Jonas (Darkness #7) (2 page)

“
W
here the hell is Jonas
?” I roared. Panic threatened to overcome me. I stared at the collected group of Watch members all gathered around the large oval table in the strategy room. Stefan and Jameson stood at the head of the room, quietly watching me. Charles stood in the back corner, his eyes grim, his face a mask of rage. Paulie stood at my back, hands at his sides, just watching. He could look terrifying just doing that.

“My family member has been taken. I do not care that he is not blood—he is
mine.
I want him back. What are we doing to find him?” I demanded.

Yes, Stefan was supposed to lead these types of meetings. This was his territory. But when the guy we caught said we shouldn’t be too hard on him, because then his guys would kill Jonas, I’d gone a little berserk.

“We know that they are English. We know that they think shifters are lowly mongrels, and we know they think humans are even worse than that—that captive really does hate humans.” I paced the front of the room. I could get away with not being composed—I was more dangerous in this state of mind and everyone knew it. They also appreciated it, being a warrior race. “This means they will treat humans like you guys used to treat humans. They will use their pheromones, take them as blood donors and playthings, then kill them or just dump them off somewhere. So we are looking for an area steeped in ghost stories. An area where people, especially street people—“ I gave a poignant glance back at Paulie, “will warn others to stay away from. A place that people get picked up, and then turn up a few days later talking about being used for sex and loving it. Something like that. People do not like when days go missing—they’ll tell their friends. People also do not like when someone talks about paranormal activity—those who hear the stories will think the storytellers are nut jobs. All of this will be circling around the town. All we have to do is listen.”

“The problem is, we don’t know which town,” Stefan said in a harsh voice. He did not like that one of his people was in enemy hands. Killing boiled in his dark eyes. “I put in requests immediately after he was taken to speak to the territories around this one. They’ve ignored me so far, however, and if I just show up, they’ll take it as an act of war.”

“Why?” I asked with my hands on my hips.

“Because they know I am outgrowing my post here. I’ve gotten more than a few challenges in my day to break off sections of my already larger-than-most territory. The territory leaders don’t trust me. They know I can gain an even larger territory if I truly desired. They’ll assume I want to carve out a bigger territory, and they will act defensively.”

“God your people are paranoid. And asinine. And no, I don’t need you comparing yourselves to humans—we are, too. I get it.” I turned to Paulie. “That leaves your network of criminals.”

“They’re already on it. I’m working with Tim’s people—he’s got a pretty good network himself,” Paulie answered in his rough gravel. He was new to this life, and the Mansion, and his magic, but he was already an active member of the Watch and extremely useful. His network of street people, all in their own gangs and only moonlighting for him because of the money and because he had no affiliation with anyone, were turning out to be damned useful.

“I’ll get Birdie and her witches to start spreading out,” I said. “They need to make friends with the New Age people in other cities, anyway.”

“It amazes me how useful humans are becoming,” Jameson reflected as he surveyed Paulie and me hashing out a rough plan. “It opens up a whole network of information. Just think if they could all use their magic, too.”

“That’s what Cato is planning,” I muttered. Then snapped my fingers. “Why haven’t I called him?”

“Dominicous is meeting with him in person,” Charles reminded. Charles had lost his sense of humor when we’d realized Jonas had been taken. They didn’t get along all that well, but it was clear that Charles thought of him as a brother. His eyes were grim and his body rigid. Flashes of light gold flared in his tattoos. He was ready to battle.

We all were. Jonas may be widely feared, but he was also widely respected. And he was ours. End of story.

“Oh yeah.” I rubbed my temples. “He and Toa took that English guy and the shifter to Cato. Okay, then let’s get people out there.” I touched everyone with a glare. “Secure our territory, and get the eyes and ears out. He can withstand a lot of pain, as we know, but this is still going to suck for him. We want to get him out of harm’s way as fast as possible.”

I got a chorus of, “Yes, Mage,” before I turned my eyes to the guy that would actually organize things. Stefan caught the glance and imperceptibly nodded. He and Jameson advanced to the map as worry started to fog over me again.

I didn’t have a lot of family, but I’d be damned if the few people I’d come to know and love would be hurt in any way. I couldn’t stand the idea of it. Especially after becoming a mother, I felt the cords of those I held dear as solid things attaching us together. Each second Jonas was missing caused me pangs of fear and pain. I was ready to storm the walls of hell to get him back.

I just needed to find the location of those walls.

“
W
ell
, how are we today?”

Jonas came out of his bored stupor as the door clunked shut. He lifted his head as something rattled behind him. He didn’t bother to turn. He simply waited for the click-click of high heels to faux-saunter in front of him.

This was the fourth time in two days he’d seen this female. She always wore a leather corset, and she always tried to lather him with sex seconds after she walked in. She hated it, though; Jonas could tell. She hated every bit of that stupid act. It was in the way her eyebrows furrowed when he showed arousal. In the relief when he showed disinterest. In the rigidity of her body when he looked down at his hard-on, then pointedly looked back at her. And, most importantly, in the aggression of her whipping after the hard-on incident—which was actually quite fun.

She wasn’t the only torturer in this room. She wasn’t the only one trying to glean information. But she was the only one who kept losing control of her emotions. It didn’t happen often, or for long periods of time, but he was chafing her emotions whereas she was just making him bleed. She didn’t have the upper hand, and therefore, she didn’t have the power.

He could tell it was starting to frustrate her. Obviously most men didn’t react the way he did. And her bosses could not have been pleased.

“Not even going to have a pleasant conversation?” she asked as she stopped in front of him. Stress lines gathered around the corners of her eyes. Suppressed emotion tugged down the edges of her lips.

Oh no, the bosses couldn’t have been pleased. He hadn’t uttered one word, or even one grunt, since he woke up in this place. If they wanted vital information, they picked up the wrong male.

The beautiful female waved a leather flaying device. The ends, coated in metal spikes, tinkled as they rubbed against each other. She was getting serious, thank the gods. It had taken long enough.

“Do you know what this is?” she asked in that naturally soft, sultry voice. The deeper feminine tones gave him a shiver. “This is my coercer. I can do more damage with a whip, but it’ll peel away all your skin. We’ll save that for when I don’t need you anymore. Can’t have you unconscious so early in the game, can we?”

She stepped forward with a hard swing. The splash of leather tipped with metal raked across his sensitive chest. The pain clawed at him.

Oh yeah, he’d feel this one.

He turned his gaze to the far wall, fixed it, and got ready to settle into the pain.

“Just tell me your name. That’s all I want—the name of a handsome man. What is your name?”

After a silent pause, the rake of pain once again descended. He felt blood well up and overflow from a handful of wounds.

“What is your name?” she purred.

The rake of pain turned from claws into knives. They slashed into his chest and zinged through his body. Lava erupted from his skin and spread across his chest. Blood oozed from stinging gashes. A red haze clouded his vision.

Now we’re getting somewhere.

He let his muscles relax totally. Let his awareness seep into the pain.

“What is your name?” she purred again.

He held onto that erotic voice as the next wave of agony washed through him. He sank down into it. Let it consume him.

Another hum of that beautiful voice. Another scrape of cruelty.

The tide pulled him under. He soaked it up and let it blend with his memories. Each slap of steel took the bite away from his memories. Transferred the pain from his past to his physical body. Let him feel the anguish externally so it would then fade away; the suffering of his memories would fade with it. At least for a while.

Steel slashed into his skin. Images of his mother leaving him wafted up. Of hearing her call him a worthless runt and walking out the door. She hadn’t even secured a mate to take care of him. Or given him to anyone. She’d just walked out that door and never come back.

“What is your name?” the voice cooed. As soft and sweet as a dove.

The scour of torture was as biting and deep as an electric shock.

A male took him in, even though Jonas was small and scrawny for his age. Even though his mother had been low in power. Even though no one thought he’d amount to much. That male took him in and called him son. Gave Jonas a father. Gave him another family.

The bite of metal didn’t erase the echoing pain from hearing his father had fallen because of that demon. The blood oozing down his chest didn’t detract from the internal suffering of
knowing
he could’ve helped. He could’ve sacrificed himself for his father, if nothing else. He could’ve shown his father he was worth something. That he could grow up to be someone his father would be proud of. He could’ve mattered to someone.

He’d lost another family member. He should’ve been able to help.

Another burst of pain welled up, but this time inside of him. Jonas growled with it, fighting. The sear on his skin gave him something to latch onto. Gave him a place to direct the anguish. He attached his inner turmoil to the tears across his skin. To the pain infusing his body. To the misery that would heal with time.

“What is your name?”

That exotic voice hypnotized him. It sounded American, but there was a lilt to it. Almost as if she had a slight accent she didn’t always use.

“What is your name? Tell me your name and this will all stop. Just your name. That won’t betray anyone.”

The silence rang in his ears. Crying welled up from deep in his memories. His sobs from his childhood. The kids taunting him. Picking on the weakest. The lowest in magic. The scrawny nobody whose own mother didn’t want him.

You’re no better than a human!

Look at the freak!

His arms are the size of a human’s!

Was your real father a human? Is that why you can’t do magic?

What are they going to do with you? You can’t even work a sword.

Jonas welcomed the next flash of pain. And the next. He gritted his teeth, squinted his eyes shut, and owned it. Owned the pain. Owned his past.

He had gotten a growth spurt. He’d packed on forty pounds of muscle in one year. When he was in his last year at school, he got a heaping of strength, power and magic. All at once. And because he’d never given up, and had worked hard every day in his father’s memory, to show he was worthy of being adopted by such a great male, he was suddenly the best in the class. And because of his classmates’ constant taunts, he was also the meanest.

The meanest, most vicious fighter in that whole damn school.

Until he’d met Stefan. And Jameson. They were a year ahead, had recently graduated, and just as mean. Just as tough. And just as wild. Jonas didn’t know what battles they’d had, but within the three of them, each found a kindred spirit. And they’d fought their way to the top. They’d shut everyone up and then kept them silenced.

Jonas ate up the pain in his aching body. He conquered it. And then internalized it once more. He wasn’t a weak little bitch, anymore. He didn’t take shit. He wasn’t afraid of pain.

Jonas opened his blazing eyes and found the female staring down at him with wide eyes and an open mouth. He knew what she saw. A male kneeling on the floor with his hands tied behind his back looking as patient as if he were waiting at a bus stop. Even though blood ran down his chest, he showed no visible signs of pain. In fact, he bet he looked as tranquil as Sasha’s beautiful babies after they’d been fed.

Her gaze slipped down to his crotch.

Oh yeah, and he was mightily turned on. This wasn’t the feigned arousal like he’d worked up before to test her. This was a rock-hard erection that needed a beautiful female to sit in his lap. To take this triumph over his past and turn it into shared pleasure.

He locked eyes with her and begged her to touch him. To share this moment with him. To show him an act of love to further erase the pain.

Her eyebrows dipped low in confusion. She didn’t look away, but uncertainty had snuck into her gaze. Wariness mixed with curiosity. That shadow was back in her blue eyes. “That’ll be all for today. I’ll send someone in to clean you up.”

Jonas followed her with his gaze as she hurried to the back wall and hastily hung up her tool. She ripped the door open and was out a moment later.

The torturee had unsettled the torturer. It probably wasn’t her best day.

Jonas rolled his shoulders. He felt good. Really good. When she got going, she was dynamite with her tools. When she really let loose, so did he. He liked it.

He’d finally found what he’d always been looking for—just his luck she was the enemy.

E
mmy paused
with a splayed hand against the heavy wooden door. Her body trembled from top to bottom. That wasn’t normal. What she’d just witnessed wasn’t something that graced her inner chambers. Men with that much raw courage and confidence usually died in battle. They were rarely taken. And when they were, they just dealt with it in silence. They buckled down, clenched their teeth, and waited to die.

This man didn’t wait to die. He welcomed the pain. He welcomed torture, almost as if it was a cure for something even worse that held him prisoner.

What sort of people did he come from that the level and precision of pain she could inflict aroused him?

The sort within these walls. The sort I report to.

Emmy straightened up and lifted her chin. She adjusted the too-tight corset and tried to suck in a steadying breath. The clothing was terribly uncomfortable and the tights belonged with a Halloween costume. She could fathom nothing sexy about her outfit.

Yet it usually did the trick. Turned men on right before she rained down the blows. Rage, arousal, powerlessness, loss of control—it was usually a recipe for near-immediate submission among males. Their egos couldn’t handle the whiplash and they usually broke down in a matter of days.

Emmy smoothed out her corset and walked straight ahead. She had to mix it up. She had to analyze her subject and find his weaknesses. He wasn’t like most, fine. But he was still a living creature. And all living creatures had self-destruct buttons. She would not let her perfect record be overturned by this man. That was not acceptable.

She walked through the lower tunnels with a whirling mind. At the steps leading to the ground floor, she nodded to a guard and ignored the sneer she got back. She waited for the door to be completely opened before walking through, paying no attention to his roaming eyes.

She really did hate this outfit.

Walking through the busy ground floor, she kept her eyes straight ahead and her body to the side. Even still, she saw passers-by swerve minutely so their larger bodies could bump and jostle her. She scraped the wall on more than one occasion, but didn’t slow. To show weakness meant to get treated as weak. And though she didn’t have a whip on her at the moment, if anyone challenged, she’d get one, and then beat them back. Whips were longer than swords. And she was damn good with them.

She’d proven that in this place.

She climbed the next set of stairs, continued down the corridor and finally turned into the sanctuary of her own room. Her sigh of relief was cut short. Sitting in the corner at her desk was the fair-headed Nathanial. When he heard the door open he stood with utter grace and fluidity.

Her hand twitched, missing the solidity of the whip in her hand. With that thought, she glanced at the far wall and found it there, hanging where she’d left it.

“Be at ease. You shall not need to defend yourself.” He walked toward her in slow, even steps. A condescending smile tweaked his lips. “Yet.”

“Yes, sir.” She stared at the far wall as his body came within inches of hers. His breath fell across her face. Cold fingertips trailed across her cleavage.

Her body tightened up, but she did not flinch. She did not try to shake away the crawling sensation of those disgusting fingers. Instead, she kept looking straight ahead at that wall. Waiting for it to stop. Waiting for him to go away. Or waiting to make herself numb if he chose to progress his touch.

“You no longer recoil from me.” He took his hand away and sauntered toward the whip. He caressed it. “You are learning.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you make any strides with our captive?” His tone was light. Mocking.

“I took to him with three times the pain. Most men would’ve passed out. He smiled. He is not like most men that come through here. I need to come up with a different strategy for breaking him.”

Nathanial turned to regard her slowly. His short-cropped blond hair framed a stony but handsome face. His eyes, which could be mistaken for beautiful with their sunburst of color, burned with a cold viciousness she’d seldom seen in another. He was a ruthless killer with absolutely no regard for life and less regard for humans. He’d smile at his oldest friend and then stab a knife in his gut.

That had happened when Nathanial had learned his favorite spy was taken by a mere human. And this right after his pet dog—a shifter—had been killed.

“Have you received
any
information?” Nathanial asked in a soft voice.

The small hairs along Emmy’s arms rose. “Not yet. Like I said, he is—“

He moved with incredible speed. Before she could flinch away, his fist smashed across her cheek. Her head whipped to the side and her body followed, crumpling to the ground. She knew better than to get up.

“I did not ask for excuses,” he said in the same soft voice. “I need results. We cannot get close to their encampment. Their dogs smell us and their mage has been able to unravel all of our most intricate spells of illusion—”

“The human?” Emmy asked with a sneer despite herself.

His foot cracked into her ribs with unreal force. Pain blistered along her side. Her breath came out in fast pants as she struggled with the tide of pain.

“Get results, or I will let you become a blood source again.”

“No,” she wheezed. “I’m only
half
human. The rules are that you cannot enslave your own kind!”

“Your human side negates any ties to us. Your mother was a fool for allowing you to be raised among our kind. It has put silly ideas in your head.” He stepped closer and leaned over her. “Get answers. Or I will start taking you again before I pass you around.”

Emmy couldn’t help the shuddering breath as the door closed a moment later. She thought of running. She was in America, now. She had an American passport for the human world—her father had made sure of it. She could escape and blend in here. Start a life as a human.

Her mind drifted back to the last time she’d tried to run. She’d made it to France. To the airport. And then someone had grabbed her from behind and dragged her into a corner. They’d beat her bloody, drained her of blood nearly to death, and carted her back to Nathanial. To her master.

He hated her. He had stopped using her sexually, but he never let go of his pets. Never.

At least she was off limits to everyone else.

Tears drowned her eyes before overflowing down her cheeks. She had to get information out of that man. It was time to up the stakes again.

T
he next morning
Emmy opened the heavy door with grim resolution. She walked in with her usual calm indifference and selected the heavy whip from the back of the rack. She let the cool leather slide through her hand and then fall to the floor. The soft sound had the man glancing back. His gaze touched her weapon of choice before he turned back. She thought she heard a huff of derision.

I realize I didn’t hurt you with the other whip. I won’t make the same mistake this time.

His large broad back showed the welts and wounds from yesterday. They scored his back in angry red marks. Crossing to his front, to stand directly in front of him, she looked down at his defined chest. It had the same welts and wounds, already starting to heal. He was a large, robust man with heavy cords of muscle. He knelt as he had for the last three days and didn’t complain once. He didn’t shift. He didn’t try to get more blood to his legs. He endured.

This was a man who endured.

His gaze rose to meet hers, unflinchingly. Strength and power burned in his eyes. Also a knowledge in himself and a viciousness that made her knees weaken and her hand tighten on her whip. He’d be trouble if he challenged her. She’d fight him as best she could, but if he were free, she didn’t have much faith she’d be left alive. He’d charge through the slices of her whip and break her neck. It’d be over in moments.

“I need answers.” Her voice sounded unnaturally loud in the drafty space.

His gaze traveled over her face and lingered on the blue and purple bruise covering her eye and cheek. It drifted down her body next, but not sexually. He noticed her stance and posture before his eyes glued to her side. To where Nathanial had kicked her and cracked a rib. Thank the gods she got her mother’s fast healing or she wouldn’t have been able to complete their session today.

“I’ve mostly taken it easy on you. But you are out of time. I will accept your name first, of course. Do you wish to give it?”

That burning gaze locked with hers for a moment. It delved into her with raw force. And then turned away toward the wall. Waiting for what came next.

So she gave it. Hard. With all her experience, and all her knowledge, she railed on him with one hit after the other. The crack of the whip cut through the air. Slices opened up on his body. Blood started oozing from his wounds.

“Name,” she demanded.

He stared straight ahead.

She hit him harder. Slashed at him. Tore his skin.

His face went pale. The muscles on his substantial body flexed. When she switched to his back, she could see his arms straining. Even his feet were flexed against the pain.

“Give me your name, and you can end this,” she said between slashes.

She walked to his front, again. His gaze swiveled up to hers. Defiance etched his every feature.

“You force my hand,” she whispered.

He held her eyes this time. She flicked her whip with a practiced hand. An experienced hand. The tip ripped away flesh. Flayed him. Stripped him of flesh piece by piece.

Most men would’ve passed out by now.

She gave him another. And another.

His eyes started to dull. The fire within them doused. A shadow crossed over his features and his shoulders sagged. It wasn’t the pain that was doing this, though. His mind was dwelling on something. Something in his life, or his past, was taking his attention. He’d done the same thing yesterday—he’d battled some sort of inner turmoil.

She kept at it, harder now. The memory of Nathanial’s forced touches bled into her consciousness. The degradation of being passed around to random people and exposing her vein ate away her thoughts.

She hit him even harder as tears worked their way up. He
had
to submit to her. He had to give her
something.
She couldn’t take going back to that life. Not again. She’d climbed out of there. She’d made herself their torturer. She’d earned her independence!

“Give me your name!” she seethed.

A lost look washed over the man’s features. A haunted, broken look entered his eyes. With the next strip of the whip his lips curved downward, but his body didn’t slump. He was fighting it. Fighting whatever hurt more than this whip. Whatever ate him from the inside out.

Damned if she didn’t know that from experience.

Without meaning to, her punishment eased. Seeing his features, his dejected loss, his battle with something only he knew, sent shivers through her. Reminded her of what she faced on a daily basis. Of the expressions she so often saw in the mirror when she held the razor blade and dared herself to cut her artery.

In the next instant, it all cleared. His inner-battle ended. His eyes snapped open with wild hunger. The hard light of triumph burned deeply. His whole body straightened and flexed. A huge display of muscle rolled and moved. His large manhood sprang upwards, tenting his sweats. His eyes delved into hers again with an invitation.

No, not an invitation. An appeal to share in this moment. To join with him.

And then it occurred to her. Like a flash of awareness, she finally
saw.

She couldn’t break someone that was already broken. That had been done for her. And while he could triumph over the pain, he hadn’t been able to build himself back up. His experiences had broken him, but no one had reshaped him into a whole being again.

She’d been wasting her time. She needed to move to the next step: compassion. She needed to treat him like she’d already torn him down, and now make him into what she needed. Her slave.

But how did she move on to the next step without an open line of communication? Usually she’d gotten answers before she tore the men down. She could then build on those answers when she reshaped them. How could she reshape when she wasn’t the one who broke him?

Kindness? Honesty?

“I’m not really sure what to do with you,” she started. She hung up her whip and bent to the bowl of water and sponge in the corner. A moan slipped out as her rib screamed in pain. She straightened up with effort and took a moment to collect herself before taking a few steps and kneeling carefully at his back.

“You are not responding as you should.” She gently laid the sponge against his back. He flinched, but didn’t try to twist away. Slowly and methodically, she began to clean him up. “I’m going to have to try some new techniques before they try and pry you open with magic. They know, though, that magic tends to kill eight times out of ten. You could probably withstand it, but it is a terrible way to get information. The subjects are incoherent afterwards. It’s usually used for punishment or their horrible amusements.”

She straightened up again, desperately trying to ignore the throbbing pain in her side. She crossed in front of him and kneeled. Her eyes found his, and paused. He looked back with an assessing type of stare. Trying to figure her out, maybe? Trying to figure out why she suddenly changed tactics?

She leaned forward a small bit, waiting for him to spit at her. Or try to bite her. Or head butt her. Really any number of defense mechanisms men resorted to after extreme doses of pain from someone they originally wanted to have sex with.

Nothing came. Just that beautiful, tranquil stare of a man who had confronted his demons and came out on top. It was commendable, but she bet his demons were ghosts. She had those, too. They gave her nightmares. But the real demons in her life weren’t dead and buried. They haunted her in the flesh. And parceled her out as food for punishment. And beat her when she didn’t live up to impossible expectations.

Yeah, let him try to triumph over her demons.
Then we’d see if you’re as tough as you think you are.