The Better to Eat You With: The Red Journals (34 page)

I barely held in a flinch
when his hand shot back out at me, Vampire quick, to flick my hair off my
scarred shoulder. The urge to turn away, to hide, to cover myself had me
lifting my chin and gritting my teeth as his eyes skimmed the old wound.

“Why are you scarred,
Willow?” The question was coolly curious, but there was an undertone of
expectation behind it, like he already knew the answer and simply wanted me to
confess.

“I don’t know,” I replied.
“It just healed that way.”

Do you know what I am?
The question rippled through my head, and I had to
squash down my sudden lance of fear before it scented the air and gave me away.
If he thought I was just a Vampire, that my slower healing was due to poison, I
was far safer than if he knew I was a hybrid of two species that were legendary
for killing each other. Or, at least, I hoped I was safer.

“Immortals full-bloods
don’t scar, Willow.” He said softly, his eyes flat, while his words rang in my
ears.

Full-bloods...
How many times had I said that to myself? How many times
had Immortals said that to me before now, upon seeing my marred flesh? Too many
times to count…
Full-bloods don’t scar... did he already know I was a
hybrid?

“Like I said; I don’t
know.”

Ambrose stared at me. Analyzed
me. Weighed me. Gauged my facial expressions to see the truth. I wondered if he
could tell if I was lying or not, wondered if he could separate the truth from
the lies. I didn’t think he could, considering how much I’d changed since I’d
last seen him, but I didn’t want to place all my hopes on that. Truths and
half-truths were better than out-right lies. I just wished my terror wasn’t so
constant.

“You are more than you
appear, dear wife.” Ambrose murmured softly, almost as if only to himself. “I
will find out what else you are,” he said, lifting off the bed and walking over
to the dark wall, turning back to me with a smile that made my stomach clench
is dread. “I have time to do that now you’re in my possession.” He lifted his
hand to the wall.

“I can’t stay here
forever, Glenn,” I told him softly, and his smile turned superior.

“That’s what each of my
collection say.” He tapped his knuckles on the wall, and the sound made me
flinch, for it was not the mute gritty sound of rock, but the hollow gong of
glass, “For their first decade. Then they accept that they are mine, or they
die.”

The dark wall suddenly
began to lighten, to fade, to become translucent, and my heart kicked up a beat
to rapid panic. A door appeared as the glass cleared, almost seamless, and I
stared with an overwhelming sense of despair as other glass cages came into
view.

“My God…” I breathed, my
throat too constricted for anything more.
So many…
A variety of
habitats, an assortment of sizes, a collection of beings inside them, all naked
and... Scarred.
Full-bloods don’t scar...
Did all hybrids retain their
scars on changing?

Men in military black garb
with stun-guns and blades stood in the hallway between the glass cages. Guards
awaiting their master. One guard in particular, however, wore a silver suit,
pitch-black eyes and an expression of scorn. Alexander lifted his hand and
pressed his palm to the center of the glass door. A red ripple reverberated through
the glass and a door shimmered. Ambrose walked through and peered at me through
the other side of the clear barrier.

“You will be no different,”
he said, his voice muted by the glass. “You accept, or you die.”

And I believed him. God
help me, but I did. This cold, methodical, murdering creature had no tie to me,
sentimental or otherwise. I may have been his wife once, he may have loved me
then, but three hundred years separated then and now, and now was a whole
different man. Inherently, I knew as soon as I became troublesome, the man who had
once been my husband would kill me, and feel nothing when he did.

I don’t know what broke my
heart more; the fact that Glenn was gone, or the fact that there was never any
hope in the first place that he’d come back because I still loved him.

I shoved from the bed and
moved toward the glass, fear pounding like my blood in my veins, merging with
the utter anguish searing my soul. My eyes burned with unshed tears, my cheeks
cold with ones I couldn’t hold back. My heart was a hollow ache in my chest,
broken fragments spearing and maiming an already rubbed-raw wound. As I stared
at those familiar dark brown eyes that stared so frigidly back, I realized that
amidst the tumult of emotions running through me, the one constant was rage.

I was angry. So incredibly
angry. Angry at me for not being able to let him go, even then. Angry at him
for not being strong enough to stay true to who he had once been. Angry at the
world, fate, destiny, Immortals and time… so much time… wasted.

“I’ll never accept.”
Because
you’re not Glenn.
“Never.”

Ambrose’s lips curved up
at the corners, and his gaze held mine faithfully, unerringly, and I couldn’t
look away. “We’ll see.” He pressed him palm to the glass, and the wall went
dark.

It was another day before
Ambrose returned to clear my glass so I could watch the world go by. He brought
me blood at first, and then when I wouldn’t drink it, he brought my food. He
watched me eat and asked me questions, touching me and analyzing me. I felt
like a coveted pet belonging to an animal testing facility. That thought made
my stomach heave, but I managed to keep down my food. I needed the strength it
provided, and given that the size of the burger was bigger than the bun, there
was enough of it. I didn’t know what Vampires ate, what their appetites were
like, and I’d tried to remember how much Felix and his clan had eaten. Not a
lot, now that I thought back, but that didn’t stop me from steadily making my
way through the entire meal. I hoped Ambrose would put it down to the fact that
I’d recently recovered from poison.

It took me a day and a
half for me to figure out that the glass cage was soundproof. Screaming down
the corridor and banging on the glass did nothing but exhaust me. I’d thrown
furniture at the glass, clawed it, run into it, and even tried to bite it. I
couldn’t even make a scratch.

At the end of day four, my
glass-walled chamber was gassed. I fought to stay conscious, but the heavy
weight of the drugs in my system dragged me under. When I awakened, I knew I’d
been moved and touched in places that had me scrambling for the bathroom to
empty my stomach. Back in the bedroom, I’d crawled onto the bed and curled into
a ball. The sheets didn’t smell like Ambrose, but of almonds. The bathroom was
on the other side. The carpet was patterned, the rugs bigger. My glass wall
faced a new habitat containing a Chameleon female it took me a full two hours
to locate, and only then because she blinked at me.

By day five, and I say
five because I didn’t know how long I’d been out when they’d moved me, I was
practically foaming at the mouth. Furious at being held captive, literally a
prisoner, I’d thrown a major tantrum. I’d wrecked the rest of my room,
destroyed my dress, demolished the bathroom tiles and plumbing, and turned my
luxury suit into a veritable crash site. Until Alexander had come down looking
murderous, pointed a remote at my glass wall, and gassed me.

I’d woken up and my room
was exactly as it had been before I’d wrecked it.

That time, I’d been more
than touched.

I’d groggily wondered
through my skull-cracking headache if I’d gotten totally rat-assed and dreamed
the whole thing, until I looked down and found myself in a deep blue gown
instead of the white one of before, and became instantly aware of the tender
pain between my thighs. That time, I just cried.

Ambrose came to see me
only once after that. He never answered my questions about where I was or why I
was there, but he happily discussed music, literature, weapons and all the
places we had been in the years we’d been apart. It was at times like that,
that made the familiar pain in my chest bloom to a headier sting. He seemed so
much like my Glenn sometimes, in the sparkle of enthusiasm in his eyes or the
gesture of a hand. Then I’d ask a question he did not like or a guard would
appear at the glass, and that icy cold mask of utter control would fall back
into place, and he would leave. And I’d remember that I’d been raped while
unconscious.

It was all about control
with Ambrose, I’d learned. Containment of emotion, of holding back everything
he could so I could not guess at his thoughts, only theorize at what went on
behind those dark brown eyes. They could be as warm as melted chocolate, or as
frigid as frozen earth and just as impenetrable.

Those times…those were the
times that hurt the most.

It was day twelve when it
happened. I was watching for the Chameleon female in the opposite cage again,
trying to not think about the fact that I’d been gassed three days previous and
had awakened with sticky inner thighs. If I thought about it, I might cry or be
sick again.

The Chameleon and I had a
game that she seemed to enjoy. I’d stare and study until I found her, while she
shifted colors and froze when I wasn’t looking. My head would always get an
ache shooting up the back of my neck, probably due to the gassings, but the
distraction helped dull the pain. I’d been sitting in the corner of my room,
back to the wall and hip pressed to the glass, staring at a banana tree in the
corner of her habitat that had a weird line coming off it and I was trying to
decide if it looked like a hip or not, when I heard it.

Voices.

Faint, but there, and I
would never have heard them if not for my enhanced hearing. But then…I pressed
my hand to the glass. The soundproof glass. I shouldn’t be hearing anything at
all, despite my Immortal senses. And yet I was.

I couldn’t wrap my head
around the realization. I’d existed for a week with nothing but my own voice,
breathing, pulse and the occasional visit from Ambrose. I never heard anything
unless I made the noise myself. I never thought the quiet I craved while in the
Vampire clan mansion and in Chicago would become so oppressive so quickly. There
wasn’t even a breeze in the room, it was that air-tight, the air conditioned so
thoroughly that it was neither hot nor cold but just right. Nothing changed in
my glass cage. The very thought that sound could penetrate…

I tilted my head, strained
for further nuances. It was so faint that even my own breathing seemed to
overpower it. Aligning my senses to enhance my hearing to full capacity, I
began to make out words…

“…wants the Fae Prince
moved to cell thirty-two.” I could barely make out what he was saying over the
heavy thumping of boots, but there
were
words. “Assign Edwards and Barks
to clean out the Gryphon shit…”

“What about his brother?” another
voice, male. Both voices were male, and getting closer. “Fucker’s been feral
since Lord Ambrose took the other ones head for hurting the freaky half-vamp
chick.”

Were they talking about
me?

“Gas him.” A cold reply.
“Double the dose, and then shift him to fifteen.”

And then they were in
sight. Two guards, both stocky, both dark. One I’d been referring to in my head
as Nose because his was crooked and flat, like he’d been punched too many times
right in the middle of his face, giving him a kind of snarly Rocky thing going
on. The other was Nod, simply because his general response to Nose was to nod
in acquiescence to whatever Nose told him to do.

“Between the Succubus and
the Nephilim?” Nod snorted, strolling towards me, stun-gun at one hip and a
dagger at the other. “You’ve a sick, sick mind.”

Nose laughed. “The
Succubus is hungry and the Nephilim is bored.” He shrugged. “And it’ll give the
Gryphon something new to scream at.”

Nose suddenly shot out his
boot and kicked the glass at my hip. I jerked in surprise as the sudden
movement, and Nod laughed. Neither of them stopped walking however, and their
voices were lost to me once my concentration was gone. But I’d definitely heard
them…

That meant the glass
wasn’t perfect.

I scrambled up instantly
and unsheathed my claws, digging at the seam of the carpet that lay flush to
the glass, ripping it free along with the padding, revealing concrete and wood
trimming. Out the corner of my eye, I saw the Chameleon shift all her coloring
to come stand at her glass wall and watch me, wide-eyed. I paused to look at
her. Her hair was long and dark, her eyes a pale amber, her skin was dusky, and
her features leant itself to a European heritage. She was stunning, her figure
lithe. I envied her, her height, damn my short legs.

I yanked my head back down
to the floor, digging my claws into the wood to rip it free. I coughed against
the dust from the concrete, snapped a plank of wood, scratched my arm on a nail
and skinned the knuckles on both hands. I pressed my face close to the glass,
right where it met the concrete and looked for any imperfection, any flaw, any
blemish or defect.

I froze, staring,
unbelieving. Shocked.

So shocked that all I
could do was stare at what could possibly be my escape.

A crack in the glass. A
fine fracture in the fortifications of my prison. A splinter of hope in my
cage.

I glanced behind me at the
camera, then above me at the other, then out of the glass at the Chameleon. Her
hands were pressed to the glass, her eyes wide, flicking between me and the
splinter in the glass she couldn’t see.

Now or never, Red.

The thought was like a
faint push in my skull, a pressure that I almost recognized and yet…it slipped
away, and I was left sitting there staring at a Chameleon. Tearing my gaze
away, I started using my claws to scrape away the concrete around the crack,
exposing more of it, gauging the extent of the damage. Occasionally, I stopped
to tap the glass, listening to nuances, then I’d press my face to the cold of
it, peering up and down the tunnel, straining to hear if anyone was coming,
then I’d go back to scraping.

I was frantic. What felt
like hours were only minutes, and that was still too long. Any moment whoever
was watching those cameras would see what I was doing and one of the guards
would come down, gas me, and I’d be moved again. Vulnerable again. I couldn’t
hesitate, think twice, or make sure. It was now or never.

I got to my feet and
looked around. All I saw was carpet, rugs, vanity, bathroom, four-poster bed.

Four-poster bed. Four…
posts. Big posts.

I yanked up my stupid
dress skirts, producing a tear right up to my hip, leaped onto the bed and
started ripping the canopy down from the nearest post. Shoving all the froth
out the way, I pulled back to the opposing corner, glanced at the wide-eyed
Chameleon, and then launched myself at the post.

A loud
crack,
followed
by several splintering crunches, and the post was tipping forward. My feet kept
slipped on the bed sheets and the carvings in the wood bit into my shoulder as
I growled and gritted my teeth and kept on shoving. To avoid falling flat on my
face, I swung down and started yanking, twisting, and wiggling the post until
it finally jerked free, the heavy base clunking to the ground. I dragged it to
the glass, braced my feet, hefted the post like a golf club and declared, “Here
goes nothing,” as I swung it into the glass right above the crack.

The resounding
gong
of the glass was deafening, and the shock of it staggered me, reverberated up
my arms. I gripped the severed post harder, braced my feet again and swung. And
swung. And swung again. My arms began to ache from the rebound, but I kept
swinging. My ears began to bleed from the sound, but I kept swinging. And finally,
a different kind of
crack
rent the air.

A stark white, jagged line
shot through the glass, paused, rent the clear surface again, paused, split.

I was panting, heaving air
into my lungs, watching as iridescent red magic rippled over the glass with
each splintering stretch. The Chameleon had her hands pressed to the glass,
watching in shock and hope as my glass wall fractured. Bolstered, I hefted the
post again and swung higher, aiming for the split.

On impact, a bright white
light sent me flying back onto my ass, crackling in my ears and smelling like
burned hair, and the unmistakable ripping sound of glass spider-webbing apart. I
rolled into the vanity with a grunt, but was on my feet and running back to the
glass a split second later, eyes skimming the shattered glass even as it still
stood.

The broken webbing
exploded outward, the original split camouflaged by the explosion of other
potential shards decorating the glass wall like the patterns of ice. From floor
to ceiling and wall to wall, the shards sparkled and wove and spread like a
jagged web everywhere.

Everywhere, but the door
that Ambrose came and went by.

I cautiously put out my
hand, and momentarily marveled that it went straight though. No red shimmer, so
harsh blood-colored crackle. And then I was in the hall, and staring at the
Chameleon, who was frantically saying words I could not read and banging her
fists on the glass that I could not hear.

Glancing up and down the
hall, I darted over, pressed my hand to the glass where my door had been.

A red ripple. A flash of
heat on my palm.

I jerked back as the glass
dissolved before my eyes, fizzling out like mist, and the Chameleon was in the
hall with me, her bright eyes fierce and her mouth set in a determined line.

“Thank you” she said, with
a regal incline of her head, her voice surprisingly clear when I expected it to
be as husky as Jade’s

“Anytime,” I replied, then
added, “I’m Red.”

She stared at my face. After
a moments silence, she replied, “Lola.”

“I’m going to try and get
everyone out of here, Lola.” I told her straight.

She nodded. “You do that
side, I’ll do this side.” She turned to follow the way the guards had gone.
“There’s a fire escape back that way,” she jerked her thumb over her shoulder,
“but if we let out these ones first—”

“They can run on ahead and
let out the others.” I jogged to the next glass wall. A hulking male form in gray
sweats jumped to his feet, his dark skin and pale eyes striking against the
stainless steel minimalism of his cage. “Good plan.”