Spellbinder
Page 10
In Great Britain, there had to be any number of Elder Races, demesnes, and their individual rulers, but Sidonie only knew of one Light Fae Queen—Queen Isabeau of the Light Court.
While the thoughts raced through her mind, she waited for the Light Fae leader to denounce offering a human being as tribute for anything.
Instead, the male said impatiently, “What’s this? The troll clan has already offered its tribute. We received the shipment this morning.”
Wait, what? No denouncement? This was utter insanity. Nobody offered a thinking, living being as tribute, at least not in modern society as she knew it. Outraged fury pounded under her skin, and she chewed on her gag as furious words piled into rocket launchers in her head, readying for ignition.
The troll rumbled, “We was gonna add this ’un in, but we got her late. Plays music real good.”
“And now, thanks to your bumbling, she’s seen this encampment. But she’s a musician, you say?” The Light Fae male looked down at her and heaved a sigh. “Oh, very well. Next time keep your tributes to items that are easier to transport.” As he turned away, he ordered one of his men, “Put her in a holding cell until we’re ready to leave.”
One of the men hauled her to her feet. The fake troll gave Sidonie one last inscrutable look then turned away. She watched his massive figure amble back into the forest the way he had come.
As the troll disappeared, Sidonie thought, I won’t forget what you did to me. She turned to study the Light Fae leader’s features. I won’t forget any of you.
I don’t know how, and I don’t know when, but you will regret doing this to me.
I will make sure of it.
* * *
After the troll disappeared, the soldier slung her over one hard shoulder and carried her along a path to another clearing with more buildings. Then he put her in a primitive prison cell, with honest-to-goodness bars, a rough cot, bare stone floors, and a dirty, horribly basic latrine that offered no privacy whatsoever. She had a small, high, barred window that let in sunlight but gave no real view outside and nothing else.
At least the Light Fae soldier untied her wrists and legs so she could move around. As soon as her hands were free, she had to fight the urge to hit him. The violent impulse might bring short-term relief to the rage and fear beating through her veins, but in the end, it wasn’t a strategy that could go well for her.
Instead of giving in to her feelings, she stood rubbing the circulation back into her wrists while she watched him lock the cell door.
I’ll remember you too, she thought.
After he left her alone, she looked around. The cot was made of some kind of crosshatched leather strung tight on a frame. No pillow, no blanket.
There was no running water, and apparently no electricity or heat either, she saw as she glanced at the ceilings that were bare of any light fixtures. This place was strange and disturbing, almost as if it had nothing to do with the modern England she had been visiting only just yesterday.
Her hands prickled painfully as circulation increased. Giving up on her wrists, she rubbed her arms in an attempt to generate some warmth. Even though the day had turned sunny, the thick cover of trees kept the temperature mild, and the walls of the building were constructed of thick stone that emanated a damp chill.
She was glad she was still wearing the soft cashmere hoodie, jeans, and sneakers she had slipped into for the drive to the airport. Thanks to her kidnapper, the T-shirt under the dirt-streaked hoodie was ragged, and her jeans were smeared with grass stains and blood, but if she were still wearing the thin spandex outfit she had worn for the concert, she would be freezing her ass off.
Her kidnapper had said Vincent, Tony, and the driver would live, and she didn’t think he had lied to her. He had said scary, crazy stuff, but as far as she knew, no falsehoods.
“Buck up, Sid,” she whispered. “Vince and Tony will be looking for you.”
At least they would be looking as soon as they were able to. How badly had they been hurt in the crash? How long would it take for the news of her disappearance to hit the tabloids?
Some time ago she, Vince, and his wife, Terri, had talked through strategies for a variety of extreme scenarios.
In the event of her disappearance (how they had chuckled at the unlikelihood of that), the security company was authorized to offer a reward for any credible information on her whereabouts.
They were also authorized to conduct transactions, in case she had been kidnapped and was being held for ransom. After the first two stalkers, she had taken Vincent’s advice and now carried an insurance policy that would cover any ransom up to five million dollars.
So they had mechanisms in place to handle almost any situation, but none of it brought her any comfort, because what had actually happened was completely outside any scenario they had discussed.
They had no protocol in place for how to deal with crazy magical creatures bent on enacting an elaborate scheme of manipulation and revenge. No protocol to handle something like this.
Human trafficking was a crime that mostly involved victims who were too poor and vulnerable to protect themselves against it. Life had skidded so far off the path of anything that seemed remotely feasible she felt utterly adrift and more alone than she had in years.
Someday I’m going to look back at this, she told herself. And while I’m never going to laugh at what happened, I’m going to be grateful I made it through alive. Someday this experience is going to be in the past, and I will know what it feels like to seek revenge myself.
As foreign as the concepts were to her, nursing her anger was far better than sinking into depression or giving up. They gave her something to focus on, somewhere to direct her rage.
Desperate to take some kind of action, she started counting the strips of leather in the crosshatched cot. There were twelve strips in length and thirty-six strips across. Anxiety knotted her stomach. Had she counted right? She started over. Twelve and thirty-six.
Then again. Twelve and thirty-six.
Maybe she needed to touch them to be sure. Compelled forward, she moved her fingers along the crosshatching, whispering to herself as she counted. After going over the leather strips fifteen times, she pressed both clenched fists to her forehead and forced herself to step away from the cot.
If she thought going on tour was stressful, it was nothing compared to this. To try to distract herself from getting trapped in more OCD behavior, she studied the details of her surroundings more closely. Goose bumps rose along her arms.
While the thoughts raced through her mind, she waited for the Light Fae leader to denounce offering a human being as tribute for anything.
Instead, the male said impatiently, “What’s this? The troll clan has already offered its tribute. We received the shipment this morning.”
Wait, what? No denouncement? This was utter insanity. Nobody offered a thinking, living being as tribute, at least not in modern society as she knew it. Outraged fury pounded under her skin, and she chewed on her gag as furious words piled into rocket launchers in her head, readying for ignition.
The troll rumbled, “We was gonna add this ’un in, but we got her late. Plays music real good.”
“And now, thanks to your bumbling, she’s seen this encampment. But she’s a musician, you say?” The Light Fae male looked down at her and heaved a sigh. “Oh, very well. Next time keep your tributes to items that are easier to transport.” As he turned away, he ordered one of his men, “Put her in a holding cell until we’re ready to leave.”
One of the men hauled her to her feet. The fake troll gave Sidonie one last inscrutable look then turned away. She watched his massive figure amble back into the forest the way he had come.
As the troll disappeared, Sidonie thought, I won’t forget what you did to me. She turned to study the Light Fae leader’s features. I won’t forget any of you.
I don’t know how, and I don’t know when, but you will regret doing this to me.
I will make sure of it.
* * *
After the troll disappeared, the soldier slung her over one hard shoulder and carried her along a path to another clearing with more buildings. Then he put her in a primitive prison cell, with honest-to-goodness bars, a rough cot, bare stone floors, and a dirty, horribly basic latrine that offered no privacy whatsoever. She had a small, high, barred window that let in sunlight but gave no real view outside and nothing else.
At least the Light Fae soldier untied her wrists and legs so she could move around. As soon as her hands were free, she had to fight the urge to hit him. The violent impulse might bring short-term relief to the rage and fear beating through her veins, but in the end, it wasn’t a strategy that could go well for her.
Instead of giving in to her feelings, she stood rubbing the circulation back into her wrists while she watched him lock the cell door.
I’ll remember you too, she thought.
After he left her alone, she looked around. The cot was made of some kind of crosshatched leather strung tight on a frame. No pillow, no blanket.
There was no running water, and apparently no electricity or heat either, she saw as she glanced at the ceilings that were bare of any light fixtures. This place was strange and disturbing, almost as if it had nothing to do with the modern England she had been visiting only just yesterday.
Her hands prickled painfully as circulation increased. Giving up on her wrists, she rubbed her arms in an attempt to generate some warmth. Even though the day had turned sunny, the thick cover of trees kept the temperature mild, and the walls of the building were constructed of thick stone that emanated a damp chill.
She was glad she was still wearing the soft cashmere hoodie, jeans, and sneakers she had slipped into for the drive to the airport. Thanks to her kidnapper, the T-shirt under the dirt-streaked hoodie was ragged, and her jeans were smeared with grass stains and blood, but if she were still wearing the thin spandex outfit she had worn for the concert, she would be freezing her ass off.
Her kidnapper had said Vincent, Tony, and the driver would live, and she didn’t think he had lied to her. He had said scary, crazy stuff, but as far as she knew, no falsehoods.
“Buck up, Sid,” she whispered. “Vince and Tony will be looking for you.”
At least they would be looking as soon as they were able to. How badly had they been hurt in the crash? How long would it take for the news of her disappearance to hit the tabloids?
Some time ago she, Vince, and his wife, Terri, had talked through strategies for a variety of extreme scenarios.
In the event of her disappearance (how they had chuckled at the unlikelihood of that), the security company was authorized to offer a reward for any credible information on her whereabouts.
They were also authorized to conduct transactions, in case she had been kidnapped and was being held for ransom. After the first two stalkers, she had taken Vincent’s advice and now carried an insurance policy that would cover any ransom up to five million dollars.
So they had mechanisms in place to handle almost any situation, but none of it brought her any comfort, because what had actually happened was completely outside any scenario they had discussed.
They had no protocol in place for how to deal with crazy magical creatures bent on enacting an elaborate scheme of manipulation and revenge. No protocol to handle something like this.
Human trafficking was a crime that mostly involved victims who were too poor and vulnerable to protect themselves against it. Life had skidded so far off the path of anything that seemed remotely feasible she felt utterly adrift and more alone than she had in years.
Someday I’m going to look back at this, she told herself. And while I’m never going to laugh at what happened, I’m going to be grateful I made it through alive. Someday this experience is going to be in the past, and I will know what it feels like to seek revenge myself.
As foreign as the concepts were to her, nursing her anger was far better than sinking into depression or giving up. They gave her something to focus on, somewhere to direct her rage.
Desperate to take some kind of action, she started counting the strips of leather in the crosshatched cot. There were twelve strips in length and thirty-six strips across. Anxiety knotted her stomach. Had she counted right? She started over. Twelve and thirty-six.
Then again. Twelve and thirty-six.
Maybe she needed to touch them to be sure. Compelled forward, she moved her fingers along the crosshatching, whispering to herself as she counted. After going over the leather strips fifteen times, she pressed both clenched fists to her forehead and forced herself to step away from the cot.
If she thought going on tour was stressful, it was nothing compared to this. To try to distract herself from getting trapped in more OCD behavior, she studied the details of her surroundings more closely. Goose bumps rose along her arms.
