Page 22 of Captive Hybrid

‘The cage is to keep you in, not us out.’ Callen leans forward. With a sharp twist of his hands he bends one of the metal bars as though it were made of rubber. ‘We can get to you.’

Fear grips me as I scramble back. ‘What? Then why haven’t you—’

‘Believe me, I want you. You smell delicious. But you’re important to Drusilla for now. Besides, if I bit down on you, I suspect I wouldn’t stop at one bite.’

I force myself to keep calm and still on the bed, eyes closed, ignoring Callen’s icy presence. There might be vampires who come looking for a taste, and I need a way to defend myself. There are rumours about what can kill a vampire. What can hurt them. I don’t know which are true or false. But if what Divina told me I can do with my Fae powers is true, I need to practice.

Within the depths of the earth is the best place for this power, she said. Great, lucky me. I keep my eyes closed, blanketing myself in darkness so that I can focus. The vines on my arms are like tattoos, I had always thought. Now, as I focus on them, visualising, I feel the first twitch. Like a feather’s touch over them, sending goosebumps pebbling my skin. It’s risky to do this with Callen just outside. He probably thinks I’m sleeping.

But I have to try.

The twitch becomes a soft brush, a leaf against my forearm, its touch gentle. As familiar as my own fingers. I open my eyes, just enough to look down at my arms. I’m facing the earthen wall, my back to Callen. The vines snake over my arms, but now they’re slightly raised, peeled from my skin.

The vines are alive. Moving as I tell them to.

They are part of me. My blood.

And they are mine to wield.

After practicing for what must have been hours, I finally hear Callen’s light snoring. I turn to check. He’s slumped against the wall, lips slightly parted. In sleep, he looks almost human. Hair tussled, shoulders hunched, without any smirk or fang-tipped smile on that face.

Yes, he’s much easier to look at like this.

I summon my vines, moving them up from my skin to watch them writhe in the air. Each thorn is pointed. I reach out. With the softest touch, one of the thorns splits open the tip of my finger. I quickly suck the blood into my mouth and send the vines home in case the scent of copper wakes the vampire. I keep my gaze on him, but he doesn’t stir. Perhaps he’s not hungry.

A soft, trilling laughter slices down the hall. ‘Come with me. Your cell is open.’

The familiar voice sends chills down my spine. I don’t want to obey.

Callen smiles, gets to his feet, and walks calmly in the direction of Drusilla’s voice.

‘Don’t make me come collect you,’ she calls.

Yeah, that sounds bad. I move to my cell door and pause. With a trembling hand, I reach out and push the door open. It squeaks on rusted hinges, letting me out. I’m not sure I want to be let out.

I peer down the long hallway, the gloom beyond the small pool of candlelight uninterrupted. ‘I can’t see where to go.’ There’s no need to raise my voice.

‘This way.’ Drusilla’s voice lures me into the darkness until another pool of orange light blooms ahead.

The Vampire Mother smiles, her full, ruby lips turning up. I can’t tell if it’s lipstick or blood. ‘Come.’ She turns, barefoot, and walks silently down the hall, the long folds of her dark dress swallowing her whole.

She leads me to an amphitheatre, a raised dais at the far end with hundreds of seats positioned facing it. Callen is nowhere in sight. I follow Drusilla down the aisle toward the platform.

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t turn to make sure I’m following her. She can probably hear my own bare feet scuffing the cold, damp stone several paces behind her.

Drusilla glides up the stairs, turns, and seats herself on a large chair carved of stone. She moves like smoke and shadows.

I don’t climb the stairs. I don’t feel as though I’m supposed to. So I wait at the foot of them, all too aware that I am only alive because she wishes it.

Drusilla tilts her head to study me. There are torches lining the curved, round walls and dozens of candles. It’s the most light I’ve been exposed to, everything flared into brightness compared to the single-lit candle I’ve grown used to.

‘Zenna,’ she says, tasting the harsh ‘Z’ of my name on her tongue. ‘You are a most unusual girl.’

If she had asked me to picture this room, I would have imagined it differently. More blood, dead bodies, even half-dressed people lounging on vampires’ laps being used as a blood bag, subjugates milling around with bite marks adorning their soft skin. But there’s no trace of anything like that.

‘I’m a woman,’ I snap. ‘Not a girl. I’m twenty-three.’

Drusilla’s lips curve slightly. ‘Of course you are.’ She beckons me closer, fingers curling lazily into her palm, firelight dancing off her nails. They’re not neat or manicured. They’re unpainted, with traces of red under them.

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