A walk in the Nightside

Chapter 20: Bound in Shadows

Michael's head throbbed as consciousness returned in waves, each one bringing a sharper clarity to the dull ache that radiated from his temples. His eyes fluttered open, greeted by the harsh glare of sterile white light above him. The room was unnervingly clean—its sharp, almost clinical scent made his nose twitch. It smelled of antiseptic and faintly of something metallic, like freshly sterilized surgical tools.

He blinked against the brightness, his gaze slowly focusing on his surroundings. The walls were tiled, their surfaces gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Some tiles bore intricate geometric patterns, their symmetrical lines weaving into mesmerizing shapes that seemed to shift the longer he looked at them. The air was cool, dry, and disturbingly quiet, broken only by the faint hum of machinery somewhere nearby.

Michael tried to move, only to feel the resistance of thick straps pinning his wrists and ankles to the cold metal table beneath him. His chest was bound as well, the restraints unyielding and biting into his skin every time he shifted. He flexed his fingers, the ache in his knuckles reminding him of the fight he barely remembered. His mouth felt dry, and the gag strapped tightly around his face made breathing a conscious effort.

A wave of unease rolled over him as he realized his coat, his shirt, his bracelet—everything but his pants—was gone. The absence of his swarm hit him like a punch to the gut. He was utterly alone, cut off from the constant hum of insects that usually buzzed in the back of his mind.

His heart raced, and he forced himself to calm down, taking shallow breaths through his nose. Panic wouldn't help. He needed to focus, to piece together what had happened.

The fight came back to Michael in jagged flashes, each detail sharp and painful like shards of glass cutting into his memory.

He had been walking away from the Silk Market, the glamor still holding strong, his newly blackened coat blending into the shadows of the Nightside's dim streets. His thoughts had been preoccupied with the boutique, analyzing everything he'd observed, from the runes on the cabinets to the layout of the rooms. He hadn't noticed the subtle shift in the atmosphere until it was too late.

The shortcut had seemed like a good idea at the time—a narrow, quiet street that cut the distance to Strangefellows in half. But as he entered it, the faint hum of his swarm grew louder in his mind, signaling movement around him. His steps slowed, and his hand drifted toward his coat's hidden pocket, where he kept one of the tarantula hawks primed and ready for emergencies. He didn't see anyone, but he felt them. Shadows shifted unnaturally at the edges of his vision, the air heavy with tension.

Then the first figure stepped out of the darkness. He was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit that seemed to absorb the light. His face was pale, angular, and strikingly calm, like a marble statue brought to life. His hands were clasped behind his back, his posture almost casual.

"Michael," the man said, his voice smooth and deliberate. "You've made quite an impression on some very important people."

Michael's instincts screamed at him to run, but his feet refused to move. He felt a prickling sensation at the base of his skull as the man's voice seemed to crawl into his mind, curling around his thoughts like a vice.

"Stop," the man commanded softly, and Michael's body obeyed against his will.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. It was some kind of psychic magic—mind control that he hadn't anticipated or prepared for. His muscles locked in place, his own body betraying him. His swarm buzzed frantically in the back of his mind, but their movements felt distant, muted by the iron grip of the man's voice.

Out of the corner of his eye, Michael saw two more figures step into the dim light of the street. They moved like professionals—quick, efficient, and without hesitation. Both wore dark clothing that blended into the shadows, their faces partially obscured by masks. The taller one carried a metal baton, while the shorter one held a glowing orb that pulsed faintly with magical energy.

Michael strained against the psychic hold, trying to summon his swarm to break free, but the tall man's voice cut through his efforts like a blade.

"Don't bother," he said with a faint smirk. "We know all about your little tricks. You won't be using them tonight."

The shorter figure moved first, throwing the orb toward Michael's feet. It shattered on impact, releasing a cloud of shimmering mist that filled the air around him. The mist burned his skin like acid and sent a wave of dizziness crashing over him. He stumbled, the psychic hold loosening just enough for him to fall to his knees.

The tall man watched with a detached curiosity as the other two moved in. Michael barely had time to brace himself before the first blow landed—a baton strike to his ribs that knocked the air from his lungs. He gasped, trying to rise, but a second blow slammed into his back, driving him to the ground.

"Not so tough without your bugs, are you?" one of them sneered, their voice muffled by the mask.

Michael's vision blurred as the beating continued. Fists and boots rained down on him, each impact driving him further into the pavement. His mind was a storm of pain and frustration, his swarm screaming in the distance, too far away to help. Blood dripped from his split lip, his ribs ached with every breath, and his head throbbed from a sharp kick to his temple.

"Enough," the suited man said, his tone cold and commanding.

The assault stopped abruptly, leaving Michael gasping for air, his body trembling from the pain. He tried to push himself up, but a boot pressed down on his chest, pinning him to the ground. The shorter figure crouched beside him, holding a second glowing orb.

"This one's for you," they said with a wicked grin, pressing the orb to his forehead.

The last thing Michael remembered was a searing heat spreading through his skull, his vision going white before the darkness swallowed him whole.

And now he was here, strapped to a table in a room that looked more like a hospital than a torture chamber. But Michael knew better. This wasn't about healing.

He tested the restraints, straining against the leather straps that held his wrists and ankles. They didn't budge. His mind raced, sifting through options. He needed his swarm, but whoever had taken him had done their homework. He couldn't sense a single insect in the room—no flies, no spiders, not even an errant ant.

The geometric patterns on the tiles caught his attention again. Something about them felt... off. He squinted, his headache intensifying as his eyes traced the lines. They weren't just decorative—they were part of a larger design, something magical. A ward, maybe.

"Clever," he muttered under his breath, the gag muffling his words. He didn't need to guess who had captured him. The Bennetts or Pembrokes—or maybe both—had finally made their move.

Michael closed his eyes, forcing himself to focus despite the pounding in his head. He needed a plan, and he needed it fast. Because if his captors had gone to this much trouble, they weren't planning to let him leave alive.

Michael shifted uncomfortably against the cold table as the memories of his fight flickered in and out of his mind. His body ached, and his head throbbed, but the gravity of his situation kept him sharp. The sterile, almost clinical room seemed too clean, too prepared—like they had been expecting him.

The sound of heels clicking against the tiled floor snapped him out of his thoughts. The door hissed open, and in walked a woman he recognized immediately: Victoria Bennett. She was composed, elegant, and radiated authority. Behind her, Jonathan Bennett sat slouched in his wheelchair, his skeletal form exuding a quiet, dangerous presence. Two enforcers followed close behind, their blank expressions and purposeful movements making Michael's stomach twist.

"Well, well," Victoria said, her voice slicing through the room like a blade. She pushed the wheelchair forward, positioning Jonathan directly across from Michael's restrained form. "So this is the man who thought it wise to involve himself in Bennett family affairs."

Jonathan's sunken eyes settled on Michael, cold and unforgiving. "You've been quite the nuisance," he rasped, his voice brittle but menacing. "Thomas was a valuable member of our family. His loss... well, let's just say it wasn't unnoticed."

Michael tried to respond, but the gag stifled his words, turning them into muffled grunts. He strained against the leather straps, his frustration mounting as he locked eyes with Victoria.

She chuckled softly, a mocking smile tugging at her lips. "Oh, don't bother trying to explain yourself," she said. "We already know what you've done. Thomas may not have been a saint, but he was one of us. And you, Michael, made the grave mistake of taking him away."

Jonathan leaned forward slightly, his frail hands gripping the armrests of his wheelchair. "You might think you're clever," he said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. "Taking out Thomas, hiding in the shadows, thinking you could escape our notice. But you've made enemies of the wrong family."

Michael's glare didn't waver, his breathing steady despite the storm brewing inside him. His silence wasn't defiance—it was survival. He couldn't afford to show weakness, not now.

Victoria stepped closer, her heels clicking softly against the tiles. "Here's the thing," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "Thomas wasn't just any Bennett. He was family. Blood. And in the Nightside, blood demands retribution."

Michael's heart pounded, but his face remained stoic. The Bennetts were dangerous, but he hadn't taken Thomas out lightly. The man had come for him first, and Michael had simply survived. But explaining that wouldn't change his current predicament.

"We're not here for justice," Victoria continued, tilting her head as she studied him. "We're here for answers. Who sent you? Who gave you the means to kill one of us?"

Jonathan's lips curled into a faint smirk. "You see, we know someone like you doesn't act alone. Not against a Bennett."

Michael let out a muffled groan, shaking his head. The insinuation was absurd—he hadn't been acting on anyone's orders. But with the gag still tightly secured, his protests fell on deaf ears.

Victoria's expression hardened, her patience clearly wearing thin. "Oh, don't play the innocent with us. You might've gotten lucky with Thomas, but that ends here. We'll find out who you're working for, whether you want to cooperate or not."

She glanced at one of the enforcers. "Turn on the dampener again. I don't want him trying any of his little bug tricks while we're having our conversation."

The enforcer nodded, adjusting the device in his hands. It hummed faintly, and Michael felt the emptiness in his mind deepen. The absence of his swarm was suffocating, like losing a part of himself.

Jonathan leaned back in his wheelchair, a dry chuckle escaping his lips. "You should've stayed in the shadows, boy. Killing Thomas was your first mistake. Crossing us will be your last."

Victoria's eyes narrowed as she leaned closer, her face inches from Michael's. "Now, I'm going to ask you one more time: who sent you? And don't even think about lying."

Michael's muffled response was sharp, defiant. His eyes burned with the truth—that no one had sent him, that he was acting alone, that he hadn't even intended to start this war. But the Bennetts weren't interested in the truth. They wanted blood.

Victoria straightened, sighing dramatically. "Stubborn," she said, turning to one of the enforcers. "Bring in the tools. Let's see if a little persuasion loosens his tongue."

Michael's stomach churned as the enforcer left the room. He was running out of time. If he didn't figure out a way to escape soon, the Bennetts would make good on their promise—and he knew their idea of persuasion wouldn't leave him alive.

Jonathan's thin fingers tapped rhythmically on the armrest of his wheelchair as his cold eyes studied Michael. The smirk that curled his lips was unnerving, a faint trace of amusement mixed with something darker. His raspy voice broke the tense silence as he leaned forward slightly, the sound barely louder than a whisper but carrying the weight of authority.

"I have to admit," Jonathan began, his words slow and deliberate, "you've surprised me, Michael. Taking out Marcellus DeLucia—now that was a feat I didn't think anyone outside of the Authorities would dare attempt, let alone succeed at."

Michael's gaze locked with Jonathan's, his muffled groans of defiance audible even through the gag. He didn't care about Jonathan's musings; he cared about the restraints biting into his wrists and the impending danger he could feel in the air.

Jonathan chuckled dryly, the sound rattling like leaves in a winter wind. "You may not appreciate it now, but that was quite the achievement. Do you know how long Marcellus cast his shadow over the Nightside? How many people trembled at the mere mention of his name?"

Victoria smirked as she walked past, fetching a tray of instruments from a cabinet in the corner. "I think he's more concerned with his current predicament, Father," she said, her tone laced with mockery.

Jonathan ignored her, his gaze never leaving Michael. "I first met Marcellus when I was just a child," he continued, his voice tinged with nostalgia. "He was already a master vampire by then, of course. My father brought me to one of his gatherings—an elegant affair, full of blood and whispers. I remember looking into his eyes and feeling like I was staring into an abyss."

Michael squirmed against his bindings, his frustration growing as Jonathan's story stretched on. He wanted to yell, to demand answers, but all he could manage were muffled grunts.

Jonathan smiled faintly, as if Michael's struggles amused him. "Over the years, I watched Marcellus rise. He was cunning, ruthless—a true predator. He didn't just compete with his rivals; he devoured them. He became a power unto himself, a force no one dared to challenge."

Victoria set the tray of instruments on a side table with a deliberate clink, her movements precise and measured. The tools gleamed under the harsh fluorescent light, their sharp edges glinting ominously.

"But," Jonathan said, his smirk widening, "for all his power, Marcellus had a weakness: his ego. He thought himself untouchable, above the petty squabbles of mortals and the machinations of other powers. That arrogance was his undoing."

Michael's glare deepened, his mind racing as he tried to decipher Jonathan's angle. Was this some twisted form of praise? Or was Jonathan merely stalling, savoring his perceived victory?

"You see," Jonathan continued, his tone shifting to something almost conversational, "Marcellus was more than a threat to his enemies. He was a... complication for us as well. His influence over the Bennetts was considerable—his alliances, his demands, his constant need to meddle in our affairs. A thorn in our side, you might say."

Victoria glanced over her shoulder, raising an eyebrow. "More like a dagger," she muttered.

Jonathan chuckled, the sound brittle but genuine. "Yes, quite. So, when we learned that someone had finally rid the Nightside of him... well, let's just say we were intrigued." He leaned forward slightly, his sunken eyes glinting with curiosity. "Tell me, Michael. How did you do it? How did a man like you—young, inexperienced, outmatched—bring down a predator like Marcellus?"

Michael's muffled response was unintelligible, but the defiance in his eyes spoke volumes.

Jonathan leaned back, a faint smile still playing on his lips. "No matter," he said. "You've done us a favor, whether you intended to or not. For that, I should thank you. Marcellus was a necessary evil once, but his time had long since passed. And now, thanks to you, our influence in the Nightside is unchallenged."

Victoria interrupted, her tone cold and clipped. "Father, I'm sure Michael appreciates your gratitude, but we have more pressing matters to attend to." She picked up a scalpel from the tray, its edge catching the light as she inspected it.

"Patience, Victoria," Jonathan said softly, raising a hand to calm her. "We will get our answers. But there's no harm in showing a bit of civility first, is there?"

Victoria rolled her eyes but said nothing, setting the scalpel down with a sharp click.

Jonathan turned his attention back to Michael, his expression hardening. "Make no mistake, young man. While I may admire your... resourcefulness, that does not absolve you of your crimes against this family. Thomas was blood, and blood demands blood in return. But first, we will have our answers."

Michael's heart pounded as the enforcers moved closer, their heavy footsteps echoing ominously in the tiled room. Jonathan's gaze bored into him, cold and unrelenting.

The Bennetts weren't here for justice or revenge—they were here to strip him of everything he knew. And as the instruments gleamed under the light, Michael knew he had precious little time to find a way out.