by Jory Strong
And yet to go meekly, in the hopes she could endure whatever punishment Allende intended to mete out …
The slowing of the car sent a raw panic through her. Visceral terror followed with the sight of a man standing by the side of the road, an apparition dressed in a black, hooded cloak and wearing a leather mask to conceal his face.
Too late she attempted to place her hands over the guards’ hearts. They grabbed her wrists, keeping her palms from contacting their skin as if they’d guessed she might be capable of bringing them to the attention of the ancestors.
She struggled against being removed from the car. Struggled then to escape and flee into the woods, but she was no match for even a single Were, much less two of them.
Thick arms tightened around her chest with enough force to make breathing impossible. Immobilized her with the silent, ruthless promise that continued resistance would lead to broken ribs as she was taken to where the man waited.
“Good, she has some instinct for self-preservation,” he said, his voice making Rebekka think of jagged, metal edges. “I was afraid she’d hardly be worth the money when your lord said she was a healer.”
A gloved hand emerged from the cape, a velvet bag in its palm. With the flick of a wrist he tossed it to Allende’s man.
The guard caught it, and Rebekka heard the unmistakable sound of coins. He pocketed it then accepted a length of rope.
“Bind her wrists in front of her and put her in the sidecar. There’s a metal loop in the floor. Secure her to it.”
Rebekka looked to the right and noticed the narrow path for the first time, and in the center of it, several yards away and hidden from the road, the motorcycle. She began struggling again, only to feel the sharp pain of ribs being compressed almost to the breaking point.
She stopped fighting, tears streaming down her face, breath whooshing in and out of her lungs as the grip around her chest loosened. Pride kept her from pleading, from begging as the guards carried out the masked man’s instructions.
When she was bound in place, secured so she couldn’t escape the sidecar, the man pulled a strip of cloth from his cloak. Rather than order the guard to do it, he wrapped it around her head, blindfolding her.
The bike shifted with his weight. The engine started and they began moving.
“WITCHES,” Aryck spat again as pain engulfed him when he crossed the wards separating the red zone from the area Levi said was set aside for gifted humans.
The same curse sounded in his thoughts but remained unspoken a short time later when they found one of the Wainwrights in the doorway of a sigil-marked house, there to usher them inside with ominous words. “Levanna waits. She saw your coming and knows the reason you seek her out.”
The matriarch sat in a darkened parlor. An ancient, sightless crone who made Aryck think of midnight horror stories told to shivering cubs around the fire pit.
“Time runs out for the healer,” Levanna said. “It runs out in the brothel as well. After Allende metes out the punishment he wants witnessed to those he feels betrayed him, or intended to, he plans to sell their contracts to the Pleasure Venture. It arrives in port shortly.”
“What do you want?” Aryck asked, unwilling to drag the bargaining process out and risk being too late to save Rebekka.
The matriarch turned white-moon eyes on him and the hairs rose at the back of his neck. “A favor owed. One from each of you.”
“Accepted,” Levi said, Lion stare offering the same challenge it had on the Constellation.
This time Aryck couldn’t be goaded. He was the enforcer. Son of the alpha. His life, his eternal soul, he could forfeit. But even for Rebekka he wouldn’t betray the Weres, or destroy the very thing her presence on their lands had brought about. “I won’t become a tool to use against the pack or those it forms alliances with.”
Laughter greeted his pronouncement, making his skin crawl as though he’d landed in a spider’s nest. “Done,” the witch said.
From the depths of her black garments she pulled a small willow cutting, the ends brought around and lashed together to form a circle reminding Aryck of Rebekka’s amulet. A red cardinal feather hung in the center, attached to the frame by a beaded string.
Levanna cupped the charm, holding it against her lips and whispering a spell. When she was done she held it between her thumb and forefinger.
An unnatural wind stirred, moving through the willow circle and carrying the feather to the end of the string at the same height as the hand holding it. It continued to point in the same direction when she transferred it to Aryck.
“I saw only one man with Rebekka,” Levanna said. “Perhaps you’ll reach her in time. Perhaps not. Annalise will show you out.”
As Aryck followed the witch with the skunk-striped hair to the front door, he said to Levi, “Do what you can to save the outcasts. Rebekka would want it. Seek help from the Iberás you spoke of earlier. I’ll go to Rebekka.”
Thirty-five
LIKE the day she’d been blindfolded by Annalise and taken to a client, Rebekka couldn’t guess how far they traveled, or where they were when they stopped and the motorcycle engine was silenced.
She expected to be left blindfolded. Instead the man removed it, and she immediately knew why.
It took effort to keep from whimpering at the sight of the house. It sat in isolation, surrounded by a dense forest of pines. Every window was covered by bars, not to keep the predators out, but to keep the prey in.
Behind the mask, pleasure emanated from the man. “Should I tell you what’s in store for you now, or would you prefer to take a tour of the house first?”
“Now,” Rebekka said, somehow managing to force the word out.
He laughed, a sound resonating with such pure evil her skin chilled and broke out in gooseflesh.
“You’re going to be quite a bit more fun for our potential initiate than I anticipated.”
She couldn’t stop herself from shivering, from desperately searching the woods for a flash of cardinal red. He saw both actions and laughed again.
“No one will come to rescue you. But it would hardly be sporting if you didn’t have a chance to save yourself.”
The man moved around the motorcycle, leaned down, and untied the rope from the metal loop welded into the floor of the sidecar. “I’ve changed my mind. I think you’ll better appreciate your situation from inside the house.”
He stepped away and jerked hard, using the rope binding her wrists like a leash. “Come along. Your company will arrive shortly and I’m sure you want to be ready for your guest.”
Rebekka knew she should preserve her strength and energy, but she couldn’t bring herself to go passively into the house. She fought like a fish at the end of a line.
It was a hopeless battle, leaving her shoulders aching and her wrists raw and bloody. It was a struggle that ended with the rope draped over a staircase banister and tied there, forcing her hands to remain raised above her head.
“This will do as a starting point,” the man said, breathing heavily, not from physical exertion as a result of her fighting him, but from his excitement over it.
He dangled a key in front of her face. It was threaded onto a velvet ribbon.
“This opens the front door,” he said, demonstrating the truth of it by walking over and inserting the key into the lock, twisting it so she heard a telltale click.
He unlocked the door and removed the key, separated the ribbon strands so he could wear it around his neck.
“Your visitor will let himself into the house. He will disrobe if he so chooses, though I’ve found few potential members choose to do so, not when they’re so very aware of being captured on camera initially.”
Rebekka’s attention jerked to the ceiling. Cameras were mounted there, sickening her, reminding her of the maze and the gambling clubs that profited from those running in it.
Cold, evil laughter made her look at the masked figure once again. “Your face is so expressive. I can tell you’re thinking about Anto
n’s little venture. It might amuse you to know that for a while he served as the family priest for several of our members.
“In some ways this is similar to his sadly defunct operation. But in all the ways that count, it’s different. Only those among the crème of Oakland society are invited to run in our houses and join the elite who make up our membership. To be accepted they must do one thing, prove they really do enjoy the combination of murder and sex.”
He waved at the cameras. “If the prospect loses his nerve, this little film catching him in the act of rape buys his silence. It unfortunately doesn’t buy your freedom, or save your life, unless you’re able to capitalize on your visitor’s weakness and get the key—which by club rule must be worn around a guest’s neck—and leave the house. If you accomplish that, then you will be given money enough to start a new life elsewhere.
“You will be escorted to that new life by men in our employ. Any whisper of what took place here will end in a death meted out by a professional in such matters.
“If, despite the lack of nerve and initiative to end things with a kill, your guest manages to keep the key in his possession and prevent you from escaping, it merely buys you time to regain your strength so you’ll provide at least somewhat of a challenge to your next visitor.”
He touched the key. “Somehow I don’t think you’ll get a second run, not unless you’re willing to sacrifice your gift for your life. I suspect that’s why Allende offered you to me, because in some way, your talent for healing has become a problem to him. Would you care to satisfy my curiosity on the matter?”
When she didn’t answer, he shrugged and returned to the staircase. He climbed the few steps necessary to untie the rope serving as a leash.
“We’ll forgo a tour of the upstairs, I think. There are several rooms with beds and a few with assorted clutter to add excitement to the chase. There are even a couple of them with doors that close and lock from the inside, though you’ve got to reach them first.”
He paused to study the staircase. Cold chills went through Rebekka when he said, “A lot of very satisfying, dramatic scenes have concluded with a desperate attempt to get to the second floor. But now it’s time for a quick tour of the downstairs before getting you prepared for your visitor.”
He led her through the house, jerking the leash if she didn’t follow quickly enough to suit him. Living room, dining room, bathroom, except for the cameras, they appeared perfectly normal, like a house owned by a merchant, comfortable but not luxurious.
In the kitchen, skillets hung from the wall but the cabinets and pantries were bare. The drawers were empty, save for the long, sharp knife he extracted from one of them.
“In the usual situation you’d be allowed some time to prepare your defense. You’d simply be set free in the house and left with the knowledge that at some point there would be an ‘intruder’ if that was the particular fantasy being played out, or perhaps an angry husband returning home to deal with an unfaithful wife, or—”
With a laugh he interrupted himself. “My apologies for giving you needless things to consider. As the House Master and Director of Scenes for this particular dwelling, I tend toward enthusiasm when it comes to all the delightful possibilities. To be a bit more succinct, normally you’d be set free and left to your own devices. But since this is essentially an initiation into our club, we don’t want to make things too challenging for our prospective member. And yet at the same time, our rules do require you have a chance to save yourself.”
He flipped the knife into the air and caught it, repeating the action as he tugged her into the room at the end of the hallway. It was a bedroom.
Rebekka fought him again when he looped his end of the rope through a metal ring set into the wall next to the door. Her wrists began bleeding but she didn’t stop until her arms were once again forced into position above her head and the rope secured to a second loop several feet below and to the right of the first.
The man shook his head and tsked. “A waste of effort on your part, though I suppose it doesn’t really matter. As I said a moment ago, we want our candidate to succeed.”
He moved closer and touched the knife to her throat, making small, imaginary cuts there before slowly unbuttoning her shirt with his free hand. Instinctively she tried to drive him away with her knee. He backhanded her hard enough her ears rang and for a moment she was dizzy.
“You’re safe enough from me, unless you continue to be difficult,” he said, leaning in so the leather of his mask touched her cheek. “But persist and I promise you I will have you before the prospect gets his chance to. It’s not against our rules for the House Master to enjoy the fruits of his labor before a scene runs.”
She shuddered. Forced herself to remain passive as he used the knife to strip away her clothing and leave them in useless pieces on the floor at her feet.
He touched the tip of the blade to the tattoo, traced the black circle and the red P. “This is unexpected.” His voice was heavy with displeasure. “It makes me wonder if you’re a discarded whore instead of a gifted healer as Allende claimed. Tell me, did he lie?”
Rebekka hesitated, trying to work out which answer might be more to her advantage. He backhanded her again, hard enough to split her lip.
“The truth,” he said. “There’s time enough for me to make a few discreet inquires, and time after I do it to teach you a lesson, even if it’s a short-lived one.”
“I’m one of the gifted.”
“Good. See how easy that was?” He was breathing fast again, excited by hitting her while she was naked and defenseless.
She trembled, and his eyes seemed to glitter. The tip of the knife left the tattoo, snaking upward in a slow, sinuous journey that made her skin crawl.
It finally stopped at the leather cord attached to the amulet. “I’m tempted to leave this as decoration but I’m afraid it might be an unfair advantage since it’s obviously witchcrafted.”
He slid the knife underneath and cut, catching the amulet and tucking it into a pocket rather than letting it fall to the floor.
“Perhaps I’d better make sure I didn’t miss anything,” he said, crouching down and quickly going through her clothing, finding the Wainwright token. “Ah, good thing I checked.”
He tossed the garments from the room then stood. “Now then, here’s the scene I’ve arranged for you. In a moment I will escort you to the bed and retie you there, leaving enough slack in the rope to allow movement on your part. I will then place the knife at the end of the mattress.
“If you’re careful, and even remotely coordinated, rather than kick it off the bed you should be able to use your feet and body to work it upward, toward your hands. How you approach cutting through the bindings at your wrists, I’ll leave up to you.
“If you work quickly, you should be free before your visitor arrives. If not … well the failure is yours. Our rules were honored and you were given a chance to save yourself.”
This time Rebekka didn’t fight him. She went docilely, lying down as directed and trying to blank her mind to his presence, to the possibility he’d rape her before he left.
When he was finished arranging the scene to his liking, he caressed her cheek with the back of his gloved hand. “I’m looking forward to seeing just what your choice will be. Your gift. Or your life. Assuming of course, you free yourself first and manage to maneuver into a position where you can use the knife against your guest.”
Icy numbness replaced a terror that couldn’t be sustained any longer. But it didn’t suppress Rebekka’s will to live. Even as he left the room, his footsteps sounding in the hallway, she was working the knife upward, losing all track of time as she raced to free herself.
Slashes soon marked her forearms where she’d cut herself on the knife’s blade. And by the time the bloodstained rope fell away from her wrists, her skin was slick with sweat.
Rebekka rushed from the room, anxious to get away from the bed, though she knew it didn’t matter. A lifetime
of witnessing how closely knit violence and sexual satisfaction were for some had demonstrated how unimportant comfort was when it came to sating those needs.
The shredded remains of her clothing no longer lay in the hallway. Like cold, merciless eyes, she was aware of the cameras capturing her nakedness, her every movement, and what might be the last minutes and hours of her life—all for the twisted, sick entertainment of others.
She considered returning to the kitchen and taking a skillet but discarded the idea. Effectively wielding it in one hand and the knife in the other would be impossible.
Her throat closed on the icy horror of the choice confronting her. When it came to what it would cost her, there would be no difference between injuring the man coming here or killing him.
Tears formed, unwanted but unstoppable. They fell as she heard the Bear ancestor’s voice in her mind, saying as long as her gift remained untainted, she had the power to fully restore Were souls.
Was it better to die than live without being able to use her gift? For so long, it was how she’d defined herself.
The final scene with Aryck played out in her mind, the choice she’d made then, sacrificing the role of mother and mate for that of healer.
I can have that kind of life with someone else, she told herself, though a part of her doubted she could ever trust another man enough to open her heart to him.
She brushed away the tears and steeled herself against shedding more of them. First she had to survive long enough to escape.
The door was locked, as she expected it to be. From there she moved into the living room to look out the window.
She tried to think as her attacker would. To consider what he would expect, how his own nervousness and excitement and fear might be used to her advantage.
Would he be told she was one of the gifted? Would he expect pleading and discount the potential for violence?
A hot wash of bile crawled up her throat as she imagined his thoughts, his feelings, his desire to rape a woman then kill her afterward. Her heart felt as though it would leap out of her chest when she heard the sound of a motorcycle.
