Page 15 of Clay White
With my head still throbbing, I decided the best course of action was to rest, to conserve my strength, to allow whatever drug I’d been given to work its way through my system. My captor obviously didn’t want me dead, at least not right away. I wasn’t sure whether to be comforted by that thought, since a great many fates were far worse than a quick death. But what the hell was I being saved for? A vampire’s meal?
I might have dozed. It was impossible to track the passage of time, and I kept on shivering. When I became fully aware again, my head was clear and most of the pain had receded. Of course it had been replaced by a variety of maddening aches, most a result of the chains—but my full bladder made sure to get in on the game too.
I eventually gave in to the inevitable and pissed, then spent some time watching the little river of urine make its way to the drain in the center of the room. Handy, that.
Fuck, my mouth and jaws hurt. It was funny how agonizing a small ball gag could become over time. Nobody was ever going to croak from having his mouth propped open, yet the pain could eventually become bad enough to make a man wish for death. The Bureau had taught me a great many methods to hurt a being without trulyharminghim. I knew a thousand small ways to inflict exquisite torture. Although that didn’t help me right now, not one fucking bit.
I tried to distract myself by picturing what I’d do to Marek if I got my hands on him, but even in my imagination I couldn’t harm him.Idiot, I chided myself. I wondered whether I’d feel any better if I could curse myself out loud. I was no genius, but I’d always been smarter than this. I knew better than to think with my dick.
Still.... Those long strong fingers. That sweet cool mouth. His soft hair.
For the first time, I wondered about the absence my death would create. Who would notice it? My family was a distant memory, and the Bureau no longer cared. My landlady? Well, she’d notice when I didn’t pay next month’s rent, but her only sorrow would be having to discard my few possessions and find a new tenant. I had no idea how Tenrael and Grimes would feel. We barely knew each other. When I didn’t show up at the appointed time, they’d probably conclude I flaked out, and they’d return to their cozy little bungalow by the sea.
Yeah, self-pity was definitely going to help.
Metal clicked loudly—the turning of a lock—and I focused sharply on the door.
As a figure stepped through, the overhead lights came to life, forcing me to squint against the brightness. No, not one figure. Two.
The first was achingly familiar, although I’d met him only once. Tall and slender, paper-pale, reddish hair, and eyes so light they were nearly colorless. Marek wore jeans, a white shirt, and a black jacket, and I noticed he stood well away from the windows. His face held no expression at all.
In contrast, the stranger beside him was grinning widely. I suddenly realized that while I’d never met him, I knew exactly who he was. His name was McArthur Buckley, and I’d seen that smile shining from newspapers, magazines, and television screens. Somebody famous often stood beside him, a rock star or actor or socialite. He was a whiz-kid tech zillionaire who’d recently given up app development in favor of political ambitions. Handsome, smart, charismatic. Everyone said he had a serious shot at the Senate during the next election, and after that, who knew?
Now, dressed in jeans and a Stanford T-shirt, he beamed as he looked me up and down. Although I was naked, his appraisal didn’t feel sexual. “Older than my usual,” he said, directing his remarks at Marek, “and not as pretty. But he’s strong. He’ll do nicely. Thanks for the gift.”
“I didn’t mean him for you,” Marek replied, sounding petulant.
“Eh, you can feed off anyone; it won’t make any difference to you. If you’re hungry I can have a couple whores brought in. But this guy…. Can you feel his energy?” He held his palms toward me as if he was warming them at a fire.
“He’s with the Bureau of Trans-Species Affairs. If he goes missing, they’ll—”
“They canned him. I looked him up.” Buckley pulled a small card from his pocket and pretended to peer at it. My driver’s license, I assumed. “Had to poke around quite a lot and ended up hacking into the Bureau’s database. Seems our pal here fucked up and got some kiddies slaughtered, so he’s out a job. He’s single, broke, no social media presence, nada. Nobody cares that he’s gone.”
Despite how Buckley’s reasoning mirrored my prior thoughts, it didn’t make me like him any better.
“Anyway,” Buckley continued, “I’ve got pals in Washington. The Bureau leaves me alone.”
I desperately wanted to pound that smug face to a pulp.
Apparently deciding the villain exposition time was over—yet leaving me sadly lacking in understanding—Buckley tucked my license away. Then he took out a round object, a little like a pocket mirror or makeup compact, and placed it on the floor about four feet from me. It was shiny silver, with figures scratched into the metal. I couldn’t tell if they were drawings or an alphabet I didn’t recognize. In any case, I didn’t like the mystery thing at all. It sat there unmoving and silent yet emanated a field of power that made my hairs stand on end.
Buckley backed up several feet and, ignoring me and Marek, began to poke at his phone. Hell of a time to tweet.
Behind him, Marek stood with arms crossed, his hands in tight fists and his mouth open enough to show his fangs. Sometimes he shot me a quick look as if he were trying to communicate something. But I’m no psychic. I just narrowed my eyes and glared. My hands were numb from the chains, but they tried to ball up too, and I bit that fucking gag nearly hard enough to break teeth.
Then Buckley put his phone in his pocket and looked expectantly at me.
I felt… something tight. At first it was only mildly uncomfortable, as if I’d been wrapped in an elastic casing. But then, still invisible, it constricted until I could barely draw oxygen, the breaths coming through my nose in thin, desperate draws. I began to feel lightheaded, the edges of my vision going gray. Just before I passed out, the constriction disappeared as suddenly as a popped bubble.
My relief was brief, however, because within seconds every cell in my body felt as if it had been turned inside out. I think I screamed into the gag, but I didn’t hear it. Didn’t sense anything at all except agony so pure that I lost all notion of self and time. It could have lasted a moment or a century. I couldn’t identify the type of anguish—burning? tearing? crushing? sharp? It was simply the quintessence of pain, and it was all I had.
Eventually, and slowly, the agony receded. I came to myself and realized I was sobbing. My eyes were too bleary to see, and my body ached where I must have pulled against the bonds. Worse than that, though, was the overwhelming weakness within me. I couldn’t have remained standing if the chains hadn’t held me up. Even lifting my head was too much, so I let it droop.
Then cool hands were framing my face, lifting it, and Marek was holding a scrap of soft fabric to my nose. “Blow before you suffocate yourself,” he said softly.
I was too feeble to do anything but obey. I had a bright flash of memory—me young and very small, with a terrible fever just broken. I was curled up in soft quilts, and my mother held a damp washcloth to my head and smoothed sweaty hair back from my face until I fell asleep. She’d died not long after that. A night out drinking with her friends, a curve in the road taken too fast. I would have given anything to be back in that childhood bed.
But I was in McArthur Buckley’s basement, and a vampire was licking my face.
