A Wicked Night (Creatures of Darkness 2): A Coraline Conwell Novel (15 page)

“How are you progressing, Doctor?” The dark-haired vampire neatly folded his arms behind his back and slowly perusing the doctor’s workspace with an air of detached superiority.

Earlier, he had dropped one hell of a bomb on Cora, alluding that he’d known her parents—well, her mother—only to refuse further explanation. Dismissing her questions, he’d turned from her as if she were a passing interest.

“She heals incredibly fast,” the doctor replied. “However, not quite as swiftly as your kind. I’ve had her here in my lab under constant supervision while I test out my enhanced compounds. I haven’t been able to increase the dark cells in her bloodstream, but with time—”

“You haven’t introduced her to number seven yet.” The vampire had made it a statement rather than a question. He speared the doctor with a disapproving gaze.

The doctor went silent, then glanced around the lab as if visually seeking an adequate response. “Well, no. The opportunity to document how she responds to my—”

“Enough with your curiosity and tests. We can find another for that. This one is special, and I don’t want you damaging her beyond repair like the others. Your artificial substances are not measuring up. I want results.”

“But with her unique blood, I’m closer than ever to…”

The vampire speared him with a dangerous glare. “There will be no more testing on this one.” He slowed his speech so as to be very clear. “Bring her to number seven.”

“O-Of course.” The doctor emphatically nodded. “It will be done right away.”

“See that it is.” With sure steps, the vampire made for the door. Business finished? He didn’t even spare Cora a second glance. He did, however, turn another fierce expression on the doctor and, his tone dropping to a threatening octave, added, “If this one dies, Doctor, so do you.”

The doctor turned a revolting shade of green.

As soon as the vampire was gone, the doctor’s expression became heated and he hurled the scalpel at the wall. It lodged halfway in. Then his irate gaze shifted to Cora. “Ready to meet your new beau?”

“My what?”

Without another word, the doctor positioned himself at the head of the gurney and wheeled her into the hallway. The walls here were a shade darker, rougher, with various-sized rocks protruding in naturally random patterns. The floor, too. The whole gurney shook as the doctor heaved it forward. Occasionally a wheel got stuck in a dip and he had to give a great shove to get it moving again.

“Where are you taking me?” she demanded.

He didn’t respond.

She frantically surveyed her surroundings as if the answer might be written on these stony walls.

A thin black wire ran along the right side of the jagged corridor, connected every fifty feet or so to a caged light fixture that offered dim illumination at best. Thick wooden beams provided bearing support for the ten-foot high ceiling, making her wonder if this had originally been a mine. Her ever-harshening breaths drew in cool dusty air.

When they came to a T-section, the doctor took a left. An S-bend came next. The ground was somewhat smoother here, but that didn’t last long. With another left, it was as if loose rock made up the floor, jostling her gurney roughly.

As they maneuvered farther through the dark maze, harrowing sounds began to rise in the distance. Sounds that made her skin crawl and her intuition take note—It wasn’t just her who was being held captive here. This was a kind of prison. A place where scientific studies were conducted…on
mandatory
volunteers!

Her rushing adrenaline had her breaths coming faster. There was a twinge of a metallic aroma in the air that steadily grew stronger.

Or maybe what she smelled was blood, not metal.

It was all too likely.

Was it her imagination, or were the walls taking on a crimson shade? Was the cavern shrinking? Closing in on her? Suffocating her? Was that the rumbling of the gurney moving along rough soil or an earthquake, readying to bury them alive?

Entombed forever in blood and rock.

She got the impression this place had been drenched in the blood of the innocent. Been made into a kind of isolated shrine to debauchery, vileness, and inhumanity. And that those who worshiped here, coveting blood above all things.

This pace and those who reside here should drown in it as well.

At the thought, her mind produced unwanted images of rising blood. Rivers of red gushing through these halls like a dam had been breached, the deluge overwhelming, the dark liquid reclaiming every nook and cranny in its unrelenting, silky embrace.

An unfamiliar power rippled through her, shocking her into stillness.

The doctor halted. His swift glance to the left drew her attention. He reached out and swiped a finger along the wall where something was dripping.

“What the…?” he muttered.

He moved his finger close to one of the lamps. Cora just managed to hold her gasp. The bud of his finger was red!

Had she done that? Had she used magic? The implication sent a shock wave of alarm through her body. Had she nearly brought forth a tsunami of blood to drown them all? She might want the doctor dead, but she didn’t want to take herself out in the process!

Seemingly unconcerned, the doctor wiped his finger on his hip and then resumed their journey.

No, she told herself as the doctor shrugged off the anomaly. She couldn’t possibly manifest something of such magnitude. Although, now that she dismissed the possibility, she kind of wished she had that kind of power.

The eerie sounds in the distance grew nearer: moans, cries, whimpers. They weren’t the sounds of suffering, at least not the kind that torture would inspire. They were the kind that made Cora think of loss and hopelessness. Of despair and, oddly enough, grim acceptance.

Was that to be her ultimate fate? Whimpering in self-pity? Was there a lonely, decrepit cell in this hole with her name on it? Was this where she would die? With no goodbye to Mace? No answers about her past, her parents? No learning about her magic and what kind of witch she might have become?

Saraphine had declared her powerful.

Ha!

Does a powerful witch end up like this? Strapped to a gurney? Studied like a rat? Humiliated?

Does a powerful witch give up?

Just when the dreadful chorus of misery grew unbearable, they came across a steel door recessed into the cavern wall. By the caustic sounds coming from within, a man resided inside, babbling incoherently. She thought she caught the word
hungry
grated out in a haggard, drawn out tone. And as she was brought closer, the man became more boisterous, restless, as if he could tell she was near…could sense her.

A numbered plaque on the door read
one
.

Were they holding other witches here? Performing tests on them? Not bothering to feed them properly?

She recalled the doctor had given
her
food: something that tasted like a meal replacement bar, hard yet chewy, and mostly flavorless.

The harrowing door drew closer, the raucous cacophony berated her eardrums, and her heart thundered. At first she feared the doctor would take her in there. She had seen some horrible things in her life. She could do without a few more in the end.

Thankfully, they passed by.

Her relief was short-lived. Yet another cell rolled into view, denoted
two
, and then another,
three
, the captives in each just as boisterous as the first. Part of her wanted to dismiss her imaginings of what might be happening on the other side of those doors, but she didn’t have the luxury of pretending. Whatever it was, it wasn’t pretty, and it certainly wasn’t where she wanted to be.

The doctor continued pushing her along.

Another set of doors,
four
,
five
, another set of victims, more snarls to join the others still echoing several feet behind them. Whoever the victims were, they were definitely reacting to her, or the doctor, or maybe just the racket of their passing. Either way, fear snaked sharp tendrils through to her bones, making her shake. When they passed door number six, panic swelled as realization clicked.

Her stop was coming.

She pleaded for mercy, tears in free fall, her pathetic voice shrill and unmanageable. She begged the doctor to let her go. Begged for her freedom, saying she wouldn’t tell anyone what went on here. Begged, even though she knew it would do no good. That dark-haired vampire had made his interest in her clear. There was no way the doctor would betray his master for her. Yet here she was, wasting her breath. Begging.

In the end, she supposed everyone pleaded for their lives, no matter the inevitability of their fate. It was only natural. Nothing to be ashamed of.

Except she was ashamed. Ashamed of her weaknesses, considerable as they were. Ashamed how easily she’d been spirited away. Ashamed that she’d be leaving Mace with no knowledge of what had become of her. No closure. Ashamed of the pathetic pleas spewing from her like a busted hose.

In her mind,
powerful witches
did not beg for their lives. Powerful witches did not get captured so easily and submit to weeks of imprisonment, torture.

Powerful witches did something. They took revenge. Made their enemies pay! They didn’t lie on a gurney, sniveling. Helpless.

Still moving through the tunnel, contrasting voices joined the din. These ones were relaxed, controlled, with an undertone of humor.

After another moment, two male voices called out a greeting to the doctor. She lifted her head to glance down the length of the gurney, desperately blinking away her tears so she could see clearly. One of the men leaned against the raw earthy wall, a lit cigar clamped between half-blackened teeth. A noxious cloud of smoke gathered at the apex of the passageway, too sweet to be pleasant.

Above her, the doctor’s voice boomed at them. “The rust is coming through the walls back there. There could be an iron deposit next to a water pocket that is about to break through. We might have to cement over that section.”

“Any iron was extracted long ago, Doc.” The second man came into view. He stood taller than the first, straighter, more precise, as if he’d been schooled by a drill sergeant against relaxing his stance. But there was also a defiance in him that belied the army-like facade, reminding her of the many young men who’d joined the ever-dwindling human resistance and had been trained by undisciplined militia leaders. “These mines were stripped clean. You sure what you saw was rust?”

“It was reddish in color and damp. I don’t care what it is. We should keep an eye on it.” By his tone, he meant that
they
should keep an eye on it.

The first man clamped the cigar between his thumb and forefinger and drew it away from his mouth. “Don’t let a little condensation scare you, Doc.” Smoke escaped from his cracked lips as he spoke, while his eyes slithered over Cora’s body. “What’s this?”

Cora didn’t like the soft hiss at the end of his question. Or the licentious gleam sliding into his gaze. Or the fact that he’d said
what
instead of
who
as if she wasn’t even a person.

“An experiment,” the doctor replied, adding, “The one I told you about. She’ll be bunking with number seven from now on.”

“That one’s too wild for such a good looking gift. Lately, we have to keep him sedated just to bathe him.”

“Orders from the top.” The doctor began pushing her forward again.

A strong hand landed on her ankle and the gurney rocked to a halt. The shocking heat from the cigar man’s palm seeped through the thin blanket that covered her lower half, alerting her to the fact that she was freezing—although that wasn’t why her shaking intensified.

“Leave her with us, Doc. Well take her the rest of the way. No need for you to bother yourself.” He gave a let-me-do-my-job smile that looked more like let-me-test-out-the-merchandise.

Adrenaline laced greasy fingers around the inside of her throat, tightening her breaths into shallow gulps.

“This one’s off limits,” the doctor informed them.