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Authors: K H Lemoyne
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his capacity for recollection exceeded the ability of these men to confuse. They passed the sublevels of Rasheer’s torture chambers. At the next level, a waft of fresh air greeted him from the dark recesses of an adjoining corridor.
Closer to freedom—not close enough.
“Not that way.” At the intersection of several corridors, the guard with the link jerked his head to the right.
Turen managed a brief view of a cavernous enclosure. Bright lighting hung from the sixty-foot high rock ceiling. Flats with wooden crates lined the bare dirt floor in organized aisles. Men with hand trucks maneuvered between the warehoused goods in civilian T-shirts and cargo pants.
Xavier’s drug trade was thriving based on the level of activity. A lucrative effort too, if the size of the cavern and the rows upon rows of crates was any indication.
Unbelievable.
Several feet down, the shine from lights embedded behind metal grills reflected off the gray painted concrete floor, replacing empty hallways. Metal doors lined each side of the hall, with no windows to view inside and only a service slat for food or water. Evidently a new style of prison cells.
The guard with the comlink unlocked a door in silence, released the security catch that fastened the manacles together, and gestured with his head for Turen to enter. Shank delivered a shove from behind in petty retaliation for the lack of freedom to do more damage. Turen caught himself on one knee as the door clanged shut behind him.
The walls and ceiling were smooth, still hewn from the rock of the stronghold’s mountain. Unlike his previous rustic cell, this one followed the hall’s painted concrete architecture and lighting style. A waist-high spigot graced the opposite wall, with a narrow trough grooved into the length of the floor to drain water. A flat rock slab extended from the wall with several folded rough-weave blankets.
Turen raised a brow.
Modern chic it wasn’t, but definitely a step up from before. He moved to the spigot and turned the knob. The device clanged and shook as air rumbled through the pipes in the wall to produce water, at first only a dribble at a time.
He rubbed his fingers beneath the slow, cold flow and then cupped his palm to taste before spitting it out. Metallic, yet clean. He squatted, dipped his head beneath the water, and rubbed his hair and neck with vigor. The fluid soothed in chilling numbness across his wounds, while his brain fired through the reason behind his change in location.
A status upgrade, or had his time almost run out?
Hands braced against the wall, he let the water trickle over his neck and down his back. What of Mia?
Would she follow him in the pattern of her last several trips? She had no innate ability to shift through space, as his people did, but he couldn’t discount her link to him, since she continued to appear.
His suspicion for her first visit had been Rasheer, because the man would enjoy taunting Turen with an innocent victim, especially an innocent woman. Yet if Rasheer had the power to bring forth women, he would have little need to turn his sadistic attentions on his male prisoners.
She’d shown up three times—not of her own volition—of that he was certain. Her emotions read of confusion and panic, though she fought her fear well and projected an uncommon innocence compared to the other human women he’d encountered.
He’d had his share over the centuries. Given and received pleasure, encountered his fair share of subversion and lies too, though it mattered little. Always brief, each encounter was an end met, a need assuaged, with no involvement. The couplings lacked an emotional and spiritual connection, never enough to satisfy his desires.
Never did he find a glimmer of what Xavier had exhibited with his mate. With the exposure to women of his race limited to only the friends he’d grown up with in the Sanctum, he suspected he would never find such fulfillment.
Just to witness Xavier and
Closer to freedom—not close enough.
“Not that way.” At the intersection of several corridors, the guard with the link jerked his head to the right.
Turen managed a brief view of a cavernous enclosure. Bright lighting hung from the sixty-foot high rock ceiling. Flats with wooden crates lined the bare dirt floor in organized aisles. Men with hand trucks maneuvered between the warehoused goods in civilian T-shirts and cargo pants.
Xavier’s drug trade was thriving based on the level of activity. A lucrative effort too, if the size of the cavern and the rows upon rows of crates was any indication.
Unbelievable.
Several feet down, the shine from lights embedded behind metal grills reflected off the gray painted concrete floor, replacing empty hallways. Metal doors lined each side of the hall, with no windows to view inside and only a service slat for food or water. Evidently a new style of prison cells.
The guard with the comlink unlocked a door in silence, released the security catch that fastened the manacles together, and gestured with his head for Turen to enter. Shank delivered a shove from behind in petty retaliation for the lack of freedom to do more damage. Turen caught himself on one knee as the door clanged shut behind him.
The walls and ceiling were smooth, still hewn from the rock of the stronghold’s mountain. Unlike his previous rustic cell, this one followed the hall’s painted concrete architecture and lighting style. A waist-high spigot graced the opposite wall, with a narrow trough grooved into the length of the floor to drain water. A flat rock slab extended from the wall with several folded rough-weave blankets.
Turen raised a brow.
Modern chic it wasn’t, but definitely a step up from before. He moved to the spigot and turned the knob. The device clanged and shook as air rumbled through the pipes in the wall to produce water, at first only a dribble at a time.
He rubbed his fingers beneath the slow, cold flow and then cupped his palm to taste before spitting it out. Metallic, yet clean. He squatted, dipped his head beneath the water, and rubbed his hair and neck with vigor. The fluid soothed in chilling numbness across his wounds, while his brain fired through the reason behind his change in location.
A status upgrade, or had his time almost run out?
Hands braced against the wall, he let the water trickle over his neck and down his back. What of Mia?
Would she follow him in the pattern of her last several trips? She had no innate ability to shift through space, as his people did, but he couldn’t discount her link to him, since she continued to appear.
His suspicion for her first visit had been Rasheer, because the man would enjoy taunting Turen with an innocent victim, especially an innocent woman. Yet if Rasheer had the power to bring forth women, he would have little need to turn his sadistic attentions on his male prisoners.
She’d shown up three times—not of her own volition—of that he was certain. Her emotions read of confusion and panic, though she fought her fear well and projected an uncommon innocence compared to the other human women he’d encountered.
He’d had his share over the centuries. Given and received pleasure, encountered his fair share of subversion and lies too, though it mattered little. Always brief, each encounter was an end met, a need assuaged, with no involvement. The couplings lacked an emotional and spiritual connection, never enough to satisfy his desires.
Never did he find a glimmer of what Xavier had exhibited with his mate. With the exposure to women of his race limited to only the friends he’d grown up with in the Sanctum, he suspected he would never find such fulfillment.
Just to witness Xavier and
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