Captive (7 page)

SARAH TWISTED ON
the bed. The manacles cut into her wrists and ankles, and the cloth gagging her was
bound so tightly it was hard not to choke whenever she drew breath.

She was close to succumbing to panic. A man had been in the room, staring at her.
He had to be a Keeper. No one else had incubi and succubi serving as sentinels in
their home.

The memory of the way the incubus had snatched her from the mouth of the cistern made
Sarah shudder. The creature’s taloned fingers had sunk into her shoulders, yanking
her backward. Then she’d been dangling high above the frothy sea as the incubus’s
wings beat, taking her higher and higher until they flew over the castle wall and
into one of its towers.

The incubus took care to remain aloft when he dropped Sarah, hovering at a height
that made her hit the stone floor of the tower with a jolt that jarred her bones.
Despite the shock and pain, Sarah had rolled over, ready to fight. And if it had been
that single creature to defeat, Sarah believed she could have done it. He wasn’t armed,
though his ability to fly and his clawlike nails were weapons enough. Once she’d taken
out this cliff-watcher, she’d be in the perfect position to continue her mission—inside
the castle.

But the incubus hadn’t been alone.

Just as Sarah had moved to draw a throwing knife, she’d been seized from behind again.
A husky female voice said, “What have you brought me, Owen?”

Alighting on the floor, Owen replied, “A trespasser. She made it all the way to the
cistern.”

The female sniffed her hair. “She’s a Searcher.” Then she shoved Sarah into Owen’s
grasp.

“I know that, Lana,” Owen said; then he glared at Sarah. “You don’t belong here, precious.”

He whipped Sarah around, pinning her arms behind her back so she faced his companion.

Unsurprisingly, Lana was a succubus. Her body was voluptuous to the point of excess,
its sensuality only emphasized by the tight leather dress she wore. Familiar as Sarah
was with the reputation of this sort of nether creature, the clothes were just too
much and Sarah had to swallow a derisive laugh. Given that the incubus was bare-chested
and clad only in a leather kilt, Sarah was tempted to apologize for interrupting their
staging of
The Rocky Horror Picture Show,
but decided against it. Pissing off her captors could too easily prove fatal. As
long as Sarah stayed alive, she had a chance of getting out of the castle.

Determined to remain calm, Sarah didn’t struggle against Owen. The only strategy that
might work required that she conserve her energy until the right opportunity presented
itself. She also hoped that if the nether beasts thought her fearful and submissive,
they might do the work of revealing the castle’s secrets for her.

“I’ll take her to the dungeon,” Owen said to Lana. “You should inform Lord Tristan
we’ve captured a Searcher.”

Lana shook her head. She came close, stroking a long red fingernail from the base
of Sarah’s throat to her chin. “I have a better idea.”

Sarah let herself shudder at the woman’s tone, which dripped with hunger and lust.
The more intimidated she seemed, the more likely they’d keep talking like she wasn’t
there. She’d already learned the name of their master: Tristan. He would be the one
who held the secrets of this place.

The succubus licked her lips and sighed with pleasure as her nails dug into Sarah’s
jawline. “Follow me.”

Lana led the way to the tower stairs while Sarah—stumbling due to the awkwardness
of having her arms pinned—clumsily followed at Owen’s urging. They took her down a
spiraling stone staircase, but much to Sarah’s disappointment, their conversation
ceased for the duration of the descent.

When they emerged from the tower into a broad hallway of the castle keep, a low growl
slithered out of the shadows. A moment later a large brown and gray wolf followed
the path of the sound.

Sarah tensed and reflexively jerked against Owen’s restraining arms. Every instinct
was telling her to defend herself.

Lana faced the wolf, sniffing with disdain. “Yes, Seamus?”

Where a wolf had been bristling suddenly stood a man, his face worn with age and his
cold eyes revealing that there was little love lost between Guardian and succubus.

“You want to tell me what’s going on here?” Seamus snarled despite his human visage.

“Not really.” Lana smiled.

“Lana.” He barked her name.

The succubus fluttered her batlike wings irritably. “If you must know, Owen discovered
a Searcher climbing the south wall.”

“I’ve always said wolves are of little use on an island,” Owen sneered. “We’d be better
off with albatross Guardians. Or maybe sea turtles.”

Seamus spared him a spiteful glance, then said to Lana, “You’re putting her in a cell,
then?”

“Dear Seamus,” Lana cooed. “Why be boring when captivity offers so much sport?”

Sarah gritted her teeth. She wouldn’t let herself imagine the kind of sport Lana had
in mind. She just wanted them to keep talking.

“You should be waiting for orders from Tristan about what to do with her.” Seamus
frowned.

“Tristan will tell me, tell all of us, what to do with the prisoner soon enough,”
Lana replied. “I’m just going to offer a suggestion in the meantime. Don’t go spoiling
my fun. Is Tristan in his room?”

“He’s in the baths.”

The tips of Lana’s wings curled with delight. “Even better.”

“He won’t like it if she comes to harm before he’s had a chance to question her,”
Seamus said with a warning growl.

“We’re not going to hurt her,” Owen said, but he added to Lana, “Are we?”

“Of course not.” Lana’s laugh made Sarah’s gut curdle. “Not without orders.”

Lana pursed her lips at Seamus. “So do we have your permission to continue, pack leader?”

Seamus winced at her address and he turned away, shaking his head. A moment later
a wolf slipped back into the shadows from whence it came.

“What a bore,” Lana muttered before leading them farther along the hall.

“Guardians like rules,” Owen replied. “They’re bred that way.”

“I know.” Lana sighed. “It’s tiresome.”

When Lana stopped in front of a tall, carved wooden door, Owen asked, “We’re not taking
her to Tristan?”

“We are taking her to Tristan.” Lana opened the door. “Just not to the baths.”

Owen pushed Sarah into the room.

Lana closed the door, then took her time looking Sarah up and down. “I don’t think
she’s properly attired to meet our master, do you?”

That was when they’d stripped Sarah and chained her to the bed. A bed that obviously
belonged to this Tristan the nether creatures spoke of.

All thoughts of gleaning information from her captors evaporated in the face of her
rapidly changing circumstances. Sarah didn’t want fear to overrun her reason, but
she hadn’t considered this scenario. Torture: yes. Being drained slowly by a wraith:
of course. Too many Strikers went that way.

But being violated by some Keeper playboy sadist? That filled Sarah with a dread she
didn’t know how to face.

She lay there, on the bed, with cold air blanketing her bare skin and even colder
terror sluicing through her veins.

When the door opened again, Sarah wanted to scream but forced herself to remain silent.

The man—whom Sarah presumed to be Tristan—was dressed only in dark cotton pajama bottoms.
And seeing her tied to his bed was an obvious shock. He’d stared at her for only a
minute or so, but to Sarah it felt like an eternity.

But just as suddenly as he appeared, Tristan turned and left the room. He hadn’t said
anything.

He left her there, bound and naked. Alone.

Sarah’s mind turned against her, questioning her every move, from volunteering for
the mission to submitting to her captors. Why hadn’t she fought back? She couldn’t
help but fear that what awaited her would be more horrible than death.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force away the racking grief and fear that threatened
to wring desperate sobs from her.

Sarah was shaking from the effort to control her emotions when the door opened again.
She dared to open her eyes.

Tristan was back, and he had two Guardians flanking him. He approached her slowly.
Though her bindings made the possibility of a fight unlikely, Sarah quickly assessed
her foe. Strength would be Tristan’s advantage for certain. Tall and broad-shouldered,
the Keeper was more than fit. His bare chest and abdomen featured lean, chiseled muscle,
and he moved with a grace that bespoke the kind of balance and dexterity that would
prove deadly in close combat. Sarah didn’t doubt that she could offer him a serious
challenge in a fight, but she wouldn’t be able to overpower him.

Sarah frowned when she saw that he had her clothes in his hands.

Panic took over when he was within a foot of the bed. Sarah thrashed against her bonds.
The chains clanged against the broad headboard, and Tristan scowled at her.

“That wood is older than your great-grandparents would be today. Stop struggling,
or you’ll damage it.”

I’m chained up and he’s lecturing me on how to treat his heirloom furniture? Sadist
and
pretentious asshole.

But those characteristics were par for the course with Keepers, so it was hardly surprising.
Had she not been gagged, Sarah would have cussed at him until she ran out of breath.
He watched until she stopped struggling. Then, setting the folded clothing on a bedside
table—though without her dagger harness—Tristan opened his hand to show Sarah an iron
key.

“I’m going to get you out of these chains,” Tristan said. His voice was low and steady,
but not menacing, even when he added, “If you move, the wolves will kill you.”

Whether this was some sort of trick, Sarah was compelled to obey. She had no doubt
that the Guardians would tear into her if she threatened their master. Unarmed, she
didn’t stand a chance against the wolves.

Tristan went to each of the four bedposts and unlocked the manacles. Sarah remained
perfectly still, even after she’d been freed of the chains. It took a lot of her effort
not to shrink away when he bent down to remove the cloth that gagged her. Now that
his face was close to hers, Sarah noticed that the arrogance she’d expected was absent
from Tristan’s features. His expression wasn’t harsh or haughty, and she was surprised
to find an anxious flicker in his gold-flecked eyes and that his mouth turned slightly
down in a frown borne of worry, not irritation.

“Get dressed.” Tristan stepped back from the bed. “I’ll return in a moment.”

He retreated into an alcove across the room. Sarah rolled over, drawing her knees
up to her chest. She couldn’t stop shaking.

The wolves remained at the bedside, watching her closely. Sarah wanted to reach for
her clothes, but she was frozen in a huddled ball against the pillows. The larger
of the two wolves gave a low whine and then shifted.

Sarah recognized Seamus from his encounter with Lana and Owen in the hallway. Seamus
picked up the folded clothes from the bedside table and set them next to Sarah on
the bed. Without a word, he shifted back into his wolf form and returned to his watch
beside the second wolf.

Managing to disentangle her arms from the way they’d locked around her knees, Sarah
dressed as quickly as she could. She didn’t look at the wolves. She didn’t glance
at the alcove into which Tristan had vanished.

It was much easier to breathe now that she had clothes on.

Tristan’s voice called, “Seamus?”

The big wolf barked in reply, and Tristan reappeared. Sarah wasn’t the only one who’d
gotten dressed. Tristan had swapped his pajama bottoms for jeans and a white T-shirt.
He still had her dagger harness; it hung loosely in the crook of his arm.

The Keeper crossed the room to stand between the two wolves.

“I apologize for the state you were in when I first came upon you,” Tristan said.

Sarah gazed at him warily, not feeling particularly compelled to respond.

“This island is private property,” Tristan continued. “Would you care to tell me who
you are and what you’re doing in my home?”

Sarah remained silent. The smaller of the two wolves bristled and bared its teeth
at Sarah. Tristan lifted his hand and the beast quieted.

His hand still aloft, Tristan’s fingers danced through the air, leaving a flaming
symbol in their wake. The fiery image trembled and shadows boiled out of it. Dark
tendrils appeared in the air, building until a turbulent mass of smoke hovered beside
Tristan, waiting.

A wraith.

Sarah shrank back against the headboard. She’d learned about the shadow creatures,
knew they were impervious to harm. Stories of wraiths and the rare survival of an
encounter with one usually involved unbearable pain and watery bowels. Facing the
writhing mass of shadow, Sarah wondered how long she had to live—and longer didn’t
mean better. Death delivered by a wraith wasn’t swift; it would be a slow, nightmarish
ordeal.

“I see you’re familiar with our usual means for dealing with your kind.” Tristan glanced
at the wraith as if it were a bothersome, rather than terrifying, creature.

Mustering what courage she could, Sarah straightened up and gave a brief nod.

“We could go through the motions with my wraith,” Tristan said. “But I was thinking
we might try something different.”

He waved his hand and the wraith vanished. “Something more sporting.”

“Sport” was the same word the succubus had used. Sarah stared at the Keeper. He was
as twisted as the creatures that served him. That was the only explanation for this
behavior. She was the prisoner of a complete nutter on a power trip.

Tempted as Sarah was to point out just how crazy he obviously was, the wraith was
gone and she didn’t want it to come back. For the moment she could only play along
with whatever lunatic notion had caught the Keeper’s fancy.