Blood Hunt (Sentinel Wars, #5)(45)
Author: Shannon K. Butcher

Tynan hurried past Nicholas and down the hall until he found Logan. He watched for a moment before he went to the bed.

“Stop,” said Tynan in such a forceful tone that Nicholas found himself freezing in place, not even daring to breathe for a second.

Logan growled. The quiet warning was unmistakable.

“You must stop,” repeated Tynan, this time with more force.

Logan ignored him.

Tynan turned to Nicholas. “Strike him.”

“What?”

“Hit him. Hard. Disrupt his concentration.”

“Do it yourself.”

“As you wish. I would have thought you’d enjoy the task.”

There had been times when Nicholas would have bled for the chance to slap one of the Sanguinar, but not like this.

Tynan drew back his fist and slammed it into the side of Logan’s face.

Logan was lying still one moment, and the next, he was flying at Tynan, claws and teeth bared, eyes glowing. The snarl on his face was a deadly warning, as was the hiss pouring from his mouth.

Nicholas yanked Tynan out of the way and took the brunt of Logan’s attack. The Sanguinar’s claws raked across his face, drawing blood, but Logan was no match for Nicholas’s strength. He spun Logan around and tossed him to the floor. His head bounced off the wall and he stayed down.

Logan shook his head as if to clear it. Tynan knelt down by his side. “Are you well?”

Logan nodded. The light had gone out of his eyes, leaving them the normal, pale silver color. He looked up at Nicholas. “I apologize. I will repair the damage.”

“No, I will,” said Tynan.

“It’s just a scratch.”

“One that is bleeding and will draw unwanted company.”

The leech was right.

Nicholas stood still while Tynan worked his mojo, closing up the small wounds. As soon as the searing heat faded from his cheek, Nicholas went to wash away the blood. When he got back, they were all going to have a serious talk about what the hell had just happened.

Rory had managed to fight off the smaller monsters that had come for her, but she was no match for this one. It was huge—easily three times her size. Its skin was covered in a slimy layer of filth, pulsing as if something was crawling beneath it. It stood upright; the lower half of its body was submerged. Above the waterline, it widened as it went up, getting bigger and thicker as it neared the ceiling. Its nostrils were above its eyes, leaving an odd, empty spot in the middle of its face. Fleshy lips protruded from its jaws, the bottom one sagging under its own weight.

Beyond the mottled gray lips, she could see the glint of teeth. Not that it needed those. The wicked claws extending from its flipperlike hands were more than enough to kill her.

It regarded her with a kind of curiosity, blinking and sniffing as it neared.

Rory didn’t think she could be any more afraid than she had been since she’d been dumped down here, but this thing was proving her wrong. Her body found the strength to send a spurt of fear rocketing through her system.

She gripped her makeshift weapon harder, until the edges of it dug into her palm. She’d sharpened the tip by rubbing it on the concrete walls, and now that tip was caked with the black blood of the things she’d used it to kill.

As she looked at the two-foot length of metal, a bubble of nervous laughter rose up inside her. There was no way she could even get close enough to this thing to hit it without it being able to strike her first.

But as the thing glided closer to her, parting the dirty water, she realized it was going to make her test that theory.

A shrill whistle sounded from somewhere outside this room. The monster spun around and sank below the water, swimming out the door. Four thick tentacles broke the surface as it fled. It didn’t have legs at all.

Rory had no idea what had happened, but she didn’t question her good fortune. She was too busy trying to think of a way out. She couldn’t be here when that thing came back. Her last attempt to crawl over the ceiling tiles had ended in disaster. The stairway was blocked by more monsters than she could possibly kill, and so far, she’d found no other means of escape. No windows, no tunnels, just an endless stretch of concrete walls and cold, disgusting water.

She heard the slosh of that water as something came her way. She crouched into the corner and lifted her weapon.

One of the guards who’d thrown her down here came into view. “You’re still alive. Good. Come with me.”

She tried to tell him to go to hell, but her mouth was too dry to speak. She hadn’t been able to get back to the leaking water pipe at the far end of the building today, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to drink the muck these things lived in.

He motioned for her to come. “Hurry. The food I gave them will hold their interest for only so long.”

What choice did she have? There was no way out down here. At least if she went with him, she’d have a fighting chance to escape. Or at least a chance to die warm and dry. Even that would be an improvement.

Rory hopped down from her perch. The cold water sucked the life from her and stole her breath. The guard grabbed her arm and practically hauled her through the sludge.

As they neared the stairway door, she saw a throbbing mass of twisted bodies fighting a few yards away. She didn’t want to see what they were fighting over. All she cared about was getting out of here.

Her legs barely worked to push her up the steps. She was weak from dehydration, hunger, and exhaustion. There was no way she could run in her condition—at least not without falling on her face.

Even her curse—or her gift, as her grandma called it—had quit working, which she counted in the pro column of situational accounting. At least without it, she didn’t have to see the horrible things that were going on around her.

Funny. She’d prayed to be released from her curse for years. She’d spent the last two shadowing the only person in the world who had made her feel normal—the only person who seemed to be able to block her visions. So either that person was here—which seemed unlikely—or the whole time, all she’d had to do to get rid of the visions was to get captured, tossed into a den of monsters, starved, and to live in constant fear.

It was such an easy fix. She should have done it years ago. Or not.

Rory would have giggled at her situation had she had the energy. As it was, she was swaying on her feet, not even bothering to look for an opening to escape.

Stupid.

She gathered what little strength she had left and lifted her head. Standing in front of her was the a**hole who’d taken her hostage, the one who ran this place like some kind of freakish cult. He was surrounded by adoring humans, most of whom were covered in ragged bite marks that burned red with infection. The women were mostly nak*d, staring in rapt attention at the ugly guy on the throne.

“Kneel,” he ordered her.

“I’d rather go back downstairs, fuckhead.” Her voice was rough and dry, but she stayed on her feet and that was what mattered.

He waved a scaly, three-fingered hand and two guards dragged a woman forward. Her head was covered with a dirty pillowcase, which shifted with her rapid, frightened breathing.

They ripped the pillowcase off, revealing Sister Olive, the nun who ran the homeless shelter where Rory sometimes ate.

Shock shot through Rory like a stroke of lightning. It jolted her,