Sensation

by Thea Devine

  Kyger disembarked before the cab was stopped and proceeded

  on foot to the Sanctuary. It was a covert kind of building—highly decorated with carving and moldings, one double brass door and few windows.

  There were three people, two men, one older, and a woman, at the door ahead of him, and he watched with interest as they gave their invitation to the sentry. He spoke, they spoke—answering questions? Giving a secret password? Was there some kind of sign ... ?

  He was making a mountain out of an ant hill, but everything surrounding the death of Tony Venable seemed that elusive, that eerie.

  The three were admitted into the Sanctuary.

  His turn. He approached the sentry, a man in a gold-braided unidentifiable uniform, as stiff as a board. There would be no getting around him if just his invitation were not enough to get him in.

  "Your invitation, sir."

  He gave it over, and the sentry examined it. "Very good, sir. I welcome a guest of the government. You may enter."

  Too easy. He wondered if there was some kind of code on the invitation that segregated the guest list. Or was he inventing the details of a penny dreadful?

  He stepped up into the anteroom, where it was immediately apparent that question would never be answered. It was a crush, everyone from the highest strata of society: government officials, lords and their ladies dressed in black and dripping diamonds, and foreign dignitaries; it was an exclusive assemblage—no one could have gotten entree who had not been specifically invited.

  Except him. How did Wyland do those things?

  He edged his way up into the Sanctuary. There were windows, actually, stained-glass windows, fitted into the ceiling where, dur­ing the day, sunlight poured through them and made the jewel-toned panes into a dancing collage of color along the bare walls.

  And there were doors—into other rooms—anterooms, inte­rior rooms, the vestry, the church. And those milling around and conversing obviously seemed to know each other.

  Ahead of him were the three who had entered just before he had—he recognized the woman's dress, which was a deep bronze silk rather than the elegant black most of the women were wear-

  ing. She walked close and tight next to the two gentlemen, and it seemed almost as if they were nudging her along between them. There wasn't an inch of space between her and them, and the set of her shoulders looked distinctly uncomfortable.

  Which was odd. Although why he even had noticed it was an­other question for consideration. Maybe because it almost looked as if she were being pulled along against her will.

  Maybe he should ... but then she turned and looked over her shoulder for one startled instant, and he recognized her.

  Holy shit.

  The edible virgin. He could think of her as nothing else, de­spite the fact he had ruthlessly taken her maidenhead. There was still an innocence about her, and she was as beautiful and delicious as he remembered; and how he remembered—every minute, every thrust, every painful jolt of her body .. . her luscious raspberry-tipped naked body—

  Goddamn—now what the goddamned hell. .. ?

  She recognized him, too, her eyes widening as she caught sight of him.

  Or maybe that was wishful thinking.

  Just what was the correct etiquette in a social situation with a woman whose virginity you'd just ravaged?

  She turned away abruptly, or perhaps she was pulled back to the moment at hand by the strong arm of the gentleman by her side, because a moment later, they pushed forward and melted into the crowd.

  He felt stunned. Disoriented. This was the last place—except, given her wealth and where she had chosen to be defiled, it should not surprise him at all she'd be among Tony Venable's friends and followers. Well, it was good to know; it meant he needn't devote any more time to thinking about her than he had already, and he could focus his attention on the matter at hand.

  Twenty minutes later, everyone was properly seated in the chapel, and the memorial began. Whispers like a wave swept over the crowd, a buzzing undercurrent to each eulogy extolling Tony Venable's seemingly inexhaustible list of virtues.

  That's how it was.

  That was Tony.

  Yes, yes—so sympathetic, so caring.. . yes ...

  Oh, Tony ...

  If they could have resurrected him, they would have. They would have chanted incantations and blasphemed themselves to bring that man back from the dead.

  It was just a little sickening. Venable just could not have been that much of a saint. He was much more a man with a magic touch, a silver tongue, and a golden vision that appealed on the surface to a constituency that was as broad as it was exclusive.

  How, then, had he become so revered? That was what Wyland wanted to know—how—and what could be done to neutralize his growing influence in death.

  It had to be experienced to be believed. Most everyone there seemed to have known him. He seemed to have touched them each individually. Made them part of him, his life, his hopes, his dreams, made them feel as though they were the bedrock on which he would build the new national order that would encom­pass them all.

  It was too persuasive, even from beyond the grave. How could one man mesmerize a nation like that?

  It would be in his speeches, and how he voted in Parliament. What he'd said, what he meant. What was in the death report. What he'd done at Bullhead in the hours before his death ...

  What—?

  He caught something: seven ...

  The eulogist was saying, "The seven precepts of Tony's moral code embraced everyone ... Honor, Loyalty, Faith, Respect, Trust, Belief, Acceptance...."

  .. . Seven . .. Kyger counted them off as the eulogist listed them. Precepts. Principles? No, precepts. Treacherous. Calculating. Insidious ... seven of them ... seven—it tickled him right at the back of his mind, on the tip of his consciousness—the Bullhead floated into his mind—yes ...

  Seven ... what moral code? Damn he couldn't get sidetracked. Seven . .. where had he heard seven?

  . . . Wait—at the Bullhead—he got it: the whore—at the brothel... seven . .. she'd whispered seven as she traced circles and lines all over his body. Seven—

  Sevens everywhere. Seven letters in Venable's name, seven pre­cepts to inculcate his followers, sacred seven, whore seven... seven days and seven nights at the Bullhead—biblical... seven—

  . .. and one edible virgin in the last place he'd ever expected to find her ... seven .. .

  How? Why?

  Holy shit.,.

  After what he'd seen at the memorial service, Kyger found it easy to imagine the impact of Venable's speeches. They were easy to access—the papers had reported them in depth, and reprinted them whole. Everything, aptly, was available in the morgue, where he spent the next morning deep in newsprint.

  He could hardly credit what he was reading. Tony Venable es­poused pure out-and-out monomania, disguised in altruism. All for the country, for the good of the country—one man, one voice over all, and unprecedented freedoms under the protection of their chosen overlord. Everyone taken care of, everyone prosper­ous, everyone equal under the law.

  Tony Venable comprehended their pain. He felt it, took it into himself, he wore it with pride, displayed it with honor, and he vowed to change the very notion of the monarchy to reflect the new freedom, the new philosophy that encompassed everyone under one umbrella over all.

  His followers could not have wholly understood exactly what he meant. It was too socialistic under the skin, too insidiously fa­natical, and too dangerous for one man to have even suggested such sweeping changes; he espoused nothing short of overthrow­ing the monarchy, couched in humanistic patriarchal terms.

  And he had done it, out loud, in public, converting thousands to his beliefs, which was an unbelievable testament to his magic: he'd convinced a legion of tenacious and devoted adherents that his way was the only right way, and that they must carry his mes­sage forward—even in the event of his death.

  Kyger would be strikin
g down a god. Nothing less. And a movement that must never get a foothold in England,

  There was no other choice. It was a daunting challenge, much more than he'd imagined when he agreed to take it on.

  He couldn't let anything get in the way—not Jancie, not the virgin, not the past and or any regrets, past, present or future.

  This was the thing he'd been searching for all around the world—the thing in which he could immerse himself to the exclu­sion of everything else.

  This was a holy crusade, nothing more, nothing less, and it would be the crucible from which he'd emerge purified and—fi­nally—whole.

  Chapter Three

  Her father had spared no expense. The cuff around her wrist was exquisitely decorated with ornate chasing and fastened with a tongue-in-box closure, almost like a bracelet, except that it locked and there was a key.

  And the links of the chain that appended it to one of the three iron rings Zabel had had installed in the room were thick, gold and as unobtrusive as a chain and ring set low on the wall could be.

  Which meant, not much. And hardly anything that would pacify her.

  The humiliation was complete. She sat mutinous and silent in her elaborate, pillow-laden bed, her father and Wroth surveying her, Wroth with a look in his eye that she did not like.

  But she liked nothing about him altogether.

  "I do believe this is the proper way to train a wife," Wroth murmured to Zabel. "I do like a woman bound in her place. I clearly see how our future will be because of your courageous de­cision to punish your daughter properly."

  "It's true," Zabel said, clapping him on the shoulder. "There are just some things a father, or a husband, should not hesitate to do to show a daughter or a wife that he means business."

  "And his wife-to-be in chains is a beautiful thing to see," Wroth said. "It opens up such realms of possibility .. ."

  "While training a daughter—or wife—to become as biddable as a father—or husband—could ever wish."

  "Exactly," Wroth agreed, with nauseating enthusiasm.

  They were salivating, Angilee thought, positively drooling over the thought of her wrapped in chains and Wroth locking the cuffs.

  "Although, you might have started her off with a shortened chain and both wrists encased in cuffs," Wroth mused as he paced around the bed observing her from every angle. "Then, when she became more compliant, you could have rewarded her by lengthening the chain, and eventually removing one of the two cuffs."

  Zabel considered this for a moment, and nodded. "You're ex­actly right. I have been too lenient with my property. But I would be hard put to constrict her further when my intent was solely to inhibit her freedom of movement within this room. However, when you are married, and starting off a new life together—then, you might implement binding her more constrictively to suit your taste."

  "Yes. In fact, I'm thinking even now of all the ways we will do that. The first night in particular when a woman is most prone to hysteria as she approaches the moment of physical penetration. If she were chained and splayed, it would be that much easier to ram the penis head right past the barrier into heaven. My dear father-in-law-to-be—you have opened up vistas I hadn't thought to consider with my new virgin bride."

  "My pleasure," Zabel said.

  "My pleasure—tonight," Wroth countered, gesturing toward the bedroom door. "So let the pleasure begin ..."

  "Good night, daughter."

  Angilee spat.

  "Good night, my bound virgin goddess ..."

  Angilee gagged, choked, wretched against her dry throat. But they didn't care—they just left her there, happily steeped in their male superiority and plans for the evening. Left her alone, cuffed to a long length of chain, for God's sake, and neither of them cared.

  She couldn't stop choking. How had this happened?

  Dear God, her father had as good as abandoned her tonight to be with Wroth, and she couldn't pinpoint when he'd started putting his own interests before hers. That, and when Wroth had entered the picture. Where had Wroth come from? It was as if her father had conjured him up just to torture her.

  How could her father abandon her to that pig? And now the bastard was rubbing his hands over the sadistic nuances of chain­ing her up as well?

  Ohhhhh, NEVER! She punched the mattress in frustration and anger.

  There had to be a way out of this, there had to be. She was a beautiful woman, and Zabei was wealthy enough for three fa­thers—and even he had said those were commodities prized in this country. There had to be some other eligible man who would marry her out of hand for both those considerations.

  It was the only way she could see to mitigate this disaster, but even that passing idea was fraught with difficulties—not least, getting away from her father and Wroth, who between them had pinioned her like a prisoner at that memorial service the other night.

  She'd felt like a felon, for God's sake ... she'd felt like—

  Her breath caught. Wait—wait...

  Oh, dear God—him . ..

  She'd forgotten about him. The Bullhead man. The Bullhead bull. .. she'd call him, in preference to the hired man. Or the hired—other part of him ...

  She swallowed hard. Hard. That was on her mind, too. Wroth hard—between her legs on their wedding night—doing the things the Bullhead ... bull had . ..

  NOOOOOO . .. oh, good God, she couldn't even bring her­self to envision it; her stomach lurched at the thought of it.

  And now, with Wroth's unholy idea he was going to keep her in chains until she was biddable—

  No. NO. Anyone else was preferable; the bull man would do. He had ravaged her; now he could redeem himself by becoming her savior. Simple. Perfect. Biblical, even.

  The man needed money, obviously. A second son ... ? Anyone, anything could be bought. She'd bought him—she'd buy him again.

  But first she had to find him.

  She had to think. She couldn't think. A thousand ideas and thoughts went scattershot through her brain, to which the blood flow was undoubtedly constricted by the god-awful cuff and length of chain.

  And the thought of Wroth with her in bed on their wedding night.

  She gagged again.

  Zabel just wasn't that cruel.

  Yes, he was. The chain was proof of that, even if it was a good ten feet long so she had purchase to move around the room and to the bathroom if necessary. And he'd fixed it low on the wall so that she wouldn't look so much like a prisoner as ... as what?

  How did someone look chained to the wall?

  Like a prisoner in chains, for God's sake ...

  She buried her head on her drawn-up knees. She didn't even want to contemplate the thought of any of it.

  Better to think about the bull man. A man definitely as arrest­ing dressed as he was naked.

  She'd caught just the barest glimpse of him before Zabel and Wroth propelled her into the crowd, but she knew it was he, and she had been shocked to see him among London's elite, in the least likely of places.

  She supposed that the how and why of his attendance was hardly important now. The main thing it proved was that he trav­eled in these elevated circles. She hadn't expected that. She hadn't expected ever to see him again. She thought of him as a pirate, plundering her virtue and stealing the treasure away.

  And there he had been, not a dozen steps behind her, looking like some elegant lord of the manor, staring at her intently, recog­nizing her instantly. Remembering—what?

  Oh, God. When she remembered—she didn't want to remem­ber. She needed to concentrate on this one thing: there was hope.

  They could get licenses, they could keep her contained, Wroth could talk all he wished about molding her and making her his compliant mistress, but now she knew there was hope that she could get away from him—and her father.

  But how? She had to think.

  It was clear that if she kept on her course of rebelling against the marriage, she would never see the outside of her room again


  until the day she walked down the aisle to Wroth. So the best strategy would be to let her father and Wroth believe that she had come to heel.

  It meant suppressing every instinct, every willful thought, every rebellious inclination. It meant acting like the mewling vir­ginal miss they both so ardently desired her to be. Batting her eye­lashes, saying yes to everything. Suborning her nature to their dictates. Telling Wroth how strong and wonderful he was.

  She choked again. God. No. She couldn't do it.

  She wrenched at the cuff, pulling and twisting and only injur­ing her wrist in the process.

  She had to do it. She had to gird herself and just do it. Act. Pretend. She could do that. Women did that all the time.

  Look at her father, so loving, treating her like a princess for so many years. Like his prized possession, if you really looked at it closely. And now suddenly he'd turned into a devil, and she'd never had any inkling that he would ever come down on her this hard for flouting his wishes.

  This was a revelation. There had been the two of them for so long, dependent on each other, scrapping with each other, goad­ing each other. It was like a marriage in so many respects, but there was something about this proposed marriage that had changed Zabel into someone she did not know.

  Someone who was willing to go to any lengths to get what he wanted and didn't care whom he trampled in the process. Even his own daughter.

  Well, if that indeed was the way he wanted it, then she would have no compunction about her course of action, and anything she could devise to escape them both was fair game.

  Including involving the Bullhead bull.

  So ... him .. . since he already knew everything about her he needed to know.

  Dear God—don't think about that.

  And that he could have no question about her past or why she was not whole and pure. Don't think about that.

  Although, it could be said that was a good thing. It could be said she was accustomed to him already.