Fortunes Fool

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

  you. I'm eighty-seven damn years old." "Sorry." Leah scrubbed a hand over her face and caught the scent of male sweat and musk. It made her dizzy for a second. "I guess I could try the Chief again. Maybe if I'm lucky, he won't have me arrested."

  Her grandmother made a skeptical noise. "We've never had much luck with the authorities."

  Understatement. Eight years ago, Leah had been struck with a vision of a home invasion somewhere in one of the more upscale sections of San Francisco. When she'd reported what she'd seen to the police, they'd refused to take her seriously. Then, when the crime actually came to pass, she was hauled in for questioning and held on suspicion of being an accomplice to what had turned out to be a double-murder. She'd spent forty-eight hours in a holding cell before they released her for lack of evidence.

  To say the experience left her profoundly mistrustful of anyone with a badge...yeah. Serious understatement.

  "Isn't there anyone you can ask for help, Leah? Anyone you trust? Have you made no friends in that place?" Her grandmother sounded distressed. Sad. Disappointed in her. What else was new?

  "I'll think of something, Gram. It'll be okay." She tried to sound confident. "Listen, I have to go. I'll call you later."

  "See that you do." Her grandmother hung up in her ear, leaving an echo of an unspoken "I love you and I'm worried about you and for Heaven's sake, be careful" hanging between them.

  Leah placed the phone in its cradle and pressed her hands to her face, trying to ignore what the trace fragrance of Marcus's skin did to her equilibrium. All right. If she couldn't teleport back into the Madre's playroom, and calling the police wasn't an option, then...what? Going there in person, so to speak? Walking right up to the front door, and...

  Crap. She was back to the part where she didn't know where Marcus was being held. How the hell would she find him? She didn't have the first clue...except... She grabbed the phone book from the bedside table and started leafing through the Yellow Pages, under "nightclubs."

  Yahtzee. Hotel California, downtown Santa Rosa. The ad said it opened at noon. Good. She'd need the time to prepare herself.

  She sat and thought for a few minutes longer, then reached for the phone and dialed again. It rang four times, and then a sleepy, masculine voice answered. "Hello?" "Hi, Jeff? Jeff Crandel? It's Leah Benjamin. I know it's early, but I

  need to ask a favor." "Leah?" He sounded a lot more alert all of a sudden. "What can I do

  for you?" "This is going to sound crazy, Jeff, and I can't really explain it. I just

  need you to do it and not ask questions, okay?" Jeff stuttered and stammered a bit before finally replying, "I'll do what I can, but...is it going to get me into trouble with the Dean, like last time? Because you know, that petition you passed around really stirred things up, and not in a good way. I'm not tenured, you know, and with my wife pregnant and all—"

  "Jeff, listen to me. You're not going to get into any trouble. I just need you to go to a payphone at three-forty-five this afternoon and make a phone call for me. No one will ever know it was you, I promise."

  There was silence at the other end of the line. Leah held her breath. This was it—there was no one else. If he turned her down... "I wouldn't ask if I didn't really need your help, Jeff." He sighed. "Who do I need to call?" The muscles in Leah's neck and shoulders and back relaxed, and she exhaled as she let herself fall sideways on the bed. "Anybody ever tell you what a nice guy you are?" * * * * "Detective," the Madre said, her voice dripping venom, "you are

  such a very nice man, sí? Too nice, perhaps?" The blonde bitch, Shannon, snaked her hand through his hair and

  yanked his head back. "Answer the Madre." If he'd been able, he'd have spit in the barmaid's eye. But he had neither the strength nor the moisture left in his mouth to manage it. He settled for glaring at them both.

  The Madre grinned at him, and it was ghastly. Her eyes, like two blank, pearly moons, seemed to stare right through his skin. "Bene, Detective, you are too nice and too honorable to tell us which of these wicked girls ruined my plans for you." She gestured in the general direction of the two women who'd disposed of Clarice's body—a thin brunette and another chick with short, wispy hair. They lay facedown on the cement, naked, their backs torn and bloody after an hour-long application of Shannon's whip. Their screams and cries for mercy echoed in his ears. Their protestations of innocence had gotten them nowhere, and left him feeling sick with guilt.

  "But," the Madre continued, "as you can see, it makes no difference. Your nice, honorable ways have not saved them from punishment. Nor have they saved you."

  True enough. His chest sported ten new marks, and these were no mere welts. They were deep, open and bleeding. The pain overwhelmed him, but he reveled in it. Because it was pain, and he hated it. No craving for more. No desire to beg for further abuse. The woman...the quite possibly imaginary woman... ...Leah, her name is Leah... ...had been right about that much. And still the Madre went on, her voice like the drone of a poisonous insect. "And now you will see how we deal with disobedience, Detective. Watch and learn."

  No. They couldn't make him watch. He closed his eyes and wished he could do the same with his ears, praying for unconsciousness as Shannon did whatever she did to make the women lying on the floor gibber and shriek like banshees. Their palpable agony, and the wet, sloppy sounds of blood splattering this way and that, made his stomach clench and roll. He let his eyes drift open in time to see the pair of them drag themselves along the floor toward the door, with Shannon behind them, urging them on. At least they were still alive. More than he could hope for himself.

  Then the world grayed out, not disappearing entirely, but receding enough that he could feel some relief. Some brief cessation of pain and guilt.

  It ended with a hard, loud slap to his jaw. "Wake up. Time for another drink. Gottastay hydrated so you don't get sick."

  Shannon laughed and shoved the mouth of a water bottle between his lips. He didn't bother to struggle, having learned through trial and error that the barmaid could force the issue if she wanted. At least she didn't seem interested in drugging him again.

  He drank without opening his eyes. As he swallowed, she spoke to him, her voice low and angry. "This is all your fault, you know. What I had to do to Belinda and Kathie? They were my friends, and it's all your fault." She yanked the water away and slapped him again, landing the blow directly on his ear and making it ring. "I can't wait to see you really suffer. It won't be long now."

  She left him. He opened his eyes and saw the long, crimson smudges on the floor in the center of the room. They complemented the stain left by Clarice's body. Highlighted it. Idly, he wondered how his blood would look mingled with theirs. His thoughts drifted to the woman...imaginary? Real? Did it matter? It had been hours. If she was real, she hadn't called Chief Sanchez. Or Sanchez hadn't listened to her—which was just as likely, because Sanchez was an asshole who'd never liked him anyway, and had never believed that his partner's death had been anything other than a random mugging gone bad. Only Marcus's stubborn determination—what Sanchez called his "bitching and moaning" about "bogeymen"—had kept the investigation open.

  This reality of it was this—if some random chick really did phone Chief Sanchez at the ass-crack of dawn to tell him Marcus was chained in the basement of a sex club? He'd probably threatened her with arrest for making prank calls. And Sanchez was the only one in the department who knew Marcus was going undercover, and where, and why.

  But none of that made any difference anyway, because the woman...Leah...wasn't real. No way. He didn't believe in magic, or psychic phenomena, or any of that New Age-y crap. Though she sure was nice to think about, with her watercolor veils, all see-through and soft.

  Wait...no...that was the story she'd told him. The story had helped him. He couldn't deny it, any more than he could deny the evidence of it, where it had dried across his thighs and on the floor before Shannon had dragged those women into the room and...

  No, no
t thinking about that. Thinking about Leah, who'd been there and gone away. Real? Not real? Didn't matter. He was screwed either way. The best thing he could hope for was a quick death, and it seemed like that wasn't in the cards. So he'd play the hand he was dealt. He was good at that—always had been. He'd go down fighting, one way or another.

  The gray was creeping up on him again. He couldn't feel his arms or his legs, and he was cold. So cold. But the gray was his friend, and he fell into it, face-first. Leah was there waiting for him. She wore the watercolor veils, running all together, like they'd been left out in the rain. And she was smiling.

  Chapter Seven

  Leah stood on the sidewalk and watched as a tall blonde in a black Latex cat-suit rolled out the green striped awning over the façade of the club. Then the blonde went inside, letting the front door slam behind her with a bang that traveled loud and clear over the sounds of noon-hour traffic. A few seconds later, the scrolled neon lettering decorating the big front window sputtered to life. Hotel California was open for business.

  Leah adjusted her skirt—tight red leather—and rubbed her palms together, grimacing at their clammy feel. Then she made her way down the block, watching her step in stilettos she hadn't worn in nearly a decade. At least she didn't wobble. An hour's practice in the hall outside her apartment had made sure of that.

  She paused in front of the door and reached into her handbag, feeling for the small, hard lump secreted within the faux-silk lining. Her ace in the hole, so to speak. Then she gathered her courage and pulled open the door.

  The inside of the club was gloomy compared to the sunlit street, but her eyes adjusted quickly. She caught sight of the blonde wiping down the bar. The woman glanced up and looked her over, plainly unimpressed with what she saw. Leah took a deep breath and started across the room, keeping a fake smile stretched across her face and her gaze aimed low. Submissive. As she'd been trained, lo these many years ago.

  "Good afternoon. I wonder if it would be possible for me to see..." The sudden quaver in her voice betrayed her. She cleared her throat and began again. "I'm here to see the Madre Donnatella DeTagliera." The blonde's eyes narrowed. "Who are you?" "My name is Leah Benjamin. The Madre and I are acquainted. I

  used to work for her." The blonde made a gruff sound of disbelief. "You don't look the

  type." So much for the tight red leather and heels. "Just the same, I'd appreciate it if you'd let the Madre know I'm here. I believe she'd be interested in meeting with me." "Oh you do, huh?" Leah lifted her eyes and looked straight into the blonde's face for the first time. "Yes, I do. In fact, if she discovered I'd been turned away, I think the Madre might be very displeased."

  The other woman held her gaze a long three seconds. Then she blinked. "Wait here." She crossed the room and disappeared through a door behind the stage, leaving Leah to check out the club.

  Nice digs. Not as fancy as the brothel in San Francisco, but the Madre Donnatella apparently was no longer billing herself as the premiere Madam for the S-and-M set. She was a respectable club owner now, from everything Leah had been able to dig up in the five hours she spent preparing.

  The door behind the stage opened, and the blonde reappeared. "The Madre will see you now," she said, her tone ungracious in the extreme. Leah had to bite her lip to keep from smiling as she followed the other woman down a long spiral staircase made of heavy wrought iron and then about halfway along a shadowed corridor, where they stopped before a wooden door. Leah looked further down the hallway. There was another door, there, in the recessed area at the very end. Marcus was behind it. She was almost sure.

  The blonde knocked on the door. Leah heard the Madre's voice call out permission to enter and tried to control her instinctive recoil from the sound.

  A moment later, she found herself standing before the woman who'd come to represent everything corrupt in her mind. The Madre Donnatella sat behind a huge, black-lacquered desk, her small white hands steepled before her. She was dressed in a billowing gown of rusty-red, just as Leah recalled from a decade ago. A computer monitor and keyboard rested to her right. A kitten—perhaps ten weeks old, perfectly white, with wide blue eyes—lay curled on the desktop to her left. The room around her was sparsely furnished, save for a gurgling fountain in the corner carved from black stone in some odd, complex shape that made Leah stare until the contorted angles and planes resolved themselves into three human bodies, twisted together in an agonized knot of torn flesh and broken bone. She closed her eyes and turned her face away.

  She waited for the Madre to speak. She waited...and waited...knowing to a certainty that the older woman could see nothing through her blank, white-filmed eyes, and still wondering what she perceived as she appeared to gaze at her. The seconds stretched into a full minute. Leah's breathing became shallow. Rapid. She hated herself for it, knowing this silent intimidation was only part of the game.

  Finally, at the moment when she thought she would either scream or turn tail and run from the room, Donnatella spoke. "The little sparrow returns to the nest," she said. And that was all. Leah swallowed with difficulty. "Yes, Madre. I've returned to you." She could feel the blonde barmaid's eyes on her back from across the room. She straightened her shoulders. "I've come to ask your forgiveness, and to plead for the chance to make amends. And to receive whatever punishment you see fit, of course." It took some effort to force that last statement past her lips. She remembered punishment. What it meant, even for the willing. Remembered far too well.

  The Madre smiled. Once, long ago, Leah had found that same smile charming. Beautiful, even. Then, it had represented safety. Acceptance. Understanding, and lack of judgment.

  Now she saw it for what it was—a Death's Head grin. And she knew, without a doubt, that she'd stepped once again into the presence of evil. * * * * Marcus rolled his shoulders in their strained sockets, gathered what little strength he had left, and pulled against the chains for all he was worth. Not because he thought they'd break or yank loose from the wall, because he knew better. But what the hell else was he going to do? Kneel there, on legs that had long since gone completely numb, and wait for those lunatic females to come back and kill him?

  Frustration burned him to the bone. A well-trained officer of the law with fifteen years on the force, and this was how he was going out? Chained to a wall by a bunch of crazy women? And maybe that wasn't the most enlightened way to look at it, but fuck enlightenment. He'd work on his sexism issues after he busted out of this loony bin and saw every one of these nutzoid bitches locked up.

  He stopped pulling on the chains when he found himself panting from the useless exertion. No point in using up all his resources on something so hopeless. What he needed to do was think.

  What time is it? His internal clock was screwed to hell, but he knew it was Saturday. At least, he thought he knew. Fuck, how he hated this waiting game. He needed to focus. Come up with a plan. He closed his eyes and concentrated on slowing his breathing...

  ...and heard voices approaching. Here they come. Round four, or was it five? He let himself go limp and listened as the door opened and...yes, that was the Madre Donnatella, and Shannon the barmaid. Who was the third? He waited to hear her speak. "Shannon, please introduce Leah to our guest," the Madre said. Leah? Shit. Then Shannon's fingers were in his hair, yanking his head backward. He opened his eyes and saw the hostile sneer on the blonde's face. "Detective Marcus Colton, the weekend entertainment."

  He looked past Shannon to where the other women stood. Yes, right there next to Donnatella—the woman from before. Except instead of short white nightshirt, she wore a black tube-top, a red leather skirt and stupidly high heels. Her light brown hair was pulled back in a loose bun, and her face was painted in lurid colors. She didn't meet his gaze. What the fuck? He watched as the Madre curled one hand around Leah's arm, just above the elbow. "Detective Colton," she said, "this is our little sparrow, who has returned to the nest to ask our forgiveness, and do penance for her sins from long ago. She is lovel
y, sí?"

  How was he supposed to respond to this? What the hell was going on? If Donnatella was willing to tell Leah his name, then she couldn't be planning on letting her go.

  The Madre kept on talking. "Leah tells us her life is a misery, Detective. She tells us she wishes only to return to our service. To please herself by pleasing us. Sí, cara? Is that not so?" Leah stared at the floor. "Yes, Madre." "But we are not so trusting as once we were. We must challenge our sparrow. We must test her loyalty." She gave Leah a shove in Marcus's direction. "Leah, someone ruined our play last night by interfering with our guest. He was worthless to us."

  Leah stumbled forward toward where Marcus kneeled. As she righted herself, she peered at him for the first time from the very corner of her eye. In her face, he saw...what? Fear? Guilt? Shame? He looked away. She turned to face Donnatella and said, "Who would do such a

  thing? Your pleasure is our pleasure, always." Her voice sounded different. The way she framed her words—it was formal. Stilted. It reminded him of something...some other time he'd heard her speak that way. The only other time—when she'd told him the story about the prisoner and the concubine.

  A jolt of recognition shot through him. Of course—this was all an act. What she was doing now, pretending to fall in with the Madre's plans? A charade, a sham. She was here to help him, the little idiot. She'd walked right back into the lioness' den. For him.

  Why did that make him so fucking enraged? Was it worse to be caught and held captive by a woman, or to be saved by one? Maybe...just maybe...he needed to tell his hypersensitive male ego to take a fucking hike.

  " Bene, cara. We're so glad to hear you say that, but still you must prove it. You must show perfect submission...perfect, bellissimo submission." The Madre snapped her fingers, and Leah jumped as if startled. Then she lowered her head and stared at the floor. When she moved to kneel at the Madre's feet, it was with the practiced grace of much repetition. The older woman reached down and stroked her hair, as she might a cat's fur. Marcus tried not to stare, afraid to give away anything in his expression.