Chapter 15

Niamh awoke in the dark--cold and in pain. She was naked and chained to what felt like a concrete wall. A necklace of some sort encircled her neck. She abruptly felt nauseous when she realized what it was—a Sithe slave torc.

She tried to shift and her world exploded in agony. She blacked out.

Sometime later she awoke again. Gingerly felt the torc again and realized it was made to imprison were-folk. It was spelled to read body functions and dished out punishments as soon as it detected a shift starting.

She was trapped.

Helpless.

A wave of utter panic consumed her. She went into a frenzy of jerking her arm to try to pull her wrist out of the shackles holding her wrist to the wall.

The resulting pain in her wrist brought her back from the edge of panic.

She took a deep calming breath.

“Okay then. I’m trapped here, but I am not helpless. Stop and think.” With a sliver of metal or a bobby-pin she could get out of any handcuff made. She had none of those things.

I wonder how long it would take to chew through my wrist.

The torc tightened in a warning. Apparently, thoughts that went to body harm were punished as well.

Okay, that idea is out.

The obvious solution was to shift, and her arm would slip out automatically, but the torc wouldn’t let her do that.

She sat up, brought her knees up against her chest, trying to conserve as much body heat as she could and let her mind wander its way to a solution.

“There is always a way.” Her voice echoed in the blackness.

The Sithe both light and dark had to develop the tool to control the slaves they created. You could use the magic to create a half bear, half human to guard your household, but it did little good when your creation could and would turn on you the first chance it got. The deepest fear of any slave holding society was revolt. When their wizards developed the torc, they found a perfect solution to their fears. The collar was powered by magic, and magic in Alfheim was as common as sunlight. No need for recharging or batteries—when a slave was collared, it was forever. The spell-craft for removing them was lost in the mists of time.

She relaxed and fell into a fitful sleep. Only to be galvanized some time later by the thought that there was no need for batteries in Alfheim. But Oldtown was a different story. Here the available magic was far less, not as bad as earth but a lot less than Alfheim. The torc wouldn’t be as efficient unless you were camped on Opari’s edge.

The question was, how many shocks could she stand?

“As many as it takes,” she whispered.

She shifted.

Screamed and blacked out.

Again.

Again

Again

Was the pain lessoning?

Again

Again.

Shift. Familiar pain as muscle and bone realigned to a new shape and function.

The manacles slipped from her wrists.

Niamh Harpe was loose--and well and truly pissed off.

Her vision changed so the room once black now became dimly lit. Growling softly, the huge panther circled the room three times, then slipped in the grim-gray discipline of no-time to wait—fully alert and fully ready. She laid down, nose pointed to the doorway, relaxed but coiled for the killing time.

The shifter Niamh Harpe was a killer in both of her persona.

Her captors were going to learn what others had learned before, she was hard wired to attack threats rather than run from them.

Niamh awoke instantly from her doze as soon as she heard voices just outside the door.

“Open it.” She recognized the rich melodic voice of the Leprechaun.

She tucked her hind legs under her torso and stretched her tail out behind her for maximum balance, preparing to leap as soon as the door opened.

“Hold. She may be free,” the other voice sang.

The elf was still hanging around.

“How could she be free? She’s drugged. Besides, she’s collared and chained to a wall.”

“Everything I’ve heard about her talks of her resourcefulness. Why take a chance. Do you yearn for the true death?”

Niamh quickly shifted back and moved over to the manacle in the wall.

The door opened slowly; the Leprechaun peeked in.

“Hah, it appears you overestimated her. She’s still unconscious.”

“You are a fool,” sang the elf. “How have you survived this long? The torc is inactive.”

He waved his hand and Niamh felt the lassitude overcoming her once more.

I deserve whatever these assholes do to me, she thought disgustedly. Stupidity and overconfidence define me this day.

Blackness.

(Many thanks to Mr. Wolf for lending his invaluable editorial skills to make this readable).