by Joey W. Hill
Page 31
Mason knew Raithe had sculpted her hatred like an artist, letting her train, letting her believe she could devise ways to fight him.
He’d never believed he would have a vulnerable moment when her relentless training would kick in and serve her at last.
Both Enrique and Amara were combat-trained. Amara had been more reluctant at first, as it went against her perception of herself, but Mason and Enrique saw to it. For though Mason knew his servants had little chance against vampires, his world had other, human opportunities for peril. No matter where her journey would take her, he approved of Jess having skills to defend herself and the brain to use them.
Another woman would have given up in despair. Would have stopped practicing the defensive and offensive techniques, or trying to resist Raithe’s mind. Eleven stripes on her back documented how long it had taken her to give up on simple escape. But she hadn’t really given up, had she? Or Raithe would not be dead.
He’d never seen such a fighter. Or a female more desperately responsive to a Master’s touch. It was too intoxicating for him to stay away.
The staff ’s workout room would rival an urban center’s most up-to-date gym. Weight machines and hand weights, as well as mats to keep from slipping or damaging the polished wooden floor. Various weapons were displayed on a rack—nunchakus, quarterstaffs, swords. A row of mirrors hung on the back wall to study her form. When Jess looked in them, she saw a cautious-eyed woman staring back, wearing a black cotton tank and stretch leggings to allow the full range of movement. Her feet were bare.
She liked the rows of tall windows that didn’t open to the night, but one touch of the curtain control allowed a panorama of the nighttime shore. Usually she’d see the lingering colors of the setting sun, but she’d stayed out by the fountain too long. It was full night, and the room was unpopulated. She told herself she preferred it that way. None of the staff was intrusive, but she often felt their scrutiny, and didn’t want to be curious about what they were thinking, or feel tempted to talk to them.
She’d use music for company instead. Going to the sound system, she scrolled through the vast number of playlists and digital music selections. This system was as high tech as the one in the ballroom. Whatever he’d done to get his money—Berber raider, strip dancer in Vegas—Mason must have been successful at it. Very successful.
While the music selections were likely staff choices, it amused her to think of Mason with an account at a music download site. Did he visit chat groups? What would his call name be? ISuckBlood46? Fangboy24?
Actually, I considered Vladimir666, but it seemed cliché.
She hated the fact that her heart leaped at the sound of his voice. Don’t you have better things to do than invade my head?
There was no reply to that, but she didn’t expect any. He had stayed out of her head, for the most part, since that night on the balcony, but occasionally she’d hear a short comment like that, smoothly inserted into her thought process so it didn’t startle her.
Here, then gone. She should be grateful he spoke to her so little, shouldn’t desire contact with him at all.
As she seated herself on a bench and listlessly began to do triceps pulls, she knew what the problem was. Okay, she had myriad problems, given the peanut brittle state of her brain, but her overriding issue was lack of focus. Making the journey to Farida’s tomb, expecting to die there, had been like running a marathon, pushing the body past its endurance to reach that twenty-sixth mile and cross the finish line. Everything disappeared except that finish line, the heart exploding in the chest, head pounding, legs trembling. But now that finish line had disappeared, and not only was she uncertain in which direction the race lay, she wasn’t sure she had the energy left to continue running it.
There were too many dangerous moments when she wished she could stay like this, in this stasis of not going forward or moving back. No race of any kind left to run.
Another form of cage, habiba . One of your own making. You have so much more to give to yourself than that.
She should view his interjections as a reminder that she was watched, guarded. A prisoner. But then, she’d expected the third mark to be utilized as the second had, to exploit her strengths, deepen her weaknesses, expose her vulnerabilities. Instead, Mason appeared to be using it as a way of knowing when she needed reassurance. When the dark shadows were starting to claw at her, his bits of dry humor drove them back again. When the shadows fell upon her like an ambush, the comforting embrace of his firm command helped her take a deep breath and get a grip.
There were worse things than a cage of her own making, weren’t there? Sometimes she just wanted to get away, as far and fast as possible, for there was no way a vampire could be this trustworthy. She was trapped between catatonia and a beast’s mindless need to run from any perceived danger. Her desires and needs vacillated between the two, her fucked-up head turning on her.
With no answer for that, and feeling darkness rising with the frustration, she rose from the bench to begin her sparring routine. At least she was starting to anticipate the psychotic episodes. Maybe, like a journey through a minefield, if she could keep rerouting herself around the explosive patches, she’d be okay.
Punches, kicks, twists, lunges, turns. Retreats, aggressive advances. In addition to the fitness equipment and weapons, there were several attack dummies and a sizable punching bag. Much better equipment than she’d had at Raithe’s. She’d been like Rocky Balboa there, willing to use slabs of hanging meat if needed to keep herself sharp.
Here, everything was provided, except there was no way to lock the doors of her mind against what she fought, keep it from creeping in a red haze to the forefront of her mind. As she turned, twisted and rolled in the prescribed movements, the crescent gathering of dummies became faces. Raithe. His friends. Laughing.
There was one who’d had horrid breath, like stale blood and rotting flesh. He’d insisted on kissing her, and broke her nose when she couldn’t take it anymore and bit him. While she writhed on the floor in agony, he pinned her down, tasted the blood coming from her nostrils and kissed her more. With the threat of more pain, he forced her to kiss him back and act as if she were enjoying it. When he at last tore away her clothes and fucked her, her stomach was heaving, her senses more repelled by the aroma than the violation.
Afterward, they’d flogged her for her initial resistance, but she knew they loved how much she fought. They got off on proving to her that there was no strength that prevailed against them, that couldn’t be turned to provoke their sick desires. Or her own. But still she fought, because it wasn’t about proving something to them. It was about proving to herself she hadn’t given up.
At that point, under those conditions, she’d been isolated, one person with a million voices in her head, all the different fragments of herself they unearthed but she discovered, learning how to deal with the unthinkable. But now she didn’t know how to end her own isolation, how to escape those voices.
Snarling, she hurled herself at the dummy, hammering it with her fists, driving it back on its sturdy base, the rubber grips for floor protection squeaking in protest. As the memories continued to crowd in, she hammered harder. Her breath labored and she started to scream, rage. She let the episode take her, knowing she was safe to lose control here, surrounded by weapons and no opponents, things willing to take her wrath.
But that reality disappeared quickly, the moment she gave herself over to it. She wouldn’t be happy until she took it down, took him apart. Grappling with it, she tore at his flesh until sawdust spilled forth, bone marrow and blood in her mind’s eye. She yanked at the cord binding it to the frame, ripped it loose and took it to the ground. It felt good to kick and pummel it some more, straddle and hold it between her thighs. Make him feel what it was like to be helpless. How long would he have to be tortured before he’d create a nuclear bomb in his soul, one that could turn the world to ash if h
e were given the chance to use it?
At the brush of contact behind her, she whirled, one arm striking out, her leg coming up and around to take out a knee, even though she didn’t have a grip, let alone a position, on the opponent. Mason flashed her a feral smile, just out of range. He took a combative stance. “Go, habiba,” he said.
A real opponent. Blood and bone. Her mind registered he was vampire, and therefore undefeatable in hand-to-hand, but the other part of her was as eager to fight him because he was vampire. She spun forward, punching, and he was ready, blocking the moves, countering with defensive techniques that left him open to further attacks. She was willing to accommodate, coming at him fast and furious.
He caught the roundhouse kick, spun her off her feet. She landed like a cat, sprang back at him, almost managed to connect with his temple before he turned, letting her slide past him, his hands briefly clasping her waist, thigh brushing her buttock before he faced her again. A growl and she closed in again.
So it went, up and back the length of the room, as she practiced every move she had. He countered all of them, but moved back from none, letting her use her full strength and skill. Raithe began to fade, along with the cruel faces of his companions, and her focus sharpened on Mason, the shift of his eyes, his body language. Trying to anticipate his graceful warrior movements, she tried new combinations, learning as she went, emulating some of his maneuvers.
He started placing directions in her mind, hints to deal with his greater height and strength. If she overextended herself, he’d catch her, his capable hands steadying the leg, palm sliding with intimate familiarity along the back of her thigh or hip before he released her. He often turned her punch with an inside block and a twist that would capture the wrist. He’d twist her into his body, holding her back against him for a brush of lips along her temple before he let her go, fingers trailing her arm, and they engaged again.
Because it was the first time she’d plumbed the depths of her new third-marked abilities, she found her speed had tripled, her strength as well. As she pushed those to the limit, she found she felt almost invincible, dangerously so. But she didn’t care. It was exhilarating. All easy, flowing movements, no pauses, like a continuous dance where the music never stopped. Yet, by the time she was gasping for air, she wasn’t sure if it was the physical exertion or other reasons that had her breathless. He was the one who at last called a halt to it.
