by S W Vaughn
He undressed quickly, leaving the wrist bandages in place, and walked to the last station on the left. The tiled floor chilled his bare feet, and his body shivered in almost greedy anticipation of the hot water.
He twisted the hot tap as far as he could and stood aside. The water spat on the floor and swirled down the drain. Steam billowed from the showerhead in short order. He reached around the water, nudged the cold tap, and stepped into the spray.
Eyes closed, he allowed himself to enjoy the cascade of cleansing heat. He leaned his head back and let the water drench his face, then turned to put his hands on the wall and arched his back into the pelting stream. His overtaxed muscles relaxed by degrees in the relentless soothing force of the water.
A sudden sharp pain in his side banished the idea of relaxing. Something had just hit him. He opened his eyes. One of the twins — Apollo, he presumed — stood at the edge of the shower floor. He glanced down and saw a bar of soap sliding past him, down the slight slope toward the drain.
Bastard must’ve thrown it at him. The man had good aim.
Apollo sneered. “Hurry up. You don’t wanna keep Jenner waitin’.”
Despite the heat of the shower, Gabriel went cold. He’d already guessed Jenner was his next destination, but the confirmation heightened his dread. He retrieved the soap, lathered and rinsed hastily, forgetting the idea to stay put until the water ran cold.
Apollo was right. He didn’t want to keep Jenner waiting.
Chapter 11
Gabriel sprawled on the dungeon floor, and the door slammed shut behind him. His muscles jerked with overexertion as he righted himself and glared at the door. Not that Apollo could see him, but he still felt the need to express his fury. This shove-and-run treatment wore out fast.
He tried to collect himself, with rising anxiety that bordered on terror. Jenner is coming. The simple knowledge of the lieutenant’s existence chilled his blood. He hadn’t felt this helpless against anyone since he lived with his father.
Still, he had to get up and at least meet Jenner on his feet. It was probably all he could do. The moment Jenner stepped through that door, he would submit to the man’s will. He’d march to whatever beat the bastard decided to pound out. The choice wasn’t his to make.
Even if Lillith weren’t involved in this, Gabriel had a feeling he would end up obeying Jenner.
He shifted in preparation to stand. Something was different in here. He got to his feet and looked behind him. “What the hell?” he muttered.
A thing stood before the wall of chains. It looked like a cross between a dentist’s chair and a motorcycle: a padded bench on wheels with an oval hole in the headrest. Two pairs of chrome footrest-style bars extended from the lower section, just below the padding at either end. Buckle straps dangled above the bars. Obviously, it wasn’t designed for comfort.
Above the bench, a full-length mirror had been suspended from the rafters flat and facedown. He edged in for a closer look. A smaller mirror was mounted on the floor, on a vertical stand below the headrest. The floor mirror angled up and reflected the suspended one. Anyone lying on the bench could look through the hole and see themselves from above.
Cold too deep to blame on towel-damp hair sunk into him. And when he caught sight of the table beside the bench, the chill penetrated his bones.
There were needles on it.
The array of instruments resembled nothing he’d ever seen. Half a dozen foot-long bamboo rods, spread out in a fan pattern. Each rod was tipped with four short talons, miniature steel claws. Behind the needles stood three black lacquered pots emblazoned with blood-red Japanese symbols. Two had lids, and the third bristled with an assortment of slender wooden sticks.
He shuddered. Whatever the purpose of this equipment, he already knew he wouldn’t enjoy it. He’d just a tentative step toward the bench when the door opened and closed behind him.
“Hello, angel.”
The terrible, soft sound of that voice splintered him in anticipation of pain. He couldn’t bring himself to face Jenner, though he heard his approach. The footsteps stopped right behind him.
“You were not thinking of touching my toys. Were you, boy?” Dry breath whispered on his neck. “Because that is not allowed. You must not touch.”
Agony branded the back of his right thigh.
He fell to his knees with a strangled oath. Though his body shook with effort, he managed not to collapse the rest of the way. Jenner finally withdrew the needle. He felt a thin stream of blood drizzle down his leg.
“Remove your shirt.”
Why, damn it? He bit back the retort and complied without getting up. Cool air caressed his skin, eliciting a shiver.
“Stand and face me.”
This time he struggled to force himself into obedience. Still, the unspoken threat of further pain had him on his feet in less than a minute. Jenner’s features were exactly the same as he remembered from their first meeting — calm, expressionless, terrifying.
Jenner reached into the folds of his robe and drew out a slim black marker. “On the table now, angel. Lie on your stomach, and make sure your face is in that hole. You are going to be there for quite some time, and you will need to breathe.”
Gabriel approached the bench. His attempt to control the rage and humiliation warring inside left him weak. He settled into position and saw his back reflected clearly in the mirror below him. Thin, pale scars slashed across his skin, mementos of the final beating he’d suffered at his father’s hands.
Jenner grasped the waistband of his pants and eased it down to further expose his lower back. “There are two bars near your feet. Find them, and rest your ankles on top of them.”
He shuffled his legs until his feet found the metal protrusions. Jenner cinched the leather straps loosely around his ankles.
“Do not worry, angel. I trust you not to escape. I am only doing this because you will be most uncomfortable in a few moments, but you must not move.” He tightened the ankle restraints. “Now, grasp the handles below your head.”
He did. Jenner moved to the front of the table, fastened the straps around the sodden bandages clinging to his raw wrists, and tightened them. Christ, he was so pathetic. Couldn't do a damned thing to stop the bastard.
Finished, Jenner stepped back. There were a few shuffling sounds, and in the mirror Jenner’s hand floated over him, holding the uncapped marker. The tip darted down to touch his skin. Cold ink inscribed slender letters across his back. The double reflection made the resultant words easily legible.
GABRIEL JOSEPH MORGAN
What was he doing? The lieutenant knew his name. So what? Slade had known it, too. Was Jenner trying some sort of reverse psychology, a pseudo-parental reprimand? It didn’t make sense.
Jenner paused, then bent to write again. He drew away. Under his name appeared:
NOVEMBER 6
His birthday. How did the bastard know?
The wallet. Jenner must have gone through it and checked his license. Still, he didn’t understand why the lieutenant was doing this.
The pen moved across his shoulder blades and stroked sore muscles. He gritted his teeth and waited.
HIGH SCHOOL DROPOUT
Gabriel’s throat closed at the sight of the new words. That wasn’t on his goddamned license.
“What the fuck are you doing?” He bucked against the restraints, lifted his head from the bench and turned — only to meet the gleaming point of a knife.
“Now, now, angel. Behave yourself. Put your head back down.”
Fresh tremors wracked his body. He lowered himself into position again. Silence swelled, broken only by his short, shallow breaths.
A finger traced one of the scars. “Fascinating angel,” Jenner whispered. “This must have been exquisitely painful.” The softly dangerous voice raised gooseflesh along his spine. “I suppose your father did this to you?”
Gabriel held his tongue.
“Of course he did. And this is when you left.”
>
“How…”
Jenner smiled. “I know more about you than you do, little angel. I watch, I listen. I know.” The marker resumed, writing at an angle to cross and re-cross the faded line of the scar he had just caressed.
SON OF A BASTARD
“Fuck you,” he spat, and braced himself for pain.
Instead, Jenner said, “That is twice you have offered. I appreciate your enthusiasm, but you will simply have to be patient. I am quite busy at the moment.”
The man’s calm infuriated him. His grip tightened on the bars as the marker scratched another comment beneath the last. Jenner moved back, and he read:
BROTHER OF A WHORE
Gabriel loosed an incoherent roar. He jerked his body from side to side, ignoring the anguish in his wrists, his only thought to obliterate the worm beside him. But the restraints held, and after a long, fruitless struggle, he collapsed with a harsh grunt.
Jenner waited until his anger subsided. “That was a mistake, angel, and one you will answer for soon. But not now. Now, we will finish what we have started. Oh — and one more display like that, and your dear sister will pay the price.”
The older man bent to his task again. The marker slid over skin with slow, caressing strokes. Jenner didn’t straighten between phrases this time. At last he pulled back to admire his handiwork.
Words formed a swirling pattern across Gabriel’s back.
LOSER AFRAID DIRECTIONLESS FAILURE ENJOYS PAIN WORTHLESS STUPID
He bit down hard to keep from screaming. The accusations shouted at him, echoes of memories. The words held truth. Every one of them. Jenner had somehow mined his soul and dragged what he found there to the surface. If the intention was to batter his mind into submission, he’d succeeded. How could he resist an enemy who knew his thoughts, his deeds … his darkest secrets?
Jenner circled behind him. A soft click sounded, the scrape of wood on wood. With his sight limited to the floor beneath him and the mirror above, he couldn’t see what the lieutenant was doing. The rattling roll of metal on concrete announced Jenner wheeling the stool to his side. A rustling crinkle and snap followed. Gloves? Cool pressure on his back and a look in the mirror confirmed that, at least.
Jenner inhaled and released a small, satisfied sigh. In a near whisper, he said, “This is going to hurt.”
His other hand drifted into view. In it, he held one of the wooden sticks that had been in the jar on the table. A paintbrush. The bristles glistened with black ink. Its point applied the fluid to the letters of Gabriel’s name, guided by a steady hand. When the last letter was complete, the hand left, and returned with one of the clawed bamboo rods.
Jesus. It was a fucking tattoo needle.
Jenner drove the points home. One hand steadied the implement, the other manipulated the needles with almost careless precision, tracing the ‘G’ in rapid, rhythmic motion. The spikes danced across his skin, hammering the same spots over and over with disconcerting clicks. Drilling ink into him. Marking him forever. A faint and sickening pop echoed through his head every time a needle pierced him, and the pain stung his eyes with tears he refused to let fall.
Jenner alternately guided the needles and wiped away the excess ink with a damp cloth. He did not pause until he’d finished GABRIEL JOSEPH MORGAN.
When the lieutenant stood to rinse the cloth and replenish the ink brush, Gabriel studied his back in the mirror. The rest of the words appeared dull and faded next to his name, scored in glossy black letters and surrounded with red, irritated skin that had started to bruise. Already the pain ensured he wouldn’t rest his back against anything in the near future. He could only imagine how it would feel if Jenner kept going with the rest of it.
Hours later, he no longer had to imagine.
The constant click-pop of the needles filled the room and echoed in his head—the only sound, other than his occasional strangled gasp. Needle jabbed bone, and the impact escalated from pinprick to hornet sting. His high school dropout status was next to become permanent. His hands clamped the steel rods tight, and his teeth seemed to recede into his gums from the pressure of his efforts to remain silent.
Jenner didn’t stop until every word had been etched into his flesh. When at last he laid the needles to rest, dawn stained the dungeon’s single window.
Gabriel’s back burned bright as his pride over the humiliation of being branded like a helpless animal. He lay motionless and spent, dimly aware that Jenner had released the straps binding him to the table.
“The good doctor wishes to see you,” Jenner said, the voice filtering through his exhausted haze. The derision in his tone implied he cared no more for Doc than Doc did for him. “Apollo is on his way to bring you to him. I do not expect you to walk upstairs in your condition.”
Sadistic bastard. He would anyway — for spite, and to maintain the shred of dignity he still possessed. He’d get up if it killed him.
He tensed and began the laborious process of extricating his body from the table, maneuvered himself into a seated position on the edge of the bench and paused to catch his breath.
Jenner was far from surprised. He stood a few feet in front of him, his bland expression unchanged. The discarded shirt dangled from one outstretched hand.
Realization dawned, and with it came fury. The son of a bitch knew he would do this without help, especially if the ‘help’ was Apollo. Hell, he’d goaded him into it.
“Very good, angel.” Jenner tossed him the shirt. He made a reflexive grab and snatched it from the air. “And in case you are wondering, we will see to the penance for your temper on our next meeting.”
A pool of dread settled in the pit of his stomach. He’d forgotten the promise of further punishment. He met Jenner’s eyes — that bottomless gaze, so deceptively mild — and shuddered.
“You will need some ointment on that before you get dressed, unless you wish to experience the joy of a massive bacterial infection. Sit there on that stool.”
Gabriel sat with a grimace, clenched his jaw tight and held his breath. Cool hands smoothed a thick, greasy substance over the mangled surface of his back. The lieutenant finished and circled him, regarded him with a hooded expression.
“I would put that on now.” Jenner nodded at the shirt still crumpled in his hands. “Though I am certain Apollo would enjoy reading your sad little story.”
Cringing at the scrape of fabric on his skin, he donned the shirt and stood. Just as his feet touched ground, the door opened and Apollo lumbered through.
Jenner ignored the intrusion. He surged forward, stopped with his face inches away and leaned toward Gabriel’s ear. “Until next time, angel,” he whispered. He stepped back, caught his gaze and held it before he turned to leave. The long plait of his steely hair swayed in slow rhythm against his retreating back.
The scowling giant gave the lieutenant a wide berth when he passed.
Fueled by pure adrenalin, Gabriel marched across the cement floor and began to make his way upstairs, to Doc and temporary safety.
Chapter 12
The gnawing ache in Gabriel’s stomach overrode the fire in his muscles and forced him into consciousness. For one suspended moment, he knew nothing. Then flashes of events tore through him and resurrected cruel reality.
He remembered Jenner. And needles.
Afterward, he’d collapsed halfway up the stairs. Apollo had dragged him up the remaining steps and through the second-floor hallway. Curious female faces flushed with sleep peered out at the spectacle. Apollo had heaved him into Doc’s office, sent him crashing into the desk. While Doc spouted obscenities at the giant, Gabriel had slumped to the floor and let the blackness take him.
Now he lay face down, spread-eagled but not tied or chained, on a large bed in a dark room. His vision focused, blurred, refocused with the pounding of his heart.
From what he could see, the place seemed sterile and devoid of personality — bare walls, flat nylon carpet, a lamp perched on a small two-drawer stand next to the bed
. A single window obscured by wide vertical blinds graced the far wall. No pictures or personal objects, no books on the nightstand. Nothing to indicate anyone used this room.
A soft beep sounded to his right. He raised his head and rotated his stiff neck. A tall white pole stood beside him with two hooks at the top, each supporting a bag of clear fluid. Further down the pole, a small box with a keypad, switches, and an LED window displayed red numbers. It took a moment for him to recognize the contraption: a hospital-style IV.
Horrified, his gaze followed the vinyl tube down from one of the bags. It ended in a needle plunged into the juncture of his right arm, held in place with gauze and surgical tape.
He ignored the pain movement caused him and bolted upright, pawed at the tape with his free hand. It refused to come off. He grasped the line and pulled. The tube separated, but the needle remained in place. Fluid drained from the end of the damaged tube and darkened the blanket beneath him.
“Kid, you really shouldn’t sit up just yet … what the hell?” The voice startled Gabriel from his panic-induced trance. The lamp beside the bed sprang to blinding life. “Jesus, you really are anti-drugs, aren’t you?”
He focused on the shadow at his side. Doc shimmered into sight, shaking his head, his arms crossed in front of him. The doctor sighed and perched on the mattress between him and the IV. He reached for his arm.
“Relax, kid.” Doc unwound the tape. “Welcome to my humble abode. It was just a glucose drip. Kept you hydrated.” He pulled the needle free and looked at him, at once serious. “You’ve been out for twenty-six hours.”
“Christ,” he tried to say, but his voice emerged a rusty croak. Doc reached past the IV stand to another, smaller table, where a plastic pitcher stood next to a stack of paper cups, poured water into one of them and offered it to him. He took it and drank greedily.
