Ritual of the Broken (Haunted Hearts)

Chapter 29

Chapter

Twenty-Nine

I t was cold when Adrian came to again. He shivered, his naked back pressed against a cold, hard surface. For a moment, he was back in Afghanistan, lying on a table as Colonel Langford drew more blood from his arm. But his senses slowly returned, and he found himself instead lying on a metal floor. All he could hear in the silence was his own rapid breathing.

The confrontation at the water treatment facility came flooding back, and he sat up with a cross between a growl and a groan. But he was alone. And no longer at the water treatment facility, though the lack of sound was enough to tell him that. Now he was in a box with no windows and, from what he could see from where he sat, no visible entrance or exit. Low light filled the room from no clear source.

He stood and saw he was naked, his clothes ripped and lost when he transformed to save? —

He couldn’t think of it. Didn’t want to think of it.

One problem at a time. Getting out of here was his first priority.

The enclosure’s surfaces were plain and devoid of any distinguishing marks, leaving him without any idea where he was or even how he got there. A wave of anger washed over him as he wondered why he was even still alive after the events of that night.

Gritting his teeth, Adrian paced the confines of the box, running his hands along the walls in search of any seams, cracks, or openings. He got in here. There had to be a way out. But his efforts were met with frustration as the walls remained seamless and impenetrable.

Fury beat back the cold, stoked like a bellow in his gut. His wolf stirred, demanding release. Demanding freedom.

His growl reverberated off the metal walls. Adrian embraced the change, his body contorting and shifting as he assumed his wolf-man hybrid form.

Claws and teeth bared, he hurled himself at the walls, slamming into them, tearing at the walls with his teeth, digging his claws into the metal. Every bit of his strength, driven by anger and empowered by his wolf, went into each blow. The impacts reverberated through his bones.

But the walls remained unyielding. He clawed at them once again with his razor-sharp talons. Deep gouges raked on the metal, then seemed to heal almost instantly.

More magic.

Roaring in defiance, Adrian ran from side to side, shouldering the walls with his powerful body. Battering them until he felt the sharp pain of a bone on his upper arm fracture. He ignored the pain. Anywhere else, his onslaught would have reduced the structure to rubble, but here, his attacks did nothing.

Exhausted, he slumped to the cold floor, his body shifting back to its human form. He rested his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. He was trapped once again by mages. And now they had him imprisoned in this featureless box with no way out.

To what? To die? To starve to death? Did they want to watch him until he was nothing more than a rotting corpse?

Adrian lay on the cold, hard floor, his muscles aching from the strain of trying to break out. The bone in his arm snapped and knit back together. If they wanted to watch him die, it was going to be a long, boring show. Werewolves weren’t easy to kill, even through starvation.

He replayed the events in the water treatment facility, trying to piece together what got him into this predicament. Everything happened so fast that it was difficult to ascertain. The dark entities, Officer Starks screaming, how he was unable to do anything against the creatures seemingly made up of that disgusting sweet-smelling smoke. His fractured upper arm tingled and healed. At least the dark entities didn’t use him as a pin cushion and curse him again.

One chilling memory stood out—the magic that had robbed him of his control, rendering him helpless against his own bestial nature .

He recognized that sensation. It was one he faced in Afghanistan at the hands of Colonel Langford. The mage had used his blood to exploit Adrian’s lycanthropic abilities, twisting them into a weapon to be wielded against his will.

Adrian’s jaw clenched as he contemplated the possibility that Langford himself was behind this and somehow involved. Or perhaps there was another mage well-versed in … what did Ollie call it? Sanguimancy—the manipulation of blood.

Where would they have gotten his blood?

Anger simmered.

At least that gave him one clue: Someone took his blood likely knowing they would have use for it. That meant someone in the Synod was involved in this whole thing.

His gut reaction was to tell Ollie.

But he couldn’t tell Ollie. He didn’t even know if Ollie was still alive. That thought nearly drowned him in guilt. Earlier that night, he’d been mad at Ollie. For good reason, and he still believed that. But now all he wanted was to see him again.

Adrian’s fists clenched, his nails digging into his palms, and he sprang to his feet. He punched the wall again with both fists. He was not one to give up, to surrender. But there was no one to call, no avenue of escape that he could see. He was trapped, alone, and Ollie, if he was even still alive—yes, he had to face that fact—needed his help .

The air grew colder, if that was even possible. A tingling sensation crept across Adrian’s skin, raising goosebumps on his flesh. He walked to the center of the cell, his muscles tense and ready for whatever might come next.

Suddenly he felt a presence behind him, a subtle shift in the energy of the room. He whirled around to find himself face to face with the ghost—Isabell, Ollie’s grandmother. She stared at him, her translucent form wavering slightly.

He should be happy. At least he had someone… Or, well, some thing else in this prison with him. But he could only grimace at her.

“Where the hell have you been?” Adrian asked her, his anger suddenly flaring up again. She stared at him as if she didn’t even hear him. “Is he alive? Is he dead?”

Isabell remained silent, her lips unmoving, her expression unreadable.

“Answer me!” Adrian yelled, his voice echoing off the walls of the cell.

But still, she said nothing. It was like before when she didn’t have the strength to respond. However, she turned her head to the side, as if staring at something Adrian couldn’t see. An expression that could be interpreted as anger crossed her face, and she faded away.

In the wall, seams formed from what was once solid metal. A door appeared and swung open.

On the other side stood a man, carrying a bag. Adrian tensed, readying himself for a fight, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he prepared to shift at a moment’s notice.

But the man held up a hand, his expression calm. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m actually here to help you.”

Yeah, right. Adrian stared hard at him, his eyes narrowing. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded, his voice laced with suspicion.

“I’m Oliver’s great uncle, Preston Hartley,” the man said, a smile on his face.

Adrian glanced at him for only a second. Then his body shifted, his bones cracking and reforming as he transformed. With a snarl, he leaped toward the man he now knew as Preston Hartley.

Adrian found his back shoved against one of the metal walls, his body contorted even in his werewolf form. His muscles strained against invisible restraints, holding his wrists tight, arms spread out to either side. Still, he snarled and snapped, fighting against the magic that held him in place.

Magic was supposed to be hard to use against werewolves, or so they said. Why then was it that everyone seemed to be able to cast on him so easily?

Preston Hartley stood before him, his expression calm and unfazed by Adrian’s feral display. For a man who was over three hundred years old, he appeared to be barely into his forties, though a simple turn of his cheek as he studied Adrian made him appear as if he was only touching thirty. He had a mercurial appearance.

“So, you’re the werewolf,” Preston said, his voice carrying a hint of curiosity. “I’ve honestly never seen one up close. Not changed, anyway. One would think after all this time, I would have actually taken a good look at you before now.” He stepped closer to Adrian. “But nope, this is a first for me. I don’t get many of those anymore.”

Adrian’s hackles rose, and he lunged forward, jaws agape, only to be halted by the unseen magical restraints. Preston stepped back, eyeing him with a mixture of caution and intrigue.

“I’m a little more powerful than my nephew,” Preston continued, “as I’m sure you can see. Though I will admit you werewolves are hard to cast on without your blood. It’s taking everything I have just to keep you tied to the wall.”

What did he want? Adrian could only watch as Preston paced in front of him. Struggling was useless, and he should conserve his energy for when this asshole made a mistake. Then, he’d sink his teeth into the man’s throat.

“I have seen you, of course. I’ve been watching you for a while now.” Preston stopped in front of Adrian. “Langford was an asshole, wasn’t he?”

This brought a long, deep growl from Adrian’s throat. He had a lot of questions at the mention of that man’s name. But his wolf throat prevented him from speaking.

Preston started moving again. “Richard Langford was someone I was keeping an eye on for reasons unrelated to his actions in Khorasan—the area you would know now as Afghanistan.” He glanced at Adrian. “I witnessed what he did to you, and I found it to be odious. Unconscionable.”

The look on Preston’s face caused Adrian to go still. Was that sympathy? Or was it mockery? Adrian tried to pick up the scent of what the man’s emotions gave off, but there was nothing. Apparently, his magic kept his scents hidden.

“I know all too well what it’s like to be used by someone, by a mage. What Langford did was wrong,” Preston said. He gave a half smile. “And I made sure he had reason enough to leave you alone. I’m sure that night in the village was quite disconcerting. I can only offer my abject remorse that I didn’t get to Richard Langford sooner.”

Adrian’s eyes widened. That night in Afghanistan when he was under Langford’s control and it suddenly disappeared. Adrian took on his human form again.

“What do you know about that night?” Adrian demanded. His heart thudded in his ears.

“Plenty. I know men, women, and children were slaughtered. I know it was your teeth and claws that did it.” Preston moved closer. He met Adrian’s gaze. “But I also know you weren’t responsible for it. You were the victim of a man driven by a much larger goal.” Preston paused. “And I know on that last mission you went on, you found something.”

Adrian couldn’t move, and not because Preston’s magic held him.

The events of that night played out in Adrian’s mind .

Adrian was on a covert mission, his actions dictated by Langford’s blood magic. The sensation of being trapped within his own body, a mere spectator as his werewolf abilities were exploited to carry out unspeakable acts still gave him tremors.

And he’d been under that type of control again…

In those moments, when he didn’t lose consciousness entirely, he was an observer, helpless to intervene as his hands committed atrocities against his will. It was a living nightmare, one that still haunted him. And would haunt him for years to come.

That night, Adrian came to in the middle of a village, surrounded by the lifeless bodies of those he had slaughtered. In Adrian’s hand, he clutched a small, intricate disk made from an unknown, unbreakable metallic material. The disk was adorned with inscriptions in a language he couldn’t read, symbols not unlike what he’d seen Ollie inscribe when casting a spell. Under the moonlight, the symbols seemed to shift and change.

He’d kept that disk. He carried it clutched in his hand all the way back to base. It was in his apartment, hidden well enough that nobody would even come across it if they searched.

“Is Langford here?”

“I don’t know,” Preston said. “He fled after I attacked him.”

Adrian’s brow furrowed. “You’re why I broke free,” he said.

Preston gave a shrug. “A happy accident, one might say.” He walked toward the doorway. Adrian worried the man might leave him, but Preston stopped and turned back again. “Keeping you leashed to the wall is tiring, and we have work to do.”

Adrian leveled his gaze at him. “Why would I help you?”

“I believe you can prove useful in saving Ollie, but if you—” Preston started to turn.

“Ollie’s alive?” Adrian asked, his voice rough and laced with a mixture of hope and lingering distrust.

Preston nodded. “He is. I’ve seen him.”

“Where?”

“Last I saw of him, he was being taken by car. Most definitely alive.”

Adrian’s brow furrowed, his skepticism evident. “Why should I trust you? We thought you were the one behind the ritual.”

A chuckle escaped Preston, further kindling Adrian’s simmering anger. “No,” he replied, his expression sobering. “I’ve spent the past three hundred years trying to figure out how to stop this ritual.”

“But you created it,” Adrian countered.

Preston’s expression grew somber, and he nodded in acknowledgment. “I did help create the ritual,” he admitted. “But our intent was never to create a ritual that would tear down the Boundary. Our goal was to strengthen it.”

“Isabell said as much.”

That caused Preston to pause. “Ah, so you’ve seen her too, have you? ”

“I heard her speak.”

A pensive, small smile touched Preston’s lips. “Then you must know that our goal was simply to resituate the locks. Once the initial ritual was complete, it was only a matter of a few changes to turn it into what it is now. The ritual that was charged was not the ritual I helped create.”

“You used Isabell’s soul,” Adrian said.

The bemused expression on Preston’s face left him. He looked to the ground. “Her soul was used, yes. It’s the biggest regret I have in this whole thing, even larger than helping create the ritual that could tear down the Boundary.” He lifted his gaze to meet Adrian’s again. “But, I told you I know what it is like to have someone use you as a puppet. I was used in the same way by a man who has lived for centuries longer than even I have. He is the one behind this ritual.”

That shut Adrian’s mouth. The fight left his tightened shoulders. “Why should I trust you?”

The knowing smile returned. “You shouldn’t,” he said, simply. “You are a detective. You are trained to trust your gut. And that is what you should trust now.”

His gut had still more questions, but none that this man, Preston Hartley would probably answer. If Preston really was the man behind the ritual, why go to all this trouble? What was the purpose behind it? There was none that he could think of. Nothing fit.

Except that maybe Preston was at least telling him a kernel of truth.

Adrian couldn’t account for the reasoning of mages. Their minds worked in ways he, as a werewolf, probably would never understand. But, even so, one thing was true: This man was offering him a way out, if nothing else.

Adrian met Preston’s gaze. “All right,” he said, his voice low. “I’ll help you rescue Ollie. But I’m not making any promises beyond that.”

Preston nodded, seeming to accept Adrian’s guarded agreement. “Fair enough,” he replied. “But before I release you, I need your assurance that you won’t turn and attack me. Can you control yourself?”

Adrian took a deep breath, centering himself as he pushed aside the lingering remnants of his anger. “I can,” he affirmed, his tone steady.

With a nod, Preston waved his hand. The invisible bonds keeping Adrian tied to the wall disappeared, and he slumped forward. Preston picked up a cloth bag from the floor and tossed it to Adrian. Inside, Adrian found a stack of clothes. “Get dressed,” he instructed. “We have to get going.”