Page 17 of Damian

Chapter 11

Frank

“Despite my anger and jealousy, I must push my feelings aside to honor those who can no longer save themselves.” ~ Frank

Jealousy gnaws at my insides, an emotion I never thought I’d feel toward Peter. We’ve always been close, sharing everything from secrets to strategies. Seeing him rub his chest with the feel of his mate’s ticking, knowing he has someone to fight for, only fuels my frustration. I try pushing these thoughts aside, focusing on the task at hand, but the envy lingers like bad breath, stinking up my mood.

I’d figured out on the ride to Georgia that Peter’s mate was a prisoner in Emjay’s former herd. I didn’t push him to tell me his discovery.

I’ll forgive him. After I promise to hide from him when I hear my mate’s call for the first time, the way he hid his revelation from me.

He stands near, stinking of his own jealousy. Willow has agreed to allow me to enter the labyrinth and not him.

Peter glances at me, his gaze filled with guilt and something else—fear perhaps. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but closes it again, shaking his head.

I want to confront him; to demand he tells me about his mate, but the time isn’t right. Instead, I clap a hand on his shoulder, offering silent support. “We’ll talk later,” I mutter, more to myself than him.

He nods, understanding the unspoken promise.

I’ve never been in a labyrinth outside of my own. I imagined they were all the same.

I step through the portal and this labyrinth greets me with a stench so foul it nearly brings me to my knees. The air is thick with the scent of decay, a mix of rotting flesh and damp earth. It clings to my skin, seeping into my clothes.

The walls of the cave seem to close in around me, while the darkness presses down with an almost tangible weight. I struggle to breathe through the acrid smell of death in the air.

“They never bothered to bury any of us.” Emjay nods toward the pile of heifers off to the side. A stack of bones lay beneath corpses at different stages of decay.

Some are little more than bleached bones, remnants from decades ago, while others are fresher. Their flesh still clings to the bones in a ghastly resemblance of life, perhaps only a month old. Maggots and flies surround the newest victim left as a reminder of the monsters who ruled this domain.

Tears stream down our cheeks. We keep going, though.

At the fork in the cave, Emjay stops and points. “Right through there, Frank. About ten or twenty feet.”

Here’s where I go on my own, despite an urge to ignore Willow’s command. My mate’s clock isn’t ticking down the other path. It’s a gnawing in my gut that insists I’m needed in that direction.

I ignore my animal instincts to press on with my mission.

The farther I go doesn’t ease the stench. It lingers as if over the decades the walls have absorbed the putrid aroma.

I shift my vision to light the way. It’s a better view through my bull’s sight than with the small flashlight of my phone.

My knees fall out from under me. Emjay’s stories failed to prepare me for the horror I’m beholding.

I weep uncontrollably, knowing if we’d arrived a few days sooner, we might have saved this one.

Cloudy orbs, once a vibrant blue, stare back at me. How long was she a prisoner? Starvation thinned her wrists enough that they’d fallen out of the chains above her head. The metal cuff around her ankle chained to the cave wall kept her prisoner.

Why couldn’t these women save themselves with a spell? I don’t know a witch’s weakness. Unless it’s like human kidnappers who threaten their prisoner’s families to keep them from running away. I’d willingly remain in chains to save my loved ones.

Willow said all that I needed to bring her was one limb from each victim, but I can’t do it. She deserves better than that. They all do.

I use my strength to pop the clasp around her ankle open. Pulling the chain might cause a cave in.

After closing her lids, I carefully lift the frail remains in my arms. If I could kill the Minotaurs responsible for this again, I would. The nightmares I still endure from killing the Minotaur sent to harm Shay’s parents are a price I’d gladly pay over and over again.

While I carry the remains of the young girl, memories of the past sparing matches with my herd flood my mind.

I recall the day my patér called my bull to emerge. Suddenly, an eagerness to prove myself took hold of my spirit.

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