No one else awaits our arrival. No guards to keep me contained. No mages to try to quell me.
The universe doesn’t intervene.
It’s possible that trying to move me in this moment would be worse than whatever awaits me in the bunker. According to the universe, at least.
“Door!” the Cataclysm barks, punctuating the order with a painful burst of more of that tainted power.
The woman darts ahead of us to pull open a steel-strapped door, moving its weight without effort. A shifter, then. Possibly a bear, unless the Cataclysm MC has been shoring up its ranks with nonbear clan members. They might be, given how fast their president is running through berserkers — both in the creation of them, as I presume not all survive their transition, and in outright wasting those lives.
“Good girl, my Jewels,” the asshole croons as he steps past the other shifter and into the concrete-walled hall beyond the door.
And yes, I can hear the exact spelling of her name within the utter possessiveness of his tone. A jewel to be collected, if not cherished. It’s likely also her club name.
Jewels, her head bowed submissively, tries to hide the shudder that runs through her at his malice-filled praise. Unsuccessfully.
“Welcome home, little Zaya,” the Cataclysm says as he strides down the corridor with me limp in his arms, smug and utterly satisfied. “We’re going to reweave this world together, Conduit. As it should have always been.”
Blue-tinted track lighting flickers on overhead, blowing out my sight. My system finally overloads to shut down the seemingly unending pain. It’s all just too much.
I black out.
Two
The universe has abandoned me.
I stare at the concrete ceiling etched with blood runes, utterly and completely cut off from everything I’ve ever known. I don’t understand the language of the runes or recognize the symbols. But unknown power or not, I can feel the intent of the spell they anchor impeding my reach. My essence feels as if it has retreated deeply within my blood, within my bones … hiding.
From him.
The bed is too soft underneath me, the sheets silky, and the pillows plush. But my body is achingly stiff, drained.
It hurts to move.
So I don’t.
The necklace lies inert on my chest. Just a dead hunk of pretty gemstone twined in metal. Worthless.
My wrist, my forearm, is empty. No belligerent death god guardian to weigh me down. Or to keep me from being completely and utterly alone in the world.
I have no idea how many days have passed since I awoke in this windowless room. I haven’t been moved since. Residual spent essence coats my skin from multiple useless attempts to heal the seething wound at my neck. My throat is raw. My tongue is so dry I’m not certain I could move it to speak. To scream.
The Cataclysm comes in at regular intervals. He takes what little essence my body has managed to regenerate. He talks. Complains. As if I’m … a person. Even as he’s treating me like an energy source. Like his own personal Conduit.
The universe has abandoned me.
I’m alone. Injured. And not healing.
So … I’m going to have to save myself.
Just as soon as I can move from the bed.
Across from me, the locks on the steel-strapped and rune-etched door disengage. Then the door slides to the side, opening just enough for him to step through. Granted, he’s huge, needing to duck slightly to pass, but the room is large enough for a massive bed, a marble-walled bathroom, and a seating area.
Even without the addition of the blood runes crafted to cut me off from the world, from all essence, I know this is a cage built for the express purpose of holding me. Or rather, holding the Conduit. There’s even an antique copper-and-milk-glass standing lamp next to a high-backed upholstered chair in the far corner away from the bed. An open, well-worn paperback sits on the side table, as if someone has been whiling away pleasant hours reading while I hover on the edge of death.
I only wish I were being dramatic.
I watch him approach the bed. Deep within my core, I’m desperate to turn my head away. To turn my back. I want to squeeze my eyes closed. To shut him out. To deny him the last part of me … the part he can’t take by force. My attention, my focus.
