Demon from the Dark (Immortals After Dark #10)(6)

Analyze the enemy. From what Carrow had heard from other inmates, this place was run by the Order, a mysterious league of mortal soldiers and scientists led by a magister named Declan Chase, a.k.a. the Blademan, along with his trusty bitch, Dr. Dixon.

Carrow’s sorceress cellmate had told her the Order was bent on eradicating all the immortal miscreations, or miscreats.

My surroundings? A diabolically designed prison, with cells made of foot-thick steel on three sides and unbreakable, two-foot-thick glass on the front. Each cell had four bunks, with a toilet and a sink behind a screen—and no real privacy. The Order recorded their every action from ceiling cams.

This incarceration was like nothing she’d ever known—and she’d known more than her share of two hots and a cot. Carrow hadn’t enjoyed a single shower or change of clothes. She still wore her club duds: halter top, black leather miniskirt, and thigh-high boots.

Each day inside brought more shitty food and bad lighting.

Along with experiments on immortals, some of whom were her friends.

Resources? Carrow had precisely zero-point-zero resources. Despite the fact that she could usually charm prison guards, these mortal soldiers seemed immune to her. Except for Fegley, who for some reason appeared to resent her deeply, as if they had a history.

Though each of her steps carried her potentially closer to her demise, she observed as much as she could, determined to escape. Yet one reinforced corridor bulkhead after another doused her hopes of breaking out.

The layout was labyrinthine, the halls riddled with cameras and the cells all booked up. Lykae, Valkyrie, and the noble fey—all allies of a sort—were mixed amid the evil Invidia, fallen vampires, and fire demons.

In one cell, contagious ghouls snapped at each other, tearing at their own yellow skin. In another, succubae wasted away from sexual hunger.

The Order had snared more beings than could be named, many of which were notorious and deadly.

Like the brutal werewolf Uilleam MacRieve. The Lykae were among the physically strongest creatures in the Lore, but with that torque on his neck, Uilleam couldn’t access the beast within him.

For fun, the warden rapped the glass with his club. Maddened by the captivity, Uilleam charged, hitting the glass headfirst, splitting his scalp to the skull right before her eyes. The surface was unharmed while blood poured down his tense face.

In the next cell stood a huge berserker, a savage warrior male that Carrow had seen around New Orleans. He looked on the verge of going berserk.

Carrow swallowed to see his neighboring inmate—a Fury, with uncanny violet eyes and bared fangs. The Furies were female avengers, embodiments of wrath. And this one was a rare Archfury, raven-winged and lethal.

The Order certainly didn’t pull their punches. Some of the beings here were even infamous. Like the vampire Lothaire, the Enemy of Old, with his white-blond hair and eerily sinister hotness. Whenever the guards sedated him and dragged him down the ward, his pale red eyes promised pain to those who’d dared to touch him.

“Step on it, witch,” Fegley said. “Or I’ll introduce you to Billy.”

“I might like him, heard he’s wittier than you are.” She gritted her teeth when he shoved her again.

Once they’d reached the prison ward’s main entrance, another long corridor branched off, this one filled with offices and labs. Without a word, Fegley hauled her into the last room, what looked like a modernist den. No lab? No electrodes or bone saws?

A plain-Jane brunette sat behind an executive desk. She sported an I’m a bitch, so deal look behind unstylish glasses. Must be Dr. Dixon.

Behind her, a towering dark-haired male stood at the window. He gazed out into the turbulent night, revealing only a shadowy profile.

Carrow peered outside to get an idea of their location, but rain pelted the window. According to inmate whispers, this facility was on a giant island, thousands of miles from land in any direction. Natch.

“Free her hands,” the tall man said without turning. Though he’d spoken only three words, Carrow recognized Declan Chase’s voice—that low, hateful tone with the faintest hint of an Irish accent.

Fegley unlocked her cuffs the same way he’d locked them—with his thumbprint—then he exited through a concealed panel door in a side wall.

Everything in this place, including her torque, was locked with a person’s right hand thumb. Which meant Carrow needed to cut off Fegley’s. Beauty. Something to look forward to. “I remember you, Blademan,” she told Chase. “Yeah, from when you and your men electrocuted me.”

Those bastards had posted bail for Carrow’s latest disorderly conduct charge—proudly earned!—and then lain in wait outside the Orleans Parish Correctional. As she headed home, they’d blown her down a city block with charge throwers, gagged her, and forced a black bag over her head. “Was the hood supposed to instill dread in me or something?”

’Cause it’d worked.

Without deigning to reply, Chase faced her briefly, yet he didn’t look at her, more like through her. His pitch-black hair was straight, longish. Several hanks hung over one side of his face, and she thought she saw scars jagging beneath them. His eyes, at least the one she could see, were gray.

He was dressed in somber hues from head to toe, concealing any exposed skin on his body with the help of his leather gloves and high-collared jacket. By all outward appearances, he seemed cold as ice, even as his aura screamed I’m unbalanced!