PROLOGUE: INSANITY RUN
The blood in her wrists was pooling, gathering and threatening to burst forth from her body. Cold, sharp chains bit in to her as she withstood their jeering. Many gleaming, ethereal eyes burned like acid on her. Then the crack of the whips was heard. All was silent.
Ivy waited for death, pleaded for it, but all that came was the heavy descent of the woven strip. A scream ripped from her throat, and her consciousness wavered.
"Sean...Sean..." she moaned, "Please! Help me!"
Another crack of the whip and she felt as if she was on fire. Agony flowed around her, and the desire of the volatile Strogoi Mort to run free from their barricades and feast was almost tangible. They were frenzied, leering all around her, hanging off the bars and clawing at each other in yearning.
"Your traitor is not here! He chose to be with his beloved and dethroned King, instead of saving you." her torturer spat, "You are dead, little girl. He threw you away like trash!"
"Then you are vultures!" Ivy shrieked, her voice raw and hoarse. The whip descended again, and this time, a hand was ripping at her hair yanking her head up.
"Quiet yourself, beast, or I will see to it that your casket will be closed at your funeral," the torturer hissed, his breath stinging her face. "Beauty shall elude your battered corpse."
"Why are you doing this?"
"Because, human when we were of your kind, we were tortured, burnt and exterminated. We are back again, and so we shall do unto you."
"But that was not me! It wasn't my time! I'm begging you, stop!" Ivy sobbed, all coherency slipping away.
The pain doubled as something large and blunt was rammed into her chest, and she heard her ribs crack.
"Three days you shall stay. Then the Ancients shall feast," was the pitiless reply. Then she was left, alone, to her agony.
Her mind caressed memories of him. He had said time and time again how he loved her raven hair, her eyes and the beauty of her spirit. He made her see past her life in daydreams, and her made her live again. Ivy clung to what remained of their last encounter; the feel of his hands and the taste of his breath. She longed to have him near her, and hear his rich Irish voice playfully taunting her.
Ivy looked around the room through her matted, bloody hair that was plastered to her face. He was nowhere in sight. Somehow, she had to keep faith. She had to wait until he came for her. She could envision him at intervals, his own dark hair over half of his face, his slightly upturned nose, and his green hinted, grey eyes.
Sean would come, she assured herself by the hour. He would not abandon her, even if he was helping the King to regain his throne. He did not view humans like the others did. He told her so.
As the hours crept away, so did her hope.
...