When Wicked Craves (2 page)

If anyone could see her safely out of this mess, it was Nicholas. And each day, she’d anticipated his visit, eagerly working beside him, poring over the cases he’d copied and the statutes he’d dug up from faraway jurisdictions, so desperately grateful that he’d given her the gift of hope.

But that hope had died with the sentencing, and now he couldn’t even face her?

How completely pathetic.

“Prisoner!” The sharp voice brought her back to the
present, to the small cell and the reality facing her. “Do you willingly accept your fate?”

“No!” The word seemed to burst from her mouth without any forethought.

There was nothing but silence around her, and she took some small bit of satisfaction in having apparently mucked up their formality, even if only a little bit.

“You may proceed,” the voice said, only this time, it wasn’t speaking to her. Within moments, the air in the cell grew thicker, as if it was pressing in against her head, and after a few seconds of that, the air seemed to be actually drilling into her. She wanted to reach up and clasp her skull in her palms, wanted to press her hands hard against her cranium and hold her head together before it exploded, but her shoulders were jammed against the concrete walls and there was no moving—she could only scream, and scream, and scream.

Something creeping.

Something looking.

Something moving like a worm through her mind. Digging and twisting and turning. Searching.

Searching …

It hurt. Oh dear God, it hurt, and as the pain spread out through her body—as bile rose in her throat and her chest heaved in acid-filled gags—she realized what it was. A Truth Teller—a rare creature in the shadow world. Although she’d spent years poking around in the shadows trying to find the truth for her clients, she’d never once met anyone who’d experienced the mind meld of a Truth Teller. It was horrible, and the more the creature poked around, the worse it became.

What the hell was it looking for?

The claws of the Teller’s grasp scraped through the dark spots of her mind, riffling through long-forgotten memories, stirring up lost scents and fears and small joys along with the raw, red pain of the search.

And then, as fast as it had entered, the intruder withdrew. Her head felt strange, as if there were cotton inside it, and she had to struggle not to sink into herself and to listen instead to the low voices outside her small concrete prison.

“Clean,” announced the baritone voice. “There are no plots. No plans for escape. She will take no secrets to her grave. Her mind is prepared to die.”

No
, she wanted to shout.
No, it isn’t.
Her mind wasn’t any more prepared than she was. But it didn’t matter. They didn’t care.

This wasn’t about her; it was about the ceremony.

It was about the result.

With a jolt, the concrete cell into which she was locked started to rise. She was being lifted to the execution chamber. This was it. Time’s up. Arrivederci, au revoir, and auld lang syne.

Petra tried to swallow, but her throat was too thick. She couldn’t do anything anymore.

All she could do now was die.

The small cell rose through the floor, then came to a stop with a sudden jolt, shaking Petra and kicking her pulse back up, her body primed for flight even though there was nowhere to flee. Without warning, the front and side walls of her tiny cell fell away, crashing to the ground with a thud that reverberated through the small chamber. She was on the stage of a very small theater, her back still strapped to the standing concrete block, on display for the three Tribunal members who sat in the plush chairs and stared at her, their faces impassive.

She’d witnessed executions in the Preternatural Enforcement Coalition’s theater before, but those were always following a criminal conviction and took place in a cavernous room with dozens upon dozens of witnesses. Her termination might be taking place within the walls of the PEC, but this was an Alliance execution, not punishment rendered following a crime.

She was not being executed for what she’d done to the vampire, but because they were afraid of what she might do in the future. She scared them, and they were going to kill her.

She forced her chin high. It was their shame, not her actions, that had her dying in this dingy little room; the shame of knowing that what they did was unjust. Vile. And as she looked out upon the three of them, she
hoped her expression telegraphed what she didn’t have the guts to voice:
Screw you all.

She recognized the three, of course. Dirque, Trylag, and Narid. A jinn, a para-daemon, and a wraith, and all three members of the Alliance.

She’d seen them every day during the charade they’d called a hearing. She’d hated them during the trial, and she didn’t feel any more charitable to them now. They were the last people she wanted to watch her die. She wanted Kiril. Hell, she wanted Nicholas. But the guard had been right—neither her brother nor her own advocate would be with her at the end. She’d been isolated her entire life, and she’d learned to accept that. This, however … this bruised her heart.

A door in the center of the back wall opened, and as the theater had only two rows of seats, she could easily see the face of the person who stepped in. Or she could have seen him, had he not been covered in head-to-toe black, swathed just as she was. Her, they’d covered so that an accidental brush against her skin could bring no harm. He was covered not for safety, but for anonymity.

The executioner.

Dirque, acting as the high examiner, stood, a brooding jinn who ruled the territories he governed with an iron hand. The executioner lifted a bow, then notched an arrow into it. Petra tried to breathe and realized she couldn’t.

“Petra Lang!” the executioner called in a low, harsh voice that seemed almost familiar. “This Tribunal has determined you to be a dangerous entity and subject to termination pursuant to the Fifth International
Covenant and the common law of the shadow world. I ask the high examiner, is this so?”

Dirque’s eyes glowed yellow in the dimly lit room, and his mouth stretched into a thin, smug smile. “The punishment is just and good.”

“Petra Lang, do you have any last words?”

Did she? She wanted to talk and talk. To babble her way back to life. But she didn’t. What was the point? All the talk in the world would change nothing, and in the end, she’d be six feet under.

“Then let us proceed.”

In the audience, the high examiner returned to his seat. In the back of the room, the executioner positioned the bow, the tip of an arrow aimed straight for her heart. Slowly, he pulled the string back. In front of her, not one spectator moved. No one in the room even breathed.

Don’t shut your eyes. Don’t shut your eyes.

She didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing she was scared. But she was … she was so damn scared …

She closed her eyes.

The
twang
of the bow as the arrow flew filled the small theater, and Petra flinched, wishing she could raise her arms over her heart before the arrow hit home.

It didn’t hit.

Her mind was working so hard to compute that anomaly that for a moment she didn’t register the cries of agony and howls of disbelief.

Confused—and still very much alive—she opened her eyes, then added her own screams to the cacophony as her eyes burned from the blue-green smoke that now filled the room, her lungs joining in the agony as soon as
she drew in the poisoned air. Once again, she tried to move her hands, and once again she failed.

She’d shut her eyes tight—the only thing she could do, bound as she was. But the darkness gave little respite from the pain, and she couldn’t stand not knowing what was happening. Not understanding why chaos had erupted or, more important, why she was still alive.

Gingerly, she peered out through slitted lids, her body tightening as the mist burned eyes that she had to fight not to shut again.

Someone leaped in front of her—
the executioner
. His eyes were open behind plastic goggles, and he pressed against her, as close as a lover, his body demanding cooperation even though she was in no position to do anything but. The bow still hung from one shoulder, and now he lifted it and reloaded. But he wasn’t aiming at the high examiner, who was rushing blindly toward the stage, his face covered with yellow pustules, his eyes red and swollen, and his hands glowing with the infamous blue fire of the jinn.

Instead, the executioner shot his arrow to the side. She turned her head, tears streaming, and the last thing she saw before her eyes swelled shut was the arrow striking a metal control panel on the far wall of the small theater.

Immediately, the concrete square on which she stood began to descend, dragging her and the executioner back down to the bowels of the building. Her heart pounded in her chest and she allowed herself the tiniest flutter of hope.
This was a rescue.

“Kiril?” she whispered, but even as she spoke, she knew it wasn’t her brother. The shapes were too
different. Kiril towered over her, his height making him seem like a giant compared to the man who held her now, his firm body fitting perfectly against her during their swift descent.

And whereas Kiril smelled of incense and charms and mystical smoke, this man’s scent seemed almost European. Nicotine and men’s cologne, the aroma making her think of London or Rome, which was ridiculous since she’d never been to either city. But there was something so very old-world and sophisticated about the way the man smelled. Something familiar, too, and hope fluttered inside her.

The slab lurched to a stop, and she heard scraping above them that she assumed had to be the execution staff trying to pry open the hatch. Any moment now, guards would rush in from the single door through which they’d walked when the guard had led Petra to her tiny execution cell. She’d seen the room then, and now she tried to peel her eyes open and see it again, but it was no use. They were swollen shut, her lids glued together with a mixture of pus and tears.

She could hear well enough, though, and almost as fast as the thought had entered her head, she heard the motor of the door begin to whir. At the same time, the man’s arms squeezed tight around her. She flinched automatically, then relaxed as she remembered. They were both fully clothed, every inch of skin covered with black.

There would be no physical contact.

Even as she sighed in relief, he pushed away with a sharp curse.

“What is it?”

“Goddamned hematite bands.”

She wanted to gasp, but couldn’t. How could she when her throat was so thick, her mind filled with confusion and wonder?

Because there was no doubt about the voice now.

Nicholas Montegue.

He’d come for her after all.

Hematite.
Why in the name of all that is holy had the goddamned guards bound her with hematite?

The question was an academic one, and one that Nick didn’t have time to ponder. He’d taken the precaution of ensuring that the lock code for the door to the staging area was changed as soon as Petra’s cell had ascended, but something as basic as a lock would not keep the guards out for long. The staging area for this particular theater of execution was one of the few places in the PEC’s Division 6 complex that did not have a barrier of hematite, the vile mineral that prevented a vampire from transforming into mist.

That had been his plan, of course. To get Petra back down to the staging area, grab her, and transform them both to mist, a nearly invulnerable state for a vampire.

His asset had neglected to mention that the guards would bind Petra’s hands with hematite. And Nick, damn him, hadn’t thought to ask. She wasn’t a vampire, so what was the point?

Had they anticipated him? Believed that he might try to rescue the girl?

It was a possibility he couldn’t ignore, because it
would mean that the escape he had thought would be reasonably simple had transformed into a minefield of trouble.

“Change of plans,” he said, and despite the pain that had to accompany her rapidly swelling eyes, Petra smirked.

“I didn’t even know there was a plan.”

He stifled a smile as he moved around the slab, grateful she wasn’t cowering in fear, fighting him, or doing anything that would slow their escape. Behind her now, he pressed the latch to release the strap that bound her waist to the concrete and pinned her upper arms to her sides. “I can’t do a thing about your hands.” He reached for her arm to lead her, then grimaced when she stiffened at the touch. “Two layers of tight knit between us. I’m safe.”

“Sorry. I’m not used to—”

“I know. Come on.” He clutched her arm more firmly, and this time she didn’t resist, though she did stumble.

“I could run a lot faster if you hadn’t blinded me. What the hell did you do, anyway?”

He didn’t answer, but instead reached into one of the pouches he’d knotted to his belt. He didn’t want to take the time, but she was right. If she couldn’t move fast, she was a liability.