Condemned

20 | Jael

Why does it feel like my entire blood volume is in my head? And that it's leaking out of me? One drop at a time?

Probably because it is...

I'm still a wolf, I think, but I'm too out of sorts to make the distinction for sure. I'm swaying, enough to get seasick, but everything is black.

Sam. Where is she? Did they...? Will they...? Ivy . . . was it just a threat or does she really intend to KILL her?

Her scream has burned a track in my mind. Still, it sounds fresh and somewhat close. The gasp I emit brings my eyes to a flutter.

I'm surprised to see daylight. It's dull and grim, and burns like hell, nonetheless, and it gradually sheds light on my predicament. It isn't a long way up, but it sure is a long way down.

My chains rattle. I'm hanging from the rafters of the barn by my hind legs. Blood is dripping from my muzzle and soaking into the dirt below in roughly a circle. I can't tell if it's coming from the nose itself or some other part of my body.

Blood spatter radiates outward, I notice. I must have been swaying wildly, like a pinata, and I wouldn't be surprised if something like a bat was used.

It certainly feels like I was beaten with one all night. I suppose I'm lucky I don't remember any of it. I was dead meat at the time. Of course, that wouldn't stop Brock if Ishmael gave the order. They'd make sure I felt it when I woke up.

And they succeeded.

Help, I send out to any wolf who might catch the signal. 9-1-1, S.O.S. Code red.

I don't get a response.

Faolan? Shilo?

They're conveniently out of range.

Barking is out of the question. I'd just as likely draw in the monster who'd knock me back out, maybe for good. It wouldn't take much.

While that thought is pinballing through my mind, the chaos is pierced by a slow, bone-jarring set of footsteps. My slight movement was probably enough to let Brock know that I'm alive and conscious.

Fuck. How could I ever save Sam if I can't save myself?

"Get him down from there..."

Brock's footsteps. Ishmael's voice. His tone is both hot and cold, but it's not like water. They don't mix. I won't mistake it for warm.

A lever clicks before the command sinks in. I'm plummeting to the ground, unprepared. I finally start to wriggle, just in time to save my neck. I'll live for now. I can't say the impact does me any favors, though. My ability to walk was probably questionable before I fell.

Ishmael doesn't hurry, but he makes it to my location before I can find my feet. I'm forced to complete this task underneath his haughty glare. "My office. Immediately."

He then zips through the open barn door in a supernatural blur. He expects me dressed and in human form, but the immediately leaves me no time to heal or pull myself together, or get a clue, from within or from someone else.

I need to know what happened while I was out, what Ishmael might know, and how I should respond, but I get no help, not even from myself. The gaps in my memory don't seem to fill. Not with Brock breathing down my neck, closer than usual. In the damp barn, the heat of him cuts right through. It's enough to bring on an added swell of panic when my clothes are off and my back is turned.   

With pins and needles in my human legs, three missing fingernails, and bruised and broken flesh all over, I get dressed at a pace I've never matched. I jog up to the manor with a speed that is necessary but not healthy. Although it hurts, everywhere, it keeps Brock at a slight distance and shouldn't test Ishmael's patience beyond the norm.