Wait. There was a pile of stuff just inside the bars.
"Hold on," I said.
I hurried over and found blankets, energy bars, bottles of water and a pail. What was the pail . . . ?
Then I realized.
I carried everything except the pail back to Adam. I uncapped the water and let him have a sip, telling him to go slow. Then I wet a corner of a blanket and wiped the crust from his swollen eyes. He opened one.
"Hey," he said, his voice weak. "I feel like shit."
"You look like it, too."
A soft laugh, followed by a wince. "You should see the other guy."
"I did."
"Damn."
I smiled and gave him more water.
"They had guns," he said. "Very unfair. They got one at my head before I could put up much of a fight. So I surrendered. Apparently, that wasn't any fun for them."
"Bastards."
"Hmm." His other eye opened. "Elena and Clay?"
"I didn't see them."
"Good. Means they weren't caught." He swallowed and I gave him more water. "Your mom?"
"I don't know. She was with us. Now she's not. So you came with Elena and Clay?"
"Yeah. Joined up in New Orleans. Keep an eye on you. Didn't go so well. Elena's smart. Knew we were outnumbered. Phone was blocked. Wanted us hanging back. I didn't listen. Had to play the hero. Paid the price."
I leaned over him and smiled. "I'd kiss you, but I suspect that would be painful."
He looked at me. Tilted his head and made my heart hammer. I told myself that I'd said it casually enough, if he wanted to think I was just kidding, he could and--
He put his hand on the back of my head, pulled me down and kissed me. It was a light kiss, our lips barely touching, but it was sweet and sexy and slow, and when it finally broke, I was the one pulling back, worried that I was leaning on him and hurting his ribs, but he kept me there, hand still in my hair, holding my face close to his.
"I guess that answers the question," he said.
"Was there ever a question?"
"Sure."
I lifted my brows. "I've had a crush on you since I was twelve. I'm sure you noticed."
"I did when you were twelve. And fourteen. And sixteen. But eventually . . ." He shrugged. "You grew up. We became friends."
"So you figured the rest just went away?"
"Faded, I guess. Changed into something else."
"No, I just learned to hide it better."
I leaned over and kissed him again. Just a quick one. "That hurts, doesn't it?"
"Not necessarily a bad hurt."
I laughed and unfolded the blankets. I got one under him and one over him. Then he pulled me against him.
There was so much I wanted to say. So much I wanted to ask. So much that was completely and utterly inappropriate and unimportant under the circumstances.
We talked about what was important, filling each other in. That meant I did most of the talking. When we'd finished, I went over to the bars again and craned to see what was out there.
"Really could use Jaime's mirror right now," I said. "I heard someone coughing earlier. But I have no idea where we are or what we're doing here."
"You've been misplaced," a man's voice said. It was smooth and strong, too close to be the coughing man from earlier.
"Who's there?" I said.
"You've been misplaced," the voice repeated. "That's more important than who I am. You wouldn't know my name anyway. You're too young."
"How do you know that?"
A chuckle. It sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place it. "I'm sorry if I offend you, my dear, but you sound young. That's not a bad thing. Better than sounding old."
Adam appeared beside me, grabbing the bars for support.
"You said we've been misplaced," Adam said. "What does that mean?"
A pause. Then, "You've been hurt."
"How--?"
"I can hear it in your voice. I've been in enough fights to recognize the sound of broken ribs. Go lie down, boy. You'll need your strength in here."
Adam's mouth tightened. He didn't like being called "boy," but the voice didn't sound sarcastic. Adam pulled the blankets over to the bars and lay down, then tugged my pant leg until I sat beside him.
"Misplaced is exactly what it sounds like," the man said. "When the Nasts want to hide someone, they put them here. The paperwork, I presume, will say that you are in the usual prison cells. Then someone will go to find you and . . ."
"We aren't there," I said.
Adam whispered, "It's just a game. Lucas will tell Sean what happened, and he'll find us. They can't hide us from Sean. Not for long anyway."
The man heard us--a half-demon with auditory powers, I was guessing.
"The young Nast? Now that is a fortunate connection. Yes, if you know him, then this would appear to be a simple power play. An uncomfortable one, but you won't rot down here."
That cough again, from farther away, as if reinforcing our neighbor's point.
"How many people are in here?" I asked.
"Hard to say," the man mused. "You're the first new ones in a few years. The rest . . . They aren't what I'd call sociable. Sick. Crazy. A combination of the two, mostly. Locked away and forgotten."
"You--you've been here for years?"
He chuckled. "No, my dear. Mere months in this place would drive anyone mad. I'm a regular but temporary visitor. A special case. I work for the Nasts. Not voluntary labor, but they keep me in reasonable comfort if I behave myself." He paused. "I don't always behave myself."
"So they lock you up down here."
"Yes, and it's my own fault, as they're quick to remind me. But I don't do well with authority. Or with cages, however pretty. I won't be here long. I hear they have a mission for me. If not, they'll still take me out after a few days and put me on ice."
"Kill you?"
A laugh now. "No, my dear. I'm too valuable for that. I mean put me on ice quite literally. I believe there are human laws against the use of prisoners for scientific experimentation. That doesn't apply with Cabals. They make use of us. Cryogenics, in my case. Six months a year seems to be the safe limit. In my case, it has the dual advantages of keeping me under control for six months, and ensuring I don't out-age my usefulness too soon."
I'd have been shocked if I hadn't already known all the Cabals were working on cryogenics, one of many scientific races they engaged in. The Cortezes had also managed to freeze subjects for up to six months.
So this wasn't news. But it did spark a memory. Cassandra had been talking about cryogenic science a few years ago. No, she wasn't interested in freezing herself to extend her shrinking lifespan. But she'd heard a rumor that the Cortez Cabal had captured two vampires and was using them for cryogenics experiments. Since vampires don't age, something in their DNA might help perfect the freezing.
Benicio hadn't admitted to kidnapping vampires, of course. He simply said that if such a thing ever happened, it would be off North American soil, that the subjects would be well treated and released without permanent damage.
A few days ago, I'd learned that the liberation movement planned to free Jasper Haig from Cortez custody. It was Jasper--Jaz, as he was known--who'd killed Benicio's two eldest sons. He was being allowed to live while they studied his unique chameleon-like power. When we confronted Jaz about this plot to free him, he'd hinted it was the Cabal scientists who'd approached him with an offer. Now the movement claimed to have developed a mortality vaccine using vampire DNA. Could it be the same DNA used in those cryogenics experiments? An offshoot of those experiments? Probably. So what else were they working on?
TWENTY
Our prison-mate didn't talk much after that. He'd made contact. That seemed to be his only goal. Establish himself as a potential source of aid because we had connections. If it had been me, I'd have done the same.
Hours passed. Adam and I talked a little, but I wanted him to rest. We had no idea what was happening, and dwelling on it would
just lead to panic. Wait and see. It was all we could do.
A guard came by eventually with more water and energy bars. He gestured for us to stand in the back corner, unlocked a tiny grate and pushed the supplies through.
The whole time the guard was there, Adam talked. No threats. Not even questions. Just trying to talk to the guy. Making an impression. Getting him to see us as people, not anonymous prisoners. The guy didn't respond.
"Nice try," said our neighbor when the guard was gone. "But you can save your breath, boy. Deaf and dumb. They all are. Not too bright either, I suspect."
I walked over to the grate. I hadn't noticed it earlier--it looked just like part of the bars. I bent and jiggled it. Then I cast an unlock spell.
"If that keeps you occupied, have at it," the man said. "If you look closer, though, you'll see that you wouldn't get more than your head out."
He was right.
"Relax and wait," he said. "If you're right, someone's looking for you. If not, use the boy's injuries. Make them worse and he'll get medical attention. That would be a chance to escape."
Adam dozed again. I was sitting, arms around my knees, staring into nothing, when he sat up beside me, hand snaking around my waist.
"It's going to be okay," he whispered.
I nodded.
He shifted closer. "Worrying about your mom?"
"Trying not to. At worst, she dies and goes back where she was. It's only a matter of time before the Fates figure out how to recall her anyway."
"That'll be hard," he said. "Losing her again."
"At least I got to spend some time with her," I said. "Not exactly quality time. But she belongs over there. That's her life now." I gave him a rueful smile. "Do I sound all calm and mature?"
"You do." He kissed me. "Even if it's not how you really feel."
"I will. Eventually."
I leaned against him and closed my eyes.
"The rest will be okay, too," he said. "They'll come for us. Elena and Clay would have followed us to the airport. They'd take the Cortez jet. They'd have arrived at the same time and figured out where Josef took us. From there, it's just a matter of following their noses."
Still . . . so many connections to be missed.
"What if Elena and Clay are down here, too?" I said. "Somewhere."
"All the better, because that kitsune mojo of Jeremy's will find them faster than any werewolf nose."
A throat-clearing from our neighbor. "Excuse me? I don't mean to eavesdrop, but it's difficult for me not to. Did you say werewolf?"
I glanced at Adam.
"We aren't werewolves," Adam said. "If that's what you're worried about."
That chuckle again. "I know you aren't. Clay would be Clayton, yes? Danvers. And . . . the other one."
"Jeremy."
"Yes. You know them?"
"We do."
"Then my name might not be meaningless to you after all. My family name, at least. So I'll introduce myself, in hopes that you will let Clayton know I'm here. Perhaps, as Alpha, he can negotiate my release."
"Clay's not Alpha. Jeremy is."
A pause, then, "Still? I thought he would have stepped down by now."
"He will be. Soon. But Clay won't be Alpha. Elena will."
His silence told me he had no idea who that was. How long had this guy been locked up?
"Elena is Clay's wife," I said. "Mate. Whatever. She's a werewolf, and the Alpha-elect."
"I . . . see. I suppose Jeremy thinks that's clever, leaving Clayton as de facto Alpha while not antagonizing those who wouldn't want him leading the Pack."
I opened my mouth to say that wasn't the case, but Adam shook his head. If this guy knew so much about the Pack--and had superhearing--that meant he was a werewolf. An old-school mutt. Meaning it was best to keep issues of equality out of the conversation.
"And your name?" I said.
"Miguel Santos," he said.
"I thought--" I began.
Then I stopped myself as I struggled to recall the names of the Santos family who'd been Pack members. I had a decent knowledge of Pack history. After so many summers at Jeremy's estate--Stonehaven--I'd been permitted to read the Legacy.
Jeremy had been challenged for the Alpha position by his father, Malcolm, a brutal son of a bitch who'd been backed primarily by the Santos family. There were two Santos brothers, one of whom had three sons. Two of those sons and their uncle had been killed in the fight for Ascension. The father and youngest son left. That son--Daniel--had led an uprising against the Pack years later. Daniel had been killed, meaning the only living Santos from those days would be his father. The age seemed about right, but his name was Raymond, and I was sure I'd heard that Raymond--like Malcolm--had died years before Daniel.
Our neighbor didn't jump in with an explanation, just quietly waited as I worked it through.
"You weren't Pack, were you?" I said.
"Only as a child. I left at sixteen. After that, I was on the cusp of membership twice. Malcolm Danvers wanted me back in, but I was . . . undecided. I spent a few weekends with my brothers--Wally and Raymond--many years ago, when I was considering joining. So I know Clayton and the current Alpha."
"Jeremy."
"Yes. Not the woman, though. That was after my time. I do recall hearing a rumor that Clayton had bitten a mate." He chuckled. "I should have known it was true. Where other wolves whine about being lonely, he solves the problem. Not what I'd want--I never understood the whining myself--but I take it he's happy?"
"Very."
"Children?"
"Twins."
"A mate, children, an Alpha-hood to come, if unofficially. Yes, he must be happy. I'm glad to hear it. I was always fond of the boy. I've heard rumors through the years. He has quite a reputation, which I was glad to hear, too. I always worried, with the influence of . . ." He paused. "I wasn't as fond of the current Alpha. I mean no disrespect, as he seems to be a friend of yours. He just wasn't . . . my sort of man or my sort of werewolf. Not like Clayton."
I bristled at the insult to Jeremy, but I couldn't hold it against the guy. He seemed a typical werewolf--all muscle and testosterone. To them, someone like Clayton was a real werewolf, if they overlooked his PhD and cozy domestic life. Jeremy was too cerebral. But even those types would have to grudgingly agree that the Pack was thriving. Growing now, having overcome internal division and external attacks. A solid and unified force, undivided since Jeremy's Ascension.
Naysayers would credit Clayton as the true power in the Pack, a claim that made him laugh. This mutt Miguel might not like Jeremy much, but he'd like him a whole lot more when Jeremy used his influence to get him out.
Cabals weren't allowed to hold American werewolves captive. If they committed a crime, they had to be turned over to the Pack for punishment. Which, all things considered, might not have been in Miguel's best interests. But whatever he'd done, it must have been at least twenty years ago if he didn't know Elena. Jeremy would probably decide he'd been punished enough. Either way, he'd get Miguel out.
I slept a little after that, curled up against Adam, with his arm over me. When we woke up, new bottles of water had been pushed through the opening, along with extra blankets, as if they'd just realized there were two of us. They'd replaced the bucket, too.
In the faint light from the corridor, I could see that some of Adam's bruises were already fading. His ribs ached, but he insisted they were cracked, not broken. Our neighbor wasn't the only one with enough fighting experience to recognize the signs.
Miguel noticed we were awake and chatted with us for a while. It was an oddly normal conversation, like being on an overseas flight, occasionally talking to the guy beside you, but mostly just doing your own thing.
He'd heard rumors that something was going on. I gave him the basics. If he had an opinion about supernaturals revealing themselves, he didn't give it.
Adam and I also played games. When we'd unfolded the extra blankets, we'd found a pack of cards tucked insid
e. Did they give them to all prisoners? Or did we have a sympathetic guard out there? Someone who knew who I was and liked Sean? We hoped so.
There were other things I wanted to talk about. Personal things. I got the sense Adam felt the same, from the looks he'd slant my way when he thought I wouldn't notice. But neither of us said anything. It wasn't the time. Or the place. Especially with our neighbor listening.
So we played cards. And chatted. And curled up under the blankets together to rest.
TWENTY-ONE
When a guard came again, hours later, it wasn't the same one. He wasn't even wearing the same uniform, just standard-issue Nast security garb. When he approached our cell, he lifted a finger to his lips before we could speak, then waved us over close to the bars.
"Sean sent me," he whispered. "He doesn't dare come himself--his uncle has men watching for him. He's in Miami with Bryce. I'm going to take you to him."
When we hesitated, he said, "Sean says you both owe him now and that means he's never riding Trixie again."
Adam laughed. Trixie was an old nag at a ranch we liked in Colorado. The last time we were there, they'd sold the horse Sean usually rode, and he'd wanted to flip coins to see who had to ride Trixie. We'd refused. It wasn't something anyone else would know about.
The guard unlocked the door. "Hurry. Captain Kaufman is waiting for you."
As we stepped out, a voice floated from the next cell. "You'll remember me, won't you?"
"I will," I said and stopped at his cell. "I'll tell Jeremy you're in here. He'll do something about it."
Miguel had moved back into the shadows. But as dark as this place was, my eyes had grown accustomed to the dim light, and I could see him plainly. Judging the age of a werewolf is a tricky thing. The man in the cell looked about the guard's age--late forties, early fifties. His dark hair was barely shot with silver. He was an inch or so shorter than me, broad-shouldered with a muscular build. Blue eyes, but an average blue, nothing outstanding. I supposed he would be considered good-looking for his age, but I found it hard to see that, because I knew who this man was. Not Miguel Santos.
"Did I mention I used to spend summers at Stonehaven?" I said.
His lips twisted in a sardonic smile. "I find that hard to believe, my dear. The Pack does not--"
"They don't like outsiders. A twelve-year-old friend of the family isn't so bad, though, as long as she knows her place and treats them with respect. That's one thing Clay made sure I knew. Treat Stonehaven and everyone in it with respect. I screwed that up once."