A Wicked Night (Creatures of Darkness 2): A Coraline Conwell Novel (12 page)

Where had that thought come from?

The man’s eyes flashed with anticipation as he turned to consider a tray of various silver instruments. Some of them sharp, grisly, terrifying to behold.

She blinked and took in her surroundings,
really
took them in for the first time.

Her heart lurched.

She was in what appeared to be a grotto of sorts. The ceiling was low, bringing forth a heavy twinge of her claustrophobia. If the man stretched up, his fingers might possibly graze the compacted earth overhead, reinforced by wooden beams that had been placed sporadically. Damp air mixed with pungent sterilizing agents and what smelled to be fuel.

To her right, a generator hummed softly, wires snaking out in all directions, providing power to all manner of lab equipment, lamps, and what looked like an industrial sized walk in cooler.

A line of vials were displayed along one wall, some filled with different colored liquids. Next to where she lay, there was an old, stained sink attached by hoses to a man-sized water tank. The drain let out into an ominous dark hole in the floor, drilled to be no bigger than the circumference of her forearm.

Adrenaline yanked her heart into her throat.

How the hell could she have allowed them to strap her down in this ghastly place? Assisted, even, in situating herself on the gurney!

My spell will soon wear off
, Devon had said.

Oh goddess! Devon had abducted her, spirited her to this chillingly remote location, left her with this eerie…mad scientist? What else could he be? And by the looks of his gruesome
laboratory
, his experiments weren’t exactly sanctioned by any known authority.

She tested her bindings.

The man regarded her with a callous curve to his lips. “Not to worry, dove. We’ll be starting shortly.”

Starting what?

She shuddered.

Her insensitive mind speculated the answer. Something devious. Something inhumane. And something she was guaranteed not to enjoy.

She desperately reached out through the bond, not sensing Mace at all. Or even Knox. They might have no idea where she was.

But they must have sensed her distress outside the cottage, her shock before Devon had rendered her into a mindless suggestible doll. Mace had been in the throes of whatever curse had taken hold, but she had to believe he’d recovered.

They must be close behind. They must have followed her here! With how fast Devon drove, they just hadn’t been able to catch up. Even now they could be outside devising a rescue plan.

The man crossed to his collection of vials, auditing them one by one with the tip of his finger. Then he seized one off the shelf with a muttered, “Ah.”

She swallowed as horror-drenched shivers began to rake her body. A layer of sweat permeated her skin. She fought the growing cloud of bleakness from shadowing her thoughts.

Any moment now Mace would break through that steel door. Any moment…

Any moment.

The man faced her, brandishing a syringe of dark fluid. The needle had to be four inches long at least.

He gave her a soulless grin. “Now, this is going to pinch.”

Fever saturated Cora in sweat.

There was a fine line between pleasure and pain, an even finer line between lust and agony. Right now, Cora was experiencing both, but it was the unadulterated agony shimmying under her skin that took precedent. It danced and crackled like fire; wild, uninhibited, scorching its way to bone. Cries had long since scraped her throat raw, yet she could not hold them in to save her even that amount of pain.

She didn’t know what the doctor had injected her with, but its effects resembled vampire blood on steroids with a heavy dose of acid to boot.

Her body arched, twisted, and pulled in every direction till her muscles were fatigued and throbbing. Her neck seemed perpetually taut from clenching at the sensation that felt like a current of electricity through her every nerve.

Crystallized salt crusted her eyes from her nearly constant tears.

For hours she had lain like this as the doctor—that was what he insisted she call him—occasionally glanced up from his microscope for a quick perusal, then back to the microscope. He’d taken many samples of her blood over the past few hours, almost as if he expected something in it to change.

As a new wave of agony sauntered through her, she let out a sob, and then gnashed her teeth together. How much longer could this last?

She had experienced extreme desire before. Demanding lust. She had been nearly insatiable with Mace after having taken too much of his blood.

But this?

This went beyond sanity, surpassing anything she had ever endured, to a world of unending torment, savage need, and wretched hunger. So severe, the drawing of blood from her nails stabbing into her palms came as a relief.

She felt toxic.

And she wanted to dig the toxins out with a knife.

When white-hot pain flared once more, she let out a curdling scream. She shook uncontrollably. The salt from her tears abraded paths down her face, stinging when the air broke through the wetness. Acute misery afflicted every pore in her body, every cell. She contorted awkwardly, striving to be free of it, if only for a second, but there was no reprieve. The anguish seemed to lash her inside and out.

The doctor pushed away from his microscope and approached, another test tube in hand.

Drawing more blood? Hadn’t he taken too much already? After every time, he’d smear a bit of it onto a slide, lean over his microscope and make pondering noises. Then he’d label the tube with her remaining blood and stored it next to the others on a rack in a cooler.

In went the syringe.

The “pinch” no longer registered on her scale of pain.

As with before, after drawing her blood he returned to the microscope, repeating his process. With his eye searching the eyepiece, he idly muttered, “Interesting. How are you doing it?”

He wasn’t talking to her. Merely posing questions aloud. He did that as he worked. Probably didn’t even realize he was speaking. And even if he was talking to her, she was too engulfed in agony to make any kind of response.

“How to increase your numbers?” he continued in a confidential tone.

Her racked mind struggled to decipher his words. What was he hoping to increase?

Shards of pain splintered through her spine, and she bowed as if she’d just been shocked. Another wave of cries clawed through her throat, followed by a string of pleas for this to stop.

The doctor ignored her, swiveling in his chair to a printer that had sprung to life. He retrieved the paper and looked it over.

“Incredible. A descendant of the original Conwells. Is that what makes your blood so fascinating?” He tilted the paper to the right as if seeing it from another angle would provide prospective. Then he shifted his gaze to her. “How have you managed to elude him all this time?”

Who? Devon? She was afraid to ask and risk drawing too much more of his attention.

“I suppose it matters not. You’re here now, and with you comes this bountiful gift.” He held up a vile of her blood and stared into its murky depths. “This may very well cut years from my research.”

“What research?” she blurted, unable to stop herself, even as she was growing weaker by the minute.

Instead of answering, he stood and began to pace. “These new samples are different. Very different. I didn’t expect that. I figured the transfusions from number seven would have dissipated by now, yet, amazingly, I don’t think it has. But you’ve contaminated the source. I isolated dark cells from multiple donors. The VEA mixing business with pleasure?”

He didn’t seem to be addressing her at all, more like he was forming hypotheses aloud, so she kept her mouth shut.

From his ramblings, her muddled mind transcribed only a few details.
Dark cells? Transfusions? New samples?
Did the last indicate he’d had old samples?

Before she could follow that train of thought, sweet exhaustion punched down into her brain with the promise of reprieve. She gave into it with zero resistance.

——

Sara finished the sound-dampening spell, relieved that Mace’s ruckus was finally muted. The man sure had a healthy set of lungs. For all the good it did him.

It was his only card to play, she mused, whereas she had all the aces.

She returned to her small writing desk and finished scribbling out her summons. If the elders in her coven weren’t “off the grid” like a pack of damn hippies, all she’d have to do was make a phone call to alert them that the one responsible for Gran’s death was currently in custody. But no, she had to post a letter and then wait for a response.

Under normal circumstances, Sara would travel to meet with the clan leaders in person, but she wouldn’t dare leave the vampires in her basement. Not for fear that they might suffer, but that their clan would somehow discover their location.

But could she hold the vampires till her Coven responded? Her spell on the cage was solid enough, but if their clan came sniffing around, she might lose her quarry. And maybe even her life.

A flash of unease skittered over her nape. But even if she wanted to, there was no backing out now. By imprisoning Knox and Mace, she’d essentially bet it all on one hand. What trumps aces? A knife to the throat.

It was up to her coven now to decide Knox’s fate, and she prayed they’d come to the right decision.

She’d told Mace her coven had demanded Knox give himself over to stand trial. That hadn’t
exactly
been the truth. They promised Sara they’d siphon all their available resources into the investigation, but Sara hadn’t seen the fruit of that claim but for a single meeting after the funeral. And when she’d implicated Knox, the council had been reluctant to pursue.

She couldn’t understand it, except to assume the old bats were going senile. They couldn’t possibly fear going up against the vampires—their coven was stronger than ever—yet that’s exactly how it had seemed.

To Sara, anyway.

Of course, she was never short on complaints against the council’s skewed sense of leadership; an attitude that had been forged at a very young age when she’d witness Gran arguing with them over the distribution of power among the whole of the coven. It was one of the few times Gran had seriously lost her cool, but she had won a small victory that day, facilitating the spreading of power to more members of the coven.

Gran had left satisfied, but Sara had been bitter that it had needed to go that far. Over the years, and perhaps it was partly due to the age difference, her repugnance had only grown. Sara thought of herself as a free spirit, and the council was all
rules this
, and
rules that
, but when it came to something important, say, like murder, they were acting all
tra la la
.

Sara penciled in the last period with too much force and the graphite tip busted off.

Whenever she grew angry, Gran would set her straight with a reasonable speech of some kind, imparting Sara with her personal brand of wisdom. Right now, Gran’s words echoed in her mind.
Calm yourself, dearling. Anger blinds you, makes you weak. You must train yer mind to see past it lest it consumes you. Only then will the goddess bless you and acknowledge yer desires.

Sara set the writing utensil aside, folded the note, and then stuffed it into the envelope before heading outside and locking the shop behind her. It was already well past closing, and the sun had long since set.

My eyes are open, Gran, and this time I’ll fulfill my own desires.

She marched down the darkened street.

——

Cora jerked awake as fresh pain sliced up her arm.

Another injection? What was he giving her now?

Fear roiled uncontrollably, and the acidic tang of bile rose in her throat.

The doctor removed the needle and studied her for a quiet moment.

She glared up at him, baring her teeth.

His lips twitch. “Don’t be angry, dove. This will all be worth it. Trust me.”

“Trust you?” She spat, fidgeting against the kindling furnace that had begun burning in her arm where he’d stuck her. A string of curses poured out of her mouth. The fire was crawling toward her neck, flooding her brain, stealing her breath. “What are you doing”—gasp—“to me?”

A repugnant warmth bloomed, calling forth a carnal hunger. Just as before, it reminded her of the effects of drinking too much of Mace’s blood, but more off-putting, more nauseating, more sever. Excessive. Consuming. Wrong.

Her vision faltered, and then suddenly everything was too bright. The lights stabbed her eyes, even when she smashed her eyelids closed.

She heard scuffling; the doctor crossing back to his desk? Whatever he’d injected her with was working quickly. Her head lulled, and her limbs turned soft. Gravity seemed to double in pressure, smashing her down into the hard mat of the gurney. Her heart stuttered, pounding hard one moment and lagging the next as if it couldn’t decide on the proper pace…

Finally, her mind began to dim till it blanked entirely.

……

Her eyes fluttered, and then tightened against the harsh brightness. The world rolled in every direction as if she were on the inside of a hamster ball.

She smacked her lips, the dryness in her mouth rough and gritty.

She was
so
thirsty!

She should get up and fetch a glass of water…in a moment. Maybe a couple more minutes of sleep first. Too tired…

Darkness descended.

……

Desire ambushed her. Muscles aching, she tried to roll over, but the blankets were too heavy. And they were hot, too, making her sweat, but she couldn’t muster the strength to lift her tired arms to throw them off. Perspiration pooled in the bowl of her neck…

She called out for Mace, needing him with desperate abandon.

Her right arm stung as though something had bit her, and then it was like someone poured boiling acid over it. In the next instant, the pain flooded her entire body, drowning her in agony. She felt so damp and sticky, lying in a pool of her own sweat, and the agony continued to grow…

The dark void took her once more.

……

Her body convulsed with great shudders, but her eyes remained closed. It seemed she was unable to open them. Were they weighed down by something? Exhaustion? She felt utterly drained of energy…of will power. Thought was a dark, murky cloud. She couldn’t recall where she was. Her pain was intense, and a part of her wondered if this was what it felt like to die. Was there still a hole through her chest where that man had shot her? Was she still on the floor of the cottage bleeding out? Instead of her life flashing before her eyes, as people claim to happen at the point of death, had she lived a fantasy future where Knox had saved her life?

Her throat was sore and swollen. She began to gag and gasp and convulse violently. Her air supply was suddenly cut off.

This was it. This was the end.

A set of hands rolled her to the side, and someone shoved something flat and tough into her mouth for her to bite down on. The tang of leather coated her mouth…

Darkness slammed into her.