Thanks to the curtain of darkness that surrounded him, he had no conception of the number of them or the size of the room: The candlelight threw only so much illumination, and the wax-and-wick numbers were set at intervals of a couple of feet around him.

So this was how a birthday cake felt: kinda worried, given that all your delicate frosting was damn close to open flames.

Plus you were on the verge of getting eaten.

Devina stepped into the light and smiled like the angel she absolutely wasn’t. “Comfortable?”

“I could use a pillow. But other than that, I’m good.”

Hell, if she could lie, so could he. The truth was those wires around his ankles and wrists had barbs on them, so there were bands of pain at all his pulse points. He also had a high-fashion necklace of the same shit that made swallowing just a boatload of fun. And the table under him was coated in some kind of acid—most likely the blood from the things around the periphery.

Clearly, Devina had worked out a lot of demons on these planks, too.

He was willing to bet Adrian had been here. Eddie as well.

Oh, God . . . had the blond girl?

Jim closed his eyes, and on the backs of his lids, saw that lovely innocent strung up over that tub again. Shit, to hell with saving the world. He wished he could have traded himself for her.

Cold fingers drifted up the inside of his leg, and as they got closer and closer to his cock, sharp nails scraped his skin.

A strange sound percolated up, and for some reason it reminded him of deboning a chicken—lot of loose flapping and muffled cracking. Then there was an odd smell . . . like . . . what the fuck was it?

When Devina spoke next, her voice was warped, the tone deeper . . . lower and raspy. “I liked being with you before, Jim. Remember that? In your truck . . . but this is going to be so much better. Look at me, Jim. See the real me.”

“I’m good like this. But thanks—”

Nails gouged into his balls, and then his sac was twisted hard. As the driving pain hit the neuron superhighway of his pelvic girdle, its fumes created a curdling nausea in his gut. Which of course had nowhere to go thanks to the collar clamped around his neck.

Yup, dry heaves were all he had to offer, because nothing was going to evac up his throat.

“Look at me.” More with the wrenching.

His gaping mouth took its own sweet time getting his reply out. Then again, it was busy trying to accommodate the gulps of air he was taking. “. . . No . . .”

Something mounted him. He didn’t know who or what it was, because there were suddenly hands all over him, the gates unleashed—

No, not hands. Mouths.

With sharp teeth.