by R. L. King
“Yes, sir.” His whisper didn’t sound like he did, entirely.
“I don’t,” Stone said. “I don’t see a bloody thing about you that makes you better than anyone. You’re nothing but a pair of jumped-up sadists. If I were God, I’d be ashamed of both of you.”
The man ignored him, but Caleb continued to glare at him in righteous rage. The kid couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen.
Ian’s age, when they’d first met.
Get them while they’re young, indeed…
“Last chance, demon…” the man said smoothly, raising the whip.
Richard said nothing.
“All right, then. You’ve made your choice. I’d ask God to have mercy on your soul, but you demons don’t have souls. That’s why what we’re doing here isn’t murder.”
The whip came down with a crack that ricocheted around the small cell.
Richard screamed.
Stone looked away.
There was nothing he could do—he knew that now. Nothing he said or did would make a difference in what happened to Richard. These people were the worst kind of zealots, convinced their twisted version of “faith” justified anything they chose to do in the name of their equally twisted “God.” He’d never been much for religion himself, but he’d always respected Aubrey’s devotion to his own faith, and his efforts to be a good and kind person. These people were nothing like that. They were beyond help.
Clearly, so was Richard. Stone lowered his head and closed his eyes as the Ordo mage’s screams pitched higher, turning to desperate cries for mercy as the whip continued to crack, the truncheon to find its mark, and the electronic device to buzz with sinister purpose. Richard could have lied, perhaps—given the Portas man fake names. It might even have worked, at least for a while. But if he’d ever considered doing that, he was much too far gone to do it now.
Stone remained where he was, head bowed and eyes closed, until Richard’s screams gradually quieted, first to soft moans and then to silence.
“Weak,” Caleb said with contempt. “Both of them are weak.”
“Demons are weak. That is the most important lesson I hope you will take from this example. This demon has paid the first installment of his debt for his sins,” the Portas man said. “He will be consigned to the pits of Hell where he will suffer for all eternity.”
Stone raised his head, but didn’t look at Richard. “So, what now?” he asked softly. “Is it my turn? Are you going to clean those things first, at least? Your sanitary practices are appalling.”
The man chuckled. “In such a hurry, Dr. Stone? Don’t worry—it won’t be long now. We’ll leave you in here with your friend for a while, and perhaps that will quiet your tongue and help you see the wisdom of your choices.”
“What wisdom? What choices? You want me to take the easy way? If I do that, you won’t get your sadistic jollies torturing me.”
Another laugh. “That’s a choice you won’t have. You don’t know anything we care about, but you’ve committed far more transgressions—against us and against godly people in general—than our unfortunate friend here. Your death will neither be slow nor easy. Think about that for a while. We’ll be back shortly.”
He motioned to Caleb, who wheeled the rack of implements back outside and retrieved the chair. He fixed his gaze on Stone as he passed, and a slow smile spread across his face. “Foul demon,” he said. “I look forward to hearing you scream.”
The door slammed shut, and the lock clicked.
Stone waited for the light to go off, but it didn’t.
Of course not. They want me to see.
He didn’t want to see. He didn’t want to look at Richard. There was nothing he could do for the man—even if by some miracle he still clung to life, Stone couldn’t reach him. And even if he could reach him, without his magic or any medical supplies, he’d be helpless to do anything.
The room smelled like blood now. Blood and urine and fear.
Stone swallowed hard, steeled himself, and twisted his body so he could see beyond the cage.
Richard was dead. There was no doubt about it, so at least that was a kind of mercy.
He lay on his back in a puddle of blood, his left chained arm wrenched under him. His pale body was covered in bloody whip stripes, bruises, and burns. His face was twisted into a rictus of pain and terror, his unseeing eyes staring up toward the bright overhead bulb. Stone didn’t doubt the Portas man had tried out every toy on his vile little cart.
He settled back into his previous position, with his back against the cage. He didn’t need to look at the scene. It wouldn’t bring Richard back.
Yes, it was true that Richard had been a member of the Ordo—a group whose members thought nothing of killing mundanes when they got in the way of their plans. Maybe the American branch was less bloodthirsty, but Stone had no doubt the man across from him was no saint, by anyone’s standards.
Still, that didn’t mean he deserved this. Nobody deserved this. The fact that the Portas people had inflicted this kind of treatment on another human being said far more about them than it did about their victim.
And soon, all too soon, they were going to come back here and inflict it on him.
Caleb would watch in righteous fervor while his boss tortured Stone the same way he’d tortured Richard. He would walk away untroubled, believing with all his heart that the punishment was justified, that a demon had been removed from the world, that the ways of godliness were restored. Maybe he’d go and have a meal, drink a beer, watch some television. Maybe he even had a girlfriend (of course he wouldn’t have a boyfriend—Portas wouldn’t stand for that. Maybe they wouldn’t even stand for the beer).
Nonetheless, Stone couldn’t feel sorry for him. Not even because he’d probably been raised among these horrible people and hadn’t had much agency about where his life path took him. It didn’t matter. Evil was evil.
None of that was relevant now, though. Any time now, they were going to return with their rack of torture implements and their pious sense of superiority. Without his magic, he had no way to fight back. His arms were chained, his body was so cold now it hurt to move at all, and they would bind his ankles so he couldn’t even kick. Physically and magically, he had no chance.
He rested his forehead on knees and knew there was only one answer.
It would be a long shot—a very long shot.
He had no way to know if it would work. He was beginning to realize there were a lot of things he didn’t know.
But it was his only chance.
And if nothing else, if only part of it worked, at least he’d die quickly, instead of in slow, screaming agony like poor Richard had.
Small victories, but right now they were all he had.
37
When the door opened again, Stone was still seated as he had been, his back pressed against the cage with his legs drawn up, his arms wrapped around them, and his forehead on his knees.
“Saying a little prayer, demon?” the familiar deep, resonant voice called. “I regret to inform you it won’t work. God doesn’t answer prayers from Satan’s foul servants.”
Stone raised his head. “Just having a bit of a rest.”
Caleb snickered. “You’ll have your eternal rest soon, filth. You’ll burn in Hell for all eternity.”
“You know…” Stone said slowly, with a confused head-tilt, “one thing I don’t quite get. Maybe you can help me work it out.”
“What is that?” the Portas man asked.
“Well…you and your pimply little lickspittle here keep banging on about how we’re going to end up in Hell, like that’s a bad thing. But if we really are working for Satan, aren’t you just sending us home? You know—kick off our boots after a job well done, have a pint, get our performance evaluation and a few days’ holiday before our next assignment?”
Both men glared at him.
Stone shrugged. “Don’t mind me—I’ve just had a while to think about these things. So if I a
m a demon, you’re not consigning me to eternal punishment at all. But if you’re wrong—if I’m not a demon—then what’s that say about your methods?”
“Of course you’re a demon!” Caleb snapped. “You have demonic powers. Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!”
“Ah! There we go. I was wondering when we were going to trot out the slogan again.” Stone looked the boy directly in the eye and made a little tsk noise. “But shame on you, Caleb. You should be old enough by now to recite the company motto in its proper Latin. Come on, say it with me now, slowly: Maleficos…non…patieris…vivere. Got that? Let’s hear you try it on your own now.” He regarded the boy expectantly. “If you get it right, maybe the Reverend will pat your head and give you a gold star. Or better yet, a gold cross.”
“Enough!” the older man thundered. “The demon is toying with you, boy! We are not here to listen to him spout his foul swill.”
“No. You’re here to torture me, like you did with poor Richard there—except this time you don’t even have the excuse of trying to get information out of me.” As cold as he was, it was hard to keep his voice from shaking. He mostly managed, but not entirely. “You already said I don’t know anything you’d find useful—which is doubtful, honestly. But if it’s true, what does that say about you?” He flashed a fierce grin. “Let’s spell it out, for the people in the back row: it says there’s nothing at all righteous or godly about you. You’re sadists, pure and simple. Come on, Reverend—at least have the bollocks to own it.”
“Shut up!” Caleb screamed. “You will not mock your betters!”
“My betters? That’s debatable. But what have I got to lose? You’re going to kill me either way—you’ve already said so, and God’s favorite twisted little children never lie, do they? Why shouldn’t I have a bit of fun before you snuff me?”
The boy glared at Stone, then at the older man. “Sir—let me do it. Please. Let me have him! I saw what you did with the other one—and I’ve got some other ideas, too.”
“Oh, brilliant idea,” Stone said brightly. “Let Caleb do it, Reverend. Watching’s great, but torture’s a sort of hands-on discipline, isn’t it? He’ll never get it right if you don’t let him get his hands dirty.”
“Out of the question.”
He’d been addressing Caleb, but Stone replied as if he’d been speaking to him directly. “Why? Are you afraid he won’t do the job properly? That’s fair.” He aimed a conspiratorial chin-jerk at Caleb. “He does strike me as a bit…you know…slow. But you work with what you’ve got, don’t you? And if he botches the job, you can always come along behind him and clean up.” He rattled his chains. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”
“Let me do it, sir,” Caleb growled. “He’s mocking us! Let me shut his foul mouth!” He clenched and unclenched his fists as he said it, and the look on his face was a combination of rage and fervor.
The man considered, looking back and forth between Stone and Caleb. “Very well,” he said at last. “Soon, you will be dealing with demons on your own. You may proceed, Caleb. I will observe from the hallway. Be careful, though—these demons are treacherous. Do not allow him to get away with anything.”
“Oh, don’t worry, sir.” Caleb’s face split in a smug, satisfied smile. “I’ll teach him God’s plan for demons like him.”
“I can hardly wait,” Stone said. “Do instruct me.”
The boy returned to the hallway and pushed the familiar cart inside. This time, he rolled it to Stone’s side of the room, careful to avoid getting close to him, and placed it against the wall.
Stone feigned interest, looking over the implements. “Where shall we start, where shall we start?”
“Immobilize his legs,” the man called from the doorway. “He will kick you if he gets a chance.”
Stone didn’t fight as Caleb pulled out a thick zip-tie and dropped down next to him. “Oh, yes,” he murmured. “You should absolutely immobilize my legs. Although, while aiming a sad little kick at you would be satisfying, I doubt it would be of much use. It won’t get me out of here.”
Caleb grabbed one of his ankles, wrenched it next to his other leg, and deftly trussed them together.
“Good job!” Stone said, in the tone of a preschool teacher praising a child for using the potty properly. “Oh, I can see this is going to be fun, Caleb. You’ve got the touch.” He leaned forward a little and murmured under his breath, “But then, you like the touch, don’t you?”
“Shut up!” Caleb reached around, pulled a knife from the cart, and waved it in Stone’s face. “Shut up, or you’ll regret it, demon!”
“No doubt I will.” He smiled. “But I’m not wrong, am I? You like the touch. Tell me—was it your idea to strip us down to our underwear? Maybe it’s not about the cold at all. Maybe it’s because you like to look? Maybe you wish you hadn’t had to stop there?”
“Shut up!” Caleb backhanded him again with the hand holding the knife.
“Caleb—” the man called from the doorway.
“It’s all right, sir.” The boy’s voice shook with rage. “I’ve got this.”
“Do you?” Stone whispered. “You know, it is all right. Truly, it is.” He didn’t like using this approach, but desperate times justified a little inappropriateness. Especially because he could tell it was working. “I won’t blame you at all, if it’s true. It’s absolutely natural.”
Caleb’s hand tightened on the knife. “You will not speak to me this way, demon! The power of God will cast you out, and I will be the vessel that administers His punishment!”
“That’s the way!” Stone leaned forward a little more and dropped his voice back to a whisper. “Make him believe you.” He leaned in closer. “Maybe you can get him to go away—to leave us alone together. Then we can have fun. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, before you kill me? Once you go demon, you’ll never want to go back. Trust me. I can show you things that would curl your hair.”
The boy was gripping the knife so hard his hand was shaking now, his chest heaving with his short, sharp breaths. “You—I—”
“You know you want it, Caleb!” Stone yelled in his face with sudden, shocking ferocity. “You know it! Admit it! Surrender to your true desires!” He fixed a crazy-eyed stare on the boy, lunged at him to the limits of his chains, and began screaming in a guttural magical language. The words were nonsense: something about your ox is green and the circle is full of cheese, but their deep, harsh cadence could easily have been the speech of some foul demon from the depths of hell.
And all the while he was silently thinking, Please let this work…
Caleb jerked back as if Stone had hit him with a hot poker. “No! You will not tempt me! Begone, foul demon!”
“Caleb!” the Reverend shouted from the hallway. He rushed into the room toward the boy.
But it was too late. With a wild scream of fear mixed with righteous rage, Caleb flung himself forward, raised the knife, and plunged it into Stone’s chest.
“Die, demon!” he shrieked.
The knife struck true. Stone felt only a quick flare of pain as the blade pierced him, before a tide of grayness rose to overwhelm his vision. His body slumped sideways, held half-upright by the chains, and the instant before everything drifted away into blackness, he heard the Reverend scream, “NO!”
If he was truly going to die, he hoped he’d done it with a smile on his face.
That would piss them off.
38
He drifted in and out of consciousness, never quite reaching the level where he was sure whether the world around him was real, in his mind, or somewhere in between.
Angry screaming.
Blackness.
He was moving, bouncing as if someone was dragging him over an uneven surface.
Blackness.
A bolt of agonizing pain flaring in his chest.
Blackness.
He landed hard and rolled.
But…not blackness this time. Grayness. Confusion. Pain.
<
br /> He had no idea how long it lasted.
He was cold.
He was hungry.
How could he be dead if he was hungry?
And then, miraculously, a voice.
A woman’s voice, speaking in a harsh whisper.
“Oh, god, what have they done to you?”
Cold, strong hands seized his shoulders and rolled him onto his back.
The voice gasped.
Opening his eyes was the hardest thing he’d ever done. It felt as if he were trying to lift a two-ton roll-up door with the strength of a toddler. But something deep in the back of his mind told him he had to do it anyway.
His eyelids flickered, then opened to slits.
Above him, it was dark. But not fully dark, as it had been in the cell. There were lights. There were stars.
The hanging bulb was gone.
The concrete under his back was gone, too. Instead, he felt something uneven, parts of it soft, parts poking into him.
A figure crouched over him, blurry and indistinct.
He tried to blink.
He thought he managed a faint moan.
“You’re alive…”
He thought the voice might sound familiar, but he couldn’t be sure. Things weren’t making sense right now, no matter how hard he tried to wrangle his chaotic thoughts.
“Okay…okay…” The woman seemed to be talking to herself now. “Need to call an ambulance…get you to a hospital…”
The word hospital grabbed hold of some of the errant thoughts and wrenched them into focus. “No…” he whispered, or tried to. It came out as a dry croak. He tried again: “No…”
Her head snapped up. “Did you say something?”
“No…hospital.”
“But you’re dying! I thought you were already dead.” She definitely sounded concerned, but there was no panic in her tone.
“No…not…dying.” It was so hard to summon the breath to force the words out. Something in his chest felt tight, and he couldn’t get a deep breath.
“Alastair, listen to me. I know dying when I see it.”
At the sound of his name, it came to him—who she was, and possibly why she was here. “Eleanor…you…you came.” He managed a faint, arch smile. “But your…timing is…rubbish.”
