Chapter Fourteen

 

Ophelia’s awareness inched back. She wished it was a simple path to consciousness. Instead, her mind meandered through memories, uncaring of which ones she’d kept buried for good reason.

Those years when she’d neared puberty and her first male visitor had come calling. He’d been smooth. To her parents’ credit, they hadn’t known their acquaintance’s intentions, or the sweet, reassuring words he’d used to coax Ophelia into getting close enough for him to molest her.

To their ultimate discredit, that male had been able to buy them off once they’d found out.

Her daughter. Decades later, the pain was as sharp as a physical blade and burned with the loss that never went away. It wasn’t easy for vampires to get pregnant and she’d always wondered if losing her daughter was a sign that she’d lost her chance at having kids. How could she ever be responsible for another child? No one should rely on her.

At some point over the years, she’d come to assume that she wasn’t meant to have kids, or to trust a male long enough to mate with him. She’d fooled herself into thinking that any of the males she’d met were mating material and she just hadn’t been interested.

Until she’d met Bastian. How obvious it was in her semi lucid state that they were meant to be together. What she felt around him was the pull of a true mating. And while there were many vampires that manipulated and violated their bond, it didn’t mean she had to, or that her mate would.

Bastian stepping out on her seemed absurd. He was the most loyal, dedicated male she’d ever met, 100 percent committed to any task he set his mind to, whether that be prepping a meal or looking out for Antonia. No one had asked him to hunt for the ones responsible for the girl’s circumstances, but he’d done it.

Ophelia knew without a doubt that he’d come looking for her next.

Wait.

She needed to be looked for?

More memories surfaced, recent ones this time. Fighting Finneus in the club. Marcus’s betrayal of their people, especially their young.

Her wits mostly back now, she took stock of her surroundings. The silky material of her dress clung to her like it was twisted around her body. Without changing her breathing rate or moving a muscle, she listened.

She was lying on a hard surface with her wrists and ankles bound. She would test the restraints when she opened her eyes, but any knowledge she could gain before then might be to her advantage.

A trace of brimstone was in the air, but the stale scent of dust overwhelmed it. She was indoors, probably a house. The Roberts manor?

It would make sense. Marcus had been stellar so far at hiding all evidence of his deceit. To the rich and powerful, he was seen as nothing but a sheep roaming among the bloodthirsty wolves. Only the wolves didn’t know the sheep was selling them out to each other and to demons. By the time anyone found out, it would be too late.

A whisper of breath caught her attention. Someone else was in here.

She sniffed the air. A familiar scent… Who was—

Ice washed through her veins. No, it couldn’t be. How had they gotten to Antonia?

The change in her predicament made her open her eyes. A brick wall was across from her. She frowned and turned her head as silently as possible.

Antonia was restrained on a long, rectangular table, the same as her. Tears streaked down the girl’s face. She was biting her lip to keep from sobbing.

Ophelia scanned what she could see of the rest of the room. Two giant chandeliers hung from the arched ceiling, one over each table. A dining hall. Old school, like where the lavish balls of a time long past used to be held. Most primes had let those traditions lapse. Too much work, too much money, too many other nefarious things to do with their time.

Male voices drifted in from the hallway. She strained to make out words.

Antonia must’ve sensed Ophelia’s speculation. With a small gasp, she strained against her bonds to face Ophelia. Her mouth opened, but Ophelia mouthed a shh.

Ophelia lifted her chin toward the door. The words were barely audible, but she made out what was said.

“Are you sure we can’t make an arrangement?” a young male asked. Quentin? “It would be divine”—evil snicker—“to be in a body that wasn’t at war with itself.”

The meaning of what he said sunk in. Quentin was possessed. Had he been when they’d brought him to the compound? But they’d been trying to bond him to a demon.

What if…what if the demons had been attempting to do both? It could kill Quentin, but he was young, and perhaps expendable in their mind. And malleable.

A host to one demon, and simultaneously a mate to another. Double the fun with less than half the work of recruiting more vampires to participate.

“The unfortunate consequence of invading a teenager, I suppose,” came Finneus’s amused reply.

“Every time I get around that girl, this body gets an erection,” snarled Quentin. The demon was obviously running the show. Was it Spectre? “My lungs feel like they’re freezing up and I swear this mouth won’t work.”

“I sympathize,” Finneus said smoothly. “We will find you new accommodations soon, but I feel I best serve your lordship as myself.” Footsteps now, thankfully heading away from the entrance.

“Mmm.” Apparently Spectre wasn’t convinced. She filed away his displeasure for future use. Any advantage.

“Is Gaston here yet?” Spectre snarled. The farther away they got, the harder it was to make out the words.

“He’s not, but he’ll arrive shortly with the spell book he rescued from the last debacle.”

“Ah, but last time there was no debacle because I was involved.” Quentin’s voice, but Spectre’s arrogant words. “Tonight shall work out perfectly as well.”

Ophelia couldn’t make out Finneus’s reply, but it was likely kissing the demon’s knotty ass. She didn’t know what Spectre really looked like, but it didn’t matter.

She glanced back at Antonia. The girl hadn’t pried her gaze off her. Antonia raised her brows like she was asking permission to speak.

“Quietly. Only for my ears,” Ophelia told her in the volume she should use.

Antonia nodded and gulped. “What’s going to happen to us?”

“I’m guessing they want to make us hosts or make us bond.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Whether one is inside of you or outside of you.”

A full-body shiver racked the girl’s body. “I’m scared, Ophelia.”

Usually, Ophelia didn’t feel fear. She did her best not to feel at all. But she was scared. For the girl more than herself.

“How’d they get you out of the compound?” Her team had to know by now. They had to be out looking for them. And there was absolutely no reason for them to look at Finneus Roberts.

Fuck.

“I don’t remember,” Antonia whispered. “I remember opening the door and being so excited to see Tiny, and then—” She drew in a shuddering breath. “I was staring at that fugly chandelier and Tiny was laughing at my screams.”

“It’s not Tiny. He’s been taken over.”

Antonia frowned. “The demons got him after all?”

“Yes.”

But why had Quentin been putting up a fight about the bond? Had he been on board with the plan, but Spectre hadn’t?

Interesting. Could it be that bonding to a host who was also possessed tied the demons to each other and not just the host? Perhaps Spectre hadn’t been willing to find out.

Short, quick pants were coming from Antonia. The girl was terrified, and Ophelia empathized. The possibility of having her body dominated against her will left her nauseous.

Rage sizzled through her. She would not bide her time while they used Antonia. And she would not let the girl be a stricken witness as Ophelia met her demise.

“How tight are your bonds?” Ophelia hissed.

Antonia strained. Her knees barely bent and her skinny elbow twisted, but nothing.

Ophelia tested hers. They were tight to the point of painful. She flexed her joints every direction possible. No give. She couldn’t get any momentum because she was stretched to uncomfortable limits. The binds had been anchored for the typical height of a vampire.

But that didn’t mean she was out of options.

“We’re trapped.” Antonia’s ragged whisper echoed through the chamber.

“Not necessarily.” She wasn’t above breaking a few bones to save herself. The drugs were wearing off and they were laying on nothing but ordinary tables. Ordinary for a century ago, when they were made from sturdy timber and shellacked to within an inch of their life. But their bindings were still nothing more than steel and bolts.

Pain was pain. Her major decision was when to make her move. The males were coming back soon, and Master Gaston would presumably be with them to cow Antonia into cooperating. Ophelia never exaggerated her fighting skills—she was excellent, but three against one while trying to protect a kid weren’t the best odds.

There was no decision. She had to act now.

“Listen, Antonia.” Ophelia wasn’t worried about the agony coming her way, but she didn’t need a panicked sixteen-year-old to scream or cry. The alert would bring the males back earlier than planned.

Antonia’s light blue eyes were pinned on her. The poor kid had been through so much. Her parents had turned on her. It seemed like her good friend had turned on her. If they both survived, Ophelia hoped Antonia knew none of it was her fault, and none of it was Quentin’s fault, either.

“I’m going to hurt myself to get out of these restraints. Whatever sick sounds you hear, you need to stay cool. Understand?”

Fear darkened the girl’s eyes, but she nodded.

“I’m going to free myself and then you. Just like you and Bastian did before, we’ll stick together and find a way to the surface and an exit.”

Antonia’s grave stare didn’t waver.

“If we get separated, you need to get outside. Flash straight to the compound as soon as you clear the wards.”

“But—”

“Antonia, they will use you against me. And they will use me against you.”

Uncertainty flickered in the girl’s eyes.

“I’ve been through this shit before. I can take care of myself.” Her tone brooked no argument.

They couldn’t waste more time. The absent Master Gaston might put a rush on his arrival, since his daughter was here. It wouldn’t matter whether it was greed prompting him or a shred of fatherly instinct. He would subject her to hell on earth. They’d be screwed.

Ophelia gritted her teeth, took in a few quick breaths to fortify herself, and flexed her arms and legs as hard as she could. She crunched her abs, using them as a cinch to draw her limbs tighter.

Shards of pain sliced through her wrists and ankles as tendons and muscles stretched beyond capacity. Some bones might have to break to free herself completely.

Heat flooded her face. She was holding her breath and she strained. Metal whined against wood.

Yes. She’d loosened them.

Relaxing for a second, she filled her needy lungs.

“Ophelia?” Antonia’s reedy voice cut in, but Ophelia couldn’t take the time to reassure her.

Seeing her free from her restraints would help Antonia more than anything right now.

Again, she slammed against her bonds. Her back pressed into the wooden table until she thought she might crack the plank in two from the force.

A leg popped free. A crunch in her wrist and a starburst of intense pain hit her just as her hand slipped through. The chain her wrist had been in was still attached to the table, while one dangled from her free ankle.

She redoubled her efforts, keeping her right hand fisted. Escape would be hard enough uninjured. Breaking bones in both arms would be too much of a hindrance.

Bolts flew free from the anchors around her leg. She didn’t hesitate but rolled up to concentrate on freeing her right hand. Planting the heels of her bare feet on the edge of the table, she clenched her fist and wrenched backward.

The bolts splintered out of the heavy wood and she tumbled backward. Landing deftly on the floor, balancing on the balls of her bare feet, she listened.

Only Antonia’s ragged breathing. Her eyes were wide and full of awe and hope as she stared at Ophelia.

A part of Ophelia almost snapped at Antonia to quit looking at her like that. The hope was the worst.

What if she failed to save the girl? What if she failed to save herself? Dying had never concerned her overly much before. She flirted with ashing herself to watch the beauty of sunrises and sunsets, and to revel in the ability to do so. But she always chalked her fighting up to just being too stubborn to die.

She swooped in to help where she was needed. She’d orchestrated her life so that she made the decision when to jump in and help, so no one had to rely on her again.

And here she was. A kid was looking at her, hoping Ophelia would not only save her life but save her mind and body from being abused and traumatized, too.

That was a tall order and one task Ophelia didn’t want to fail at.

But it wasn’t just Antonia, was it?

Quentin Segal was presumably still in the manor with a demon inside of him. He needed her help whether he wanted it or not.

Ophelia cradled her wrist to her chest and crept toward Antonia. Using her good hand and her body for leverage, she freed Antonia’s arms first. Then Antonia helped yank the restraints that held her legs down out of the table.

“You’re strong,” Ophelia noted.

Antonia’s eyes brightened. “You really think so?”

More discomfort filtered through Ophelia that had nothing to do with her broken arm. Antonia’s gaze was filling up with hero worship and Ophelia had done nothing more than make them moving targets.

She gestured to their limbs. “These chains are going to make noise. Move slowly and with purpose. Follow me.”

She didn’t choose the door she’d heard the males talking outside of. This was an old dining hall that used to host large parties. There had to be a discreet servant’s entrance.

It was easy enough to find. Tucked in the back corner of the room was a shadow that was darker than the rest.

She hurried toward it, stepping lightly and trying to avoid jostling her arm.

Antonia wasn’t as quiet, but she tried. Ophelia didn’t expect her own level of expertise at escape and evasion tactics, but Antonia’s fortitude impressed her.

She listened for a heartbeat at the door. No sound. The smells of old grease and cleansers hung in the air. The kitchen was this way. Servants always had their own exits to keep their comings and goings from crossing paths with their employers.

She tiptoed out. Her hands felt horrifyingly empty. She would’ve preferred even a knife to hold in her injured limb. The evening gown wasn’t effective tactical gear and her bare feet were quiet but wouldn’t inflict damage like the ridged soles of her boots would.

Following the smells of the kitchen, she led Antonia there before looking for an exit. Apprehension danced up her spine. She needed a weapon.

They entered a room full of stainless-steel countertops. Pots and pans hung from racks lining the counters. Three massive vent hoods gaped over commercial-grade ranges.

Oh, the cooking she could do in here. But she was only interested in knives. There was another door at the opposite end. Ophelia led Antonia though the room, finally spotting a block half filled with blades.

They could be rusted out and ready to shatter, but it was better than nothing. She grabbed a small paring knife for her left hand to loosely grasp. She bit back a wince at the flash of pain. There was no other place on her to store an extra weapon.

She handed a medium-sized chef’s knife to Antonia and took the menacing butcher knife for herself. Ordinarily, it’d be a little too big of a blade, but with her lack of defenses, size mattered.

A yellowed drying towel rested by the sink. She rolled it up and tied it around her thigh. Shoving a blade through, she flexed and bent her leg. Meh, it’d work and remain hidden.

Any advantage.

She cocked a brow at Antonia. The girl gulped, her eyes bordering on wild, like she wanted to bolt past Ophelia and find the nearest window to leap out of. But she held it together. Definitely raised by Bastian.

If Ophelia’s daughter had survived, she’d burst with pride if she were anything like Antonia.

Ophelia stumbled with the thought but recovered and moved on, hoping Antonia wouldn’t ask something that’d make her cry like “Are you all right?”

Blinking rapidly, Ophelia rushed out the nearest exit. A set of stairs waited for them.

Antonia made a strangled noise. “This is so much like last time,” she breathed. “So close to freedom, but you have to win the maze.”

Yep, that was about right.

She shot the girl what she hoped was a reassuring smile and not a stressed-out grimace. “Almost there.”

They ascended the stairs. At the landing, they had two options. Right or left. She inhaled deeply. There was nothing but stale air coming from the left. She chose to go right, where she assumed doors and windows waited.

Ophelia rounded the corner to another long hallway. She wanted to scream. How big was this place?

A dark figure moved within the dark shadows. A lanky blond man wearing a suit strode toward them. “Antonia, my child. I’ve been so worried about you.”