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What if he wasn’t in a cell at all? Maybe he was buried alive in some kind of box. Sweat beaded across his brow. He remembered being locked up, beaten, starved. Shit! Was he back in Iraq? Back in the hands of terrorists?
What if he had never been rescued? Maybe he was still in that sweat box.
He had to get out! Now! Panic spiked his heart rate. Sweat dripped down his face and trickled down his back.
“Help! Somebody, anybody! Let me out!” Pounding on the wall, he screamed, “Let me out of here!”
He had to escape before they came back for him.
“Please,” he sobbed. “Please let me out.”
As if in answer to his plea, the door creaked open. In the pale light spilling into the cell from a light in the passageway, Sam watched the man in the long gray cloak stroll into the cell.
Sam scrambled backward. “No! Get away from me, you freak. Leave me alone!”
The man walked toward him, eyes red and glowing. “Leave you alone?” His laughter was like dead leaves rustling in a graveyard. “I think not. You have what I need.”
Sam shook his head. “I don’t have anything!” His gaze darted toward the open door and the freedom that lay beyond. All he had to do was get past the old man. A piece of cake, right?
The thought had barely crossed Sam’s mind when the door shut, seemingly of its own accord, and he found himself shoved against the cell’s back wall, held in place by one age-spotted hand.
Sam stared at his captor. Who was this guy? He hadn’t even seen him move.
“Time for dinner,” the man said. His lips peeled back in a savage grin, revealing elongated canines.
Sam went cold all over as he stared at the hellishly red eyes, the sharp fangs.
It couldn’t be. There was no such thing. And yet the proof was staring him in the face.
Vampire.
Sam was still trying to grasp the reality of what he was seeing when the man grabbed a handful of his hair, jerked his head to the side, and buried his fangs in Sam’s throat.
Chapter 35
Thorne prowled the outskirts of St. Germaine’s Abbey, every step adding to his frustration. How the hell was he going to get inside?
When the answer came to him, it was so simple, he cursed himself for not thinking of it immediately. All he had to do was ring the damn bell. His only excuse for not thinking of it sooner was that anger had clouded his reason. Strangers might not be welcome in the Abbey, but St. Germaine’s was a religious order, after all, sworn to render aid and comfort to those in need.
Muttering under his breath, Thorne grabbed the bell pull and gave it a jerk. The sonorous peal echoed off the high stone walls.
Several minutes passed before a tall, thin cleric opened the heavy door. He stood in the entryway, blinking up at Thorne, his brows raised in a silent query.
Thorne fixed his gaze on the monk’s guileless brown eyes. It took little effort for Thorne to impose his will on the monk’s.
“Please,” the cleric said, his voice rusty from disuse. “Come in.”
Thorne felt a ripple in the air as he stepped over the threshold. After closing the door behind him, he captured the monk’s gaze again. “You did not see me,” he said. “You will return to your duties. If anyone asks who was at the door, you will say it was a traveler asking directions. Do you understand?”
The cleric nodded.
Satisfied, Thorne opened his senses. He located Skylynn’s heartbeat almost instantly. A moment later, he caught the scent of freshly spilled blood. And with it, the erratic beat of a heart that was about to beat its last.
Moving faster than the eye could see, Thorne followed the scent of blood. It led him down a dark, musty-smelling corridor to a locked iron door. Dissolving into mist, he slipped under the crack along the bottom. A handy talent, he mused as he resumed his own form on the other side of the portal.
His fangs extended as the scent of blood grew stronger, mingling with Girard Desmarais’ unmistakable stink.
Swearing softly, Thorne hastened down a narrow, winding staircase to what had been a dungeon in days past, but was now used as a wine cellar. Torches set at intervals along the walls lit the passageway.
He hurried past several wine racks and iron-barred cells until he came to the last two. These cells were enclosed, with only narrow slits in the doors so the former guards could look inside.
Thorne inhaled deeply. Skylynn was in the cell on the right. The scent of freshly spilled blood came from the one on the left. Thorne opened the view port and peered inside, a harsh curse rising in his throat when he spied Desmarais kneeling on the floor, his head bent over Sam’s neck.
Desmarais sprang to his feet when Thorne threw open the cell door. “You!” he hissed. Licking Sam’s blood from his lips, Desmarais took a step backward, his hands curling into tight fists.
Thorne moved toward the other vampire with murder in his heart. Desmarais had kidnapped Skylynn, and for that, his life would be forfeit.
“He’s dying,” Desmarais said, gesturing at Sam. “What’s more important? Killing me? Or saving the girl’s brother? You can’t do both.”
And so saying, Desmarais vanished from sight in a swirl of black mist.
Thorne uttered a pithy curse. He had expected Desmarais to stand and fight. The hunter had made no secret of the fact that he wanted Thorne dead. And Skylynn, too.
Skylynn. Dammit. A thought took him into Skylynn’s cell. And not a moment too soon. Desmarais had Skylynn backed into a corner.
“You’ll never get your hands on her again,” Thorne said, his voice little more than an angry growl.
With a howl of frustration, Desmarais again vanished from sight.
“Sky!” Thorne swept her into his arms, his gaze moving over her face, his hands running lightly over her arms and back. “Did he hurt you?”
“No.” She stared up at Kaiden, wishing she could see his face. But the inside of the cell was as black as pitch. “Where’s Sam? Is he all right?”
“I need to get you out of here.” Thorne said.
“Where’s Sam?” she asked again, her voice rising. “Where is he?” She pounded on his chest. “Tell me where he is!”
“I’m sorry, Sky. I got here too late. He’s dying.”
“No! I don’t believe you! Where is he?”
“In the next cell.”
Wriggling out of his hold, she moved blindly toward the door, her hand tugging on the handle. “It’s locked!”
“Move aside,” Thorne said. One swift kick, and the door flew off its hinges.
