“I will not get up. You just put me in here.” Barb kicked her bare feet at the Centaur leering down at her.
The beastly creature seized her flailing ankle and yanked her out of the corner of the cell. The rod threaded across her back and over her arms pulled and stretched her muscles painfully as the Centaur dragged her into the corridor outside the cell.
“Get off me!” She kicked the Centaur in the ribs.
The Centaur dropped her and whirled, trying to stomp on her with his hooves. Barb thrashed out of the way and kicked him again. Finally, the Centaur grabbed her hair and hauled her to her feet, thrusting her out in front of him.
Barb stumbled forward, her bare feet slapping on the stone floor.
Potentially this could be a bad sign. Why did they want her again so soon? She hadn’t gotten the idea before that they had anything they wanted from her. Why else would they have thrown her in the cell so quickly? So what had changed?
She tripped on a jagged piece of the floor and stumbled. The Centaur behind her bashed his fist into her lower back, and her knees collapsed. She bit off a hiss of pain as the Centaur jerked her back to her feet and moved past her, snapping her forward by the hair.
Note to self: Get a haircut the next time there’s a chance you can get captured by barbaric half-horse people. She winced as the Centaur wrenched her head sideways. Haircuts are good.
“What are you? Some kind of caveman? Knock it off!” She twisted, striking the Centaur with the rod between her arms.
It hurt like mad, but the grimace on the Centaur’s face more than made up for the pain.
Until he reared back and slugged her in the head.
The corridor wheeled around her, and she tumbled dizzily to the floor, nose dripping and eyes spinning.
The beast hit like a fright train.
She’d taken some right hooks before, but none like that. Was her face broken? She worked her jaw while the Centaur grabbed her ankle and kept dragging her down the corridor. Her face ached, even her teeth throbbed, but her jaw still moved. Her nose might be broken though.
The Centaur guard flung her forward. Without her arms free to break her fall, she skidded across the warm stone floor on her face and came to a stop before four black hooves. She spit the blood out of her mouth and struggled to get to her knees before a meaty fist knocked her back down again.
“Human,” a dark, resonant voice echoed in the chamber.
Barb scoffed and slowly got back to her knees, half expecting to be struck again. But no fist this time.
“That’s my name,” she blinked the dirt and blood out of her eyes. “Don’t wear it out.”
The room was still spinning.
Jaw wasn’t broken. Nose broken: Confirmed. And definitely a concussion.
She narrowed her eyes to get them to focus on the Centaur in front of her. Bigger than the others in the room, he wore a full breastplate of dark silver metal that shone dully in the dim torchlight. He watched her with impassive grace as he perched on a large granite throne, shaped specially for his lower horse-half. His massive hands rested on the armrests, each finger wide and trimmed with vicious looking nails. His black eyes didn’t leave her, staring out from a broad face beneath a wild thatch of dark hair, from which sprouted two curving horns.
The whole thing was surreal.
Sure. Attend a funeral with a bunch of walking, talking fox-people. Get kidnapped by a giant shrieking black dragon. And now, kneeling at the feet of a Centaur.
She’d thought her life was unusual before. Now it was something out of a fantasy movie.
Hey, Bilbo called and wants his life back.
The Centaur on the throne raised a hand and beckoned to the milling throng of Centaurs around the rim of the chamber. As Barb glanced toward the motion, she spotted a tiny blonde girl chained to the wall at the back of the room.
“Jenny?”
She started to stand up, and the fist crashed into the back of her head again. She pitched forward but managed to keep her balance well enough not to fall on her face.
She glared at the Centaur on the throne. “Who are you? What do you want?”
A second Centaur approached the throne, holding a black velvet bag.
“I am Tiron, Greatest Lord of the High Northern House.” The Centaur on the throne said, showing vibrant white teeth with larger-than-normal canines. “The Grandest Son of Tiru, son of Tipal, son of Tilar. The Master of the Grayfields and the Dunes. The Lord of the North Port and the Brown River and the Wasted Plains.”
“How about I call you T for short?”
His passive expression twisted into an irritated glare.
“Oh, that’s probably rude. Mr. T, then.”
The fist struck her back this time, and she couldn’t keep her balance, crashing into the stones.
Barb barked a laugh. “The best thing is—you can’t possibly get the reference—and it’s still funny.”
The next strike wasn’t a fist.
It was something hard and long and thin and sharp enough to slice through the fabric of the ruined kurti that hung off her frame. Searing pain jolted through her side, and she rolled over just enough to kick backward. The ball of her foot struck something hard and stiff—a kneecap? The joint dislocated from the power of her strike, and the Centaur beating her squawked in pain.
Ha. Serves him right. That’ll teach him to—
Her thoughts cut off as the Centaur grabbed her ankle and jerked her back. Balance lost again, her face smashed into the stone. More blood spurted from her nose.
She’d have a flat face by the time this was over.
The Centaur flipped her over, and she landed on her back. The rod stretched her arms out unnaturally, and the tendons spasmed in her shoulders and back. Barb choked on a cry of pain, snapping her teeth shut until her molars squeaked.
They wanted to hurt her.
They were succeeding, of course, but letting them see their success was a step too far.
Jenny’s broken, muted sobs reached her ears. The girl was still bound to the wall, gagged with a darkly stained rag like some kind of wild animal, her hair a blonde waterfall of dirty streaks.
What was the strategy here? Beat her to a bloody pulp in front of Jenny to convince the girl to talk? Knowing Jenny, she had already talked their ears off. Why else would they have gagged her?
Ribs clenching, Barb pulled herself up. The rod between her arms still tore at her muscles, but relieving the pressure by not laying on it helped. By the time she was upright again, a different Centaur stood at the base of Tiron’s throne, holding open the velvet bag.
As she watched, the color in the Centaur’s arm turned to gray—to black—and the whole room went silent. A million sticky fingers scurried across the hot stone floor and seized her bare feet in a grip like acid.
“What the—?” She kicked.
No use.
The fingers turned to hands and yanked her forward. She landed on her back again, the force of the fall popping both her shoulders out of joint, the back of her head striking the floor hard enough to crack in the darkness.
Darkness so deep and so black she couldn’t see anything. Not Tiron or the other Centaurs. Not Jenny. Just the million shadow fingers stabbing through her like knives, twisting in her hair, filling up her nose and her ears and tangling around her throat. Squeezing until breath wouldn’t come.
And the world shifted.
Just like before. In Chandan Village.
The shadows peeled away from the edges of the sterile hospital room so only the bed and the beeping machines and her mother’s dying body could be seen. Her mother, so vibrant and alive, shouldn’t have looked that way. Waxen. Skeletal. Like a doll.
Barb stood next to the bed, the gaping hole deep inside her burning and hollow, as her mother touched the side of her face. Melody Taylor’s eyes were still alive, the same bright green they’d always been, even though the rest of her had begun fading to ash.
Her mother said words, but they were lost in the darkness. Her gray lips formed around something Barb needed to hear, but she couldn’t hear it.
Did it actually matter? Her mother was dying. She’d be dead within days.
“I can’t hear you, Mom.” Barb reached for her. “I can’t hear you.”
Her voice sounded young to her own ears, which made sense. Her mother had died years ago. Years and years ago. So why was she seeing this?
Her mother’s mouth shaped a phrase. Your fault.
Barb froze.
No. That wasn’t right. Her mother died from cancer. Her mother’s death wasn’t on her.
Your fault.
The chemo hadn’t helped. Neither had the radiation. Both just made her last days miserable, and the cancer had taken her anyway.
Your fault.
But was that right? Because Melody Taylor hadn’t finished her treatment, had she? She’d given up, wanted to spend what time she had left with her children, wanted to see Barb graduate from Peregrine, earn her badge, and she couldn’t do that while she was sick from the chemo.
Your. Fault.
Melody Taylor had stopped treatment to be with her children. Barb had argued with her. Told her it didn’t matter. Told her that she’d rather have her mother alive and well instead of having her at a stupid ceremony. Melody did it anyway.
The hollow ache in Barb’s chest widened, the world falling around under until only her mother’s tear-filled eyes remained.
“My fault.”
Her left leg jolted, and the bone snapped in two. Barb shrieked from the unexpected pain and collapsed, clutching at the limb as she sprawled in the filthy Barcelona gutter. The curb dug into her lower back as she scrambled sideways, trying to get on the sidewalk and out of traffic.
Stupid. Stupid, so stupid!
How could she have been so stupid?
Gritting her teeth, she sobbed and desperately searched for something to bind the bleeding, broken limb up. How had this happened? What would she do? What if she was broken forever? What if she didn’t heal from this? Her time as an agent would be over before she’d begun.
Pounding footfalls.
“Jim?” She cast her gaze up, looking for her brother’s face. He would help her. He always did, even in the moments when she couldn’t help herself. And he never held it against her.
The figure approaching cleared before her eyes, and her heart dropped into her belly.
“No.”
He was tall and lean, with long legs. Black shirt that did nothing to hide the contours of his muscular chest. Brown leather jacket. Dark brown hair, just enough scruff, and eyes so piercing blue he could see into her soul.
Lance.
Lance Crawford. Her first partner. But he was gone. Jim was her partner now. Jim and Meg.
But Barcelona, that had been years go. What was happening?
Lance hovered over her, expression thunderous. “What is wrong with you?” His voice was a snarl. “What were you thinking?”
“I’m sorry.”
He swore and ran his hands through his dark hair. “Do you realize what you cost us? What you cost me?”
Bone ground on bone, blood seeped from the scrapes and gashes on her back and legs. “Lance, I’m sorry.”
“This is your fault!”
Barb squeezed her eyes shut.
“I had her, Babs. I had her! And I had to stop for you!” Lance growled in frustration and walked past her.
“Wait.” Barb twisted and gasped from the pain. “Where are you going?”
“After Phoenix.”
“Don’t leave me here.”
He glared at her. “Why not? I lost her because of you.”
“My leg’s broken.”
“I don’t care.” He turned and vanished into the shadows.
“Lance, come back!”
Electricity jarred down her spine, as though she were the core of a plasma ball, every bolt a razor skinning her alive.
Why? Why had he left her like that? Hadn’t he just told her how he felt about her the previous night? He’d kissed her. Her first kiss. Kind and sweet and compassionate and present and everything her father never had been and now he’d left her behind.
Just like Dad.
She couldn’t do anything to stop it either. She was helpless. Nothing ever changed.
Barb collapsed on her side gasping for air, her shoulders aching and back arching instinctively trying to escape the confines of the rod that bound her.
Rod? Bound?
She glanced down. Her leg didn’t bend in the wrong direction. Her shoulders were still in joint.
What is happening to me?
Her throat scraped with every breath, like she’d been screaming. Her eyes burned, and her face was wet with tears. She lay in the dark surrounded by Centaurs.
Just like Chandan Village.
What—what is this?
The head Centaur—the one on the throne—what was his name?—Tiron? Was that it? Was she even here? Where was her mother? Where was Lance? Where was Phoenix? Hadn’t she just been chasing Phoenix through Barcelona on a tram? She fell and broke her leg and Lance left her behind, just like a Peregrine agent was never supposed to do.
He’d walked away from her. Hated her. She’d failed him in her lack of control, and he’d left. Just like her father had. Just like everyone always did.
No. No. That’s not what was happening. It had happened, yes, but it happened years ago. Years ago.
The shadow.
Whatever that shadow weapon was, it could turn their memories against them. Did it force them to relive their worst memories? Did it make what had happened in the past as fresh and real as it had been when it happened then?
At the back of the room, Jenny’s muffled screams drew her gaze. The girl flailed and thrashed against her chains, tears streaming down her face. She yanked and pulled on the chains, trying to break free, trying to get to her.
What had they made her watch?
Stinging pain burned in Barb’s side, and she narrowed her gaze to her rib cage. She was bleeding. Heavily. Whatever the Centaur had beaten her with had broken skin.
Perfect.
The resonating drone of Tiron’s authoritative voice shook the air in the chamber. He was saying something. It was probably important. Barb could see his mouth forming words.
Like her mother had done.
Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.
Barb shook herself and tried to focus. His voice faded in and out.
“—investment was not in vain—Njano has not deceived—useless as bargaining tools.” Tiron returned to sit in his throne. “I know the stories of those who bargained with Celticans. It never works in your own personal favor.”
Barb squeezed her eyes open and shut.
I don’t like the sound of that.
“So.” Tiron flashed a wide grin that didn’t reach his black eyes. “Perhaps Munga-Wa-Damu would like to meet them.”
A terrible roar of delight echoed in the chamber, and Barb tried to sit up, her insides clenching with the agony of trying to move. Before she could get upright, a Centaur grabbed her hair and began dragging her again. At the back of the room, another Centaur had grabbed Jenny.
The stone floor tore at her legs.
Barb shook off the certainty that her left leg was broken again.
She cried out as her captor flung her forward, the crown of her head smacking into a raised ledge of stone. Jenny landed next to her, chains weighing her down.
“Hey, kid,” Barb whispered. She angled herself so her hand could reach the gag in Jenny’s mouth.
“Barb.” Jenny broke down in sobs as soon as the gag was out, wrapping her hands around the rod and trying to pry loose the chains that stretched her arms at awkward angles. “Barb, are you okay? They hurt you so bad.”
“I’m okay.”
“Are you lying?”
“Yes.”
Jenny choked and kept working on Barb’s chains while the Centaurs milled around them. Barb twisted to look. They were back in the large chamber where they had first arrived. In the far corner was the dark nest full of dragon babies.
“Hope Munga-Wa-Damu isn’t one of those things,” Barb growled.
“I don’t think so,” Jenny whispered. “Hold still.”
Barb hissed as Jenny did something that put pressure on her back, but the rod slid free. Barb sagged in relief, gasping for air, and Jenny helped her sit up.
“Whoever Munga-Wa-Damu is, I’ll poke his eyes out if he comes near us,” Jenny said fiercely.
Barb had to laugh.
The idea of Jenny going toe-to-toe with anyone was hilarious.
Ten Centaurs in elegant red robes draped over their lower halves glided toward them. Each Centaur also wore a red tunic and a square red hat. They bowed to each other. They bowed to the crowd that had gathered around the rim of the chamber, all chanting and hollering ecstatically.
“Jenny, what is going on?”
“I have no idea.” Jenny pressed her hands against Barb’s bleeding side. “Maybe it’s going to be a dance party.”
“A dance party?”
“It would be nice!”
“What is wrong with you?”
High overhead, a voice began to speak. Barb tilted her head back and spotted another red-robed Centaur on a ledge overlooking the chamber. He droned in a harsh-sounding language, and the cheering of the crowds increased.
Barb’s skin began to crawl.
She narrowed her eyes at the raised ledge of stone that she and Jenny lay against. Circular, forty feet in diameter, emanating extraordinary heat. It smelled of sulfur and brimstone and—fire.
Her stomach twisted.
Oh, God.
She turned again as the red-robed Centaurs wheeled a twenty-foot tall metal winch into view and lodged it in place next to the pit.
“Barb?” Jenny whispered.
A thick chain clanged between them as the red-robed Centaurs seized both of them and tied them to the chain with coarse rope. When they were secure, they pulled off the smaller chains that had bound them before.
The cheers grew louder and more wild.
“This is weird,” Jenny said. “What is this?”
Barb struggled for breath as panic began to crawl up her throat. “Munga-Wa-Damu isn’t a person.”
“What?”
Barb glanced behind them at the glowing rocks that lined the interior of the pit. “It’s the volcano.”
Jenny’s eyes bulged. “You’re joking.”
“Do you think I would joke right now?”
“Well, you’re weird, so maybe?”
Barb glanced around looking for anything to use to fight with. Nothing. No rocks were close. No sticks. The red-robed Centaurs had nothing on them. The chain was too think to manipulate.
“Barb,” Jenny whimpered, “a volcano doesn’t have eyes, so I can’t poke them out.”
The chain jerked as the winch squealed into action, ripping them both off their feet, swinging them over the breath-taking, soul-charring heat of the volcanic pit.
And dropped them.