Mercy Burns

Chapter Three

Voices invaded the darkness.

Voices that were gruff one moment, and oddly urbane the next. One was far stronger than the other, but together they formed a chorus that made no actual sense. What they were saying remained tantalizingly beyond my reach, swimming in a thick soup of incomprehensibility.

But as my thoughts traveled slowly toward consciousness, the rhythm of speech and the words became things I could grasp and understand.

The stronger of the voices belonged to Angus. The other one—although almost tinny in its tones—was vaguely familiar. A ghost from the past I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

And whoever he was, he had no smell. The only person who seemed to be here—wherever the hell here was—besides me was Angus, which meant he was probably talking on the phone.

“For the third and final time, yes, I’m sure it’s her.”

There was a distinct edge riding through Angus’s gruff tones and it had confusion swirling. It spoke of anger and hate, but that made no sense if Angus was working for the men behind all this.

He continued. “And no, I didn’t see her stain, because she refused to show it. But it’s her. Aside from the scar from the accident your man botched, she matched the picture you sent me perfectly.”

Oh God, the other man had arranged the truck accident. Which meant that I was close to finding out who he was. If I survived whatever they currently had planned for me, that is.

But if they were going to kill me, why drug me first? They’d certainly shown no compunction about trying to kill me before, so why hesitate now? Or was that what waited for me once these men finished talking?

Fear rose, then drifted away. And suddenly, being drugged seemed like a good thing.

“She won’t be restrained by darkness. The bitch never could be.” The familiar voice held a hint of sophistication that came with money and a cultured upbringing, which was odd because I really didn’t know anyone who matched either of those criteria.

Yet there was something about the voice that chilled me.

It was a voice that held no sense of life, no sense of compassion. Just a cold determination to do what had to be done. Once upon a time I’d known a man like that. It was he who’d given me my scars, and he’d made my teenage years hell.

Of course, there were some who said I’d deserved it. I’d struck back and disfigured him—something few half-breeds ever had the skill or the gumption to do.

But this couldn’t be him. Aside from the fact that Seth had apparently died in an accident, there’d never been anything cultured about his manner or his tone.

Although it still sounded like him.

“The drug will keep her out for twenty-four hours. At least.” Was I imagining it, or was the edge I sensed in Angus’s voice filled with bitterness? He sure didn’t sound like a willing henchman, but maybe the fact that my mind seemed to be drifting a layer or two below true wakefulness was affecting my perceptions. Especially given the sense of wrongness I’d been getting about Angus in the bar.

“Trust me, the bitch can never be relied on to do the expected. Throw her in the box with the muerte. If he can’t get out, no one can.” He hesitated, and a hint of cold amusement came into his voice. “And it’ll have the side benefit of bringing back some very delicious memories for her.”

Confusion rolled through me. The man I was remembering hadn’t known me in that way. Oh, he’d wanted to, hence his scars and, subsequently, mine. So why would he imply otherwise?

Angus merely grunted. It wasn’t a happy sound.

“Evan will warn us if anybody comes looking for her, won’t he?” the urbane man added.

Evan? Not a name I knew, but one I could file away for later.

If there was a later.

“That’s what we pay him for.” Again, that bitterness. It just didn’t jell with a man who was only doing his job.

“Good,” the urbane man continued. “Tell Albert and Jay I’ll be there tomorrow night.”

“Will do.”

“And tell them to keep an eye on that fucking muerte. Just because he’s flamed out doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous.”

“If he’s such a problem, then why don’t you just kill the bastard?”

“Because we need to know who set him on to us. The order didn’t come from the council as a whole, but someone on the council must suspect. Muerte rarely move without orders.”

Angus grunted. A second later there was a soft beep, then a clunk, as if something light had hit a seat. The phone, probably.

God, I’d have to find some way to escape before his planned rendezvous tomorrow night. Whoever he might have been in my past, this was the man who’d ordered the hit on Rainey, and I had no doubt he planned to do the same to me. I might need to kill him to free Rainey’s soul, but even in my confused state, I had little hope that he’d face me alone. One full dragon I could cope with. Two was out of my league.

And I needed to survive the encounter to perform the ceremony that would free Rainey.

The throaty roar of an engine invaded the brief silence and the metal flooring underneath me began to vibrate. I was in a van, obviously, but the knowledge did me little good. I remained as I was, caught between consciousness and oblivion, struggling against the odd lethargy that held my body so still. I wished I could do something, anything, to fight these men, but my body remained frozen and unresponsive. Sound was my only ally, and even that was distant, the rumble of the van consuming all other noises. Angus might be at the wheel, but he was as quiet as death.

I’m not sure how long we drove but, in my disconnected state, it seemed to be for only a few minutes. The rumble and vibration of the van stopped and sweet silence filled the void. Then a door slammed, another opened, and hands were grabbing me, hauling me roughly along the metal flooring until I was flung like a sack over the shoulder of someone who smelled like sea and smoke.

The urge to fight, to kick and scream and run, swept through me again. But as hard as I tried to make my muscles respond, they wouldn’t. Just like the dragon deep within.

What the hell had they given me?

It was a thought I pondered as more doors slammed open and closed, followed by the heavy sound of footsteps on wooden flooring.

“Albert, Jay, get your lazy asses down here immediately.” Angus’s voice was sharp and loud, echoing through the molasses of my thoughts.

There was a metallic click and Angus stopped abruptly. A soft, close voice said, “I’ve been watching you for the last two minutes. I could have shot you anytime I desired, sea dragon.”

He said sea dragon like it was an insult. Obviously not a man who had any idea just how dangerous sea dragons could be.

Angus’s snort was derisive, but I could feel the tension in him. “And that would have made the boss real happy, now wouldn’t it?”

“I ain’t afraid of the boss,” the silky voice replied.

“Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought. He’d kill his own fucking brother if he thought it would benefit him.” He shifted my weight a little. “We’ve got another one for you to look after. The boss will be back tomorrow night to interview her.”

A hand grabbed my hair and I heard an intake of breath, as if he were sniffing it. Then he yanked my head up. Suddenly I was glad my muscles weren’t responding, because my instinctive reaction would have been to spit in his face—and I had a bad feeling that would not have been a good idea.

“Even with that scar, she’s a pretty one.”

“And she’ll remain that way,” Angus said sharply. “The boss wants her uncut and untouched until he gets here.”

“The delay will only make her eventual interrogation that much sweeter,” the other man said, and there was something in the way he said it that had chills skating down my spine. He let my head drop. “What has she done?”

“She’s a reporter asking too many questions.”

“Doing a story on the towns or the disappearances?”

“Both.”

The other man grunted. “You’d think no one would be interested in ghosts these days. We locking her in darkness?”

“She’s dragon, so it’s best to.” Footsteps echoed as we began to move again. “How’s the muerte?”

“After more than a week of darkness, the fire has all but gone out of him.”

Angus snorted again. “Thought those boys were tougher than that.”

We seemed to be moving downward now, and the bright sense of light faded into darkness and shadows. The realization gave me hope. If I was beginning to recognize light and shadow from behind closed eyelids, then maybe whatever drug they’d given me was starting to wear off.

Angus stopped and somewhere ahead a door creaked open. The shadows became true blackness and the air became stale, smelling faintly of mold. I was slung onto something hard and cold, my head hitting with enough force that stars danced behind my closed eyelids. Footsteps retreated, a door slammed, and thick, cold silence swirled all around me.

At least I wasn’t alone.

The muerte was here. Even if those men hadn’t said as much, I still would have known. The odd, tingling sort of awareness running through the part of me that wasn’t human suggested as much. But it was an awareness that had been hit-and-miss most of my life—sometimes accurate, sometimes not—and it was a lottery that had caused me a lot of grief over the years.

Of course, I had no idea what a muerte actually was—aside from the fact that muerte meant “death” in Spanish.

That they were locking him away in darkness meant he was at least a dragon, because dragons—and most draman—needed the warmth of the sun to fuel their shape-shifting and fires. Locking them away from sunlight for any length of time robbed them of two dangerous weapons—which was a good thing in this case, because it meant he posed no immediate threat.

Not that the darkness presented any real problem to me, but that was a secret I kept closely guarded. I’d been shoved in more than one dark box over the years, and the terror I’d shown on release had been due to the length of my stay rather than the darkness itself. I’d never been sure if they’d release me or forget me.

If the voice on the phone had been someone from my past, maybe that’s what they’d been referring to, rather than anything sexual.

Old fears stirred, but I shoved them away. I wouldn’t be forgotten this time, even though this time it was probably the better option.

I swallowed, and centered my thoughts back on the man in the room with me. Angus had said he’d been over a week without sunlight. It was a long time for anyone, so why had Angus expected more from the muerte?

It was a question I pondered in the darkness, though no answers were ever likely to come to mind. My clique hadn’t exactly exerted themselves to educate us half-breeds. Not when it came to dragon lore, anyway.

I have no idea how long I lay there before I realized I could move my fingers. It could have been hours, and it could have been minutes. There was no point of reference in this utter darkness, and my mind was still oddly disconnected. I tapped my fingers against the cool steel of my bed, strangely reassured by the movement. Gradually, the rest of my body began responding, and suddenly the dragon came roaring to the surface, until my whole body burned with the heat of her. The glow chased the chill from the blackness.

My gaze was drawn immediately to the man on the other side of the room. Like me, he lay on a bed that was little more than a slab of polished steel. Unlike me, he’d evidently put up quite a fight before capture. What remained of his clothes were bloody and torn, and the strong body visible beneath the many rents and tears was cut and bruised. There were several more recent wounds, some of them still bleeding, some of them barely beginning to bruise.

His face was as battered as his body, and his hair—which was as black as the darkness had been before my flames had returned—was matted with sweat and blood. His eyes were closed, his breathing even, and he showed no awareness of my being in the cell with him. I wondered if the cause was drugs or the beating he’d received.

My gaze lingered a little on the strong, straight length of his nose and the lushness of the lips underneath, before moving on to canvass the room. At which point, my stomach dropped.

I had been locked in a place like this once before. I’d barely been ten at the time, but even at that age I had gained a high degree of control over my flames. It was the only thing that had saved me when Seth and his friends had locked me into one of the clique’s main freezers and left me there. Rainey had rescued me before I’d actually become a popsicle, but it had been a close thing.

And I’d been afraid of anything resembling a freezer ever since.

I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths, trying to calm the rush of fear, trying to stop the instinctive need to shiver and flame. This small, dark metal box wasn’t cold. It wasn’t a freezer, and I was in no danger of becoming a popsicle.

It was just a small, metal-lined basement—one obviously designed to contain dragons.

And best of all, I wasn’t alone in this darkness.

I forced my eyes back open and tried to concentrate on realities, not fear. Five steps, if that, divided the four walls. Beyond the two steel beds and the solid metal door to my left, there was nothing else in the room. No windows, no vents—although they had to be here somewhere, because the air, although stale, stirred sluggishly. But there was also nothing that would provide any obvious form of escape. There wasn’t even a smoke detector in the ceiling that I could flame and perhaps get help that way.

I swung my legs over the bed and slowly sat up. For a moment, the room spun around me and bile rose. I swallowed heavily and breathed deep and slow, until the spinning faded and the urge to throw up went away.

I waited several more seconds, just to be sure, then did a check of everything I had on me. My cell phone had been smashed by a car, and the only other things I’d been carrying were my keys and my wallet. My keys—like my jacket—were gone, but my wallet was still in my pocket. Okay, in a different pocket, which probably meant someone had been rifling through it. I took it out and discovered that while my cash, ATM card, and credit cards were still there, my drivers license and press card had gone. So they now knew not only who I was, but where I worked and lived.

They could find me again.

Not that they’d had any trouble finding me before. But the thought sent a chill down my spine and fear rose again, thick and fast. I thrust it away, back into that dark corner of my mind that held the grief. I needed to get out of this place before I started worrying about who these men were and how they knew so much about me.

Slowly, carefully, I pushed to my feet. My side twinged—a reminder that it hadn’t yet healed—but my stomach remained still and the room didn’t spin. I licked dry lips and wished I had some water to ease the metallic dryness in my throat. But that wasn’t likely to happen unless I got out of this prison, and I couldn’t do that without help. I shuffled forward carefully. It was only five steps, but it felt like a mile and left me tired and shaky. What the hell had they given me?

I dropped to my knees beside the stranger’s bed, sucking in several breaths to stop the trembling and to feed some strength back into my limbs. It didn’t seem to help much. It probably wouldn’t until the drug leached out of my system.

I reached out and carefully touched the stranger’s face. His skin was cold, almost clammy. It meant he’d spent far too long locked in this darkness. His body was beginning to slow down, getting ready for hibernation. It wasn’t something most dragons attempted these days—simply because the number of humans who walked this earth meant it was no longer safe to do so—but I doubted this was deliberate. It was probably an instinctive reaction to the endless darkness, and it was something I’d have to stop if we were to get out of here.

I might be able to fight, but there were three men, at least, beyond this cell, and I wasn’t stupid enough to think I could tackle them alone. I needed help, and this man was the only likely prospect around.

Of course, there was no guarantee that he would help me get out of here, but I couldn’t imagine him wanting to remain in this darkness or take any more beatings.

I let my fingers drift from his chin, sliding them along the sinews of his neck then down underneath the torn and bloodied edges of his shirt. His breathing was soft and even, his chest muscular but not overly so. I let my hand rest in the middle of his chest, enjoying the feel of soft hair under my fingertips and the strong, steady beat of his heart. His slip toward hibernation must be a recent thing, because that rhythm would be much slower otherwise.

After another deep breath, I concentrated on the heat within my body, building up the fire until it was a maelstrom inside me. Then I channeled it forward, into my fingertips and down into his flesh. Chasing the chill from his skin, warming the inner dragon. I had no idea how long this would take, but hopefully it wouldn’t …

The thought died as a hand grabbed mine and ripped it away from his body.

My heart just about stopped and a scream roared up my throat, but it came out as little more than a squeak as I clamped down on it hard. I didn’t need my jailers to know I was awake. Didn’t need them to know that the stranger was awake.

“What are you?” His voice was deep and smoky, thick with disuse and rich with a menace that sent a shiver down my spine.

“A prisoner, like you.” I tried to pull my wrist from his grip, but it was stuck fast.

“Then why do you glow?”

“Because I was using my heat to warm you.” I pulled at my wrist again. “Damn it, let me go.”

He did so with a suddenness that had me sprawling backward. I picked myself up and scrambled to my side of the box, letting my fire die until it was little more than a muted glow that barely heated my skin, let alone the darkness.

But it was enough to see his eyes. They were as black as the shadows and as cold as hell.

I shivered. Not a man to be taken lightly.

“Dragons can’t use their fire at night.”

“Then it’s just as well it’s not night, isn’t it?” Which wasn’t exactly a lie, because the slivers of energy still riding the air suggested the last vestiges of daylight hadn’t fully given way to darkness.

I pushed up onto the metal bench, but felt no better for being at eye level with the man. He could freeze an ocean with that stare of his.

I raised a hand and half covered the angry-looking scar on my forehead, then realized I was being stupid and let it drop. What I looked like or what he actually thought of me didn’t matter. All that did was his willingness to help me.

“You were slipping into hibernation,” I added, somewhat snippily. “Maybe I should have let you.”

Since I did want his help, they probably weren’t the wisest of words, but I just couldn’t help it.

He raised a dark eyebrow. It lent him an arrogance that seemed appropriate given his strong nose and steely gaze. “So why didn’t you?”

“Because there are three guards upstairs and that’s one too many for me to handle.” Hell, two was probably too many for me to handle, especially if they were all armed. I might have flames, but they couldn’t beat back a bullet.

He smiled. Like his eyes, it was a cold, hard thing, and yet it sent my pulse tripping. It was very easy to imagine those lips touched by the warmth of a real smile. Very easy to imagine the beauty of it.

“In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in a rather secure cell. It has no windows, it’s lined with some sort of metal sheeting that is impervious to flames, and it has a rather thick metal door.”

“I can see that. I’m not blind.”

“Then how do you plan to escape?”

His tone was that of a parent humoring a well-meaning but errant child, and that irritated me even more than his stare. “I haven’t been here very long. Give me a chance to think.”

Again a smile teased the corners of his mouth, but this time, it hinted at amusement. My breath caught briefly in my throat. Lord help me if he actually flung a full smile my way. I had a feeling it would be devastating.

“Don’t you think if there was a way out, I would have found it by now?”

“Well, considering you were unconscious and slipping into hibernation when they dropped me in here, I’d have to say no. I mean, it’s hard to be proactive about escaping when you’re out of it, isn’t it?”

He studied me for a moment, then swung around on the bench and sat up. His long fingers gripped the base tightly for several seconds, hinting at either pain or dizziness—neither of which showed in his stony expression.

“Who are you?” he asked, after a moment.

“What are you?” I countered. I might want this man’s help escaping, but I wasn’t about to trust him with anything more vital than that. “The men upstairs were calling you a muerte. What the hell is that?”

“Literally, muerte means ‘death.’ ”

And death had never looked so good. I mentally slapped the thought away, and said, “I realize that. I meant, why would they call you that?”

Amusement flirted with the night-dark depths of his eyes, a spark that did little to warm the chill of his countenance. “Because it’s my occupation.”

O-kay. I’d landed in a cell with a trained killer. Great. I shifted back on the seat a little, and the amusement in his eyes grew stronger.

Several limp black strands of hair fell across his forehead. He brushed them away with strong hands that were as bruised and as beaten as the rest of him, then said, “How does a dragon not know what a muerte is?”

I smiled, and saw something flicker in his eyes. Surprise, perhaps. It was a reaction as odd as the man himself. “I never said I was a dragon.”

“You flame like a dragon.”

“So I do.” I pushed up from the bench too fast and pain flared, providing yet another reminder that I hadn’t fully healed. I grimaced, grabbing at my side as I walked to the door. The stranger’s gaze followed me—a weighted heat that caressed my skin and sent a tremor running through me. I did my best to ignore it—and him—and bent to study the door.

“It’s solid,” he said, the amusement that had been so evident in his eyes now reaching his voice.

“It certainly looks that way.”

But I’d learned long ago that everything—and everyone—had a weak point, no matter how minor. This door might look rock solid, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t give way if it was given the right sort of push.

I just had to uncover what sort of push that was.

There was no handle on this side, but that wasn’t much of a surprise. Dragons were notorious thieves, and more than capable of cracking most of the locks and security devices currently on the market. Thieving was in a dragon’s blood, and it was a skill learned—and honed—since birth. Hell, even draman could pick a lock faster than most humans could blink.

Not that my clique had actually taught us draman that trick, either, but some skills were easily picked up when they were being practiced all around you.

I peered into the small gap between the door and the frame. The metal bolt on the other side was at least an inch wide and who knew how thick.

“There’s a rather large dead bolt out there,” I said. “They’re making sure you don’t escape.”

“You’re in the same cell, remember.” He studied me for a moment, then added, “Why is that? What did you do?”

“Asked a few too many questions, I think.” I stepped back and studied the door as a whole. No hinges on this side. “What’s your excuse?”

“Much the same thing, really.”

I glanced at him. He looked healthier than he had five minutes ago, so obviously the warmth I’d lent him was chasing the coolness from his skin. But it wouldn’t last long—not if he remained in this darkness.

“What questions were you asking that you shouldn’t?”

“Lady, when you start answering my questions, I’ll start answering yours.”

“My name is Mercy Reynolds.” Then I hesitated, wondering how much I should tell him. But really, what was the point of hiding anything? It wasn’t like I actually knew anything vital. “And I was asking about two cleansed towns and missing draman.”

“So was I.”

“Then obviously someone doesn’t want those questions asked.” That was a point I was all too aware of already. I looked at the door and ignored the tendrils of pain and anger that rose with the thought. “What’s the melting point of steel?”

“I have no idea.”

I found myself grinning. “So Mr. Death doesn’t know everything?”

“It’s Damon—Damon Rey—not Death. And why would you want to know the melting point of steel? You think you can melt the door with your flames?”

His tone gently mocked and I met his gaze with a frown. “You think I can’t?”

“Dragon fire is fierce, granted, but it’s not concentrated enough to generate the sort of heat needed to melt that door. It’s flameproof, like the walls.”

Meaning he’d tried when he’d first arrived, obviously. “But I don’t want to melt the door. I just want to heat the bolt enough so that it’s pliable. Then we should be able to push it open.”

“It still needs a concentrated heat.”

That, I could do. Fire had been my only defense for a good part of my life, and I’d learned pretty quickly to make the most of it. Not even the dragons in my clique had my control—which didn’t mean I was right and this man was wrong.

“So you did try to flame the door when you were first thrown in here?”

“Once, and they’ve pretty much kept me drugged since then. By the time they woke me to question me, I was sunshine-starved and had flamed out.”

“So how long have you actually been in here?”

“What day is it?”

“Friday.”

“And the date?”

“April fourth.”

He swore softly under his breath. I raised my eyebrows. “Is that bad?”

His gaze came to mine again, dark eyes intense. Angry. And though that anger wasn’t aimed at me, it was a frightening thing to behold.

“It means that I’ve been here for thirteen days.”

Thirteen days? Without sunlight? Angus might not have been impressed, but I sure was. Most dragons could survive four or five days without sunlight, but to go thirteen—and still be lucid—took amazing strength.

“Are you going to be strong enough to handle those men if I can get us out of here?”

There was nothing pleasant or warm about his smile or the sudden glint in his cold, dark eyes. “You get us out of this room and I’ll make sure we get free.”

I believed him. It was impossible not to. Even so, I couldn’t help wondering if Mr. Death himself might be more of a problem once we’d gotten out of here than the men upstairs.

But what other option did I have? There was only one thing that was certain—I didn’t want to be here when that well-cultured man came back. One look at the mess Damon was in suggested their methods of getting information weren’t ones I’d enjoy.

As if there’d ever been any doubt of that.

So I said, “Can you sense anyone nearby?”

“You really are going to try to melt the bolt, aren’t you?”

Annoyance ran through me. “You got a better idea?”

“No. And if you can flame at night, why do you need me to sense the other dragons? Shouldn’t you be able to tell that yourself?”

“I should, but I can’t. Is there anyone near?”

He paused for a moment then shook his head. “They’re both upstairs.”

“Both? There should be three.” Unless Angus had already left. But why would he do that? Was he really just a messenger boy or was something else going on?

“There aren’t. Trust me.”

Not as far as I can throw you. I turned away and studied the bolt again. It looked really solid—and despite my earlier boast, I’d never tried to do anything like this before. Not with steel, anyway.

I raised a hand and lightly pressed one finger against the gap between the door and the frame. With the bolt directly opposite my finger, I reached down and called to the waiting fire. It came in an explosive burst of energy that had heat radiating from my skin and the air churning. I frowned and concentrated the flames, channeling and intensifying them, forcing them away from my skin and down into my hand, into that one finger. Heat shot out from my fingertip, the glow of it so intense I had to close my eyes lest the image burn itself into my retinas.

I could still feel the heat of it, though. Could still see the glow of it, even through closed eyelids.

“I’ve never seen anyone control their flames with such precision.”

Damon’s words were little more than a whisper past my left ear. He was standing so close that the heat of his body washed across my bare shoulders and arms. So close that the raw, masculine scent of him—a scent that was an odd combination of musk, controlled violence, sweat, and blood—filled every breath, until it felt like his very essence was invading mine.

But perhaps what was even scarier was the fact that there’d been absolutely no sound to indicate he’d moved.

True to his name, he was as silent as a ghost.

I briefly opened an eye to check how I was doing and saw that the bolt was beginning to glow. It was working. But sweat was trickling down my forehead and my arm was beginning to shake. Worse, the maelstrom inside was rapidly losing its intensity. Generally, a dragon could flame for as long as she or he was awake and aware, simply because we were fueled by the heat of the sun. But it was now night, and my flames were drawing their energy directly from my body—a body that had lost a lot of blood in the accident and was still very battered and bruised.

I opened my eyes. The tight beam of fire was definitely less intense than it had been, but the bolt was glowing brighter.

I just had to keep going for a little bit longer, and we might be able to get out of here.

I bit my lip and concentrated on the flame, forcing as much energy as I could into it. The tremor in my arm spread to the rest of me, until my whole body seemed to be shaking with effort.

Hands touched my waist—just enough to hold me steady, and to catch me should my knees buckle. Damon’s grip on my injured right side—though gentle—had the pain flaring again, but his touch was also heated and strong, and the dragon inside wanted to snatch and use it. It was a temptation I resisted. He needed to cope with the men upstairs, and who knew how much strength he actually had left? He might have lasted longer in darkness than I’d ever thought possible, but I doubted even Death could go on forever without the sun’s warmth to fuel him.

The metal finally began to glow white hot. At first it was little more than a small pinprick right at the center of the flames, but it gradually spread, flowing outward across the hot metal.

Just a little bit more, I thought—and in that moment, the flames sputtered and died, and my legs went out from underneath me.

Damon caught me one-handed, pressing me against his side while he pushed his weight against the door. The muscles in his arm corded, and the exertion had his body shaking as much as mine.

For a minute I thought it might all be for naught, but slowly, surely, the door began to inch away from the frame. I broke free of his grip and grabbed at the wall to steady myself. Damon flung his full weight against the door and, with little ceremony, the bolt gave way.

The door sprang open. We were free of the cell.

Now we just had to get out of this place and away from the men.