EIGHT

Magister Chase is making rounds today!” the shifter next door whispered urgently.

Regin rolled her eyes. “Oh, quick, lemme check my hair.” Directly beside their cell’s glass panel, she lay on her back with her legs stretched up against the metal wall, her arms folded behind her head. Whatever was the opposite of checking her hair, that was what she’d be doing.

From the bottom bunk, Natalya yawned, waking from a nap. In the back of the cell, Roomie Number Three banged his head against the wall. Or at least, against the wadded up jacket Natalya had jammed there.

Wham … wham … wham …

And so goes week one in the House of Horrors. From her spot on the floor, Regin watched the procession of evil researchers and guards going about their daily evil business.

Warden Fegley, the bane of their existence, had only made the first of his thrice daily rounds. The self-important troll loved to taunt immortals, egging them on to violence, then laughing when security gassed their cells.

And now Chase was making an appearance. Goody.

“Still working out your escape plan?” Natalya asked. “There is a time element here, Valkyrie. I’m up for an examination soon. And you’ll likely go before me since you were a high-priority capture.”

Examination was a euphemism for vivisection. Where the subject was dissected while conscious. So far, they’d seen two victims brought by, their eyes glazed over, their chests carved open and held together with staples, like a flesh zipper.

Natalya had told her, “I heard that you experience pain like you’ve never known. They slice nerves or pluck at them just to see how you tick. You’re awake when they crack open your chest to get at your heart. Afterward, they wire your ribs back together.”

Unfortunately, Regin didn’t have an escape plan yet. The only thing she knew for certain? The more she learned about Declan Chase, the more she wanted to take him out.

He truly was in charge of this entire hateful facility. All operations—from the experimentations to the torturous interrogations—were under his iron-fisted control. He himself was supposed to be a master at torture.

She studied her claws. Just thinking about the Blademan made them straighten and sharpen with aggression. For Aidan, they’d curled, aching to clutch his body close to hers.

“Care to crowd-source your plan?” Natalya asked. “Garner feedback? I actually have some experience with escapes.”

“I’ll let you know.” Regin did have that one ace in the hole. Chase would soon be dead if he remembered her. But, hell, she could be vivisected or executed before he ever did.

Regin had begun to see why some of the prisoners were going crazy in here. Their third roomie wasn’t the only prisoner who banged his head against the wall. Time passed at an agonizingly slow pace. With no shower available, she’d been eyeing the sink for a whore’s bath. Her side had fully healed, but her clothes were stiff with dried blood.

Each second, Regin’s anger toward Chase escalated, her temper redlining toward DEFCON REGIN.

In the old language, Natalya said, “I recalled something I’d heard about you. Aren’t you supposed to have a kiss that drugs men?”

“So everyone says.” Regin didn’t actually … know. Aidan had sworn her lips were like a drug. And with each reincarnation, her kiss had triggered his memories. As soon as their lips touched, his past assailed him.

But the “drugging kiss” rep sounded cool, so Regin had run with it.

Natalya said, “You could kiss Fegley or Chase, then command him to free us!”

What was so bad? They were equally unappealing.

Regin’s ears twitched. “Speak of one of the devils.” Fegley’s cheap orthopedic lifts were squeaking closer.

When the warden appeared outside their cell, he ogled Regin’s bared midriff. Gross. Whenever men leered at her, Regin tended to leer back. She canted her head on the floor, turning it one way, then the other. “I finally understand what a dickie-do is. Your gut does stick out more than your dickie do.”

Natalya guffawed, slapping a hand over her mouth.

His beady eyes slitted, and he walloped his nightstick against the glass directly beside Regin’s head. Which made Roomie Number Three’s tempo speed up. She clenched her teeth, wrestling with her temper.

“Your time’s running out, Valkyrie.” Fegley gave another wallop before he squeaked off.

Regin narrowed her eyes, watching him till he was out of sight. “One day I’m going to make that little piggy cry all the way home.” With a sigh, she rose and crossed to the boy.

The only thing that broke up this prison monotony was studying their curious fellow inmate, trying to pinpoint what species he belonged to. So far, she’d determined only three things about him.

Since he didn’t fit a single species’ traits definitively, he must be a hybrid or halfling of some sort.

His gray athletic T-shirt indicated that he played football for the Harley High Tigers.

And he sure was cute.

He was over six feet tall, his build corded with muscle. His eyes were hazel with blue flecks, his brown hair thick and tousled.

The first time Regin had awkwardly patted his banging head to calm him, the fey had raised her brows. To which Regin had eloquently replied, “Oh, eat me.”

That night Natalya had wiped the blood from his hair, then covered him with her jacket when he’d slept. After that, the two of them had started to view him as kind of a pet rock, almost like they were the de facto guardians of their very own sea monkey.

Kneeling before him, Regin murmured, “Don’t let that Fegley worm get to you.” Still staring ahead, the kid slowed his banging. “There’s a good … male of indeterminate species.” Over her shoulder, Regin said, “We’ve got to come up with a name for him.”

“Why don’t we call him Tiger?” Natalya suggested.

“For his football team? Good idea.”

“Not quite.” At Regin’s quirked brow, Natalya admitted, “He has a trouser tiger. A waistband topper. He might have no other bodily functions, but last night when he slept, he must’ve been dreaming really hard about cheerleaders.”

“Nuh-uh.”

Natalya raised her right hand. “Hand to goddess.”

“Speaking of big cats. Cougar, he’s a zygote.”

“Can I help if I notice him? I haven’t been around available males in eons.”

“How’s that?”

“I was taken hostage at the Battle of Seven Hills.”

Regin snapped her fingers. “I remember now.” She’d been pissed to miss that epic conflict between the fey and the centaurs. Nothing hurt Regin’s feelings like not being invited to war. “We’d heard you died there.”

Natalya shook her head. “Good old King Volós planned to ransom me, but failed to realize that I was ignoble and no one would pay. It took me a decade to escape.”

“How’d you do it?”

“His nephew—and royal heir—took me out of my cell to make me his concubine. I acted receptive, right up until I ganked him with my poisonous claws, then decapitated him.” Natalya said this dispassionately, but her eyes flickered. Normally her irises were the color of plums, but with emotion, veins of black forked out. “At last I’d escaped. Then less than a week later, I was captured by these wanks. Your takeaway from this story: I need to get laid.” She cast a keen glance at the kid.

“He’s like six hundred years younger than you are.” Regin pointed a finger at the ceiling and declared, “I refuse to be the moral compass of our cell! Most weekends I have an intoxispell bong attached to my mouth like a respirator. I love scatological humor, and I list ‘pranks involving nuclear waste’ and ‘making demons eat things’ as my hobbies.” Hubcaps, fire extinguishers, pizza boxes. Though she was friends with many of the demon species, she made the rest of them suffer.

“Valkyrie, if there was ever a cradle to be robbed … Gods, just look at him.”

Admittedly sigh-worthy. But Regin merely shrugged. “What are you going to do with him if he wakes? Make porn for the security cameras while I plug my ears and drone la-la-la? Besides, he’s not fully immortal yet. You claw him and he’s dead.”

Natalya glared at her claws.

“Face it, Nat, this is one tiger who will never be jumping through your flaming hoop—”

Regin caught the sound of Chase’s nearing footsteps. She recognized his long-legged stride, the echo of his heavy combat boots. “Here comes the Blademan. …”