Fortunes Fool

by Gale, Eva; D'Arc, Bianca; Kent, Cassidy; March, Selah

  She stopped at the bar on her way to a corner booth. "I'll take four shots of tequila, a salt-shaker, a lime and a knife. Put it on my tab."

  A few minutes later she was well on her way to being pleasantly buzzed. Nothing like being a regular in a place where they didn't much care if you lost a finger while carving up your own fruit.

  The unidentifiable noise blaring from the jukebox did nothing to smother the tune re-looping through her brain, like a calliope on crack. She'd always been a fan of the Eagles, but after this? Hotel California was off her playlist, permanently. At least the odors of Latex and perfume had dissolved. And the man's face. No more scary-handsome guy staring at her from inside her own head. Another thing she could do without on a permanent basis. Because of all the things that sucked in her life? These stupid, pointless visions were the absolute worst. She'd never forgive her grandmother for passing them on to her, along with the allergy to cats and the gene that attracted difficult, self-absorbed assholes. Why couldn't she have inherited the dimples? Or the long legs? No, she had to get the psychic ability. Whoop-de-fuckin'-do. "Hey there, beautiful lady." She snorted into the bottom of her fourth shot glass. She'd heard crappy lines before, but that one was the champ. "Attractive," and maybe even "pretty" in that bland, girl-next-door kind of way that really bit the big one when you were neither a girl nor had any interest in living next door...but beautiful?

  "Can I join you?" Apparently the snorting hadn't dissuaded him. He slid into the seat across from her, and she took stock of his age (earlymiddle), his state of being (not nearly drunk enough to excuse the arrogant grin), and tried to come up with a polite way of saying buzz off, loser. "No thanks. I want to be alone." He squinted at her. "Huh?" "I said..." She paused and cleared her throat, the better to shout over Joe Walsh's guitar solo as it bounced off the inside of her skull. "I said— "

  Before she could finish the sentence, a husky feminine voice whispered in her ear, "Don't be shy, caro. Come in. It's not like you have a choice." And then deadly laughter, the kind that made every tiny hair on her body rise up and quiver. The Madre Donnatella's laughter, to be precise. Oh, hell no. Not now. Not ever, ever again. The man leaned back and stared at her. "Hey lady...you okay? You

  come over kinda gray all of a sudden." "I..." Leah swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "I need some air." She slid out of the booth and headed for the door. The man didn't try to stop her. So much for her compelling beauty.

  Out on the sidewalk nothing was better. The music had finally stopped, but what had taken its place was much worse. Bring back the classic seventies rock, if this was the alternative.

  The laughter had faded, replaced by the distant sound of the Madre's voice. Leah couldn't quite make out the words—just the whisper of heavily accented English, and then that low, amused tone that made her grind her teeth together.

  I'm not nearly drunk enough to deal with this . She pressed her hands to her eyes, and there he was—the man, from before, the one in her head. Dark eyes peered out from under a shock of black hair, and his swarthy jaw clenched as tightly as her own.

  She staggered on the sidewalk, then pulled her hands away from her face. "That's it," she said. "That's all. You can stop any time now." Whom was she talking to? The Madre or the dark man? Or someone else altogether? Because she could hear two voices now, both of them female. One lighter and sweeter in tone, speaking in unaccented English. Pleading, in fact...saying over and over again, "Please...please, no. Don't."

  When Leah concentrated, she caught the impression of red hair and freckles on pale skin, and the black, shiny surface of latex. Of course— that's what all the Madre's acolytes wore. And what else did she sense? Something less concrete, but no less real.

  Oh, yeah. There it was, plain as the light of day, or at least the glow of the streetlight above her head. The emotion she always associated with her memories of the Madre. Fear.

  Chapter Three

  The little redhead was scared. He could tell from the sheen of sweat that covered her face, visible even in the murky light at the very end of the hallway that stretched from the bottom of the stairs, and by the way her body trembled so hard it seemed to vibrate. Her obvious fear should've made him nervous— should've put him on full alert. But mostly it made Marcus want to step between her and whatever was on the other side of the heavy oak door with the shuttered window. The door they were facing. The door upon which the redhead had knocked some thirty seconds before. "Try again, sweetheart." "Shh." She wrung her hands together and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. After another few seconds, she lifted her fist. Just before she made contact with the door, the shutter on the window slid open with a loud click.

  Silence. Then a voice—feminine, but pitched deep and...was that an Italian accent? "Sí? What do you want?" "It's me, Clarice," the redhead said. "The man is with me." The man? Was he expected? There was a pause, and then the rattle and thunk of bolts being thrown back. The door opened slowly, like something out of an old horror movie. Clarice darted ahead into the room and disappeared somewhere to the left. Marcus stepped forward, but stopped just outside the doorway.

  "Don't be shy, caro. Come in," the unseen woman said. "It's not like you have a choice." Still he hesitated. "Who are you?" "Come inside and see," the voice said. Still deep and exotic, but

  now almost breathless. He craned his neck to peer around the door, but only caught a glimpse of brick walls, a cement floor, and a massive fireplace. The space was lit by the flames burning there, as well as the dozens of candles arranged on the mantle and at various spots around the room. The flickering light made a warm, almost inviting atmosphere. He felt himself relax, if only a little.

  The scent of Clarice's perfume mingled with wood-smoke as he stepped over the threshold. He expected the door to slam behind him like a special effect out of Dracula's castle, but it remained standing open. He turned to his right and—Christ almighty. He fell back a step out of sheer surprise. Was this the Madre Donnatella, reclusive owner of Hotel California?

  Maybe forty years old, and tiny. Smaller than Clarice by four inches and a good thirty pounds. Black hair that fell straight to her waist, a maroon slash for a mouth, and a body arrayed entirely in a gauzy gown in the same shade of used blood. But it was her eyes that caught his attention, glowing in the dimly-lit room like a pair of moons. And then the woman tilted her face toward him, and he realized she was blind.

  " Buonosera," she said. "I am Donnatella DeTagliera." Her accent made the name sound like a gyspy tune sung off-key. She smiled at him, and he half-expected to see fangs.

  The music from the main room throbbed through the floor, the bass line thumping hard in his chest and making it tough to breathe. When he closed his eyes, the cement under his feet shifted. He licked his lips and tasted the beer the barmaid had served him...and something else. Bitter. Vaguely medicinal. Dammit. Fucking idiot. Something in that beer. He'd been so wrapped up in getting that interview, he'd never seen it coming. They must've made him for a cop the second he'd walked through the door.

  Whatever the barmaid had slipped in his beer made everything move at half-time. When he spoke, his tongue felt like a rusty anchor caught in his mouth. "My name is Marcus Colton."

  " Bravo, Marcus Colton." Though her smile had faded, he got the impression Donnatella DeTagliera found something about him amusing.

  He thought about identifying himself as a detective...but what if he was wrong? Maybe they didn't know he was a cop. Maybe the barmaid had drugged him all on her own, for her own reasons. He stopped to blink away the double vision, shaking his head to clear it. "Clarice tells me you might be able to answer some questions for me." "Sí? Questions?" "About the recent death of a friend of mine. Maybe you heard about it? His name was Julian Carlyle."

  She made a gesture he read as vague encouragement for him to continue.

  "Last seen alive a block from here. Body found on the other side of town. He'd been mutilated and beaten to death."

  Clarice gas
ped. Marcus glanced at her and saw plain, outright terror in her eyes.

  He pulled a Polaroid of Julian's post-autopsy face from the inner pocket of his jacket and passed it to the redhead, since giving it to the older woman would be pointless.

  Clarice came to stand at his side and took the picture from his hand. "It's the blond one, Madre," she said, her voice trembling, her eyes cast down. Abject fear in every line of her lovely body. "His cheeks are soft and white, like a child's. The bruises around his eyes are very pretty." Pretty? What the fuck? "Ah, bravo. The one with the little cry in his voice, so sweet?"

  Donnatella said, her accent growing thicker. "Of course." Marcus stepped toward her, ignoring the growing tightness in his

  throat and the way his head felt heavy and stupid. "He was here?" "Sí, he was our guest." She lifted her hand and brushed her fingers against his chest, over the fabric of his shirt. He flinched, his gut tightening instinctively at her touch. "He was molto entertaining, was he not, Clarice?" "Yes, Madre." The redhead's voice shook harder. In the space of an instant, Donnatella dropped her hand from Marcus's chest and clutched his wrist, sliding her fingers beneath the leather of his coat and the fabric of his sleeve. Her long nails bit into the flesh. He knew it because he could see them pressing, leaving marks. But he couldn't feel it.

  "How..." Fuck, his head was buzzing now, the sound muffling his own voice and hers. "How long was he here?"

  Donnatella smiled, wide and shark-like. She licked her lips, and her tongue looked as red as the bricks surrounding the fireplace. "A day?" she said and shrugged. "Three days? A week?"

  Marcus pulled his wrist away, feeling her nails make welts as they dragged on his skin. The buzzing grew louder, pressing in on his brain. He could feel himself swaying. The room...so fucking warm. Not enough air. He wanted out, but wanted answers more. "What was he doing here?" He could barely force the words past his lips.

  She laughed. The sound abraded the air, cutting through the noise in his head. Next to him Clarice wrapped her arms around herself and hunched as if in pain. Donnatella lifted her hand again and caressed his jaw, as if she had no doubt as to his shape or the amount of space he occupied. Almost as if she could see through the opaque film that covered her eyes.

  "He was weeping, Marcus Colton. Bellissimo, the way he sobbed so sweet for me." She lifted her other hand so that she cradled Marcus' face. He tried to pull away and found himself frozen, his muscles locked and quivering. "This one's not so sweet, is he, Clarice? Tell me."

  The redhead cleared her throat. Tears had left wet tracks on her cheeks. "He's taller, Madre, with black hair. His shoulders and chest are very broad. His eyes are dark and hard."

  "Ah, bravo, not so sweet, I was right. But maybe he'll weep for me anyway? What do you think, Clarice?" "Yes, Madre." "I think so, too. Sí, I think I will drink his tears like champagne." It was as if all of it was happening to someone else. Like he was watching a movie in which Clarice—at Donnatella's direction—stripped him of his jacket and shirt and jeans and everything else that served to protect his body. Because he couldn't move. Couldn't feel. Couldn't react, or even speak.

  "A policeman? Like the other one, sí?" Donnatella said when Clarice told her about the nine millimeter she'd removed from his shoulder holster. "But no badge, I think. You work under the covers, as they say? How do they call this, Clarice?" "A detective, Madre." "Sí," she said, "Detective." He stared at her, willing words to force themselves over his paralyzed tongue. Willing movement—struggle. But he must've lost a few seconds, because then he was on his knees, sitting on his heels, with his back and shoulders pressed against the wall. The door had been closed. Had Clarice maneuvered him there, like a mannequin in a store window? How had he missed that?

  The bricks were rough against his ass—his naked ass, for Christ's sake—what the fuck was he doing, letting it get this far? He summoned everything he had and took a swing at Clarice's face, where it bobbed in front of him like a freckled balloon. There was only the rattle of tempered-steel links against brick as his arm twitched. That's when he knew they'd chained him like a dog.

  Donnatella approached him, holding something in her hand. A whip, long and thick and black, with a heavy handle. Crafted for doing serious damage. Its surface glowed like the skin of a cottonmouth.

  "Now you are my guest, Detective Colton— sí, just like your friend. Will you entertain me as he did?" She passed the whip to the redhead, who held it as if it might bite her. "Let us see. Give him three, Clarice, across the chest. Be careful not to mar his face."

  He watched as Clarice stepped back and raised her arm, lifting the whip over her shoulder. His eyes tracked the arc of its descent. He heard the crack as it struck his flesh, but he felt...nothing.

  Again she raised the whip, and again he felt nothing, though he flinched this time because the blow fell higher, closer to his throat. And one last time, Clarice hefting the whip over her other shoulder and crossing the first two blows with a third, backhanded strike.

  He struggled to drop his head to survey the damage. But Clarice was there before him, holding a mirror. The glass was surrounded by a wooden frame carved in an ornate pattern. On the surface were dark splotches of varying sizes. He thought he knew what they must be.

  He focused on his reflection. His chest now sported three long, red welts. The third welled with blood where it crossed the other two. Still, he felt nothing. He lifted his gaze to Clarice's face. Her makeup was smudged beneath her eyes, and she was panting. Excitement? Terror? Hard to tell.

  Donnatella appeared at her side. At some point during the festivities, they'd been joined by a third woman. Tall, with platinum blonde hair and a mischievous expression. The barmaid. Lookedlike he'd get his threesome after all, one way or another.

  " Caro, you look disturbed," Donnatella said. "This is Shannon. She, like Clarice, is my acolyte. The drug she gave you dulls sensation. I could flay the flesh from your bones and you would feel nothing." She held out her hand and Clarice presented the whip.

  Madre Donnatella, Priestess of Pain. Marcus had heard her called that by people in the lifestyle. As a priestess, of course she'd have acolytes.

  "But where would be the fun in that?" She laughed, and the sound of it made the small muscles in his face twitch. "My eyes have failed me," she said. "I can no longer see the suffering of my chosen. I can only listen and feel. Taste and smell and touch."

  She approached him, Clarice and Shannon at either elbow, guiding her steps. "How I adore to hear the cries of my chosen as I love them. The scent and flavor of their pain. The feel of hot, bruised flesh under my fingers. The falling tears, sí, and the flowing blood. Bellissimo. My favorite of all."

  He wanted to spit in her face as she bent to breathe on him. His throat worked, but his mouth was dry. She reached out and ran a fingertip down the length of one welt, then flicked at the pad of her finger with her tongue. He felt none of it. Only rage and helplessness. And the first stirrings of fear.

  "You will be molto bellissimo in your suffering, Detective. I tremble in anticipation of hearing you beg for your own death." She straightened and crossed her arms over her chest. "But first? First there are others who need attention. Is that not right, Clarice?"

  Shannon moved quickly, stepping behind Donatella to grasp Clarice's arms and pull them behind her back. Then she forced the redhead to her knees. "Madre, please—" "Silence." Donnatella's lip curled as she turned to the redhead. "You have betrayed me with your foolish mistakes one time too many, cara. You swore the body would not be found, and yet here I have another policeman in my establishment, asking questions."

  "I'm sorry, Madre. Please..." Clarice choked on a sob and lifted her tear-stained face, wrenching her neck to look behind her at Donnatella. "I am your supplicant. I beg you to punish me for my faults."

  Donnatella smiled—a grin so evil Marcus felt his balls make a fair attempt at crawling back into his body cavity.

  The next several moments moved at half-speed. He wa
tched as Shannon stripped Clarice of her cat-suit, tearing the thin black Latex as if it had no worth. Her carelessness struck a sense of dread in Marcus's gut—this could go nowhere good.

  Then the barmaid dragged the unresisting redhead over to where he was chained. "Cuddle up and grab on, Clarice. And if you let go—even once—I'll double the count."

  Clarice draped herself on him, stretching out her hands to grasp his forearms where they hung in chains at either side of him. She pressed her naked breasts against his chest. He took no pleasure in it, nor in the fact that he'd been right about the nipple piercings. She rested her head on his shoulder, tucked her face into his neck and said, "I'm ready."

  The first forty blows made his stomach churn. The sound of the leather striking her flesh seemed to get louder as time slowed down between each fall of the whip. Her body rocked against him with each blow, her hips grinding against his in a way that would've been a total turn-on if he could feel anything but the slightest shift of pressure. And if she weren't being beaten within an inch of her life. Because as much as he loved the kink, he had his limits, and this had crossed the line way, way back.

  Clarice seemed to take it all better than he did, beginning by sighing into his neck, ending by keening quietly with every fall of the lash. He kept his eyes open 'til he made the mistake of looking down and seeing the mess Shannon was making of her back. Then it was all he could do to keep from throwing up over the poor girl's shoulder.

  "Madre wants you to take the last ten from the cat o' nine," Shannon said, her voice breathy from exertion, and then moved away to the other side of the room to a large, glass-fronted cabinet. Clarice groaned. The vibration traveled from his neck downward, making his stomach clench harder. The drug was wearing off.

  Shannon returned, holding weapon. Each of its nine floggers was tipped with something sharp that glinted in the candlelight. Hooks? Shards of glass? He shuddered and looked away.