Prisoner of Night Read online

  Chalen’s laugh was the kind of thing that was going to stay with her. Low, satisfied . . . and nostalgic. As if he wished he’d been the one to do the killing.

  “Clever, clever female,” he whispered.

  That bony hand released its grip and pointed at the cold hearth. “Place it there. I have a spot for him.”

  Ahmare walked over to a spear that been inserted into a hole drilled in the stone floor. Lifting the head, she positioned the sharp tip at the base of the skull and shoved down. As she forced the impaling, she had to stare into the face of what she had killed: The eyes were open but sightless, the skin gray, the mouth loose and gruesome. Tendrils of tendons and ligaments, like the skirts of a jellyfish, hung down from where she had crudely severed the spinal column.

  It had been a hack job. She had never killed before. Never beheaded before. And the effort required to pop the top off the dandelion, so to speak, had been a sweaty, messy, horrific revelation.

  As she turned back around, she wanted to vomit. But the human had been a piece of shit, a drug dealer with no morals who had sold bad shit to children. Who had contaminated her brother with a false promise of financial gain. Who made the colossal mistake of setting up and operationalizing a plan to cheat their supplier.

  Why did you make me do this, she thought at her brother.

  “Tell me what it was like to kill him,” Chalen ordered.

  There was a rapacious edge to the command, a hunger that needed feeding, a pilot light that burned within the wasted shell that would never, ever bring a pot to boil again.

  “Give me my brother,” she said grimly. “And I’ll take you through it step-by-step.”

  2

  YOUR BROTHER IS FINE.”

  As Chalen spoke, it was a throwaway, a bunch of mushy syllables he didn’t bother to enunciate well. Like their deal had been forgotten or perhaps never a priority in the first place.

  Ahmare narrowed her eyes. “Where is Ahlan.”

  Chalen stared at the mounted head, the wilted flesh over his eyes an awning of age that must have narrowed his visual field. “What was it like? What did it feel like as you put your shoulder into the hilt and the blade went in between the vertebrae—”

  “Bring my brother to me now. That was our agreement. I deliver proof that I killed Rollie, you give me my brother.”

  “Old age is a thief the likes even I cannot best.”

  She put herself in his line of sight, blocking his view of the kill. “Bring me my brother.”

  Chalen jerked as if he were surprised to find her with him. Blinking, he brushed that skeletal hand across his wrinkled brow. Then he focused on her. After a moment, his eyes narrowed with calculation, proof positive that the male he had always been was still alive inside the elderly shell.

  “There is something else you’re going to do first,” he said.

  “I’ve already gone far enough for you.”

  “Have you? Really? That’s for me to decide, don’t you think.”

  “Bring me—”

  “Your brother, yes, you’ve made that request. I’m not going to, however. Not right now.”

  Ahmare took a step forward before she was aware of moving, a tide of aggression carrying her toward—

  She stopped as a pair of guards stepped out from the darkened corners.

  “That’s right,” Chalen murmured. “You will want to rethink any offensive maneuvers. I may appear weak, but I am in charge here. That has not, and will not, change.”

  She pointed to the hearth. “I did that for you. You owe me.”

  “No, four nights ago, your brother stole two hundred seventy-six thousand, four hundred fifty-seven dollars from me, and as is my right, I claimed his physical form as payment for the debt. You”—he pointed to her—“came to me when you could not find him. You asked how you could get your kin back. I told you to kill him”—that finger moved to the severed head—“and you did. What you failed to understand when you agreed to terms was that that murder settled the debt Rollie had with me. It didn’t do anything with regard to your brother, so you and I still have a negotiation to get through—assuming you do not want me to torture him to death. Over a period of nights. And send you pieces of the body up in Caldwell.”

  “Fuck you,” she breathed.

  Two more guards emerged from the shadows.

  Glaring at them, Ahmare crossed her arms over her chest so she didn’t do something stupid.

  “Such language from a gentle female.” Chalen shifted in his throne like his bones hurt. “And all things considered, you are lucky you have something you can do for me. I find it very easy to dispose of people who are not useful.”

  “You don’t need me. You’ve got this place full of males prepared to do whatever you want. If you have another bright idea, let them carry it out.”

  “But perhaps that is the problem.” Chalen smiled coldly. “I have been using the wrong sex all this time. I am thinking now that I should have put a female to this specific task, and you already have proven you can get a job done. Also, like most females, you have exceptional taste in decor. I have this lovely piece of art to enjoy courtesy of your efforts.”

  Ahmare looked around the throne room, or whatever the hell he called it. No visible means of escape, and no weapons on her as per instruction. She was good at hand-to-hand thanks to all her self-defense and martial arts training, but going up against multiple weaponized males of her own species—

  “Twenty years ago, something very precious was taken from me.” Chalen went back to staring at the head. “My beloved was stolen. In the whole of my life, it is the only time I have been violated in such a manner, and I have searched for her, prayed for her return.”

  “Which has nothing to do with me.”

  “Then your brother will die.” Chalen pushed his half-empty crown back on his balding head, the remaining rose-cut diamonds winking wanly. “You must understand that you are in control of that outcome. It matters not to me whether he is killed or goes home with you. If you bring me back my beloved, I will give you your flesh and blood. Or I will cook the meat off his bones and serve him for Last Meal. What will be, will be.”

  She heard the chains first. Then the moaning. Both were very far off—coming from below?

  With a series of creaks, a section of the floor opened up at the base of the dais, a six-by-six-foot wooden panel she had not noticed sliding back to reveal a subterranean level some thirty feet down.

  It was a fighting arena. An old school stone fighting ring, and in the center of it . . .

  “Ahlan!” she cried as she lunged forward.

  Lit by flickering torches, her brother was naked between the grips of a set of guards, his head hanging down, his legs pigeon-toed and lax, steel shackles dragging behind his motionless body. Blood rivered down his back, the whipping he’d been given making shreds of his flesh, and she knew by the bad angle of both his feet that his ankles had been deliberately dislocated.

  So he could not run.

  She dropped to her knees and leaned into the drop. As she opened her mouth, she wanted to yell at him for being foolish and greedy, for staying in the business she’d told him to get out of, for taking the word of a dealer like Rollie, who he should have known not to trust. But none of that really mattered now.

  “Ahlan . . .” She cleared her throat. “I’m here, can you hear me?”

  “Life is full of moments of clarity,” Chalen said in a weak voice. “And I know you are having one now. You will go and retrieve my beloved for me. When you return, you will find that your brother is released into your custody. Both of you will be free to go, all debts settled.”

  Tears welled, but she did not let them fall as she looked up at the conqueror. “I can’t trust you.”

  “Of course you can. When I tell you that I will kill your brother if you deny me, I mean it. And further, I swear to you that I will also take you into my custody, whereupon you will find that although the males who are my private guard lack voca
l cords, they are otherwise fully functioning. When they are through with you, if there is anything left to kill, I will feed you to my dogs. I only serve the masculine meat to my guards.”

  Down below, Ahlan twitched and struggled to lift his head. When that wasn’t possible, he turned it where it hung, a single bloodshot eye peering up at Ahmare. His cracked lips moved, and a tear escaped, dripping off the bridge of his broken nose.

  I’m sorry, he seemed to mouth.

  That image of him as a newborn young in her arms returned to her, and Ahmare saw him as he had once been a lifetime ago, chubby-cheeked, rosy, and warm . . . safe . . . as he looked at her with myopic, loving eyes.

  “I’m going to get you out,” she heard herself say. “Just hang on a little longer . . . and I’ll get you out of here.”

  “Good,” Chalen announced as the panel began to reshut. “Well done.”

  Ahlan started to struggle, legs flopping in panic. “Help me . . . Ahmare!”

  She leaned further down. “I’ll be back soon! I promise—I love you—”

  The arena was closed off and she shut her eyes briefly. Down below, her brother’s screams were muffled, an echo of terror that nonetheless resonated loud as a jet engine in her chaotic head.

  The conqueror grunted as he struggled to get his frail body off his throne. The robed female with the electronic voice box materialized beside him, holding out a gold cane. She did not touch him, but let him get to the vertical on his own.

  “Come,” he said. “You must put some travel behind you before the dawn arrives if you are to succeed. Your brother will receive no more attention from my males, but neither will we render him medical aid. It would be such a shame for you to lose him through the failing of his natural processes while you ponder the inevitable.”

  Goddamn you, Ahlan, she thought. I told you that there was no such thing as easy money.

  Yet she could not be angry at him. Not until she saved him and nursed him back to health.

  “And as a show of good faith,” Chalen said with his jagged-toothed smile, “I will provide you with a weapon to ensure your safety and the success of your endeavors.”

  3

  THE CASTLE’S SUBTERRANEAN LEVEL was a maze of stone corridors, all damp and lit with torches, following the Igor decor scheme. There was no air underground as far as Ahmare could tell, not that she expected ventilation or comfort in a place that didn’t have electricity and was run by a madman who’d made it literally impossible for his subordinates to argue with him.

  In front of her, Chalen traveled on a pallet that was held aloft by four guards, one on each corner, the quartet walking in perfect coordination like a team of carriage horses. From time to time, the conqueror coughed, as if the subtle sway—or perhaps the mold on the walls and the rat poop on the floor—irritated his airways.

  Ahmare kept track of every left and each right, and all the straightaways in between, constructing a 3-D map in her mind of the compound.

  “So you keep your guns and ammo in an armory,” she muttered. “Or is it more like a bunker.”

  “I have many things I do not allow others to be privy to.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “You are most fortunate, it is true.”

  The procession stopped, and a rock panel slid back to reveal another long hallway. This one was unlit, however, and there was a scent to it that was . . . not the same.

  “Proceed,” Chalen ordered. “And take a torch.”

  “You’re going to let me pick what I want?” she said dryly. “What if I take more than one gun?”

  What if she took an entire arsenal, doubled back, and killed the motherfucker right here and now?

  Amazing how completely unsqueamish she was at that thought.

  “There is only one. You will take what has been given to you and you will be off on your endeavors, to return with what is mine so that you may leave with what is yours.”

  “Yeah, I remember the deal.” She faced the conqueror. “But you haven’t told me where I’m going. Or how I’ll recognize the female.”

  “It will all be obvious to you. And if it is not, well, that bodes badly for your brother.”

  “This is bullshit.”

  Chalen’s pockmarked face twisted into a nasty smile. “No, it is the consequence of your and your brother’s decisions. He chose to steal from me. You chose to intercede on his behalf. You are chafing under decisions made freely, and that is folly considering you could have stayed out of this.You opened these doors. If you do not like the rooms revealed, that is nothing I, nor any other, can help you with.”

  She thought of her brother hanging like a dead body between those two guards.

  “Where is my torch,” she demanded.

  Chalen laughed softly. “Lo, how I wish I had met you at an earlier time in my life. You would have been a formidable lover.”

  Never, she thought as a guard appeared beside her.

  She accepted a flame-topped torch and stepped into the corridor.

  “A word of advice,” Chalen said.

  Ahmare glanced over her shoulder. “You can keep it. And go to hell.”

  He flashed that broken-picket-fence smile again, and she knew she was going to see those ragged teeth in her nightmares. “My place in Dhunhd is quite well assured already, but I thank you for the kind regards. No, I would remind you that it is considered polite to return things you borrow. You must bring the weapon I lend you back to me in good working order. If you do not, you will find that we have another debt to settle.”

  With that, the panel slid back into place on a resounding thunch and she was locked in.

  The torch’s hiss was much louder now, and as she moved it from side to side to assess where she was, its heat warmed her face. More glistening walls. More rats on the floor—

  Off in the distance, she heard falling water—like a river?

  Walking forward, she was careful where she put her feet. The light from the flame did not carry far, the darkness consuming the illumination as a meal long denied. Shadows thrown from such an uneven, flickering source made it seem as though insects were crawling all over the corridor. Maybe they were.

  As her neck prickled, she reached up and brushed at it. The sound of the falling water got louder, a rushing torrent.

  The corner came without warning, a wall seeming to jump out at her, and she stopped short so she didn’t slam into the stone. Reorienting herself, she pivoted to the right and kept going.

  The first of the iron bars came thirty feet farther on. The lengths were set into the ceiling and the floor, locked in with mortar and stone, and instinct made her stay more than an arm’s length back from them.

  It was a cell. Like you would see in a zoo.

  And something was in there.

  Stopping, she swung the torch in a wide arc. What she wanted to see were racks of guns. Bins of bullets. Halters to strap weapons onto the body.

  That was what she was looking for.

  The rushing water was so loud, it drowned out—

  Torches mounted on the walls exploded into flame, and she jumped with a shout. Wheeling toward the bars, she waved her own light source around, trying to see into the cell. Slivers of something shockingly white caught her eye down on the floor.

  Bones. They were long bones, cleaned of meat and lying in bunches, pick-up sticks scattered after a large animal like a cow had been consumed. Or . . . perhaps it had been a guard who had gotten himself “fired.”

  And they weren’t all she saw. There was a strange, shimmering optical illusion about five feet behind the bars, an iridescent . . .

  It was a waterfall. A ten- or fifteen-foot-long waterfall cascaded from a thin slit that zigzagged across the ceiling. Storm runoff, she thought. That had to be the source.

  “Who’s there?” she demanded.

  A shape appeared on the far side of the water, looming. As her heart began to pound, her mouth went dry.

  “Show yourself.” She took another step back. �
�I’m not afraid of you.”

  When her shoulder blades banged into something cold and uneven, she realized she’d hit the opposite wall and was reminded that she was trapped in here. The good news was that there was no break that she could see in the lineup of bars, and they were so closely set, nothing big enough to chew those bones could squeeze through them.

  Just keep going, she told herself as she brushed at the back of her neck again. The guns had to be farther along—

  Ahmare screamed so loudly she flushed bats out of the dark corners.

  4

  SPRINGTIME HAD COME IN the midst of nuclear winter.

  Called forth by an unexpected presence, Duran’s body breached the water that poured into his cell, parting the falling rush, disrupting the chaotic crystal flow. The summer rain was warm as it hit the top of his head and flowed down his long hair, bathing his shoulders and his torso in a respite from the cold that he knew from experience wouldn’t last long.

  The chill in the dungeon was like the curse he lived under, pervasive and unrelenting, and he would not have gone near the balmy rush ordinarily. The return to the cold he lived in was harder to bear than any brief relief was worth.

  It was better to remain in pain than to have to resettle into it.

  But that scent.

  Dearest Virgin Scribe, the scent. It beckoned him forward, stripping him of the adaptive reasoning that warned him not to get warm.

  On the other side of the water, he didn’t bother to wipe his face of his dripping wet hair. He didn’t need his eyes to worship her. His nose told him all he wanted, needed to know. She was sustenance in the midst of his gnawing starvation. A fire that would not burn him. Air in a place of suffocation.

  His instincts told him all of this, instantly and irrevocably.

  And then she screamed.

  The sound of terror wiped away his trance-like captivation, and as the chill rushed back unto him, a squatter reestablishing domicile in property it did not own, his higher reasoning bootlicked his senses out of the driver’s seat.