It was like a sickness, slowly poisoning him the longer he remained in that room, but gradually, that madness turned into something else, something he couldn’t identify.
He thought of the faces of the Albanians, committing them to memory, burning them there to the point that if he was asked years from now what they looked like, he’d be able to paint a clear picture. He vowed to himself that he would make them feel exactly how he felt at his lowest moment.
And although Mishca, his twin brother and savior, should have been the lone person in that entire fucked-up situation that he was grateful for, his fury burned brightest for him.
He didn’t know when, and he didn’t know how, but one day he was going to make that Russian pay.
It was only a matter of time…
Very soon, Niklaus no longer reacted to the lights and sounds. Whenever one, or both, came on, he blinked like it was all second nature.
Finally, after what had felt like days locked in that hole, the door opened once more, the man from the alley walking in, along with the one that had brought him food, and a few others. Since they were all there sans masks, he figured that he had passed the first test.
He was brought from that room to another one that had windows. He gave them the briefest of glances, taking in as much of the outside as he could, before he devoted his attention to the other occupants. For all he could discern about his location, he could have been down the street from the first place he'd been held, or across the ocean in an entirely different country.
The new room Niklaus entered was brightly lit with LED lights across the ceiling, a steel slab of a table and chairs cutting the room in half. He sat in one, no one speaking to him, or he to them. The man from the alley took the opposite one.
“Niklaus, I don’t believe I’ve given you my name. Call me Z.”
That was an odd name to go by—or letter—but he didn’t question it, merely nodded.
“How has your week in the hole been?”
A week? One week?
It had felt like ages had passed in that darkened room. How exactly was he expected to answer that question? “Fine.”
“And your injuries?”
Truthfully, they had been the last thing on Niklaus mind considered what else he had been preoccupied with inside that room. He wasn’t at one-hundred percent, but better than where he had started.
“They were worse.”
The corner of Z’s mouth tipped up, but he didn’t offer a response to that. “Considering you’ve come to the Den broken, your training will be considerably harder than most.”
There was something worse?
He gestured to the only one that Niklaus recognized—the one that had brought him the food and water. Now that he was out of that room, it was easier to make out what Celt—a nam he had heard someone else use—looked like.
Tall, as most of the men in the room were, he had broad shoulders and green eyes that almost seemed too light, along with a full beard that was about a shade or two lighter than his darker hair.
With only the slightest of chin lifts, Celt acknowledged Z’s words.
“He’ll be overseeing your training. Only he will determine when you’re ready. I suggest you try and best him or you’ll never see the outside of this place again.”
But the question was, best him at what? He still had no clue who they were or what they did. Soldiers? Doubtful. Assassins? Maybe.
Z climbed to his feet, nodding back at Celt. “Training starts now.”
* * *
Any sense of understanding Niklaus thought he possessed about Celt disappeared the moment they were alone, and in another room with concrete floors and an array of weaponry in a glass case across the back wall. The first time they entered, Niklaus had been instructed to pick a weapon, any of the number that were on display.
With his body still healing, he had decided against his fists, choosing one that looked like a rather large stick. Niklaus was satisfied, at least until he saw the flash of a smirk on Celt’s face.
That should have been his first clue that this wouldn’t be nearly as easy as he had hoped.
Celt didn’t pick a weapon, and minutes later, Niklaus learned why.
He didn’t need one.
No matter how Niklaus struck out with his weapon, whether it be spontaneous or calculated, Celt avoided the blow, sidestepping each one.
“You’re too predictable,” he said, catching the stick the next time Niklaus swung, pulling it free from his grasp and tossing it across the room. “You’re showing me everything—that’s your weakness. You’ll be dead in an hour.”
The more he talked, the worse Niklaus felt. He already had enough baggage weighing him down, and worse were the memories that plagued him of how helpless he had felt in that house with Jetmir and the others.
They had so easily overpowered him, and the idea of that happening all over again had Niklaus tossing his other weapon, letting it clatter to the floor as he faced Celt once more.
Celt had his guard up, that much was clear despite how he tried to put on a relaxed air. It was obvious he expected Niklaus to attack him now, lash out because of his words, but he didn’t.