His Unidentified & Untouchable Mate

Things I Remember (1)

Zahraa POV

“Are you okay, love?”

I recognized her from the ward’s quarters. Regalia North had a 24/7 security detail following her around wherever she went, and she had a reputation for lashing out violently over the smallest infractions. I’d met her a handful of times when I needed a checkup, or when I was feeling particularly sick.

More than anything else, Regalia North was like me – an unknown. A variable.

She didn’t remember her past either, but she was identified pretty quickly as a half-demon. That was another reason she was staying with the pack. Like me, she was too dangerous to be unleashed upon the general public.

“Regalia,” I breathed. I’d slumped against the wall outside the central pack house, and I hadn’t moved while I remembered those first days with my friends. Shock rocked my system, making my head spin and my stomach roil.

Alanis, Tanis and I had been close friends for two years, until the second family gave me up and Ingrid’s took me in. Things hadn’t been smooth sailing at first between us – she still thought I was weird, and took every chance she could to terrorize me – until a certain incident in middle school had ostracized her and left her with nowhere else to go. We'd been content to ignore her at first - until I couldn't stand it anymore. Whatever part of me kept going back to Jacob, went back to her too.

“Zahraa,” Regalia’s voice sounded urgent, and I realized that her hands were on my shoulders, and she was gently guiding me down to the ground. My vision blurred, and though I could move my mouth, words failed me, until everything around me just… faded.

[13 Years Ago]

It’s wrong.

There was a chain on my ankle. Sitting on the cold tiled ground, I wrapped both my hands around it and tugged.

I’m not supposed to be here.

The chain was bolted into a concrete wall and didn't budge. I gave up, standing and looking around me frantically. I was in some kind of cell? The walls were bare concrete, and there were no bars in front of me, but two small divider walls extended from the walls to my left and right. There was a drain in the tiled floor beneath my feet, and I didn’t see anyone in the brightly lit room in front of me. There was a metal table in the middle of the room, cabinets filled with medicine, and a little side table with instruments on it.

I was about to scream when I heard someone else call out, “Hello? Hello? Is anyone there?” His voice sounded much older, and just as afraid as I was. I heard rustling, and the sound of his own chain clinking as the chain stretched.

“Hello,” I called back, but my voice was small, and quickly swallowed by the opening of a door, and the marching of boots.

“Alright boys, get him on the table. And don’t damage the merchandise,” a voice with a strong southern accent drawled.

I sunk into the corner, into the shadows, and clamped my hands over my ears against the sounds of struggle – of screaming.

The man was put on a table, strapped down by his wrists and ankles. There were four men – no, five. The man with the thick southern drawl was leaning against some cabinets, just barely within my field of vision. “This one’s a lamia, boys. You know what lamia is good for?”

The men didn’t answer, too busy stripping the man naked. The man was too busy kicking, screaming, thrashing against their grips.

Something was injected in his neck, and the man with the accent drew nearer. The man slackened, his body transforming slowly. His legs fused into a long tail that dropped off the table and wound around the legs of some of the captors. The tip twitched a few times, showing the man’s will for freedom.

“A lamia is good for venom,” tired of waiting, the man answered his own question. “Venom so potent and untraceable that no one would know what happened to the victim. And scales – the scales of a lamia are said to bring good fortune, and they’re hard. Some of the hardest organic material that can be harvested.” He pulled his jeans up, exposing his boots. “They make some damn fine snakeskin boots, don’t you think?”

Even drugged as he was, the lamia thrashed. He wailed, but he was no longer screaming – no, he was merely vocalizing, as the drugs muddled him so badly he couldn’t even manage to get any volume behind his horror.

Then, the first incision was made.

I was too afraid of the men to tear my eyes away from the grisly scene. Methodically, slowly, these men skinned the lamia’s tail, taking the skin away in two large sheets. His venom was extracted from an organ that they had to slice into the man’s throat to get to.

The blood ran in rivers down from the table, washing down another drain beneath the table.

I managed to watch without making a sound, my hands clamped over my mouth now, restricting my own cries. I tried to push myself into the corner, imagining if I tried, I could make myself into the shape of the wall. There was no time to wonder how I'd gotten here; a part of me knew that this was about survival, and there wasn't any time to process.

My worst fears were confirmed when a woman called, “Hey. This one is awake.” She’d been on the far side of the table from me, and she must’ve looked up to see me. She broke free from the others and rounded the table, approaching me. “Poor little girl, watching a horror show like this.” She reached out for me, and her gloved hands were still splattered with the man’s blood.

I thrashed.

In a spray of golden light, I shifted into a leopard, reaching out with my claws and slashing her arm. My leg pulled free from the cuff, and I darted through her legs, my paws warm and wet, slipping in the lamia’s blood as I skidded under the table, trying to find the door.

There.

I redirected my body, turning and lunging for the door.

The scruff of my neck burned with pain as I was lifted by the loose skin there. The contact burned – seared – and the man howled with my pain. No – he was hurting too.

Why?

I was dropped, and I scrambled for the door again, slipping and falling in the blood. It was warm and wet in my fur, and I cried out in distress.

More hands grabbed for me, all burning.

The woman returned, grabbing me – but her grasp didn’t hurt. The needle she stuck in my neck did, though, and my vision blurred. When I closed my eyes, I was glad to be rid of the sight of the carved lamia on the table.