Page 95 of Shadow's Edge (Night Prowler 1)
Death should be restful, not this endless, searing agony. She wasn’t dreaming either, at least not this. She realized she was remembering something from so long ago it had been buried, lost and forgotten like so much else.
She’d seen him Shift as a child, more than once. And to more than one thing.
Something in the night sky caught her attention. Red and pulsing, glittering with color, burning bright as a drop of blood against the bottomless indigo. A star. And she didn’t know what this meant, this star she’d seen somewhere before, somewhere in another life.
It was so hard to think over the waves of pain. Was she still dreaming? Was she hallucinating? Was she in hell?
A thumping sound began somewhere far off, somewhere beyond sight or ready touch, the rhythmic noise of blood pumping fast through hollow, squeezing muscle. Through a heart. It was a sound she would recognize anywhere.
A wordless moan of recognition, then the fire and pain began to pummel her deeper, to throb against her skull and scrape against her skin like a set of vicious, tearing teeth.
“She’s coming ’round.”
The voice was male, low, without a trace of inflection. A second, equally emotionless voice answered it.
“Finally.” The sound of boots scraping against cement, a chair being pushed back. “Let’s begin again.”
She recognized the sound of flint striking metal, the flume of paper and tobacco catching fire, the acrid sting of smoke in her nostrils. Before she could speak or wake or open her eyes, another pain, newer and infinitely worse, sliced through her dreaming death like a thousand heated knives pressed into the tender skin of her inner thigh.
Then the sickening, awful smell of burning flesh.
Her flesh.
The scream tore from her throat before the pain really took hold, before it became so bad she thrashed helplessly against it, desperate for it to stop. But she was shackled, restrained by unseen bindings around her ankles and wrists that held her in place. Her scream went on and on, just like the pain did.
The flexed fist that cracked hard across her cheekbone stopped it short.
“Shut the fuck up or say good-bye to your tongue, you stupid bitch!” The second voice, hissing and spitting into her ear.
She fell into dazed, agonized silence. The thumping heart grew nearer, and nearer still.
“Now,” the voice began again, this time in a reasonable tone, “I’m going to ask you one more time. And this time, I suggest you tell me what I want to know.”
She turned her head toward the voice, sending needles of pain shooting into her closed eyes. She squeezed her lids against the stinging needles, then blinked them open.
The room swam into view. The bare walls, the scratched wood table, the gleaming tray of tools. A lamp affixed to the ceiling hummed and flickered, smothering the room in blunt fluorescent light.
The Smoking Man towered above her, smiling down with flat, expressionless eyes.
Daria...where was Daria? She recalled a fleeting struggle, the Smoking Man’s arm lashing out in a blur, the hideous popping sound her abdomen made when the knife punched through it. It happened so fast, she didn’t have time to Shift, though she’d split open one of their noses with a hard, well-timed swing from the fist that clenched the piece of the iron bed frame.
They had beaten her and cut her and burned her, but she had been spared the final brutality of rape. When they tied her to the bed and she’d screamed and shrunk from their rough hands, they laughed and made crude jokes about how sex with her would be worse than bestiality.
Something wet a
nd sticky was spread on the sheets beneath her, something warm still oozed from the open wound in her stomach. Blood, pools of it, though she couldn’t, for some strange reason, smell it. All she smelled was cigarette smoke and scorched flesh and the fetor of unwashed bodies.
“Shall I repeat the question? Or do you think you have an answer ready for me?”
He lifted his cigarette to his lips and inhaled against it, drawing the tip into flame, then exhaled. The smoke plumed from his nostrils like a dragon. Through the swell of pain that pounded through her body like waves pummeling the shore, she noticed his fingernails were grotesque. Chewed to pulpy stubs, ragged and yellow.
Thin and spindly as a spider, he leaned over her and let the smoke drift and curl like ghostly fingers around her face.
“Where is the fourth colony, pussycat?” His voice was playful, stroking, light as an afternoon breeze. “We know about Quebec, and Sommerley, and the one in Nepal, and we know there is a fourth plague land where the rest of you repulsive animals live, but we don’t know where it is. And we can’t put our plan into action until we do. I must say, your so-called ‘Keepers of the Bloodlines’ have been remarkably tight-lipped.”
His malevolent smile lingered. He held her in his keen, hollow gaze. “Even when we cut off their heads with a kitchen knife,” he said softly. “A very, very dull one.”
Snickers from the unseen men. She wanted to spit in his face, but her mouth was too dry.
