The Darkest Whisper (Lords of the Underworld #4)(5)
Author: Gena Showalter

“You can hear us?” Sabin’s timbre was as rough as his features and should have grated her nerves like sandpaper, but somehow soothed her like a caress.

Tentatively, she nodded.

“Can they?” He pointed to the other prisoners.

She shook her head. “Can you hear me?”

He, too, shook his head. “I’m reading your lips.”

Oh. That meant he’d been—was—watching her intently, even when his head had been turned. The knowledge was not unpleasant.

“How do we open the glass?” he asked.

Her lips pressed in a stubborn line, and she dared a quick look at the heavily armed, blood-coated predators behind him. Should she tell him? What if they planned to rape her fellow prisoners, just as the others had done? Just as she’d feared?

His harsh expression softened. “We haven’t come to harm you. You have my word. We just want to free you.”

She didn’t know him, knew better than to trust him, but pushed to shaky legs anyway and lumbered to the glass. Up close like this, she realized that Sabin towered over her and his eyes were not brown as she’d supposed. Rather, they were ringed with amber, coffee, auburn and bronze, a symphony of colors. Thankfully, the glow of red was still gone. Had she imagined it those times?

“Woman?” he said.

If he opened the cell as promised…if she could gather her courage and not freeze in place as was her habit…escape would finally be possible. The hope she’d denied earlier sprang to life, unstoppable and tantalizing, tempered only by the thought that she might cruelly and brutally destroy these possible saviors without meaning to.

Don’t worry. Unless they try to harm you, your beast will remain caged. One wrong move from them, though…

Worth the risk, she thought, saying, “Stones.”

His brow furrowed. “Bones?”

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she lifted one of her nails—a claw when compared to a human’s—and carved the word STONES in the glass. Each etching would hold only long enough for her to finish a letter before wiping clean. Damned godly glass. She’d often wondered how the humans had acquired it.

A pause. A frown, his attention remaining fixed on her too-long, pointed nail. Was he wondering what type of creature she was?

Then, “Stones?” Sabin asked, gaze once more meeting hers.

She nodded.

He spun in a circle, eyeing the entire chamber. Though the look-over lasted only a few seconds, Gwen suspected he’d cataloged every inch of the place and could have found his way out of it in the dark.

The warriors lined up behind him, all staring at her expectantly. Mixed with the expectation, however, was curiosity, suspicion, hatred—for her?—and even lust. One step, two, she backed away. She’d take hate over lust any day. Her legs trembled so violently she feared her muscles would give out. Stay calm. You cannot panic. Bad things happen when you panic.

How did one combat the desire of others? There was nothing she could do to cover herself more than she already was. Upon her imprisonment, her jeans and T-shirt had been replaced with a white tank and short skirt her captors had given her—easier access that way. Bastards. One of the tank straps had ripped months ago and the shirt now gaped. She’d had to tie it under her arm to keep her breast covered.

“Turn away,” Sabin suddenly growled.

Gwen spun without thought, long red hair swaying at her sides. Breath sawed in and out of her mouth, and sweat beaded over her brow. Why had he wanted her back? To better subdue her?

There was another of those heavy pauses. “I didn’t mean you, woman.” This time, Sabin’s voice was soft, gentle.

“Aw, come on,” someone said. She recognized the rich, irreverent tone of the male with the blond hair and blue eyes. “You’re not serious about—”

“You’re scaring her.”

Gwen peeked over her shoulder.

“But she—” the heavily tattooed one began.

Once again Sabin interjected. “You want answers or not? I said turn!”

A few groans, the shuffling of feet.

“Woman.”

Slowly she pivoted back around. All of the warriors had turned as Sabin commanded, giving her their backs.

Sabin placed a palm against the glass. It was large, unscarred and steady, but streaked with blood. “Which stones?”

She pointed to a grouping in a case beside him. They were small, about the size of a fist, and each had a different way to die painted on the front. The highlights: a beheading, limb removal, a stabbing, a pike through the gut and a wildfire climbing the body of a man nailed to a tree.

“Good, that’s good. But what do I do with them?”

Now panting with the need to be free—close, so close—she pantomimed the placing of a stone into a hole, like a key into a lock.

“Does it matter which stone goes where?”

She nodded, then pointed to each particular stone and which cell it opened. She’d come to dread the use of those stones, as it meant she would be forced to witness another rape. Sighing, she began to scratch the word KEY into the glass when Sabin slammed a fist into the stones’ case, shattering the outer shell. It would have taken the strength of ten humans to do such a thing, yet he made it look effortless.

Several cuts branched from his knuckles to his wrists. Beads of crimson appeared, but he wiped them away as if they meant nothing. By that time, the injuries were already in the process of healing, torn flesh weaving back together. Oh, yes. He was something far greater than mortal. Not fae, for his ears were perfectly rounded. Not vampire, for he didn’t possess fangs. A male siren, then? His voice was rich enough, delicious enough, yes, but perhaps too harsh.

“Grab a stone,” he called, never taking his focus from her.

Instantly the warriors spun on their booted heels. Gwen purposely kept her gaze on Sabin, afraid that looking at the others would cause her fear to spike. You’re in control, doing good. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—falter. Already she carried too many regrets.

Why couldn’t she be like her sisters? Why couldn’t she be brave and strong and embrace what she was? If necessary, they would have cut off a limb to escape—and they would have done it long before now. They would have pounded a fist through the glass, then Chris’s chest, and eaten his heart in front of him, laughing all the while.

She experienced a pang of homesickness. If Tyson, her former boyfriend, had told them of her abduction—which he probably hadn’t, scared as he was of her sisters—then they were looking for her and they wouldn’t give up until they found her. Despite her weaknesses, they loved her, wanted the best for her. But they would be so disappointed in her when they learned of her captivity. She’d failed herself, as well as her race. Even as a child she had run from conflict, which was how she’d earned the degrading moniker “Gwendolyn the Timid.”