Green-Eyed Envy (35 page)

Voices shouted until they recognized me and saw Trinity’s unmoving form in my arms. Kale and Mahina rushed into action, clearing the room’s only sofa so I could set her down carefully. Cass gave me a wide-eyed look from in front of the bank of video screens he’d been observing—all showing scenes from inside the ceremony site and right outside it in the hallway.
Not
outside this room, where Trinity and Scott had been attacked. The guilty realization washing over his face nearly did me in, but I choked back useless emotion by embracing pure, unadulterated Rage. This bastard would
not
get away with this. He’d already stolen so much from me. I would
not
let him steal Scott, too.

I lost precious moments giving my team a quick run-down and issuing commands for them to pass on to Mac, Ellie, and the other Shadowhounds, but it
had
to be done.

“Get Kiara in here to tend to Trinity stat. And whatever you do, say
nothing
to the members of Alabastros. That bastard hired them so I do
not
trust them one little bit.”

I was heartbeats from racing after Scott alone—stupid, but hey, arcanes go a little batshit insane when their mates are in dire peril. And as much as it sometimes scared me to admit, that’s exactly what Scott was to me: my mate. Unresolved issues and all.

Fortunately, though, the gods saved me from myself. “R-Riss?”

“Oh, gods, Trin?”

I hurried back across the room and crouched next to her. She was struggling to sit up, confusion on her face warring with determination. Kale and Mahina hovered nearby like mother hens, but I wouldn’t let them come between us. Not until I assured myself she was okay. And she was. Either Vic had hit her with a lower dose than usual, or his drugs
did
have a lesser effect on mortals.

“I’m sorry, Riss, I tried to stop him b-but he took Scott out first and he was just so—so strong. And I thought he was Mac at first. So stupid.”

My heart broke a little. “Not stupid at all, Trin. He fooled me, too.
I
should have known—but no. No time for that now. Did he say anything?”

She shook her head to clear it, but at first I thought she was shaking it
no
and my spirits plummeted even lower until she spoke again. “He said—to tell you he knows,
querida
, and that . . . ” She gave a shuddering breath and motioned me closer as if she physically couldn’t speak loudly. When I had my ear next to her mouth, she whispered so only I could hear. “He wants you to come alone or he’ll kill Scott. Said he’d leave directions with the spider—I assume
my
Spyder—and you have an hour from now.”

My mouth dropped open. Luckily the others couldn’t see. I moved to whisper into her ear, “Thank you for trusting me to do this alone.”

She gave me a fierce look. “I trust you to kick the
shit
out of that jackass, all right, but I’m no idiot. You get a ten-minute head start and then we’re coming after you.” She rained on my smug parade by one simple whispered, “ GPS.”

So they’d be breathing down my neck not long after I went breathing down Vic’s. Still, she was giving me a precious gift. The chance to save Scott. And a chance was all I needed.

 

 

I FELT A LITTLE GUILTY FOR SNEAKING OUT amid the chaos of Kiara showing up to check on Trinity, but Vic left me little choice. The clock was ticking, had started ticking when Trinity delivered Vic’s message and we’d called for Kiara over the headset. No doubt he’d listened in on Scott’s receiver and started the countdown. I checked the timer on my cell as I raced to the parking garage. T-minus 56 minutes and counting; 55 by the time I made it to the floor where she’d parked the Spyder. Nothing could have looked more beautiful in that moment than the electric-blue sports car waiting for me—except Scott himself.

Trinity would have winced to find her door unlocked, but I flung it open and hopped inside, expecting to find a note waiting from Vic the Slick and finding none. Panic flared until I remembered Trinity’s last word to me and glanced at the GPS panel. Sure enough, the screen was on and directions had been preset into the machine. The keys had also been conveniently left in the ignition for me.
What would we have done if some jackass stole the car before I got to it?
I waved that worry aside, buckled my seat belt, and revved the engine. Time to channel my inner Scott and pray I could drive fast enough to get the slightest edge on his captor.

I OFTEN MOCKED SCOTT AND TRINITY FOR their fancy sports cars, but I had cause to be grateful for the sleek machine that responded to my every demand for higher speeds and tighter turns. My thoughts bounced from worrying what Scott was enduring to brainstorming—and discarding—a dozen different plans of attack. Of course, not knowing exactly where the GPS coordinates were leading me made that harder. Did Vic have a safe house of his own he used for torturing and murdering? Was he worried (rightfully so) that I would kill him outright if I could and heading somewhere public in the hopes that would somehow keep him safer? Would he offer up Scott in exchange for taking me hostage instead, or had he killed him alrea—

No! Don’t think like that. He’s
not
going to give up the only bargaining chip he has.

That thought turned my mind to another consideration. What exactly was Vic hoping to bargain
for
? He had to know I couldn’t just let him go, not after everything he’d done. Not even if I wanted to—which I damned well didn’t. Did he just want revenge for his being “duped” into falling for someone who didn’t exist? If so, why had he called me
querida
both to my face and via Trinity? Surely he couldn’t
possibly
think there was still hope for us as a couple. That was absolutely insane.

Oh right, so was he.

My skin tingled as I crossed over the magical barrier separating the mundane world from the arcane Underbelly. After a few more silent moments, I glanced back to the GPS and slammed down on the brake pedal. The green dot marking my position on the map nearly matched up completely with the blinking red dot I’d been tracking for the past twenty minutes. My gaze flew up and caught sight of an oversized abandoned warehouse looming just a block ahead. Well, abandoned-
looking
. I knew there were at least two people inside for sure.

Once free of the vehicle’s confining space, I shifted from partial Fury form to full, relishing the feel of the night wind teasing my wing feathers and smiling at the dual sense of pleasure radiating from Nemesis and Nike. This
was
what I’d been born for. To take flight and hunt down those who used magic to hurt others, who thought that being born with arcane genes made them somehow above the law and able to do whatever they wanted. They thought wrong.
No one
was above the law, not even the gods themselves, and my job—my calling—was to prove just that point.

I summoned magic and launched myself into the air. My wings snapped back loudly before beating furiously until magic and physics reached an agreement and my body shot upward. Seconds later I hovered over the warehouse, enhanced Fury vision poring over the building as I pondered the optimal point of entry. One thing caught my attention: a large, dark-colored van parked at the rear of the building next to Scott’s flashy Ferrari. The van looked familiar but at first, I couldn’t place it.
The second vehicle you saw in Victor’s garage!
Aha, well, that explained how he transported the drugged-up Cats from one place to another.

I turned my attention back to finding the best place to enter the warehouse.
There. A broken window on the second floor. He’ll expect you to come through one of the floor entrances or the rooftop door.
And I
so
hated to do the expected.

My hand had just settled on the windowsill when muffled voices reached my ears. I stiffened, straining to hear where in the warehouse they were coming from. Sounded like they were on a lower floor, which meant I could swing myself over the windowsill and land on the dirt-covered concrete floor without too much worry. I crept down the empty hallway, eyes searching the dimness for a door or flight of stairs to check. I began to think I would have to circle back and try another entrance when the hallway ended abruptly at the head of a steep metal staircase spiraling downward. The staircase looked like it would squeal the instant I stepped on it so I hesitated. But then muffled voices became loud groans and the sound of flesh hitting flesh and instinct kicked in. I tried to think
thin
as I eased onto the staircase, which did let out a creak, but much quieter than I’d anticipated. Then again, the beating and groans had picked up in volume, masking what little noise I made. Once I realized that, I all but flew down the stairs.

I kept my eyes and ears cracked open, looking and listening for signs that Vic
had
hired new thugs to replace the old, but so far, so good. Of course, no sooner did that thought strike me than groans morphed into wordless shouts of pain, and my adrenaline surged. I darted through the darkness and neared a doorway that had to be where the noise came from. I counted to three inwardly and prepared to kick the door open. Gods, what was he
doing
to make Scott scream like that? Warhounds could take pain even better than Furies did and—

Wait, that’s not Scott’s voice.
I tried to pull back, but my boot connected with the door before I could.
Crack!
The door swung open and eerie black-and-white light spilled over me, coming from a row of surveillance monitors set into the tiny room’s far wall. Each screen revealed the same sinister image: a Cat being systematically tortured by a blurry image clothed all in blood-drenched black.

My gag reflex kicked into gear but I choked it down.
It’s a Cat, it’s not Scott, it’s a Cat, it’s not Scott.
I mentally chanted the words as if they were a charm that could protect him, protect us both, and prepared to back out of the room without disturbing anything. My initial instinct had been to shut off the graphic video, but that might alert Vic to the fact I was already here, ruining the one and only advantage at my disposal. So, much as it made my blood boil, I turned my back on the sadistic recording and closed the door behind me.

Once the door closed and the screams faded somewhat, I realized I’d been hearing two beatings in tandem: the brutal one behind me, and a slower, more systematic beating in another part of the warehouse. The low, choked sounds made by the victim were hard to hear, but I could just make them out by channeling a tendril of Rage and amping up my hearing. My heart sank when I recognized the voice as Scott’s. He wouldn’t give Vic the satisfaction of screaming or begging—not
my
Hound—but his low volume also made it harder for me to track him. Foot by agonizingly slow foot I explored the cavernous space, growing increasingly more chilled until finally,
finally
, I knew I’d reached my goal. A huge door stood in front of me, with the words
Cauti n: Fre zer Conta nment
etched out in peeling paint. Scott’s voice gave another low grunt of pain and Rage stirred.
Enough of this!

Enough indeed. I channeled Rage into every inch of my body, gasping softly at the combined pleasure and pain while Nemesis and Nike hissed in counterpoint, hoping that by riding the edge of Rage, I could resist any attempts Vic made to drug me. Or at least, resist long enough to do what needed doing. Rage boiled through my flesh and blood, burning hot enough I feared losing control entirely.

The cool, tempting bliss of Stacia’s
Calm
beckoned, but I fought back the urge to embrace it. I’d nearly given in to her plan for me to use the
Calm
but had found the strength to resist its siren call. The
Calm
was a metaphysical state Stacia claimed only the strongest and most self-assured Furies could reach, and had been her trick to switching back and forth from Fury state to Harpy, and back again—without murdering her Amphisbaena the way all Turned Furies, all save her, did. It could also help me control enough Rage to counteract
any
drug Vic could use against me, if I just . . . No!

Scott gave yet another groan, which helped me ground myself in reality, grab hold of the freezer unit’s heavy iron bar of a knob, and force it open. I half jumped, half flew through the doorway, flesh prickling with instant goose bumps as the temperature cooled by several dozen degrees, and came upon a scene straight from some twisted horror movie.

Scott dangled from spell-worked silver chains suspended from the ceiling, clothes already shredded and blood dripping from several cuts and open wounds. A large metal cart—the kind you would find in a hospital’s surgical ward—gleamed in harsh overhead lighting, as did the surgical tools resting along its trays. Several of
those
glittered more dully than others because dark red flecks covered them. Blood. The blood of dead, innocent men.

The blood of
my
living, equally innocent man concerned me far more. Vic had made use of his abbreviated head start, judging by Scott’s condition, though my heart lifted when I realized nothing major had been broken or injured. All of Scott’s wounds seemed to be superficial.
Thank the gods!
My attention was captured by a second metal tray on the other side of Scott, this one filled with ceramic pots bearing all sorts of plants and flowers. Including one that bore big, beautiful red roses that looked all too familiar. Next to it I saw another plant I knew all too well: the hybrid catnip used in each of the murders. I catalogued all of this in a heartbeat before zeroing my gaze in on my target: Victor Esteban, clad in the getup Meritton had earlier described, including the gloves slitted to display vicious claws and the amber yellow eyes of a Hound. That threw me for a loop since I’d seen him with the typical slanted Cat’s eyes before, but then I realized his trick.
Contact lenses. No wonder Meritton thought his attacker might have been a Hound. Bet he originally wanted to frame Penn for all this.