Most of it, anyway.
I pressed a hand to my chest, where the dull ache remained. The place where I should have felt—
“Perhaps now we might actually have a conversation.”
My hands went for my weapons, only to find none. Reached for my power, but there were no plants in this wasteland to command. But my beast, I could feel him inside of me, the snarl building.
“Where have you taken me? Who are you? What do you want?” The demands flew from my lips, more growls than words.
The male who stood before me raised one dark brown eyebrow, scanning me up and down, then dropped it. Thoroughly unimpressed. “At least you have stopped screaming.”
He waved his hand and two simple wooden chairs appeared. He lowered himself to his with casual grace, every movement refined, guided by muscle memory. He propped one foot across a knee, folded his arms over his chest. “Sit.”
Not likely.
“Where am I?” I did not have weapons, but I had the strength of my body. More than enough to kill.
The male rolled his shoulders. He did not flick his hand this time.
The pain roared back, spearing through every muscle and tendon, fogging my brain. I knew I was screaming, but I could not stop it. Whatever willpower I might have had ceased to exist in this nightmare realm. I hit my knees, clawing at my head, anything to stop the pain—
Gone. Just as quickly as it had come.
It took every ounce of will to keep myself on my knees, rather than collapsing to the dusty ground with relief.
“I have taken away the pain so that we may have a coherent conversation.”
A different sort of torture then. Not continual pain, but the stop and start of it. I began to adjust my expectations, my approach for managing the pain—
“Stop planning your attack and sit in the blasted chair.” The voice was harsh even behind the refinement. A noble. Powerful. Pointed ears, fae like me. Terrestrial or elemental?
“What in the Ancestors-damned hell—”
“I have not damned anything. I saved it. Now sit down so I can tell you how to do your part.” It was not an entreaty or suggestion. That voice was pure command. A voice that expected to be obeyed. I recognized it as the sibling to my own—the one I used to command legions in battle.
Ancestors… this male was an Ancestor.
I summoned all the strength and control that three centuries had given me. I did not question what portions of myself I could access in this nightmare. I commanded the strength to rise, and it came. If it was because this male had taken away the pain… didn’t matter. What did was using it to my advantage.
One foot on the ground. Pushing myself up. Two feet. Lowering myself into the chair. Playing by his rules, for now. For long enough to pick him apart and decide how to flay my enemy.
For anyone who would give and take pain like that could not be anything else.
There were no identifying markers on him. Well-made leather clothing, the style neither elemental nor terrestrial. Close fitting, like it was meant to be worn beneath armor. A warrior sat across from me. That fit with his lethal grace and air of command. There was only one Ancestor known as a warrior.Thewarrior.
“Accolon.”
He lifted his chin and gazed across the dusty orange yards between us. I’d seen portraits in Wolf Bay, could see the resemblance now. The aquiline nose, the imperious tilt of his green eyes as they judged me. A warrior. A shifter like me. A king.
“Very good,” he said into my sullen silence. “Where are your questions now, Brutal Prince?”
My hand itched for my battle axe. “You were not going to answer them.”
“You are correct about that,” Accolon agreed. “Sit there like a good dog and listen to what I have to say, and I will consider answering your asinine questions.”
I forced my hands to loosen. Forced my face to neutrality. Brutal cold.
Accolon marked the motions with a flick of his eyes—first to my hands, then to my face. A small smile curled the corners of his mouth, but there was no warmth in it.
