“Then I suppose I should make myself comfortable.” The thunderbird’s gaze openly challenged Marc, who had at least ten inches and thirty pounds on him, without a hint of fear.

Marc’s inner Alpha roared to life; I saw it in the gold specks glittering madly in his eyes. I laid my casted arm across his stomach an instant before he would have rushed the bars. Which would only have convinced the prisoner he was right in refusing to talk.

I’d just realized something that might actually come in handy. The bird was clearly devastated by the thought of never flying again, in spite of his willingness to endure it. He hated our low-lying dwelling and the thought of “huddling” in it.

“Yes, make yourself comfortable.” I extended my good arm to indicate the entire basement. “It stays pretty warm in here, thanks to the natural insulation of earth against cinder block.…”

The bird’s forehead furrowed and his legs twitched, as if he were fighting the impulse to stand. Or to try to flee. His dark gaze roamed the large, dim room and finally settled on one of the only two windows—short, narrow panes of glass near the ceiling, which came out at ground level outside.

“We’re underground?” His odd, raspy voice was even rougher than usual.

“Yup. You’re not only in our ‘ground-level hovel,’ you’re beneath it. Trapped in the earth. Completely buried, if you will.” He flinched at my word choice, but I continued. “You won’t see the sky again until you answer our questions. And I can have those windows blacked out right now, if you want the full effect.”

Panic shone in his eyes like unshed tears. I was right. Our prisoner—and likely most thunderbirds—suffered from a fascinating combination of claustrophobia and taphephobia, the fear of being buried alive. And I was more than willing to exploit that fear, if it made him talk without endangering either of us.

“Or, I can open them and let you see outside.”

The bird’s silent struggle was obvious as he fought to keep his expression blank. To hide the terror building inside him with each breath. But I knew that fear. I’d been locked up more than once, and while I wasn’t afraid of being swallowed by the earth, I did fear the loss of my freedom just as keenly as he feared his current predicament.

But the bird was strong, obviously unaccustomed to giving in, to either his fear or his enemies. He’d need a little shove.…

“Can you feel it?” I scooted just far enough forward to be sure the motion caught his attention. “Those bricks at your back? They’re holding back tons of dirt and clay. Solid earth. There’s nothing but eight inches of concrete standing between you and death by asphyxiation. Or maybe the weight would crush you first. Either way, live interment. Can’t you almost taste the soil…?”

Marc was staring at me like I’d lost my mind. Or like I’d crossed some line he would never even have approached. But I’d seen him work. He’d readily pound the shit out of a prisoner to get the information he needed. How could my calm, psychological manipulation be any worse than that?