Page 167 of Shadowblood Souls: The Complete Series

One

Riva

I wake up with a jolt of my nerves. A tremor ripples through my throat, as if I’ve just finished shouting out a name.

Dominic!

My pulse is thundering. I shove myself upright and then sway with a rush of dizziness.

Aches run down my back and arms. The stretch of a scab over a partly healed cut on my shoulder throbs.

I blink, struggling to clear my glazed vision. I’m sitting up on a bed—a large bed, heaped with layers of sheets and a blanket.

Whitewashed walls surround me. A vanity stands in one corner; a deep red rug covers most of the open floor.

It doesn’t look like a prison. But I didn’t ask to be here, and I’ve been wrenched away from my men, again .

My claws shoot from my fingertips to dig into the soft sheets, and my muscles tense to spring into action. But at the same moment, an overwhelming sensation rolls over me, pinning me in place like a boulder.

We fought so hard. I went so far to carve our way to freedom.

Do the guardians have their own claws so deep in us that we can never totally break free from them?

The overwhelming sense of doom squeezes my lungs.

I clench my jaw against it. Anger sparks beneath the suffocating fog, burning away the thickest patches.

Whoever attacked us this time, they hurt all of us. They sent the truck and van crashing to the side of the road.

The man who loomed over me when I lay bleeding on the roadside and claimed we’d helped him—he told the woman with him to shoot Dominic.

What have they done to Dom? What have they done with all of my guys?

The fresh zap of panic breaks through the rest of the fog. I scramble off the bed, my gaze darting around me, cataloguing every inch of the room that might hold a clue to escape.

Around the edges of the rug, worn stone tiles show, giving the impression they’ve been walked on for decades, if not centuries. Thin beams crisscross the ceiling. Most of it is white like the walls, but delicate designs in pastel colors decorate some of the spaces between the beams.

The curved headboard and the vanity gleam with rich brown wood and old-fashioned bronze detailing. Embroidered pillows lie on a window seat beneath a tall, arched pane that’s framed by gauzy red curtains to match the rug.

None of this looks like a prison. It’s possibly the fanciest room I’d ever been in.

What the fuck is going on? Are King Arthur and his knights going to show up next?

I shake myself out of my daze of confusion enough to take better stock of my body. My upper arm and shoulder are bandaged, as is my side beneath the unfamiliar pastel-blue T- shirt I have on. Bruises mottle my lower arms and my calves when I tug up the legs on my equally new khakis.

They’re already fading, but given my shadowblood tendency toward quick healing, that doesn’t tell me much.

More disturbing are the metal bands wrapped around my wrists. I could believe they’re simply silver bangles if their thick, flat surface didn’t suggest a deeper layer of tech inside.

Like the tracking anklets Clancy had us wear. Although these could at least pass for regular jewelry to someone who doesn’t know better.

I tug at the bands experimentally and find them unyielding. I suspect even my full supernatural strength couldn’t snap them off.

Maybe if I could hit them with a heavy tool… but it’s probably better not to test that until I discover exactly what they do. What the consequences would be.

The glint of silver prompts my hand to my chest. But my fingers feel nothing beneath the fabric of my shirt.

My necklace—the cat-and-yarn charm Griffin gave me so many years ago. It’s gone.

Did I lose it in the crash, or did our new captors take it from me?

Through the pang of loss, a rosy, citrusy scent tickles my nose. I duck my head lower and realize it’s coming from me .

When I sniff my arm, the faint perfume winds into my lungs. My stomach knots.

Whoever brought me here, they washed me up as well as bandaged me. Stripped me down and then dressed me up like a doll.

They even rebraided my hair. I trail my fingers over the silver and darker gray strands and feel how smooth the woven locks are, with none of the grit or straggling flyaways from our battle with the terrorists Clancy sent us up against.

As more of the haze in my head clears, I rest my hand against my collarbone. My necklace might be gone, but the three splotches like thumb-sized bruises remain, connecting me to the three men I’ve confirmed my love for in the most concrete bodily way.

Through our connection, I can sense their location and occasionally flickers of intense emotion. Right now, none of the latter is echoing into me, but I can tell that Andreas, Dominic, and Jacob are nearby. Probably in the same building.

If I can sense Dominic, does that mean he must still be alive? I have no idea how our strange bond would react if one of us died.

Clinging on to a shred of hope, I stalk to the window. As I clamber onto the cushions and brace my hands against the ledge, the scenery beyond the pane steals my breath.

Right below the window, which appears to be on the second floor of the building, lies a small stretch of tiled patio dotted with neatly trimmed shrubs and bright bursts of potted flowers. A low stone wall forms a border on the far side of the patio.

And past that wall… sweeping mountain ranges of pale brown stone and mottled greenery stretch out as far as my eyes can see, undulating waves of rock draped in warm sunlight. As if I’ve found myself lost in the middle of a stormy ocean solidified in mid-churn.

I spot what looks like a church tower on a distant hill and maybe a cluster of rooftops even farther abroad, but no human habitation close enough for me to distinguish actual people.

We’ve definitely come a long way from the tropical island where Clancy and his guardians held us. There’s an actual autumn here—some of the trees on the slopes have lost their foliage, leaving them with a vaguely fuzzy appearance. When I press my hand to the glass, a trace of a chill seeps through.

What month is it now? On the guardians’ island with its constant summery weather, I lost all sense of the time passing.

I pull myself away from the window to yank open the drawers on the vanity. They’re empty, but the closet in the corner holds an assortment of slacks and jeans, tees and sweatshirts, and even a few casual dresses on hangers.

I waver and then tug on a hoodie that makes me feel a little less like a preppy catalogue model. It’d be good to have additional pockets in case I get the chance to stash anything in them.

Then I move to the room’s main door. I grip the handle, preparing to evaluate the resistance the lock gives me.

But the door isn’t locked. The knob turns easily in my hand.

My heart stutters with shock. I nudge the door open and find myself staring out into a high-ceilinged hallway lined with more arched doorways and lit by elaborate sconces holding electric candles.

What crazy dream have I stumbled into? I shake my head and am considering outright slapping myself to make sure I’m not hallucinating when one of the other doors squeaks open.

Zian edges into the hallway, looking as dazed as I feel. As a rush of relief washes over me at seeing him alive and well, he swipes his hand through his short black hair and swings his brawny frame toward me.

I can’t throw myself at him with a massive hug the way I itch to, because getting too up close and personal with Zee could trigger the traumatic memories he doesn’t know how to control. I settle for hurrying over to him with an anxious smile.

Zian’s dark brown eyes light up with matching relief. His arms rise and then stiffen, locking before he can offer an embrace.

I stop a couple of feet away from him, and with deliberate care, he rests his hands on my shoulders. His gaze searches mine. “You’re okay?”

His rumbly voice is strung with worry beneath the typical gruffness. I nod, glancing over him in turn.

Our new captors have dressed him similarly to me, in khakis and a plain T-shirt—and with the same metal bracelets at his wrists. The edge of a bandage pokes from beneath the neckline of his tee, and bruises like mine darken the peachy-brown skin of his arms. Another shows on his jaw.

“You?” I ask, just to be sure.

His mouth twists. “As much as I can be. Where the hell are we? What happened?”

His hands slip from my shoulders as he turns to take in the hall again. Before I can tell him that I don’t have any more clue than he does, more doors start to open up and down the hall.

Nadia slips out first, her steps a little wobbly and her black pixie cut slicked to the side around a bandage on her temple. Her uneasy gaze meets mine, and she dashes over.

I catch her in the hug I couldn’t give Zian, hoping it gives a little reassurance to the teenaged shadowblood girl who’s become something like a friend. Her statuesque frame is several inches taller than mine, but she clings to me like she needs me to hold her steady.

My gut twists. Nadia has always seemed like one of the most resilient of the younger shadowbloods.

I’m not sure how well I can help her regain her footing when I’m so shaken myself.

As I ease back from her, a face as dark as midnight pokes from another doorway. Ajax, the younger teen who can pick up fragments of people’s thoughts, creeps out slowly.

“This is crazy,” Nadia says in a rough voice, her head swiveling to take in the hall. “Do you?—”

She cuts off her own question when a tall guy with rumpled blond hair emerges farther down. A smile flashes across her face brighter than the supernatural glow she can emit at will. “Booker!”

Nadia flings her arms around the guy who I think has become more than a friend to her over the past few weeks. The awed grin that stretches across his face, giving him the surfer dude impression he has at more relaxed times, seems to confirm my suspicion.

The need to find the rest of the men I love hums through me. I spin around and hustle down the hall, sensing that both Andreas and Jacob are in that direction.

As if drawn by my approach, they push their doors open before I’ve even reached their rooms, Drey just a couple of seconds ahead of Jake.

Andreas takes advantage of his small lead to sweep me up in his lean brown arms and press a giddy kiss to my mouth. I grip the back of his neck and stroke my fingers over his tight curls, clinging to this one moment of joy.

A hand comes to rest on my back, and Drey releases me. Jacob wastes no time pulling me into his own embrace.

He leaves my feet on the floor, gathering me against his muscular frame with his chin tucked over the top of my head. His warmth and the steel-solid feel of his body surround me.

Jake said he’d be my armor when I needed it. He feels like armor now, holding firm against whatever this place is going to throw at us.

“Wildcat,” he murmurs, the two syllables of the old nickname managing to contain relief, anguish, and devotion all twined together.

I nestle closer against him, absorbing as much of the strength and determination radiating off him as I can. Knowing that whatever respite we’re getting now is temporary.

He might act as my armor, but the other shadowbloods, especially the kids, need me to fight for them. The powers the younger ones can wield are much weaker than ours—the original six, the ones they call Firsts.

A gentle but hesitant voice reaches my ears. “Jake—Riva. We’re all… Where’s Dominic?”

I ease back from Jacob to see that his twin has joined us. Griffin’s softer but otherwise identical sky-blue gaze considers the hallway from beneath the sweep of his slightly longer golden hair.

He looks more alert than he did the last time I encountered him in an unfamiliar building—the first time any of us had spoken to him after four years of believing he was dead. Four years in which the guardians tortured his own emotions out of him, a loss he’s only just started to recover from.

I’d take more reassurance from the fact that he hasn’t reverted back to his previous robotic state if it wasn’t for the question he asked.

When I look down the hall again, I spot a couple more of the younger shadowbloods: Sully, a stout older teen who can work illusions, and Lindsay, the mousy-haired kid with an affinity for earth.

But no sign of Dominic.

I close my eyes, focusing on the mark that connects me to our quiet, thoughtful healer. “I think he’s… downstairs, somewhere.”

Jacob frowns. “Why would they separate Dom from the rest of us?”

Uneasiness twists through my gut. I can’t think of any reasons that are good . We don’t even know who “they” are yet.

Before I can say as much, one more figure steps into view at the far end of the hall—but not a welcome one. My stance goes rigid at the sight of the tall, wiry woman I last saw aiming a gun at Dominic.

She clasps her tan hands loosely in front of her, her dark eyes studying us intently, framed by a sleek bob of similarly dark hair. “You will accompany me to the drawing room,” she says in a mild, even voice, and turns on her heel without waiting for our response.

We all glance around at each other.

Jacob’s jaw clenches, but I grasp his hand. “We should get a better sense of what the hell is going on here before we make any moves.”

He grudgingly nods. We both know I won’t hesitate to join him in leaping to the attack when the time is right.

Just minutes before we were re-captured, I slit our previous captor’s throat with my claws. The only upside of the washing our new keepers gave us is that I’m no longer splattered with Clancy’s blood.

We Firsts trail behind the strange woman warily. The younger shadowbloods follow our lead with nervous expressions.

Zian holds up his arm and flexes his wrist around the bracelet. “We’ve all got these. Have yours done anything?”

As the others shake their heads, I turn my arm, studying one of mine. “Not so far.”

Andreas lets out a halting chuckle. “Somehow I think we’re going to find out what they’re for soon.”

The woman leads us down a curving staircase with an elaborate wrought-iron banister and through a hall wide enough to be a room itself. The doorframes on either side are carved with floral motifs, and the floor glints with a geometric mosaic of tiny tiles.

But I don’t give a shit about the decor once she’s ushered us into a room full of elegant armchairs and antique wooden side tables. Because against the opposite wall stands an enclosed hospital-style bed that holds Dominic’s limp form.