The "interrogation" room looked more like a medieval dungeon than something you'd see in a typical police station. Not that I'd had a lot of experience with the police. I just watched a lot of television.

There were no chairs or desk. A metal hook jutted out of the far wall. Through it was two short chains, one end looped through the hook and padlocked, the other connected to a rusty manacle. A few feet away from that was a bucket. By the smell, it had been used not that long ago.

The sentinel pushed me against the wall with the hook and locked one manacle around my wrist. Then he put his hand on my shoulder and pushed, forcing me to my knees. Because the chain was so short, my arm had to stay uncomfortably above my head.

I hadn't liked my chances with two on one—Lucas didn't count—so I had thrown up a white flag and let them roughly stuff us in the back of an unmarked van. They had taken our phones and Lucas' wallet and car keys. The new guy had driven Lucas' car while the vampire wannabe had chauffeured us to headquarters.

I'd had two failed escape attempts to add to my record by the time the vehicle had stopped. Trench coat guy had dragged Lucas off to one room while another sentinel brought me inside the dimly lit room ominously marked holding pen one.

The sentinel smiled at me. He looked like a skinny Santa Claus, bushy white beard and curly white hair. He was probably someone's great-grandpa when he wasn't torturing his victims in filthy cells like this one.

"I'm only going to cuff one arm. You'll behave, won't you?" He had a forced friendly quality to his voice I knew was fake. "I want you to be as comfortable as possible, miss."

"What are you, good cop?"

His smile faltered for a moment before returning twice as strong and twice as strained.

"I've just got a few questions, and then we'll call your parents. Cooperate, and you'll be home before dinner."

"And if I don't?"

He leaned forward, hot garlic breath blasting my nose. What the hell did he have for breakfast? "You'll be dinner."

I laughed. I couldn't help it. Maybe it was because he was so ridiculous. Or perhaps amid crippling fear, my body had no other choice than to react this way. Laugh so you didn't scream.

"What were you doing at the house?"

"Straight to business? No foreplay first?"

The back of his hand hit my face. I blinked away the spots blurring my vision. My cheek stung. My eyes watered.

"Guess you're bad cop, then."

He huffed out a hard breath out of his nose, reminding me of an angry dragon. "I don't think you understand the situation you're in."

"Nah, I can appreciate it. I've got some decorating tips if you're interested, though."

"You like it rough, girl? So do I."

This time he didn't pussyfoot around with a slap. He cold-cocked me in the jaw. Blood filled my mouth. I did the only thing I could with a mouthful of blood. Spat in his face.

He didn't react the way I expected.

He shook his head as he reached into his pocket, grabbed a white hanky, and moped my blood and spit from his face.

"You're a cliché, you know." He let the stained cloth fall to the floor. "After all these years, I know how to deal with little shits like you."

"Upgrade your toilet paper?"

"You were right earlier. I am the good cop." He licked his lips like a man eying a juicy hamburger. "Wanna know what bad cop is up to?"

"Knitting? Catching up on his soaps?" I smiled. "Don't leave me in suspense."

"Dougie likes to take his time. Savor it."

I giggled like a drunk sorority girl. "Dougie? Bad cop's name is Dougie?"

"I bet your boyfriend's not laughing right now."

"You should work on your threats. Not very effective."

He wrapped his hand around my throat and lifted me up like I only weighed twenty pounds. The hook dug into my upper back. I clawed at his hands, desperate for breath.

He squeezed. I was a little worried my head would pop off.

At least that would be a quick death.

A loud screech filled the room, an alarm blaring from hidden speakers.

"Shit," he said, removing his hand from my throat.

I landed on my feet and rubbed the sensitive skin on my neck.

Saved by the bell.

He rushed out of the room, leaving me alone with a shit bucket and rusty chains. Oh, and the hairpin in my hair that doubled as a lockpick. He should've secured both my wrists.

I made quick work of the shackle's lock. Rubbing the bruises on my wrist, I walked to the door. I saw no cameras in the room, but I also didn't see speakers, and I couldn’t deny the ear-splitting screams of the alarm.

If I were lucky, anyone nearby would be distracted by whatever emergency was going on.

I turned the handle on the door, expecting it to be locked out of spite.

The knob turned. Success.

Pushing the door open, I flinched as the hinges squeaked. No one came yelling. No one was in the hall when I peeked out the cracked door.

Satisfied that I was temporarily safe, I hurried over to the door next to mine. On the outside, it looked no different from the one I had been in. It was also unlocked.

I burst through the door, prepared to kick whoever's ass was inside.

Only one set of eyes saw me as I rushed in. Lucas stood slumped against the wall, both wrists chained over his head high enough up it forced him to stay on his feet. He looked like he had no strength left as he hung there, not moving.

His eyes were swollen partially shut. His lips were cracked where someone's fist had made minced meat out of them. Cuts marred both cheeks. And those were just the injuries to his face.

They had torn open his shirt, exposing lean, sculpted muscles and a sprinkling of fair hair on his chest. In a normal situation, I would have appreciated the eye-candy. But he wouldn't be modeling on the cover of a romance novel anytime soon.

Blood seeped from deep, jagged slashes all over his upper body. I needed to stop the bleeding before he bled out but had nothing to do so.

I peeled off my T-shirt and pressed it against the cuts. Now wasn't the time for modesty. My cheeks blazed as I caught him staring at my nearly naked chest.

"I'll take the leering as a good sign," I said, trying to keep my voice light-hearted. It came out raspy instead.

He winced as he tried to smile. "I'd have to be dead not to notice."

Still pressing the shirt against his wounds, my eyes turned to the markings on his body. Intricate tattooed runes covered his upper arms. One stood out on his forearm, more compelling than the others were.

"How do you hide that from the ladies?" I asked, tracing my finger along its markings. An electric jolt shocked me as the magic contained in the rune reacted to my natural magic.

"Chicks dig tats."

Anyone with even a drop of innate magic could activate the magic inside runes. They needed access to a powered-up rune, but every use drained a portion of the stored magic until it was empty. Only those with angelic blood could create and power up runes.

I had to stop pressing the shirt against his body to unlock the manacles around his wrists. As soon as he was free, he slumped into my arms, unable to hold up his weight.

I stumbled back but didn't fall.

"Sorry," he mumbled into my hair.

He pushed away from me and slid down the wall. I knelt in front of him.

"We need to go. Can you walk?"

He narrowed his eyes and reached his fingers out to graze the bruising on my neck. "Are you okay?"

"I'm better than you are."

"Let me help."

He rubbed his dirty fingers in his blood and traced one rune. The markings glowed with a pale green light.

Oh, did I mention runes could only be activated with magical blood?

I stopped him before he could waste the energy on my scratches. "Heal yourself so we can get out of here."

He closed his eyes and sighed. "Just leave me."

"Look at me, Lucas," I demanded. "We are both walking out of here or neither of us is. Do you understand me?"

"You're so bossy," he said.

He rubbed his fingers across the wounds on his chest again. The bleeding stopped. The skin stitched itself back together. By the time the tattoo stopped glowing, most of the cuts were closed but not all.

Magic was limited by the amount of energy one used to create or power a rune. The more energy used, the more powerful. Truly devastating effects required more energy than only one person could give. There were those who didn't balk at killing to enhance their power.

If Lucas had been a serial killer, he would have been able to heal everything short of death.

Color returned to his face. I helped him to his feet. This time he remained steady.

"What is that awful noise?" he asked as if he'd just noticed it.

"Our savior. Let's go."

I felt like I had to drag him out of the room. Our luck held. The halls were still deserted.

Unfortunately, I had no idea where the exit might be.

Lucas sensed my indecision and took the reins, leading me further down the hallway, where the numbers on the doors got higher.

"I think this is the wrong way," I said. "We came in the other way."

"Where do you think all the sentinels will be? We can't go out the way we came in."

"What if that's the only way out?"

"There's always another way."

I didn't have the same optimism, but I wasn't about to split from his side.

“Wait,” I said, stopping. “We need to get our wallets, phones, and your keys. Otherwise, it will lead them right to our families.”

“You think it isn’t already in the system?”

I shrugged. “Those guys seemed more interested in pain than paperwork.”

Lucas nodded, and we searched the rooms for our things.

It only took a few minutes to find them. They were in a white wire basket on a desk. No one sat in the chair behind it.

None of the items looked like they’d been touched after thrown into the basket.

I grabbed our stuff and handed him his. “Told you.”

He ignored me and walked back past the rooms we’d been interrogated in.

I continued to follow, more doubt creeping in by the time we hit door forty-seven.

How many torture chambers did they need?

Up ahead, the hallway split in two directions. "Which way, Mr. Navigator?"

He shrugged and turned left.

I followed. About five seconds later, I regretted it.

Sentinels rushed past us, yelling about an attack, barking orders at each other. None of them noticed the two beat-up former prisoners.

Another turn and we were in an open area. Beams of sunlight through glass doors beckoned us toward safety.

One problem, though.

About fifty sentinels stood between us and freedom.