards, terrified of what he intended to do, but Armstrong clutched me firmly around the throat with his arm, keeping me immobile.

Conal Tremaine raised his hand again, placing his fingertips to my forehead. Acute throbbing started up in my temples and I squeezed my eyes shut, whimpering softly. The throbbing escalated until I was sure I'd never felt such horrendous pain and I had a mental image of his fingers reaching into my brain, probing around the circuits and sections. His fingers moved slowly and vigilantly through my brain, looking this way and that, touching and feeling as he went. In a state of pure panic, I turned to my mental box, ensuring it was securely sealed. His fingers followed immediately to where it was hidden in the darkest recesses of my mind. It was agonizing, the seemingly real assault of his fingers inside my head and I began to tremble, sweat trickling down my back as I battled against him. I couldn't understand what was happening, but I wanted it to stop, needed him to take his fingers away from me and stop the relentless pain, which was making me nauseous.

I forced my eyes open and found him watching me, his black eyes staring into mine as he grappled for the lid of the box. With extreme effort, I focused all my attention on keeping the lid closed, battling against him, and shaking with the exertion it took. Against my will, he pushed harder and although I frantically tried to stop him, he pried open the lid of the box. I stared wide-eyed, mesmerized by the expression in his black eyes, as he saw my inner most secrets and the truth of what I was, what I could do. I knew he was seeing the people I spoke to often, could hear their voices swelling into my mind even as he probed.

And then he blinked.

He removed his hand from my forehead and I slumped in the chair, bile rising in my throat as my head pounded mercilessly. I couldn't stop the whimper that left my lips, or the fervent wish that he'd killed me. Death would be a better option, compared to this agony.

“She's powerful, considering she's human. There's something there, in her mind, but I can't reach it.” He sat back in his chair, dropping his hand onto his thigh and turning his attention to Armstrong.

It was fortunate Armstrong stood behind me, unable to see my expression – there was no doubt he would have seen the startled look I failed to hide. Conal Tremaine glanced back at me for a second, his face showing no emotion whatsoever. His expression was completely neutral as he turned his attention back to Armstrong. “Whatever you think she has, it's extremely well hidden. I'll need more time to break through the barriers she's erected.”

“Do it now,” Armstrong demanded. “I want it; I want the power she holds.”

“Okay.” Conal Tremaine raised his hand again and I sobbed. “As long as you're happy for her to die here and now, that's fine by me.”

“Wait!” There was silence for a few seconds, but I couldn't see Armstrong's face to see what he was thinking, what he was doing. All I could see was the man in front of me, his hand just inches from my forehead. “What's the problem?”

Conal Tremaine shrugged. “She's not like us, she's weak. There's a good reason I don't use the hand on humans, it reduces their minds to so much mush, kills the brain stem. Another attempt so soon after the first will see her die here in your study. Still,” he said, leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms over his broad chest, “it makes no difference to me.”

Armstrong was silent again and I could imagine him considering what the man had said. I couldn't see his face and I didn't dare to turn and find out what his facial expression would tell me. I was certain if I moved the pain in my head would only increase and I was having difficulty enough staying conscious. Black spots were dancing in and out of my vision, the nausea being held at bay only through sheer willpower. When Armstrong did speak, his voice was both angry and resigned. “Fine. I'll give you three days. Get the information from her in the next three days, or I'll kill you and have your pack annihilated.”

“And if I get the information?”

“You'll be free to go and our blood feud is at an end. The debt will be forgotten.”

“Agreed.” Conal glanced fleetingly at me, before returning his gaze to Armstrong. “Keep in mind there's a full moon in two days.”

“I'm aware of that,” Armstrong snapped. He grasped my arm and wrenched me from the chair, dragging me towards the door. He shoved me unceremoniously out to the guards and screamed at them to return me to my prison. Once there, I promptly vomited into the bucket, retching repeatedly until I was dry heaving, my throat stinging, and my vision blurred by the intense headache. I dropped to the floor, lay my forehead against the cool concrete, and cried.

When I could, I crawled on my hands and knees to the mattress and lay staring up at the ceiling. Why had Conal Tremaine lied? He'd broken through whatever shields I had in place. Why hadn't he told Armstrong what he'd seen? I rolled onto my side, curling into a ball and trying to conserve some heat in my body. For the millionth time I wondered why it was so cold down here, when it was so warm upstairs.

The familiar and unwelcome sound of footsteps came from the hall and I braced myself, unable to quell the frightened moan that escaped my lips. Not already, he couldn't expect me to go through that again already. I hadn't been back down here for long, it seemed only minutes had passed – I couldn't survive a second attempt so soon.

To my utter confusion, when the door opened Conal Tremaine was shoved into the room and fell to the floor in a crumpled heap. He'd been beaten, blood still pouring from a deep gash on his forehead.

The door slammed and I heard the key turn in the lock. I remained motionless for a minute, and then began to crawl towards the prostrate man on the floor. He remained utterly still, to all intents and purposes, he seemed unconscious, but I was wary. Having him imprisoned here made me nervous, I knew he wasn't a normal human, but I hadn't figured out exactly what he was. I sighed heavily. All I knew was that he hadn't given Armstrong my secret and for that, I owed him something.

I crawled to the second bucket I'd been supplied with a day or two ago, which held fresh drinking water. Armstrong had apparently figured out I couldn't survive forever without nutrients, so I now received a bucket of water and scraps of something inedible each day. I glanced down regretfully at my beautiful dress, which looked much the worse for wear after days of abuse. “Sorry, Acenith,” I muttered, grabbing the edge of the train and tugging until I'd managed to tear a piece of material from it.

I dipped the material in the water, using it to dab gently at the wound on the huge man's forehead. Expending a lot of energy I could ill afford, I shoved and pushed until he lay on his back, only then realizing that the cut on his forehead was not the only injury he'd sustained. There were four deep scratches across his chest, visible beneath the torn shirt. After a few seconds of anxious deliberation, I undid the buttons of his shirt so I could clean the wounds, which looked like claw marks. I had no doubt who'd done this to him and why – because he'd kept my secret. The least I could do was to try to help him.

He was handsome, I mused, as I cleaned the wounds carefully. He wasn't classically handsome, but attractive in an earthy, outdoorsy way. Sooty black eyelashes framed his closed eyes, and there was a cleft in his chin, which was partially obscured by the stubble growing on his cheeks and jaw. I guessed he was somewhere between thirty and forty, exceptionally muscular with broad shoulders and an impressive six-pack. I wondered if he was married – did he have a family somewhere? A quick glance confirmed he didn't wear a wedding ring. The thought was comforting – although it didn't guarantee he was single, at least I could hope he didn't have a wife or girlfriend worrying about him somewhere. He did have a pack, which Armstrong was threatening. How many people were involved, how many would be hurt if I didn't tell Armstrong what he wanted to know?

I thought Conal Tremaine must be a werewolf, as I suspected Armstrong was. The assumption seemed to make sense with Armstrong talking about a pack. This meant I might be in a whole lot more trouble if he meant what he'd said about the full moon. I didn't know how much of what I'd read about werewolves was true, but I was positive the forthcoming full moon could only be bad. I continued my first aid efforts, fretting over the thought of this man turning into a werewolf in a few days' time. There was another smaller cut on his abdomen and I wiped it carefully, removing the blood that had spilled across his smooth olive skin. Satisfied that all the injuries I could see were clean, I was about to rinse out the cloth when he regained consciousness, gripping my wrist in a painful grasp.

I shrieked and tried to pull away, terrified when he growled deep in his chest. He opened his eyes and released his grip immediately, looking more carefully at me, his dark eyes taking in my disheveled appearance, the wet cloth still clutched in my fingers. Keeping his gaze on me, he touched his forehead, then his chest before pulling himself into a sitting position.

“You were cleaning my wounds?”

I nodded, terrified of this imposing man.

“You're in a great deal of trouble, Miss Duncan.” His voice was deep, a rumbling growl which was strangely soothing.

“My name's Charlotte,” I responded softly.

“Charlotte.” He stood up abruptly, his movements fluid and graceful for such a tall and solidly built man. Walking slowly, he scanned the walls and ceiling, studying every square inch. I sat mutely, waiting while he finished his inspection, wondering what he was looking for in the bare room.

When he seemed satisfied, he walked back to where I was and sat cross-legged on the floor opposite me. “This room doesn't appear to have any hidden cameras or bugging devices. I don't think Armstrong thought it would take this long to get what he wants – I'm sure he didn't plan to keep two prisoners here. I think we're safe to speak freely.”

Watching him cautiously, I was aware that my wrist still throbbed where he'd grabbed me. He could snap me like a twig and I wasn't convinced of whose side he was on. But he'd kept my secret, and I felt as if I should trust him, at least a little bit. What choice did I have? “Are you a werewolf? Like Armstrong?”

“I'm werewolf, Armstrong isn't. He's a shape shifter, a wolf wannabe.” His black eyes flickered around the room again as if he wanted to confirm there was nothing here, which Armstrong could use to hear our conversation. “Shape shifters are scum, they're beneath us. They have no honor.”

“He has your – people, Mr. Tremaine.”

“If we're going to be on a first name basis, you can call me Conal,” he responded. “Yeah, he's got my people. If I don't deliver what he wants, he'll kill them.”

“And you?”

Conal inclined his head. “I'm a dead man already. No matter what he says, he's got no intentions of allowing me to leave.” He gazed at me, his eyes searching my face. “I killed his brother a couple of months ago. I paid the required penalty, but that isn't enough for him. He wants an eye for an eye.”

I wasn't up to trying to understand werewolf and shape shifter code of behavior. I shivered, freezing in the thin dress I'd been wearing for days. “You saw what was in my head,” I stated, “why didn't you tell him?” There seemed little point in beating around the bush. Conal had seen my secrets and hiding anything from him now seemed pointless.

“What are you?” he questioned abruptly, ignoring my question.

“I'm just a human. I have some psychic ability.”

Conal shook his head firmly. “I'm not so sure about you being just a human. How long have you been having corporeal visitations?”

“A month, maybe a little more. I heard their voices first, for years before I acted on them. Then the… visitations started.”

“Your ability is unbelievably powerful. It surprised me, when I broke through your shield and discovered what you were hiding.”

“It surprises me, too,” I muttered and the thought was not an entirely happy one.

Conal stared at me for a full minute and I forced myself to return his gaze without looking away. It was like being studied under a microscope and I fought the urge to squirm. “You don't know why he wants that?” he finally asked.

I shook my head.

Conal inhaled deeply, letting the breath out with a sharp whoosh. “He wants to use what you have in your head as a weapon. To gain power over others around him.”

I couldn't understand what he was suggesting. How could something in my head be used as a weapon?

Conal saw my confusion and enlightened me. “Those spirits in your head, you have a great deal of power over them. More so than I would imagine any human has ever had. Your ability is unusual in a mortal. Extremely unusual.”

“I still don't get it,” I admitted.

Conal's dark gaze fixed on mine. “You have corporeal visions, don't you? You see the spirits manifested physically before you?”

I nodded cautiously.

“I saw in your mind – you have the power to make those corporeal visions do your bidding.”

I felt my eyes widening. “How do you know that?”

“I see things you've done when I'm probing your mind. My gift allows me to access your mind, comparable to searching a computer for files. You used one of the spirits to do your bidding.”

I grimaced uncomfortably. “I got my Mom to trip up a waiter.”

Conal shifted, folding his leg up and wrapping his arms round his knee. “Put that all together and you have the answer. You can use the spirits to do your bidding. Imagine being able to use an army of spirits to do your bidding.”

The penny dropped.

Chapter 5: Allied

I drew myself to my feet clumsily, still struggling with the effects of Conal's probing. The headache was still pounding, exacerbated by what Conal had laid out for me. I paced backwards and forwards, digesting the implications. He continued to sit on the floor, seemingly content to wait for me to speak.

“I still don't get it. I'm not going to give him an army.”

Conal stared at me, one eyebrow raised in unconcealed amusement. “You humans aren't real quick on the uptake. Remember what he said when I warned probing might damage you?”

I thought back over the conversation and realization dawned on me. “That's why he hits me around the face, the arms, upper body. Why he said he didn't care what happened to my mind.” I shivered as understanding dawned. “He doesn't want my psychic ability. He wants my genetic makeup.”

“Good girl. Maybe you're smarter than I gave you credit for.” Conal chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. “He needs to know exactly how powerful you are. When he discovers the full extent of your abilities, I imagine he's going to harvest your eggs and fertilize them with shifter sperm. Probably his own. He'll create his own psychic children. Children who may be able to control and command an army of dead.”

“But how will that help him?” I argued. “Even if they did carry the same psychic ability, it would be years before they're of any use to him.”

Conal laughed harshly. “Back to thinking like a stupid human. Regardless of how long it takes, creating his own race of psychic shape shifters will give him tremendous power. More power than anyone could imagine. He's prepared to wait. With the correct training and encouragement, he could have them doing his bidding in eight years, maybe less. And in the meantime, he has you.” He paused for a long moment, eyeing me impassively. “And if he tortures you for long enough, you'll give in to him.”

“I won't,” I stated resolutely, but my mind screamed doubts at me. The beatings were becoming increasingly brutal. How long could I hold out against that type of physical abuse? If he threatened to kill people, if I didn't do what he said, would I be able to stand up to him? I knew I couldn't.

My legs gave way under me and I slumped down onto the floor. My teeth were chattering and I wrapped my arms around my legs, trying to hug some warmth into my skin. This was more than physical coldness; the enormity of what Conal had explained was causing a chill that was more elemental, the result of shock and fear.

“You're cold,” Conal stated mildly.

I nodded mutely, still trying to come to terms with what Conal had explained At last I could see why I was of value to Armstrong and I could understand, even more clearly, why it was imperative he didn't get the information he wanted. “I don't know why it's freezing in here, when it's warm upstairs.”

“Armstrong is a master at torture. We're at least partially underground, which would keep the area colder than upstairs, but it's made of solid concrete and I imagine he has some way of keeping the temperature artificially cold. It's a very old torture method, the more discomfort you feel; the more likely you are to give him what he wants.” He held his arms open. “I'll warm you up.”

Wary of his intentions, I shook my head. How did I know he wouldn't attack me? I didn't even know him. He may appear to be on my side, but uncertainty still kept me wary.