Tormented

by Robert J. Crane

  Not a great predicament.

  I started to wonder about Jake as I sat there, back against the concrete wall. I’d already tested the concrete and found it really hard on the ol’ knuckles. My left hand was bleeding again, both from the squeeze of balling my hand into a fist and also from said knuckles after a half dozen punches had failed to so much as crease the block. Made me wonder if they’d seeded the concrete with iron or what. Not exactly an exciting place to be, realizing that even your basic powers were useless.

  It led me to take stock of where I was, to really think through what I had. I searched all my pockets and found nothing, not even my cell phone with its minimal contact list.

  Plus, I was hungry. How fun was that?

  Worst. Vacation. Ever.

  Errr … actually, had I ever really taken a vacation before?

  I blew air through my lips in boredom, staring at the light fixture just outside the cell. Even if they’d had one inside the cell, what could I really do with it? Absorb enough juice to electrocute myself and turn off the lights in the jailhouse? Stall my heart enough to make them come investigate, at which time I could ambush and pummel them to death, start enacting a bloody vengeance?

  Why did it always come back to bloody vengeance with me?

  I stared at the washed-out grey concrete floor and saw my hand dripping blood on it in dark drops. Maybe it was because I was constantly spilling my own blood. Like I had some sort of mythical need to replace it by drawing out that of others. It was all very psychological, and made me wonder what my old therapist, Quinton Zollers, would have said about it.

  Of all the people who had left me over the last few years, I think I missed Dr. Zollers the most. Probably because he was the one who understood me best. Without him … I think I was working on autopilot. I couldn’t tell if I’d changed or not. Reed swore up and down I had, just before he stopped talking to me, but I wasn’t so sure. I was probably a little too close to the source material, and it’s hard to see the picture from inside the frame. Ariadne wasn’t much help either, because I didn’t let her be. I always kept her at arm's length, because …

  Guilt, probably. I did kill her girlfriend, after all.

  I looked back at the steadily growing blood puddle that my hand was forming and wondered how much of it I could afford to lose. In theory, a wound like this wouldn’t let even a low-level meta bleed to death. Our healing ability was fast, and for a higher-powered meta like me, a succubus, I had regrown a hand overnight before even without top-level Wolfe powers. Nothing but the destruction of my brain or maybe a direct hit to the heart that ripped it completely asunder would kill me. I mean, there were probably other ways. I’d given it some thought—destruction of the lungs beyond my ability to heal them, complete and total decapitation—

  Yeah. I’m morbid in my spare time, what little I have.

  It had been a long time since I’d been reduced to being a base succubus. I tried to focus, to think, to work on that mental inventory. I had clothes enough to hang somebody (not myself, though, because that was the easy way out) or garrote them. I had enough strength to beat most people and metas to death. I could touch them and steal their souls, given enough time, but then I’d be left with them in my head whenever this chloridamide or telepathic interference finally cut out.

  You know what the most commonly asked question is, when people hear about my powers? “Why don’t you just absorb every bad meta you run across and add their powers to your own?” Probably assuming I’d become invincible or something.

  Sad to say, it doesn’t work like that. In order actually use the powers, you need the consent of the people you absorb, one way or another. This is the reason why most incubi and succubi had been walking around for thousands of years without being able to channel the powers of the metas they’d absorbed. It was able to remain a secret for millennia because getting someone you’ve killed to offer their power to you willingly? Not the easiest thing to do. If you’ve ever pissed someone off, then you know getting them to cooperate with you afterward is kind of a difficult proposition.

  Surprisingly, killing people makes them really mad. Mad enough to not want to work with you. Most incubi and succubi had a solution for that—they could mentally wall off their wards, keep them imprisoned in their minds and basically never think about them again. Which is a neat trick, but it doesn’t exactly prompt cooperation from strong-willed metas.

  The only other incubus and succubus I’d met who could do what I do, using the powers within … I don’t know how they did it. I mean, I had a suspicion that Sovereign had somehow coerced his souls in a line, but I didn’t know exactly how. And Adelaide? That was not a question she’d answered for me, either. She’d had some form of cooperation from the metas in her mind, which suggested to me that when Omega had fed her, they might have had some willing volunteers in the mix.

  Whatever the case, Sarah was blocking my souls, so that was a dead end. On to the next thing.

  I could steal people’s memories or even selectively alter their minds, which took less time than a full-blown soul steal. Just taking memories didn’t require cooperation to view, either. I also had the ability to reach people in their dreams—

  Ohhhhhh.

  Wow.

  Sometimes I feel dumb.

  I didn’t enjoy using the “dreamwalk” ability that I had. In fact, I hadn’t used it in … years. It had been kind of a special thing that Zack—my first boyfriend—and I used to do. Since that relationship ended in tragedy, I hadn’t really wanted to play with it much. But overall, it was a pretty simple thing to use. All I had to do was think of a person before I fell asleep, and I could draw them into my dream.

  Perfect for summoning help right to your prison.

  I eyed the cot in the corner of the cell. It didn’t exactly look like the sort of thing you’d find at a five-star hotel, but I wasn’t picky. The problem was, I also wasn’t tired. Damn me and my sleeping until noon. Probably shouldn’t have taken that sucker-punch nap, either. It was surprisingly refreshing. “Shit,” I said to no one in particular.

  The lock to the jailhouse door clicked, and I turned my head in surprise. It took a moment, but then the door opened, and standing there was Brant in all his bartender glory, carrying a tray bearing food. “My food’s not shit,” he said, looking a little faux-hurt.

  “Agreed,” I said, watching him warily. “Are you who the jail contracts to provide meals to the prisoners?”

  “It’s a charitable thing,” he said, stepping up to the bars with a little wink, almost conspiratorial. “How are you holding up?” He offered the tray through the slit in the bars that was there for prisoner feeding.

  I looked at the burger on the tray with a little skepticism. “You’re really allowed to bring me this?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

  I was starving. I wolfed down the burger in about twelve bites, then drank hungrily from the metal sink in the corner. “Sorry for the lack of beverage,” he said apologetically. “That I wasn’t allowed to bring in. Not that I had much non-alcoholic selection in any case.”

  “That’s all right,” I said. “Food will do. I can just take my water straight from the tap. It isn’t too gross.”

  “Very noble of you,” he said seriously, “to lower yourself in that way.”

  “Ha ha.” I sighed. “So. Sorry about the bar thing.”

  He waved it off. “It was predictable.”

  “It was predictable I’d get into a fight in your establishment?” I asked. “Ouch.”

  “You came in threatening from minute one,” he said. “Threatened me more than a few times, I might add. It’s almost as if you’re … the dangerous sort.”

  “Well, I can’t argue with that,” I said, coming up to the bars and wrapping my hands around them. “It is why they’ve got me caged, after all.”

  “Looks good on you,” he said, and I had a hard time telling whether that was an actual compliment or not.

  “Th
anks, I think?”

  He shrugged. “So … I wouldn’t worry too much. You’re not going to be here long.”

  “Speedy trial?” I asked, feeling a faint rumbling in my stomach.

  “Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head. “There’s not going to be a trial.”

  That froze me in place. “Wow. So they’re not even going through the pretense?”

  “Pretense of what?” he asked with a short laugh. “Do you think you deserve a trial?”

  I watched him through narrowed eyes. “Maybe you could explain what you mean by that. Do you mean I’m going to be released because what I’ve done doesn’t warrant a trial, or did you mean—”

  “You’re subhuman,” he said, looking at me almost pityingly. “Do you really think someone as low as you, who doesn’t live with humanity—you think you deserve a trial?”

  I stared at him, mouth slightly agape. “So you’re with them.”

  “Yes, I’m with humanity,” he agreed smoothly. “Do any of the prisoners you keep get trials, out of curiosity?”

  My fingers tightened on the bars. He was keeping his distance from me, quite smartly. “I can promise you that none of you will.”

  He made a face. “Ooh, threatening. A bit old hat by now, don’t you think?”

  “You were playing nice last time. This time I know you’re my enemy. That changes it from a threat to a promise.”

  “You can’t do any worse to me than you’ve already done,” he said, and went on before I could get him to elaborate. “Did you enjoy the burger?”

  “Yeah, it was a real piece of culinary artwork, right up there with all those flower drawings Monet did,” I said snarkily. “Why—” My stomach rumbled again, more insistently this time, and a realization dawned on me. “Did you … poison me?”

  “Nothing too serious,” he said with a slight grin, “but I wouldn’t wander too far from that toilet for the next little bit. Not that you can get very far from it, but … you’ll probably need a bucket as well.” He leaned his face just a little closer to the bars, and the grin went wide. “See … we need to talk to you, first.”

  “We’re talking right now,” I said. “If you want to have a more intimate conversation, feel free to step inside the cage.”

  “Not just me,” he said. “We. We need to have a conversation. Need to talk to you. To get you to understand—”

  “Because that’ll really make me regret however I’ve pissed you off,” I said. “All I need to do is understand, and I’m sure I’ll be magically sorry for whatever wrong I’ve done you.”

  “Oh, I don’t care if you’re sorry or not,” he said and started toward the door, giving it a firm slap with the palm of his hand that resonated through the building. “I just want you to understand before the living hell starts … so you know what you’ve done to earn the most painful death I could possibly imagine.” He pointed back toward the toilet. “Enjoy your next few hours as you purge yourself of some of your resistance—and your sins. I think you’ll find you’re a little more … shall we say … malleable? Once you’re done. Once you’re weaker.” That grin was harsh, wide, haunting, and somehow terribly familiar. “I think it’ll be a new sensation for you, feeling weak. And we’ll just keep making you weaker and weaker, adding an ounce of pain at a time, until you break … and then, maybe, if we’re feeling merciful, sometime in the future … we’ll finally let you die.”

  45.

  Reed

  “What in the hell are you thinking?” Isabella asked me when we were finally alone. The sun was sinking below the horizon, and we were in my quarters in the dormitory, a silent dinner passed between the two of us. Scott was down the hall in spare quarters, waiting, Augustus was recovering in the infirmary. We were waiting.

  And being yelled at, in my case.

  “I’m thinking … I’m glad you’re all right,” I said, watching her slit her eyes so small I’d have been lucky to slip a dime between the lids without FDR crying out in pain.

  “What are you thinking about Anselmo?” she asked, way beyond her typical level of huffy. Isabella gets worked up easily, which is both good and bad. She’s got passion, and it can be a lot of fun sometimes. It can also be a lot of apologies at other times.

  “I’m thinking he’s an asshole, and I should catch him,” I said, not really sure what she was getting at. “J.J.’s looking, and I’m not leaving campus again until we’ve got a legitimate line on—”

  “What in the hell are you thinking?” she asked again, with more emphasis this time.

  I just paused. “I’m … why don’t you just tell me how you want me to answer this?” I asked, thinking I was cleverly sidestepping the fight I sensed coming.

  She made a noise of frustration, guttural, deep, and totally Italian, all while waving her hands in the air and looking to the sky as if someone was going to answer from there. She spit out a long string of words in her native language, the only word of which I recognized was Dio. “You fought Anselmo this morning, yes?” she finally directed at me.

  “Yes,” I said, cautious, sensing my doom impending.

  “Why did you not kill him?” she asked, and her voice had gone quiet, her face now weary bordering on sad.

  “We’ve talked about this over and over,” I said, trying to conceal my shock. “About how I wanted to be different from her, about how I could do things my way and—”

  “All that is out the window now,” she said, shaking her head emphatically. “Do you know what he came here to do?”

  I pursed my lips. “Nothing good.”

  “No, nothing good,” she agreed. “He hates you. How you’ve unmanned him.”

  “Well, he should hate Sienna even more,” I said, “seeing how I suspect that the scourging fire she unleashed on him probably did actually unman him.” I paused. “He doesn’t seem too exercised over her, though. He even said …” I let my voice drift off. “He said something about how she wasn’t a problem anymore.”

  “And this does not concern you?” She looked at me with wild eyes.

  “I know you’re not her biggest fan—”

  “That doesn’t mean I wish to see her dead,” Isabella said. “We might end up sisters-in-law some day, which means in the Italian way that I must loathe her—check, this is already covered—and speak ill of her behind her back—also check—but that I must defend her to the death if anyone else says anything poor of her, because we are family.”

  I stared at her in mild surprise but tried to keep my thoughts inscrutable. “Wait, did you just suggest we might get married?”

  “Urgh!” She ran her fingers up her throat and out at me in a gesture that I understood the gist of without understanding the specifics. “You are so frustrating! Anselmo came here for me, and you stand around still thinking that there is any way on the earth that you could make him yield to you. I froze his face and broke it off, yet still he lives. Still he walks. He is likely furious with me at this point, and when next we meet, I expect he will kill me in a disturbing way.” She said it all surprisingly coldly, like it didn’t bother her. “How does that fit into your vision of a less violent capture? How does that work with your ideas of gentle policing?”

  I stared at her, my chest tight with angst. “What do you expect me to do?”

  “I hate to say it the way that Phillips did,” she said, but more gently than he ever would have, even when he was acting like my friend, “but Anselmo is not a man who will stop unless you kill him. He certainly means to kill you—and your sister, if he has not already.”

  “He can’t have killed Sienna.” I shook my head, hard. “Can’t. He’s not strong enough, not smart enough—” I froze. He didn’t have to be smart enough.

  He had the Brain working for him.

  I dialed my phone swiftly, listened to it ring with J.J.’s name on the faceplate. When he answered, I started talking before he got out a “Hello” or a “Reed the Greed!” or whatever he’d say in greeting. “Did you get hold of anyone who’s see
n or heard from Sienna?”

  “Hi to you too,” J.J. said, “and no. The police guy or whatever up on Bayscape Island said they haven’t seen hide nor hair of her, and the place she’s staying still hasn’t called us back after … like eight messages? Maybe nine. I can check.” He paused. “Yeah, nine. It’s like they’re not even running a business up there—”

  “Okay, got it,” I said, nerves eating at me. “Let me know the minute you hear something.” I hung up on him.

  Isabella stared at me, and I could see by her eyes she knew what he’d said. “It will be okay.”

  I balled up a fist, walked three steps to the wall, and busted right through, giving me a clear view into my bedroom. I pulled my fist out, glanced at the bleeding knuckles, and then put my hand through again, shredding drywall and splintering a stud. “Son—of—a— !” I hit it again, and again.

  “Reed!” Isabella said. Her hand landed on my shoulder, squeezing with gentle pressure that commanded me to stop immediately. “Destroying your quarters will not bring her back safely.”

  “What if nothing brings her back safely, Isabella?” I couldn’t control the way I looked at her, with haunted eyes that probably gave her a direct glimpse into the utter horror roiling around in my soul. I’d ignored Sienna for months, and now here I was, in her shoes, with impossible choices.

  “You will find a way,” she said, “I am confident in you.”

  “I don’t share your confidence,” I said, voice hoarse and scratchy. “Because they could have gotten her anywhere between here and Bayscape … and with Anselmo on the loose, I can’t even go looking for her without giving that maniac and Cunningham free reign on the whole Twin Cities—and you.”