American Royalty II

Prologue

Kit woke up and found herself in a cold, dark room, her wrists bound by rough ropes that cut into her skin. The air was damp and smelled of mold, and the only light came from a flickering torch on the wall. The last thing she remembered was the ministry and Harry and... Voldemort. He'd taken her, that ***** son of a ***** had taken her.

Pain radiated through her body from the various curses and spells that had been used to subdue her during the kidnapping. Despite the intensity of the spells, Kit remained stoic, drawing on her demigod resilience and past experiences with torture. This wasn't Tartarus; this wasn't the kind of hell she'd faced before.

Spells could only do so much, she knew that. Spells didn't have the same effect on demigods, and she was certain that Voldemort didn't know of their existence, just that they were royal figures. There was only so much they could do to her, but why was she brought here in the first place? What did they want from her? Where on earth was she?

Her thoughts were disrupted by the sound of a metal door scraping open and the sound of footsteps approaching against the cold, stone floor.

Voldemort stood before her, his serpentine features twisted into a cruel smile. "You're a brave one, aren't you?" he hissed bringing his face close to hers. "But bravery won't save you now."

Kit met his gaze, her expression unyielding. "You think you can break me? I've faced worse than you."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed, and he raised his wand. "Crucio!"

A dull stabbing pain coursed through Kit's body as the curse took hold, but she didn't even flinch. Her eyes remained locked with Voldemort's; she wanted him to see how little this affected her.

When the curse finally lifted, Kit gasped. Voldemort crouched down to her level, his cold eyes boring into hers. "Tell me, why were you brought here to England?"

Kit didn't speak. She wouldn't. There was nothing they could do to her that would make her utter a word. She would remain silent; they were going to get nothing out of her.

"Quiet, are we? Why don't we loosen your tongue," Voldemort said, standing up and retrieving a vial. He poured its contents down her throat.

She knew what it was, her demigod senses told her that much—a truth potion. The sickly sweet smell was like poison suffocating her as Voldemort tipped the vial down her throat.

Kit felt the potion's effects trying to take hold, but she concentrated, using every ounce of her demigod resilience to resist. Her mind became a fortress, walls rising up to block out the influence of the potion. She focused on her training, the techniques Annabeth had taught her for resisting mind control and magical influence.

Voldemort watched her intently, expecting the potion to work quickly. When she remained silent, his eyes narrowed in frustration. "Stubborn, aren't you?" he hissed. "Perhaps you need more persuasion."

He raised his wand, but Kit's expression remained defiant. She was determined to give him nothing.