Page 79 of Caged Kitten

Until fireside conversations and laughter and trips to the village pub.

Until Katja and her smile, her blood glittering like starlit rubies—

We stepped out of the final stairwell into a completely different world. Shock shivered down my spine at the bright white walls and glossy floors replacing familiar dusty stone blocks. Metal doors that gave off the faint scent and pulse of iron peppered the corridor, and all three warlocks really put their back into shoving me along when my feet dragged and my knees locked. Six doors down, one of the fuckers tapped his wand on the iron panel—which I noticed had no doorknob, accessible only by magic—and it opened soundlessly.

Cold whooshed out just as hurriedly as I was shoved in, met by a sterile operating room with the brightest lights yet. Men in white lab coats puttered around, some with face masks, others preparing equipment with their backs to me. Seized by panic, my chest constricted with fear sharp enough to crack every rib. My mouth dried up. My fingertips went numb. My brain turned sluggish on the uptake, slowly digesting my new surroundings.

And my eyes…

My eyes locked on the metal operating table in the middle of it all, outfitted with spiked wooden cuffs just for vampires. Like iron incapacitated fae and silver poisoned shifters, shove a bit of wood into a vamp’s body and they were screwed.

I shook my head and pushed back, only to have a wand jabbed into either side of my neck just below the collar. A good shove and a jolt of something fiery had me shuffling forward at a snail’s pace, driven toward the table by the three unknown guards. Fuck. Fuck. Outmanned and outgunned—not ideal, but maybe…

As soon as I looked beyond the operating table, my brain short-circuited. Men in white coats clustered around a flat-screen, and seconds later X-rays plastered across it—skulls. Skulls with fangs. One of the bastards even circled the fangs with his wand, tapping at the markings for emphasis, and the purpose of this room became abundantly clear. I reared back, fighting with earnest now, fear quashed deep down in favor of fire. For a bloodthirsty creature of the night, I rarely gave in to violence. In fact, Katja’s assault was the first instance where I had lost my shit and relied on my hands, not my words, to send a message.

Tonight needed to be the same.

And I tried.

Damnit, I tried.

As the panicked whitecoats lumbered toward the walls and out of the way, more warlocks in black uniforms poured in from various doors. Dozens of hands found me, wands shocked me, and inch by precious inch, they hauled me toward the operating table. Teeth gritted, I flailed and fought and snapped my fangs at anyone within reach.

Overhead, mirrored panels slanted over the room—

An observation deck.

My torment was for public consumption, apparently.

Against my best efforts, they forced me onto the table—strapped me down with cuffs spiked with wood on the insides. As soon as the little pinpricks broke skin, their sedative effects kicked in. My muscles relaxed. My head flopped onto cold, merciless metal. Restraints were added at my ankles too, shoes removed, and another wave of weakness washed over me as more teeny, tiny wood stakes pierced my flesh.

Humans had loads of dumb mythos about vampires, but a wooden stake to the heart? Devastating. One of the few natural elements that could well and truly kill us.

“W-what is this?” I forced out, tongue thick and heavy, my words slurred. All around me, the organized chaos resumed, masked men and women in scrubs wheeling trays to my bedside, one even dragging a punishingly bright light directly over my face.

“You should be honored, Rafe O’Dwyer.” A face suddenly blocked the piercing whiteness. I blinked hard to shirk the spots dancing through my field of vision, only to wince at the waft of garlic that came with the new arrival’s breath. One of the myths that wasn’t true: garlic had no effect on a vamp, but it was an absolutely pungent odor that fused up your nostrils for weeks. Not detrimental—just a nuisance.

Slate-grey eyes peered down at me, cold and assessing, flitting about my face like they were trying desperately to see the value in it. The voice was familiar, even to my sleepy mind, my fading senses, and soon, each blink became a fight, my lids like lead.

“W-warden Guthrie?”

He offered a barbed grin, looming over me in a fine suit, hair perfectly coifed. His pocket square was silk—a deep maroon patterned with white crosses. Really going for the pop culture jugular, eh? While his mouth twisted in a smile, his steely gaze raged.

“You’ve been selected as the first inmate volunteer in our experimental partnership with—”

“Fuck you,” I hissed, clinging to consciousness just enough to remember that I hated him. This piece of shit had put me here. He trapped Elijah’s inner dragon. He dragged Katja out for meetings that always made her cry. He bled Fintan’s accounts dry, taking more than half already to fund the fae’s illegal detainment.

If I could just move my arms, I’d snap his neck.

I knew it. He knew. And the gobshite with all the power just grinned down at me, exhaling that garlicky carbon dioxide all over my face. Slowly, as the clamor around the room picked up, he lowered himself just enough that his breath warmed my ear, leaving me at the mercy of the overhead light’s relentless glare.

“You bit her,” the warden sneered, his rasp bone-chillingly pleasant, “and I understand. My kitten is so lovely… But after tonight, you’ll never be able to taste her again—or anyone else for that matter.”

He withdrew and patted my chest, the edges of my vision slowly fading to black, my body paralyzed from the neck down.

“He’s all yours, boys.”

Then the darkness spread, muffling the clinking surgical tools and the beeping machines, blocking out the white light and the masked men, my facial muscles slack.

And a heartbeat later, I was gone.

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