Page 44 of Cosmic Power

With a powerful pull, the shifter opened the door and tilted his head forward, motioning for Zamorra to walk through. A circular staircase laid before her and she peered upwards, her mouth dropping open.

Fuck, how far down am I?

Iris walked ahead and started up the staircase, her footsteps echoing all around them. The shifter nudged Zamorra forward and she snapped her mouth shut. She looked back over her shoulder.

“Y’all ever heard of an elevator?” she asked, trudging forward. “I mean shit, how many stairs is that?”

“Move it,” the shifter grunted, pushing her roughly in the shoulder.

“Alright, alright. Jeez, I’m going.”

By the time she reached the top she was panting, sweat glistening on her face. Pain flared through her body and she winced. The iron cuffs around her wrist seared her skin so badly, the smell of burnt flesh lingered in her nostrils. Blood dripped like a leaky pipe to the floor, leaving a trail behind her as she moved down the long corridor towards another steel bunker-style door.

Iris stood waiting by the door. Her tired eyes scanned Zamorra head to toe and something flickered across her face. An emotion Zamorra couldn’t place.

Zamorra wondered if it would be possible to turn Iris, to try and get her on her side. She already knew that Barnabas was holding someone close to her as a hostage. It was how he was getting the light mage to obey his every command. So, Zamorra already knew that Iris wasn’t loyal to him. Not in the slightest. She was only listening to Barnabas because she didn’t have a choice.

Zamorra didn’t know how she was going to do it, but she was going to try and make her an ally.

Another palm reader sat snugly in the wall next to the door and Zamorra stopped in front of it, watching as the shifter pressed his hand against it to unlock the door. He pulled it wide open and Zamorra followed Iris through.

She stepped into a large room and blinked, surprised. Floor-to-ceiling stained glass walls to her left and right. Rows and rows of pews spread throughout the room, facing the dais that stood directly in front of her.

She was in a church?

What the—

Zamorra turned around just in time to see the shifter slam the steel door shut. Magic zinged in the air and Zamorra watched, entranced as the door melded into the wall until it disappeared right before her eyes.

Well…shit.Any hope of escape fizzled from her mind instantly. Even if someone did come to rescue her, they wouldn’t be able to find the damn door to her prison.

Zamorra followed behind Iris and the shifter as they walked down the aisle and out the double doors at the end of the room. The brightness of the sun made her squint her eyes and she brought her hands up to shield her face, despite the pain flaring through her body thanks to those stupid fucking iron cuffs.

She was in a wide open courtyard with large gothic-style buildings boxing her in from all sides. A group of werewolf shifters stood on a gigantic blue mat surrounding two men who were locked in a battle of blows. Rows of different types of weapons lined up beside them on the grass; swords, staffs, axes, bow and arrows…the list went on.

Her brain clicked as she watched one of the shifters slam the other into the ground, lock his legs around his arm and with a powerful squeeze, snap it in half.

She was in a training field.

A painful cry ripped through the air, followed closely by hysterical sobbing as the shifter grasped his now-broken arm and curled himself into a ball. The crowd surrounding them cheered.

Off to the side on a raised platform, sitting on a golden throne like he was some sort of king surveying his land and subjects, was Barnabas. He was leaning back casually, his ankle resting comfortably on his knee and forearms lax on the armrests.

When the wind shifted, making her hair ruffle and carrying her scent through the air, all the shifters froze on the spot, their bodies stiffening.

All at once, as if commanded by some unseen force, all their heads turned in Zamorra’s direction. Twelve pairs of golden eyes landed on her and she took a step back.

Shiiiit.

Barnabas smiled. “Ah, there she is.” He stood gracefully, running his hands down his black button-up shirt. “Men, this is Zamorra,” he introduced as he made his way over to her.

Lust rolled off of the shifters standing in the courtyard. Dominance smothered the air and bombarded her from all sides.

Zamorra sucked in a breath at all that dominant masculinity. She sensed only Betas, a mixture of both higher and lower level werewolves. As an Alpha, she held more dominance than all of them, but without access to her werewolf she was having trouble fighting against them. For the first time in her life, she felt the need to bow, to kneel, to crumble to her knees and submit.

She wouldn’t. Alpha blood soared through her veins regardless of the fact she couldn’t access her creature, but it was definitely a struggle to remain upright. Sweat beaded on her forehead and she gritted her teeth, refusing to submit.

Deep, guttural growls echoed throughout the courtyard, rolled over her skin. She clenched her fists, growling right back. It didn’t have the bass or depth theirs did, but she didn’t care.

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