Chosen (The Warrior Chronicles #1)(63)

Bringing her mind back to the problem of his inexperience, she said, “We’ll start tonight. Wear black so we blend into the night.”

“Does that help?”

“You being undisturbed? Yes.”

He nodded but didn’t make a move to leave.

“Should, uhh, I give you a minute?” To get out?

She didn’t want to rush him, him being the Captain and everything, but she was tired, strung out, and wanted to battle with him in a large office somewhere instead of her tight quarters.

“I need a nap. Join me.” He patted the bed next to him, his eyes still closed.

He wasn’t smiling but his tone was light. He was telling a joke, she was sure of it. It wasn’t amusing.

“I’ll just… give you some time. On your own.” And she flew out the door in search of a cluster of trees where she could wait him out. She didn’t miss the dark chuckle as she shut the door behind her.

Chapter 31

It felt like his hair was on fire, starting from the follicles. Sanders blinked his eyes and shook his head, trying to rid his head of the constant stream of sweat.

In the dark hovel where they kept him, they had hit him with pain before even bothering with the first question. Still panting, they’d stripped bare and sprayed him with freezing water. Still no questions came. Next they strapped him to a chair and hit him with more pain.

And here he sat, clenching his teeth so as not to scream, waiting patiently for eventual death. Part of him hoped Shanti would come. She would strut through the door in a violet-eyed rage, throw her brain around however she did it, and have them groveling to tell her all they knew. He’d seen it. He was positive that what he was feeling was nothing compared to what she could do.

He sighed in relief as the pain washed away.

“Now, Sir Commander, we have a couple questions for you.”

Sanders nodded at the familiar voice, his breath rising and falling, his heart hammering so hard his chest vibrated. “Fire away.”

“Auh-hem.” It was a throat clear. A small man stepped into view behind the bars. He was wearing a crisp white shirt and gray pants. His hair was muddy brown and his skin was as fair as Shanti’s. Next to him stood a man with a similar stature, though hunched slightly, wearing all black.

“I am so sorry to do this to you, of course,” said the white shirted man.

“Oh, of course, yes.” Sanders chuckled darkly. What was the point of being polite when you were torturing somebody?

“If you answer my questions the pain will stop. If you do not, then it will continue.”

“Seems straight forward. How will you know if I lie?”

White Shirt gestured toward Black Shirt. “He will know.”

“I guess I’ll just take your word for it.”

A man wearing a brown sack scurried up with a stool and placed it directly behind White Shirt. He then scurried away like a rodent. Although, even a rodent would be noticed. That man had been invisible. This must be the hierarchy Shanti had been talking about.

“Tell me about this Captain of yours.” White Shirt sat down and crossed his legs, the model of patience. He had all day. Or night. It was impossible to tell time in the belly of a dungeon. That was part of the purpose of the environment—that alone could drive people to madness.

Sanders pretended to think, angling his head to the dungeon ceiling. “Well, he is a tall man, prone to fits of anger, but really just a soft little teddy bear on the inside—”

Pain. Like sand blasting his open eye, scrubbing away at the retina, digging into his soft membranes. He squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn’t help, the pain so acute he could barely think.

Sanders’ whole body flexed, trying to rip his hands away from the chair legs where they were tied and so he could shield himself. After a year or a minute, the pain stopped suddenly, the memory of the pain lingering.

“Shall we try that again?” Rhetorical question. Sanders didn’t bother answering. “What type of person is this Captain?”

“He likes reading, long walks in the forest, has a warm heart and a soft spot for perky—“ A blast so hot it turned his vision white. Razors scraped across his bare eye.

When he could breathe again, Sanders said, “—women, but I bet you thought I was going to say br**sts!”

White Shirt stared at him for a long moment. “Full power.”

Black Shirt answered in a brutal, concise language Sanders had only heard for the first time recently. He wished again that Shanti were here. She would know what they were saying. She had spent a few sessions with their guest speaking his language. That had really rattled him. Sanders should have tried to learn.

The next stretch of pain wrapped around Time and warped it. Small needles sticking into his retina, then moving out to the whites. Nowhere else, just his eyes. Sanders wondered if they could blind him. He wondered if it would hurt just as much after. He bet it probably would. They weren’t actually touching him, so this was something going on in his head. It would remain even if his eyes were plucked out, he was sure of it.

“Now, again, tell me about this Captain. What are his weaknesses?” White Shirt was a persistent little f**ker.

“Beautiful women. But then, we all have that problem, don’t we?”

“Not all. Does he have a particular beautiful woman?”