Rare Blood

Chapter Forty-Five: Unholy Intentions

Cyrus' fist hour chained to the table in the dungeon started with praying for a miracle, but ended nowhere close to holy.  He was stuck on that table with a guillotine blade cutting into his throat for one reason only, the extraction of information. He was tortured on Dmitri's orders by a Vampire whom Cyrus was certain had done more than a cycle or two of steroids as a human. He asked all about Elsie, her pack, and how he got Shifters to help him.

Cyrus didn't give a single detail away, he remained silent though every evasion earned him a five-inch bolt driven into his torso courtesy of his super-sized friend wielding a large mallet. It was like the Vampire version of Whack-A-Mole and it hurt badly, but Cyrus knew if he talked it'd be over for him... over for Faye.

Though Louis would scour the earth to find Elsie the likelihood of him locating Dmitri's compound before anything lasting happened was too slim a chance to bank on. Cyrus figured he had maybe twenty-four hours to get free before Dmitri ordered his death rather he talked or not and Elise wasn't going to last much longer.

Faye on the other hand would suffer day in and day out, and that thought destroyed him. It was beyond anything he had ever felt knowing that somewhere under the same roof Faye was being damn near drained just to be healed so it could happen again. If he couldn't save her she would be taken to the edge of death so many times that eventually everything she was and everything she knew would be taken too.

The memory loss accompanied with the healing powers of a Vampire's blood wouldn't present a problem if given sparingly, but when the recipient is only awake long enough to donate more blood, the part of the brain it disconnects runs too thin to sustain the healing drop, and it kills other cells instead. A strong mind will last for years, but they all have breaking points.

If Faye remained a prisoner there would come a time where she would be nothing more than a blood bag kept alive by machines. That was the fate of a blood slave. Faye's fate, and in a moment of weakness the image of her being restrained and bitten entered his mind, mushrooming out, tainting his every thought until all he could see was her screaming.

The mental picture turned out to be far more derailing than anything else. He wasn't going to be of any use if he couldn't move beyond it. 

In an effort to clear his head he exhaled heavily, welcoming the burn as the blade pressing into his throat sliced a little deeper into his flesh drawing fresh blood, and the image of Faye away. For a moment all he could feel was the steel protruding from his chest and stomach, and as unnatural as it was to focus on, he found the physical pain became an asset.

Every time he withheld an answer and a spike was driven in, that pain kept his mind right there in the moment. It kept him alert instead of rooted in fear for Faye. He was able to maintain his calm as a few more hours passed, and then another Vampire entered the room and the torturer  finally lowered the mallet and stepped away.

"It's time," the Vampire said to Cyrus' horror, but the dungeon master leaned down into his face and said, "Not yours, I'm not nearly done with you," before stepping out of view completely.

Cyrus could hear them moving around in the distance, but he didn't know what was happening.  They didn't speak and he couldn't turn his head to see.

As it turned out, the reprieve from trying to bolt him to the table was to escort Hector and his maker, Tatiana, from the room. Cyrus had no idea other prisoners were being held down there with him, and as they passed by, it didn't seem as though either one expected to return. The dewy stench of fear was thick in the air around the both of them. Cyrus wondered briefly what exactly they were going down for, but whatever backstabbing betrayal preempted their stay was only one of many they dissevered to die for and then he realized something... he was alone.