Enslaved by the Others by Jess Haines

wasn’t just soundproofed. The glass was probably tinted in a way to make it too reflective for anyone to see in from the outside. Max’s man adjusted the collar of his coat and looked our way. His casual glance and smug smile told me he must have known we were screaming for the officers’ attention but were never going to get it.
    Being trapped in that room, seeing the police so close and not being able to do anything about it, was one of the most helpless, awful experiences I’d had since Max had taken me. They didn’t look up. Not even once. Obviously they couldn’t tell we were here, couldn’t hear our cries for help. They might have been here searching for me, or they might have been here because word got out about Max’s shadier activities. They knew something was wrong. Even from where I stood, even with the wrought iron bars in the way, I recognized the look of the warrant in the officer’s hand as he gestured at Max’s man.
    They stood there talking for a few minutes, their lips moving, the occasional hand gesture taking in the house or the expanse of the property.
    After awhile, Max’s security guard walked back toward the flashing lights with one of the police officers. The FBI agent and the other officer stayed where they were, their hands moving in sharp, urgent gestures as they had some kind of disagreement. The agent kept pointing at the house. The officer kept pointing back toward the flashing lights. I had the sinking feeling the local cops might be in Max’s pocket, and trying to dissuade the FBI, on his behalf, not to look too closely at what was hidden behind the curtain.
    Even a vampire couldn’t say no to a search warrant. I straightened a bit as the FBI agent moved through a door below us and out of sight, the officer shaking his head before following reluctantly in his wake.
    Even though there wasn’t anything more to see, we all stayed right where we were, glued to this one tiny hope that we might be found and rescued. A few minutes later, there was a bit of noise from the common room. I glanced back, as did most of the others, in time to see Max ushering Gideon and Sara before him.
    She was leaning heavily on the necromancer for support, head hanging, her normally sparkling blue eyes gone dim from what looked like a nasty combination of exhaustion and blood loss. Sara usually had some color in her skin, but at the moment she was even paler than I was, and there were unhealed bite marks visible on her arms and throat. Quite a few more than had been there when I last saw her.
    And she sported a brand-new collar, white leather to match the loose silk wrap and pants that washed out her already pale features.
    Fighting back the urge to throw myself on Max and throttle the unlife out of him, I scooted around the gathered, gaping throng by the windows and headed straight for Gideon and Sara. Max barely paid me a glance before speaking in hushed, urgent tones to Gideon, clearly continuing some earlier thread of conversation.
    “They won’t find them. Stay here, and don’t provoke them or I’ll revoke my hospitality and you can find your own way back to Los Angeles.”
    Gideon scowled but didn’t argue. After his tight nod, Max turned on a heel and stalked out, the door sliding into place and locking behind him.
    The necromancer’s attention turned to me as I approached. The muscles in his jaw and neck tensed, but he stayed put as I yanked Sara out of his arms and into a hug. She gave a startled yelp before returning the gesture. Disgustingly, she smelled like him, the odor of chloroform and dead things clinging to her like a revolting perfume.
    “Jesus, don’t scare me like that,” she scolded, returning the hug once she saw it was just me.
    “Scare you? Cripes, woman,” I said, pulling back to look her over, “I’ve been worried sick about you. Are you okay? I mean, obviously not, but—”
    “Relax! I’m fine. I’m alive. Gideon has been watching out for me.”
    I turned a