by Tenaya Jayne
"Thank you. Thank you for making me go through with it."
"It was my pleasure."
She turned around and grabbed him by the collar with both of her hands. He looked slightly afraid.
"I'm all for you testing out your strength, just not on me."
Netriet laughed, and the shadow laughed. For one moment, they were together. She and the shadow were one. One feeling, one heart, one voice.
"So what now?" she asked.
"You've been in recovery sleep for a while. It's almost night. What do you want to do?"
She ran the tip of her nose up the side of his neck, inhaling deeply at the tender spot just behind his ear. Her fangs throbbed and ached. Instead of sinking her incisors into his neck, she placed a gentle kiss and moved her mouth to his ear.
"I want to kill Zefyre."
"Good girl." He kissed her passionately. "I love you." He looked down at her and smiled. "As hot as I think it would be if you ended her life while naked, I think we should get you dressed."
Baal took his time; every movement carried the weight of a ritual. First, he handed her the grey robe she'd worn before her surgery. She slipped it on and sat down at his direction. He combed his fingers through her hair and braided it tightly down the back. She watched as he plucked a small vial off one of his shelves, poured the thick, clear liquid into his hands, and came back to her.
"Stand up. Forest's forensics team is top notch. We need to make sure we leave behind as little physical evidence as possible."
Netriet nodded and held still, closing her eyes as he rubbed the liquid over her hair, face, and down her body. It absorbed quickly, leaving behind a strange sweet scent. He removed his clothes, bound his hair back in a ponytail, and repeated the process of applying the liquid on himself.
She waited while he went into his secret room. He came back out a moment later, carrying an armload of folded clothes and a pair of boots.
"Your size, I believe."
She took the clothes from him. Getting dressed with two hands was a wonderful, sensual experience. The clothes were as black as her scars. He dressed identically.
"And for the final touch…" Baal swung an ebony cape around her shoulders. He took his time fastening it around her neck and pulling up the hood. Then he handed her one long black glove. "Your new arm won't leave any traces, so you only need this one."
He pulled on his cape and gloves. "Are you ready?" he asked.
"You tell me."
"No, are you ready?"
It was like contemplating losing her virginity, body raging, a would-be lover poised over her. Are you ready? Yes, of course I am. And at the same time, no, never. But why did she feel like a virgin? She'd killed before. What difference was there in this compared to that? She couldn't answer herself, yet she felt a difference. She looked at herself in the mirror again. For a split second, instead of seeing her refection, she saw herself as she had been years ago, back at court. The vision faded as quickly as it had appeared. What am I?
Baal began to scowl at her hesitation. His displeasure caused her a mild panic. She'd show him.
"I have killed before, as you well know. When have you killed? And I don't mean your sick butchering experiments at work."
His expression grew introspective. "Hmm…although I delight in my work, technically you're right, this is my first pleasure kill. And I do it for you, my love. Let's go."
He slapped the air with the flat of his hand. A portal opened. He took her hand, and they went through together. They landed in the shadow of a large rock wall. A line of mature trees stood in front of them, and beyond was a house. Built to resemble the elvish style, the whole place reeked of wealth. Warm light behind curtains illuminated the windows against the dark night.
Netriet looked carefully around and listened. There was plenty of noise a ways away. The noise of a city. She took a deep breath, smelling the surroundings. It had been many years since she had been to this city, but she knew the feel and taste of the air. No mistake, they were in Paradigm. And this was Zefyre's house. Netriet's heart rate kicked up. What did she think she was doing here? She couldn't kill anyone. Her heart hammered so fast and hard she couldn't breathe.
She grabbed Baal's arm and pulled him back. His face was right on hers in the dark, his eyes glowing like the coals of a fire.
"What's wrong?" he hissed.
"I can't…I don't want…"
"What the hell is this? There's no backing out now. Now is the time for me to see what you can do."
"I can't do this."
"Stop whining. You've let go of your anger."
"Well, so what if I have?" Netriet demanded in a whisper.
He reached both his hands into her cloak and pinched the skin of her stomach roughly on both sides of her navel. She jolted in surprise and pain, only he didn't let go. He twisted her skin and pinched harder.
"You lost your home, your identity, your arm, your beauty, and almost your life, all because of what that traitor in there did. Come on! Where is your wrath?"
Baal continued to twist. The pain moved to a new level, and something inside her snapped.
Do it, Netriet. Kill her. You've wanted to for so long.
The shadow surged up her spine and took over her body. Cowardly, Netriet sank back. About time. She thought. Have you been waiting for the embossed invitations?
The shadow laughed. I was hoping you could handle this on your own, but I can see now you can't. However did you manage to kill Philippe by yourself? Just give in to me. Let's do this together. You'll see what we can be when we're undivided. It will make Baal so hot for us. Let's show him.
Netriet slapped at Baal's hands with her new arm, knocking them loose easily. She snarled at him. "Don't ever do that again… So are we breaking down the door, or picking the lock?"
Baal smirked. "As you like."
The door splintered around her black fist, blasting inward like an explosion. Netriet watched the effect of her strength. It was so easy. It felt so good, this rush of power. She became high on the heady sensation of being unstoppable.
At the breaking sound of the door, a startled scream came from inside the house. Netriet sauntered into the foyer like a welcome guest. In the living room ahead of her, Zefyre had jumped out of her chair. Lush, who had been sitting as well, reading, looked winded as though someone had punched him in the gut. He stood and faced the intruders.
Netriet turned to Baal and smiled. "He's all yours."
She didn't see the details of Lush's death. Her vision tunneled around Zefyre, everything in the periphery blurred and fragmented. Her memories of the last time she'd seen this face crashed over her. All the fear, and the collar. And she did now, what she couldn't then. She stopped her.
Zefyre cowered before her. "Please…please…don't."
"That's funny. I think those are the exact words I said to you when you collared me."
Zefyre ran. It was like a dream. Objects out of focus, time, and space unnatural and disjointed. They went down on the floor together. Zefyre fought. Striking out and clawing at Netriet. She got her hands around Zefyre's beautiful neck. Their eyes locked. The fear and pain and pleading. The shadow drank it up. Her laughter exploded from Netriet's throat, delighted and maniacal.
Then the cutting began. Long metal fingernails slid out from the black skin of the robotic arm. The shadow was in control of everything. Netriet watched from the background, wishing she could turn away, close her eyes. If nothing else, shut out the laughter. Stop! Stop the laughter! But it continued to bubble up her throat.
She cut Zefyre all over, slicing long deep gashes along her face, chest, arms, palms, even the bottoms of her feet. That was where she cut her the deepest. Her blood covered the floor. The shadow toyed with her. Breaking small bones first, snapping them like twigs between her thumbs and index finger. Every little pop made the shadow giddy for more. What a wonderful sound! More! More!
Zefyre’s screams of pain filled Netriet's ears like white noise. S
top this, she thought. Stop her pain. Just end it now.
Not yet, my sweet, not yet. She has lots of time left. Let's stand her back up.
Objection roiled inside her. No! End it, now.
The shadow ignored her and pulled Zefyre to her feet. Netriet stepped back as Zefyre fell forward, unable to support her own weight on her bleeding, broken feet. The shadow laughed.
A surge went through Netriet's brain. This was it. The moment that would determine everything else for the rest of her life. The second before drowning. A decision to fight, or sink. No! This is my body! These are my hands!
She grabbed Zefyre and rolled her face up, putting her again in a chokehold.
She fought against the shadow, trying to regain control of her body. She pulled up from the depths. It was like trying to swim through tar. But with each stroke, her resolve strengthened.
Stop it! The shadow shouted at her.
Netriet pulled harder. The grip on Zefyre loosened slightly.
All right! All right!
Netriet almost had control back, but not fast enough. The shadow moved her hand over Zefyre's throat from one ear to the other, slicing five yawning lines in her flesh with her razor sharp fingernails. One would have been enough to kill her.
Shaking with the effort to come back to herself, now covered in blood, Netriet heard Baal come up behind her.
"Oh, that's messy. I thought you'd still be at it."
"Did you?" she said acidly. "Why are you finished so quickly?"
She looked over her shoulder at him. He shrugged. "It wasn't personal for me. I’ve never even met the guy before."
Netriet looked back at what she'd done, or at least what she’d allowed to happen. She had to run. It was time to run.
"Wait," Baal said as she started to get up. "Drink her blood first."
"What?"
"Warriors drink the blood of their enemies, Netriet. Drink."
"Never! The blood is dead."
"So?"
"So? It's dangerous."
"So are you, my love."
"It's unthinkable. Abhorrent!"
Baal smiled and crossed his arms. "Look at her. Look at what you just did. Is that not abhorrent?"
"Drinking blood of those killed in vengeance is what maniac killers do. It could make me insane."
He laughed. "You mean more insane than you already are?"
When she moved to get up again, he rushed at her, pushing her down onto Zefyre's body. His hand held the back of her neck, forcing her face into the bloody gashes on her throat.
"Drink it!"
Adrenaline and rage pushed her up. She spun on him and backhanded him in the face with her new arm. The force of the blow sent him flying across the room and into the wall. He cracked his head on the floor as he went down. He moaned and rolled over.
"You call this love?"
Before he could get up, Netriet ran. Under the mask of night, her hood hiding her face, she fled the city. She kept to the alleys, blowing past anyone she came across like a midnight breeze. Out of the city, and into the wilds, she looked up into the night sky. She didn't really need her bearings. Her broken heart led the way.
Chapter Twelve
A scuffling noise outside his tent roused Merick from his drunken stupor. He squinted at the flaps. No shadows moved over the fabric. He rubbed his head and rolled over, pulling his cover up to his chin.
"Merick."
He sat up abruptly.
"Netriet?"
Her voice was a broken whisper. "Merick."
He got up, quickly pulling the flaps of his tent open, looking for her. He almost stepped on her. She lay in a heap at his feet, barely conscious. He scooped her up immediately, brought her inside, and laid her on his cot. He lit his bedside candle and gasped, panicked. She was covered in blood. Dry blood streaked her face and hair, and considering the smell, covered all the rest of her as well.
"What has that bastard done to you?"
She moaned, her eyelids fluttering.
"It's okay," he said, feeling it was anything but. "I've got you. You're safe."
"Merick," she sobbed, reaching out for him. "I laughed, Merick! I laughed at her pain."
He didn't understand her. It was then he noticed the arm. He hadn't seen it as she had been all twisted up in her cloak. He held his knee-jerk reaction inside. Was this a miracle or a nightmare?
"Are you hurt?"
"No, not me." She managed, clearly exhausted. "It's not my blood."
"What have you done?"
"Revenge…I took my revenge."
Her lip trembled, and then she began to cry in earnest.
"Let's get you cleaned up. You can eat and rest and then tell me everything."
"Okay," she exhaled.
Merick moved as quickly as he could, thankful it was the dead of night, and no one was milling around. He lit a fire and filled his stone tub, constantly looking over at her, afraid she'd vanish. But Netriet didn't budge, asleep or unconscious, he couldn't tell. When the bath was ready and the fire was hot, he went back to wake her.
She remained stubbornly asleep when he spoke to her and shook her. Fine, if that was how it was going to be. He unfastened the clasp at her neck. He pulled the dark fabric open. The clothes she wore underneath were tight on her body. He examined her hands, pulling the long glove off the one. At first, he thought the other had a glove as well, but when he touched it, he quickly retracted his hand, uncertain what to do. He'd never seen anything like it.
He got a bowl of warm water from the bath and a clean rag and began cleaning the dried blood from her face. Silent tears ran down his cheeks as he removed the traces of death. Netriet. His sweet, screwed up, Netriet. The water on her face began to rouse her. He continued to wash her.
He scrubbed harder at a particularly stubborn spot. The blood wouldn't come off. He re-soaked the rag and tried again. The spot remained. Merick grabbed his candle and brought it closer to her face. No. Not this. This was bad. It wasn't blood on her cheek that wouldn't come off, it was one of her black scars. He remembered this particular scar that marred her beautiful cheek, but it was different. The black of the scar was spreading out under her skin, like a botched, shapeless tattoo.
Merick took a deep shaking breath, his heart pulling tight. She was being taken over.
He hung his head, his eyes sliding out of focus. Grief, failure, and loss fell on him like a heavy blanket.
Her finger traced the line of his tears down his cheek, waking him back to the present. He looked into her questioning eyes. They were more uneven than he had ever seen then. Her strange eye was totally black, none of the warm amber shone through that side. And now the other eye, which had always been clean and bright had a small tentacle of black as well.
Merick remembered what she had said to him about the shadow retreating from him. He pressed his forehead gently against hers, his eyes holding hers.
"Come back to me."
His whispered plea reached straight down into Netriet’s heart. The shadow scratched her all over inside as it shrank back. It screamed. Her whole body jerked, and she covered her ears in a pointless reflex to shield herself from the demonic screeching breaking all through her head. Then it stopped.
Merick moved back as Netriet sat up and looked down at herself. She held her hands up to her face, becoming fully lucid for the first time since she fled from Baal. How did she get here? To Merick? She didn't remember. She remembered Zefyre. Seized with self-disgust, she jumped up, pulling at her blood-dried clothes. The fabric ripped in her hands until she stood completely naked.
She spared Merick one quick glance. She'd never seen his eyebrows raise so high before, but she couldn't stop to say anything. She rushed to the bathtub and sank under the water.
Merick watched her. He couldn't help it. He wasn't leering at her. He couldn't think in a carnal way at all at the moment. He watched her scrub herself raw. The black scars all over her body had spread out, just like the one on her cheek. He didn't have
any room in his brain to really consider her new, freakish arm. He'd think about that later.
She fought with the base of the tight braid in her hair. After a moment, she looked at him apologetically. Her eyes held no incrimination at the fact that he just stood there, staring at her.
"Do you have anything to cut this loose with?"
His tongue seemed stuck. He just nodded and went to get the dagger he kept under his pillow. He didn't hand it to her but took the end of her braid and cut it free himself. He set the blade aside and unwound her hair. She let him.
When the braid was undone, she sank all the way under the water, working her hands through her hair as she held her breath. The blood washed away. As soon as she surfaced, she was jumping again, as though she couldn't get out of the water fast enough. She looked at the pink water with loathing.
"Drain it."
He nodded, still unable to speak.
She wadded up all of her clothes into a ball and put them into the fire. She watched the flames begin to consume the fabric before turning back to face him. He kept his eyes resolutely locked on hers, trying to ignore that she stood naked in front of him. He couldn't read what was in her eyes. She looked confused. They both held still, caught in a moment that was nothing short of an enigma.
Then she blinked and looked down at her body. Without a word, she strode to the chest at the foot of his bed, opened it, and pulled out the very same shirt she'd worn the first time he'd had her in his tent. She slipped it over her head, its length barely falling past her butt. She sat down and placed her head in her hands.
"I'm sorry…You must hate me."
"What?" he demanded.
"I'm nothing but trouble to you. And you've always been so kind to me… Thank you."
He knelt before her, placing his hands on her knees. "Tell me what happened."
"I killed Zefyre, the elf priestess, tonight. She's the one who took me from prison and collared me. She was a mole in Fortress. She was sending secret information to Philippe. She used me as a sacrificial messenger. I'm sure she thought Philippe would kill me after I delivered my message. Instead, he kept me, like some kind of pet…I was tortured, starved, played with. Before I killed him, he almost took me as his lover…I wasn't supposed to survive the fall. I was supposed to die when I killed him. Somewhere between life and death, I became this. A transparent being did this to me. She put the shadow in me."
