Scorched By Flames - Vella Day Page 0,1
She paced, but time didn’t pass any faster.
Eventually, she decided that the only way to regain her abilities was to rest. The drugs, or maybe it was some spell, would eventually wear off—or so she hoped. They’d also have to feed her, and when they did, she’d make her move.
Zulema returned to the hard bed and lay down and almost instantly succumbed to sleep.
“Wake up,” a sharp voice said, his stinking breath close to her face.
He then stabbed her side with some kind of electric poker, forcing Zulema to bolt upright. A man with black eyes and greasy, long hair yanked her to her feet. “The boss wants to talk to you. Try anything and you’ll die.”
It took some effort not to laugh at his corny line. “Sure. Unhand me, and I’ll be a model prisoner.”
He jerked her arm at her snarky response. Two other men stepped into the room—dragon shifters to be precise. Darn. With the ceiling only ten feet tall, she wouldn’t be able to shift and fight, though at the moment, she wasn’t sure she could shift. None of her powers seemed to be working.
Wanting them to believe she had no intention of escaping, she followed the first man. The second and third fell into place next to her. Surrounded. Damn.
The hallway had the same white-washed cement block walls with the same fluorescent lights rimming the ceiling. “Are we underground?” she asked, not really expecting them to answer.
“Yes.”
She appreciated the information, but knowing it wouldn’t make escaping any easier. Zulema was eventually led to a closed door, and the man who’d awoken her, knocked.
“Come in,” said a voice from the inside.
Her guard opened it up and shoved her in. What was up with these people? Whatever. At least, she was still on her feet and no longer in chains.
The office was surprisingly opulent—at least by her standards. Filled bookcases, a lavish gold brocade sofa, and a bar with a vast amount of liquor that took up most of the room. That, and a large man.
“Have a seat,” the stranger said.
She blinked a few times, but his face appeared blurred out—which was impossible, unless he was a hologram or some kind of artificial intelligence.
“Are you in this room?” she asked.
“No, which means harming me is impossible.”
Darn. Wanting to hear what this extremely life-like image had to say, she sat on the edge of the sofa. Because she was dirty, Zulema didn’t want to mess up the furniture and chance being punished.
“Drink?” he asked, as he stepped over to the bar and poured himself a glass of some amber colored liquid. How was that possible if he wasn’t there?
“No, thank you.”
“It’s not drugged.”
She lifted her chin. “Do people often accuse you of drugging them?” Someone had given her something to knock her out the first time.
He might have smiled, but she couldn’t tell. “Sometimes, but I don’t want you harmed. I have a proposition for you.”
This ought to be good. “Do I have a choice whether to accept or not?”
“You always have a choice.”
That interested her. “Do tell.”
“Let me apologize for the way we had to meet.”
“You mean from the way you kidnapped, drugged, and restrained me?” she asked, unable to keep the ire from her tone.
“Yes. You see, I need your help.”
“Seriously? My help? Just so you know, asking outright, without the kidnapping part, would have been more effective.”
“When you hear what I want, you might see why I had to take such drastic measures.”
She was tired of this run around. “Just tell me.”
“I need someone killed—someone who murdered my mate—and you are the perfect person to do it.”
Zulema almost laughed. “For starters, I’m not an assassin.” The man had to be on drugs.
“I beg to differ. Haven’t you been training to fight your whole life?”
Zulema’s blood ran cold. “You’ve been watching me?”
“Let’s say, we keep tabs on those who interest us.”
Her skin crawled. “Who are you people?”
“We call ourselves the Zon. We are a cabal of warlocks and witches, here to help restore order to the realm.”
Not likely. They probably wanted to destroy all things good. “I’m not interested. Nor would I be any good. I’ve only killed to protect myself, my family, or a client.”
The stranger downed his drink and set it on the bar—a bar that was slightly different from the one in this room. “You don’t understand. I know your ill mother and sister are very important to you since your father was tragically killed when you were young.”
Breathing suddenly became difficult. At the