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A ngor, OneWorld, Present Day

What the hell?

Madeline slid her sandpapery eyelids open. Closed. Blink. Blink. She drew a deep breath and coughed. The air was stale, dusty, and sour with the faint odor of garbage left too long in a trashcan.

When reality trickled into her brain, pain rocketed through her shoulders. Her arms were stretched overhead, her full weight on them because her knees had buckled. She wiggled. No give.

Madeline straightened her wobbly knees to relieve the ache in her arms. She widened her eyes, trying to see in the dim room. She twisted her head from side to side. Down. Up. No wonder. Above her, ropes bound her wrists to a bolt in concrete. She was a damn bug pinned to a wall. Swallowing the hard lump in her throat, she struggled against the bindings.

No go.

Think. Think. Don’t panic.

She and her older sisters used to listen to a radio talk show psychiatrist from New York, Lizette Lee. The woman doled out advice, some of it helping them cope with their shitty home life.

What did Lizette say? Yeah. Step one—identify the problem.

At the moment, though, Madeline couldn’t concentrate. Her chest popped in and out as panic bubbled to the surface.

Fight it. Check out the surroundings. Identify the problem.

Staring straight ahead and fluttering her lids to clear the blurry vision, she took in a cavernous room with unlit bulbs hanging from the ceiling on cords. Windows, the only light source, were small and high off the ground. The place was damp, with moisture seeping from the floor and walls. She shivered. A chill passed through her body.

“Hello. Hello,” she called out. When no one answered, she shouted, “Help me.”

Madeline pulled against the bindings, tearing the skin on her wrists. Blood dripped down her arms, and her eyes watered.

“Hello,” she yelled again.

She was alone.

Pressing her chin to her chest, Madeline glanced down. Buttons on her blouse were ripped off, exposing part of her bra. Her skirt was torn and dirty, but at least her clothes were on. Her feet were bare. No Uggs.

So, in the best imitation of Lizette Lee, she’d identified the problem.

She was in a shitty situation. Hogtied to a wall in what looked like a warehouse.

Madeline licked her cracked lips. Thirsty. How long had she been here? Long enough to need water.

How the hell did she get here?

She focused on memories that came to her in hazy bits and pieces.

Getting ready to close up the St. Louis Central Library, which she did each night, she grabbed her coat from the hook and slipped it on. Trading her comfortable pumps for warmer footwear, she slid into suede, shearling-lined Uggs. She took her purse from a desk drawer and stuck the pumps in its place. After pulling out her keys, she slung the bag over her shoulder and went from room to room shutting off lights. Once outside she closed and locked the door, checking the handle twice, even though the cleaning crew would come in behind her.

After donning warm gloves, she pulled her coat tighter. It got cold after the ice storm moved in earlier. She maneuvered carefully down the steps to the sidewalk. On the street, she stared over her shoulder at the library.

At the bottom, she began her six-block walk home, using the time to think about reheating a good soup and tossing a salad. After dinner, she’d call Fia or Darya to catch up and, afterward, crawl into bed with a half-finished book.

Madeline pulled straight down on her arms despite the torn skin under the ropes. She couldn’t free herself.

Another memory drifted into her mind.

Once Madeline had crossed the street, a man bumped into her. She mumbled, “Sorry,” her head down, burrowed into the warmth of her coat collar. Instead of going on his way, he grabbed her shoulders. Before she could use the martial arts tricks she’d perfected, he...

She had thought if he planned to mug her, he was out of luck. She carried little cash, much preferring her debit card or Apple Pay. Then ... then what?

Nothing. She’d blacked out. He must have drugged her before he brought her here. Wherever here was.

No. That wasn’t the entire memory. She had first awakened elsewhere. In a bed. Not tied up against a wall. A woman fed her soup. A strange woman with... No... Impossible.

That recollection was too fuzzy. Maybe not real.

Rocking her body from side to side and tugging on the ropes ravaged more of her tender flesh. She sucked back tears, swallowing the screams in her mind. Not only was crying useless, but it was also a hindrance. She needed a clear head to think. Madeline drew a deep, calming breath in through her nose. Pursing her lips, she exhaled through her mouth.

Focus .

She was bound to a wall in a room that looked like an empty warehouse. She couldn’t get loose.

Yet.

But the calm she had won vanished. Once again, panic set in.

No. No.

When Madeline was young, she had wondered if she had a touch of OCD. Her sister Darya had said, “So what! You’re seriously hooked on lists and order.” True . She organized clothes in her closet by type and color. In her kitchen cabinet, all the cans of chicken soup were side by side. Vegetable soup was with vegetable soup. And so on. Anything that could be grouped was.

She blamed her needs on growing up in the out-of-control home of an alcoholic. It drove her desire for order. She became a librarian because of the structure. Each book had its proper place.

Now was the time to call on tried-and-true relaxation methods. When stressed, she recited the Dewey Decimal Classification Chart. Since she could use some tranquility, she mumbled, “Computer Science, Information, and General Works. Philosophy and Psychology...”

A door banged open, interrupting her mental recitation. When the light switch flipped on, most bulbs came to life, though a few flickered and dimmed. Madeline slammed her lids shut against the painful brightness. The ominous sound of boots thudding across the floor caused her heart to nearly burst out of her chest. Someone was coming.

Managing rapid, shallow breaths, she prepared to face her assailant.

Calm. Think. Steel yourself.

A deep voice punched through her quiet. “Good. You’re awake.”

Inching her lids open, Madeline stared at the man before her. Her gaze traveled up his long legs to a trim waist and broad shoulders. His sandy hair was tied back. She judged him to be a bit over six feet. What met her next was the stuff of nightmares. His eyes were cruel, uncaring, murderous.

And solid white. Irises. Pupils. The works.

Breath shot from her chest. She shuddered, stifling a scream. He was a monster.

Her kidnapper jerked his fists to his hips while he scrutinized her. “We’re going to have such fun. Well, at least I shall.” His laugh was deep, loud, hollow.

Madeline cleared her throat twice, finally squeaking out, “Who are you?”

Leathery, veined charcoal-gray wings popped from his back.

Unable to control herself, she screamed.

Fucking bat wings. Impossible. Like the woman she dimly remembered, the one who had fed her.

Madeline couldn’t stop herself. She tugged on her arms and tried to kick her feet clear of the ties. Blood dripped onto her shirt. What her captor did next, however, led her to gravitate from scared to pissed in seconds.

He laughed, and she wanted to bitch slap him. She may be a librarian, but she didn’t fit the stereotype. No shy, retiring demeanor for her. She was more inclined to rip out your throat if you didn’t obey the posted quiet signs.

Not really, but sometimes the urge was there. She was a librarian for the lists and order, not to hide behind the bookshelves.

Years with her mother’s erratic, drunken behavior had taught her well. Never let the enemy see you sweat. She wiped the fear from her expression and stared at the monster, her gaze devoid of emotion.

The nightmare vision in front of her tapped his chest. “I’m Praevus.”

Latin for evil , perverse . Uselessly tugging on her wrists again, she asked, “Where am I?”

“Angor.”

Hmm. She didn’t know where Angor was.

“Why am I here?” She drew breath in through her nose and exhaled through her mouth.

“You were my gift to me.” His white eyes shone like twin full moons.

“What do you mean?” Madeline bit her lower lip, using the pain to center her thoughts.

Praevus’s wings disappeared from view as if he had retracted them. “That is none of your concern.”

She hated the sound of his hollow voice. “Turn me loose. You don’t want to hurt me.”

The guy was a nightmare, but she wasn’t dreaming. He was in focus. Too sharp.

She stifled sobs, reminding herself that crying did no good. And terror was incapacitating. It muddled thoughts, preventing her from forming a game plan. That was step two of Lizette Lee’s strategy. After clarification of the problem, came solving the problem.

Madeline began reciting the Dewey Decimal Classification system again, a focus for her concentration. She whispered, “Religion. Social Sciences. Language...”

The monster’s hollow voice interrupted her recitation. “But I do want to hurt you. Besides, if I turn you loose, there is nowhere for you to run in Angor.”

Madeline slowed her breathing, struggling to form thoughts. She stopped her mental relaxation technique. “Where is Angor? What part of St. Louis is it in?” But she already suspected this monster wasn’t human. Nor was he from Earth.

The white-eyed, bat-winged pervert chuckled. “St. Louis? Earth? These are places of your past. They will mean nothing to you. Not even a memory. I shall be your place, your reason for living, the center of your universe.”

He’s a fricking psycho villain from a bad melodrama. A megalomaniacal serial killer. If he were a book, she’d file him under Philosophy and Psychology. She’d shelve him with other parapsychology and occultism works in the Mental Derangements section. Of course, the label no longer existed, but it fit Praevus. She shook her head. Back to reality. “You’re going to kill me.”

He shrugged. “In a way. Your body will live on. Your mind, though, will belong to me. Its only thought will be my pleasure. My approval. If I want you to kill for me, you will. If I want you to fuck me, you will. If I want you to walk into a blazing fire for me, you will.” He rubbed his hands together.

Yep .

A B-movie villain.

He continued with his bad-film dialogue. “I have never had a human. I hope your flesh and mind are not too weak for my plans.”

Madeline and all of Earth had watched the shocking news several years ago. Humankind’s illusions had shattered like glass when TV anchors reported on Aeternals, a superior species living in another realm called Scath. We were not alone.

Hungry for knowledge, she’d studied the tons of newspapers that came into the library to get a clearer picture of these unknown beings. Though St. Louis hadn’t been attacked like other cities, she learned the American military had fought beside a group who called themselves ... what? Firebrands. Their common goal was to save the world from an organization determined to enslave humans. They won.

Once the good guys defeated the bad guys, Lizette Lee began broadcasting again after a long hiatus, telling how she’d been kidnapped, taken to this other realm, held prisoner, and saved by a Firebrand. Madeline had been happy to hear of her return.

Could Praevus be with those terrorists who wanted to enslave humans? Reporters had announced they’d been rounded up and killed or incarcerated, but he may have escaped.

“Are you an Aeternal from Scath?” she asked.

He rolled his white eyes as if he resented the accusation. “Those weak bastards? No. I told you. I am Praevus. I’m an Immortal. Well, I was. Now I am called a Scourge.”

“What’s an Immortal? What’s a Scourge?”

Keep him talking.

As long as he talked, she was safe. Besides, questions were an occupational hazard for a librarian and a big part of her personality. Madeline needed to know as much as possible about her problem before formulating a successful escape plan.

“I am an Immortal whom the black-winged assassin Dominion wrongfully threw into Angor. Because I have certain ... um ... tastes, they call me a Scourge. Someday, I shall find a way to extinct him or make him suffer an eternity of torture as I have. Perhaps the latter is better.” Her captor’s upper lip curled into a sneer.

Madeline didn’t understand what the hell Praevus was rattling on about, but she figured it was bad. Scourge? Immortal? Assassin? The last two rang a bell. She’d read something.

Think. Think.

The only thing she could connect to his rants were news shows where talking heads had discussed another being they called an Immortal. What was his name? Yes. Angel. No. Ohngel. They identified him as a winged assassin. They’d even flashed pictures of him on the screen. Despite his title, they said he was a good guy who had helped the Firebrands save humans.

None of this explained how she was here or why he chose her. When the answers to those questions eluded her, she trembled, her calmer thoughts scattering. She swallowed the bile rising in her throat, determined not to upchuck.

When she was young, Maddy and her sisters had played what-if games. What if one of their mother’s gentleman callers visited the wrong room? What if they had no money for food? What if their mother fell against the edge of a table and died? But the current dilemma with Praevus was worse. Scary. Not a game.

Her captor stepped closer. He tangled his fingers in her hair and yanked her head down. She turned her cheek to the cold concrete wall but could not escape his oily touch.

“Wait here, my pet. Don’t leave before I return,” he whispered. Stroking her lower lip, he chuckled as if he had made a joke. “Our time together is just beginning.”

She listened as the pounding of his boots faded, the lights went out, and a metal door slammed shut. “Control,” she murmured, again ticking off major classes of the Dewey Decimal System. “Science. Technology. Arts and Recreation...”

Madeline clenched her fists, commanding her fear to dive deep into her heart where she buried it. One thing was for sure. She refused to break. Her sisters had prepared her well.