“And her?” Scar’s question holds genuine curiosity. “What do we tell the others when they ask why there’s a human locked in our compound?”
The pause stretches long enough that I risk glancing back over my shoulder, catching one last glimpse of the ice man standing before his dying flame, ice coating his skin and fury bleeding from every line of his body as he stares at the fire like it’s betrayed him.
“Tell them she’s insurance,” he says finally. “Until we know what she is and what she can do, she staysexactlywhere we can watch her. No exceptions. No mercy. No way out.”
The last thing I see before Scar guides me through a doorway I didn’t notice before is the flame in its dome, burning brighter than when I first walked in, colors dancing and spinning like it’s celebrating something even as it continues dying, breath by breath, heartbeat by heartbeat, waiting for salvation that might have just walked through the door in the form of a bleeding, terrified photographer who doesn’t understand anything exceptthat she’s in significantly more danger than any car crash could provide.
The door closes behind us with a sound like finality.
And somewhere in the darkness of this mountain fortress, my new prison awaits.
Please let this all be a concussion dream.
Chapter Six
ROXY
The descent into darkness happens in stages, each one stripping away another layer of the illusion that I have any control over what happens next.
Scar’s grip on my arm remains gentle but unbreakable as he guides me through corridors that twist and turn like a labyrinth designed to disorient. The chill from the main club room bleeds away with each step, replaced by a colder bite that seeps through stone walls thick enough to muffle sound, thick enough to bury screams where no one will ever hear them. My boots scuff against floors that transition from wood to stone to something older, rougher, carved directly from the mountain itself.
“Where the fuck are you taking me?” The question comes out steadier than I feel, though my legs shake badly enough that Scar’s support is the only thing keeping me upright.
“Somewhere safe.” His tone carries amusement that doesn’t match his words. “For us, not you. The prez needs time to think, and you need time to understandexactlyhow much trouble you’re in.”
We reach a stairwell that spirals downward into shadows so thick they feel solid. The temperature drops another ten degrees as we descend, each step taking us deeper into the mountain’s belly, farther from anything resembling escape or hope. The walls close in, rough stone pressing from all sides, and the air tastes stale, recycled through too many centuries without seeing sunlight.
My ribs scream with each breath. Blood has dried in my hair, crusting against my scalp where something split open during the crash. The ringing in my ears hasn’t stopped, a constant high-pitched whine that makes it hard to focus on anything beyond the immediate reality of stone steps beneath my boots and Scar’s cold hand wrapped around my arm.
“How deep does this go?” I try to pull against his grip, testing his strength, but it’s like trying to move a statue. He doesn’t even seem to notice my resistance.
“Deep enough that you could scream yourself hoarse and no one above would hear a whisper.” He glances back at me, red eyes gleaming in the darkness like a predator’s. “Not that I recommend trying. Wreck tends to visit when people make too much noise, andtrust mewhen I say, youdon’twant his attention.”
The name sends ice through my veins that has nothing to do with temperature. Something about the way Scar says it, casual and warning at once, suggests Wreck is significantly worse than locked doors and iron chains.
We reach the bottom after what feels like hours but is probably only minutes. A corridor stretches before us, lit by bare bulbs strung at irregular intervals that cast more shadow than light. Doors line both sides, heavy wood reinforced with iron straps, each one sealed with locks that look medieval in their brutality.
Scar stops at the third door on the left. The lock clicks open at his touch, without any visible key, magic, or mechanisms I can see working in perfect synchronization. The door swings inward on hinges that don’t make a sound despite their obvious age.
The room beyond is exactly what I feared.
Stone walls on all sides, maybe eight feet by ten, with a ceiling low enough that I could touch it if I stood on my toes. A single cot pushed against the far wall, a thin mattress that looks like it’s seen better decades. No windows and no ventilation beyond a small grate near the ceiling that probably connects to nothinghelpful. The overhead bulb flickers weakly, casting shadows that dance and twist like living things.
“No!” The word tears out of me as survival instinct finally overrides exhaustion and pain. “No, you can’t put me in there. Please! I’ll leave. I’ll forget everything I saw. I won’t tell anyone about any of this, I swear—”
“Everyone says that.” Scar’s voice carries something that might be sympathy if he were capable of genuine emotion. “They all promise silence, cooperation, anything to avoid what comes next. But humans lie. It’s in your nature. And the prez can’t risk his family on promises from someone who touched his fire and made it burn like it hasn’t in decades.”
He guides me into the cell with relentless pressure, and the moment my boots cross the threshold, something changes in the air. The temperature plummets until my breath fogs white. Magic presses against my skin like invisible hands, testing, searching, finding whatever it was looking for, and settling in with satisfied weight.
“What did you just do?” Panic edges into my voice as the sensation intensifies, magic burrowing deeper until it feels like it’s touching bone.
“Activated the wards.” Scar releases my arm, stepping back toward the door. “This room was designed to hold supernatural beings who have crossed the club. The magic recognizes threats, contains them, and keeps them exactly where they belong. You’re human, so it won’t kill you. But it will make certain you can’t use any abilities you might be hiding to break free.”
“I don’t have anyfuckingabilities!” The protest comes out desperate, edged with hysteria that I can’t quite control. “I’m a photographer. I take pictures of trees, mountains, and wildlife. That’s it. That’s all I am, for fuck’s sake!”
“Unfortunately for you… the flame disagrees.” He tilts his head, studying me with the kind of clinical detachment thatsuggests he’s seen this scene play out before, probably more times than I want to know. “But that’s a problem for tomorrow.”
He reaches to the wall and pulls something free from a hidden hook.