Hunters' Shadow (Book one of the Hunter Chronicles)

Chapter Forty Seven

He hadn't moved.

Her confusion increased and she warily allowed her eyes to drift again around the room, adjusting to the light and searching for answers, trying to ignore the jet-black eyes watching with an unnerving intensity.

The walls were old. Ancient, even. Roughly hewn rock slabs, with years and years of erosion behind them, decorated liberally with moss. Someone recently had attempted to remove the worst of the ivy and other climbing plants crawling between the crevices, leaving behind echoes of life in an elaborate pattern of skeletal imprints up each wall.

The floor had been scrubbed clean and old rugs laid over the flagstones to form a mishmash of carpet and the furnishings were plain and functional. The most recent edition appeared to be a basic wooden door that blocked her view of the outside world.

The proportions were tiny, clearly designed to house just one person. Maybe it had always been used as a prison cell? Acutely aware there was only so long she could feign interest in the bland surroundings, her reluctant gaze drifted back towards the man in black.

His eyes were darker than she remembered. The golden shine dimmed by the flickering light, but still glowing like the dying embers of a fire. Unlike the mad rogue she'd encountered by the lake, there was no hint of red in his piercing eyes, just a glimmer of faint amusement as he watched her, watching him.

“How's your neck?” he asked her, solicitously. His voice was the same harsh rasp she remembered from her dreams and the sound of it grated against her nerves, leaving her with gritted teeth.

She unconsciously raised her hand to her neck once again and scowled at him without answering. She hated needles.

“It could be worse,” he shrugged. “Usually we'd knock you out with a swift blow to the head. Simple, but effective. But, I figured you've already had enough of those for one lifetime, and I didn't want to risk damaging you further.”

Her scowl deepened and she stared at him, every muscle tensed to react to the slightest movement.

“You got a larger shot than I originally intended though,” he continued, “I’m afraid Berrik may have been a little over enthusiastic with the syringe.” His tone was light and matter-of-fact. He might as well have been having a casual conversation over dinner.

It irritated her, and something rose up inside of her in that moment. She couldn't explain it, but -- just like the spark of fire that had ignited within her at the socialites picnic – a grain of courage overpowered her panic. scoffing at her pathetic cowering, it drove her to straighten her back and let go of the illusion of safety the damp wall provided for her.

“Are you a coward?” she asked, fixing the still figure with a baleful glare, her Scottish lilt heightened by her distress.

His eyes rose in silent amusement. “Pardon?”

“Are you a coward?” she accused again, one trembling hand sweeping the tumble of red hair out of her eyes. “Why don't you just kill me now and get it over with?” She narrowed her eyes and made a show of looking him up and down, her eyes settling on the glimmer of a sharp blade poking out of his worn leather boot. “Or are you enjoying toying with me first? Do you want me to beg? To cower away from you like a frightened rabbit?”

His eyes glimmered in the lamplight, watching her every move. For some reason his lack of reaction irritated her, spurring her to take a step forward in reckless defiance.

“You might as well not bother,” she told him, her accent thick with supressed fear. “You'll get no more satisfaction from me. I'm not afraid of you!”