The image still haunted her sleep at night. She'd stood by, helpless, and watched as one of these thugs stomped another woman to death.
She swung around all the way and saw Warrior Falg standing there with his big, beefy hand wrapped possessively around the back of a young girl's neck. She was obviously an adolescent, if only just barely—they wouldn't bother to try to breed a child too young to conceive. She looked scared, and her eyes caught Jaz's pleadingly.
Shit. They had been concerned that the drug they'd put her on might cause birth defects, so they'd suspended its use as soon as they began raping her. She was now more in control of her mind and body than she'd felt in a long time, but still wasn't sure she could do anything to help the girl.
She didn't want to admit it to herself, but she was afraid to try.
They all stood in the long corridor outside the slave cells, a long, featureless hallway where they'd bring the slaves out for physical exercise twice daily. Falg grinned at her, then leaned forward and ripped the girl's tunic away, revealing small, budding breasts the size of crab apples. He ran a coarse, thick hand over them, still grinning at Jaz. “Not as pretty as you,” he grunted, “but she'll do. At least she's too small to fight."
Jaz blinked at him, heat suffusing her body. She honestly didn't recognize it for what it was, but the telltale tingling that followed was all the warning she received. She'd had enough.
Magesight came upon her so quickly she hadn't been aware of calling it. Her hand lashed out and snatched a passing thread, one end of which she hurled at the unsuspecting warrior.
It was nearly solid when it struck, several feet of deliberately barbed thread wrapping around his body as she held tightly to the other end. “You know, asshole, I'm going to suffer for this, but at least I'll never have to feel your filthy paws on me again."
She jerked on her end of the strand. The girl stumbled forward as the razor sharp thread tore upward through the warrior's body, literally filleting him alive. His scream, filled with as much pain and terror as she'd ever heard from her fellow slaves, echoed in her ears and sent her heart to pounding with a kind of mad, fierce joy. Die, motherfucker.
He did. In fact, he exploded in a burst of blood, bone, muscle, and marrow as she snatched the thread back and felt it dissipate from her hand. The aches of her months of abuse seemed to vanish as unreasoning rage flooded through her.
A howl of anger snapped her head around to and she saw two more of the warriors rushing toward her apparently unprotected back. Not quite unprotected. She snatched a spell out of her web with each hand and flung them at the charging Neanderthals.
The first one met the spell mid-stride, not even having time to scream as he found himself suddenly caught in the middle of a column of blue-white flame. His skin and flesh ran in smoking rivulets like melting wax and in seconds he was nothing more than a pool of steaming fat on the floor.
The other spell caught the second Neanderthal as he tried to halt his forward momentum. He skidded to a halt, eyes flashing to his former comrade and widening in shock and horror as he vanished in a gout of fire. An instant later, he found that he had reason to envy his companion's fate, for the spell that struck him was far more insidious. He staggered back, wrapping thick hands around his churning gut as his stomach acids began eating him alive from the inside. A choked cry and a fountain of foamy blood sprayed in unison from his maw as he dropped to his knees.
She walked over and retrieved Falg's sword. She hefted it experimentally, grimacing. Far shorter than what she was used to, but it would do. It was reminiscent of a Roman gladius in that it too was a short, triangular sword made more for formation fighting than fencing. Not that she cared one way or another. A blade was a blade. For the first time in months she felt back in charge of herself.
It took ten minutes for the slaves to seize control of the corridor and the transit discs at both ends. They didn't know how to work them, but at least no one was going to sneak in past them.
* * * *
Hecate slowly rose to her feet, her soft feminine voice tightening to the point it nearly cracked with the effort. “They what?"
The Neanderthal guard threw himself on his face in front of her, quivering in terror. “They took control of the slave corridor, mistress,” he moaned.
"How?” she hissed. She climbed down off the dais, deliberately grinding the heel of her shoe into his knuckles as she walked across his hand. “Well, you stinking baboon, how did they manage to take the slave quarters?"
"We don't know yet, mistress,” he sniveled.
"Useless piece of trash,” she snarled over her shoulder. She did her best to stride dramatically from the room, hampered only by the restraining grasp of the form-fitting black dress she wore. “I should kill them all!
"In fact, I think I will!"
* * * *
Threads of mana exploded in all directions as Hecate stepped off the transit disk. They snatched slaves up off the ground and dashed them against the nearest solid object, painting the walls and floor with blood, brains, and other bodily fluids.
Shit! Jaz barely got a defense up in time before a thread lashed out at her. Standing some seventy-five feet in front of her, Hecate's perfect features were twisted into a grinning mask of menace. “So you think you're a mage, you bitch?"
Jaz spent the next fifteen minutes fighting for her life as both of them sucked every last vestige of mana from the ether in the immediate vicinity. Neither bothered to craft spell one, instead relying entirely on the simplest mana effects. Raw power clashed against raw power. It took only a few desperate minutes for Jaz to recognize how badly she was outclassed. Hecate filled the air with a multitude of threads, each one a humming wire of death that cut through everything in its path. Those slaves not fast enough to get out of the way were sliced to bloody ribbons as each thread passed.
Jaz finally stumbled, falling to her knees as a strand tore her last defense away. Hecate strode toward her, the rage in her eyes fading, becoming instead clear satisfaction. She gestured and a transit tube snapped into place, disgorging a trio of Neanderthal warriors. They rushed to Jaz and smashed the sword from her grasp.
She struggled in vain as two of them grabbed each of her arms and held her firmly between them. Hecate drew closer, holding one thin, black-nailed finger in front of her like some obscene parody of ET. “We didn't realize you were a mage,” she whispered through lips drawn so tight they'd turned white. “If we had, we would have dealt with you a little differently. Ordinarily I'd make you suffer—leave you able to see mana, but unable to touch it. Right now I don't want to waste the energy. No, there's a far more expedient way to deal with bitches like you.” Her finger seemed to glow with a strange light just as it stabbed outward and drove itself into Jaz's right eye.
Jaz screamed and bucked against the restraining arms. She pushed her chin into her chest, trying to protect her other eye, but Hecate merely reached forward and lifted her chin as if her strength was no greater than a child's. A burning pain shot through her other eye and she felt the world spinning away.
She was unconscious before she hit the floor.
"Throw her in her cell and clean up this corridor. Give me a list of the survivors as soon as you have it,” Hecate ordered one of her minions. “That idiot Falg probably antagonized her more than he should have.” She sighed. “Doesn't excuse what she did, but he certainly got what he deserved for his stupidity. It's too bad, really. Had he survived he would have been the first test subject for the immortality virus we've developed. Yes, it may well have killed him, but I have reason to believe it will have a better success rate than the Thanatos virus that made me and my kind what we are in the first place."
"As you will, mistress,” the Neanderthal she'd addressed replied with a steep bow. “She will be dealt with as you order, and a list of survivors will be drawn up immediately."
"Good. Your name is Worg, right?"
"Yes, mistress."
"You will be my new Master of
the Guard. If you prove smarter than Falg I will give you the immorality virus."
Worg hid his look of fear. He knew all too well the virus could kill him as easily as it could make him immortal. But if he showed any lack of faith in his mistress, he'd die anyway. Better to take the chance of becoming immortal than throw it all away right here and now. “Thank you, mistress."
* * * *
"Bingo!” Chaz's shout of joy was loud enough it echoed through the lab complex with enough force to stop all the techs in their tracks. “We found her!"
The imp materialized not two feet away, startling the hell out of Chaz. For a change, his trademark grin was missing. “It's about goddamn time,” he growled. “Send me there now."
"Don't you think we should—"
"—wait for orders from on high? No. I don't give a damn about orders. I'm going. Open the ‘gate."
Before he had a chance to consider the ramifications of taking orders from a two-foot tall blue magical construct, or to consider the possible repercussions of not following the imp's instructions Chaz reached out and activated the mechanism. The ‘gate came up as the overhead lights flickered. Quickfingers offered a jaunty salute. “Don't wait up for me,” he said, “this might take a while.” He flashed a grin and leaped through the doorway of silver light.
* * * *
The warrior crashed onto his back, the banana peel shooting across the corridor as if thrown from a slingshot. He grunted in pain and levered himself to a sitting position. “Where the hell did that come from?” he asked no one in particular.
He pushed himself painfully to his feet, glanced around, and took another step toward the transit disk at the other end of the corridor. And felt small round objects beneath his foot, which subsequently shot out from underneath him.
He felt his groin muscles tear as he hit the floor, howling in sudden agony.
And felt a sudden breeze on his face as he stared up into the radiant gold eyes of a small blue creature grinning down at him.
"Hello, asshole,” Quickfingers said. “Welcome to hell. I'll be your tour guide."
The strange creature vanished with a loud explosion of air and the warrior began dragging himself slowly and painfully across the floor toward the transit disk. Hecate wasn't going to like this at all.
He contemplated crawling the other direction for all of about five seconds. If he didn't report to his mistress the pain in his groin would feel like a lover's caress in comparison to what she would do to him.
* * * *
"Worg!” Hecate screamed, springing to her feet. Her dress had just leaped up, seemingly of its own volition, and covered her upper body. She fought against the silk fabric but even her immortal strength wasn't enough to rip it free. She felt something shove hard against her back and tumbled end over end down the steps of her dais to land in a tangled heap on the floor before the dais.
Worg charged into the room to find his mistress lying on the floor as if thrown there, her dress pulled up over her head and her shapely white legs kicking at the empty air. “What the—” He strode forward and helped her to her feet, pulling the dress back down as she cursed and spat at him in impotent rage.
Despite the fact that she could see no sign of a smile on his face, Hecate had the distinct impression he was laughing at her. Only the fact that she didn't want to waste any more time training yet another replacement kept him from dying on the spot.
She smoothed the dress and glared at him as if he was the cause of her misfortune. Someone was responsible for humiliation—she'd find out who if it were the last thing she ever did.
* * * *
Quickfingers materialized in the small lab off Hecate's throne room, fighting with all his strength to suppress a giggle. He'd been hanging around for three days, trying to figure out where Jaz was. Today was the first time he'd heard anything relating to her whereabouts. But of even more interest was the ‘immortality’ virus the black-clad bitch had been boasting about almost non-stop. She used it as either a threat or a promised reward for the heavy-browed fellow who seemed to cater to her every whim. Quickfingers couldn't understand why or how immortality could be used as a threat, but that hardly mattered.
Jaz had been blinded, her eyes burned from their sockets. He'd overheard that just today and only a supreme effort of will had kept him from leaping on Hecate's shoulders and snatching her hair—assuming she had hair—right out of her pointy little head.
From what he'd overheard, both here and on Earth, he knew that even a parahuman couldn't regenerate something like eyes. She'd be blind for life even if he could somehow manage to spirit her away.
He was pretty certain she'd rather be dead than suffer the loss of her magic. He could relate. He didn't really know how to use them, but he was slowly gaining ground figuring out the black gemstones embedded in his hands.
But the immortality virus would allow her to re-grow her eyes. Immortals could survive almost anything—except, he understood, a deathblow from a crystal weapon. She'd brought him life. At the very least he should be willing to return the favor. It was, after all, only fair.
He jumped to the counter top and snatched up one of the hypodermic needles laid out carefully in the small rack next to the microscope. He knew these were the immortality virus ... the only cultures Hecate had thus far developed. After a moment of thought he grabbed up the other three and cautiously slid them inside his own body. They should be safe enough there. Certainly no one would think to look inside of him.
They might come in handy. Maybe he could even find a way to reproduce them.
He smiled to himself. Now wouldn't that be a knee-slapper? Quickfingers with the power to bestow or withhold the gift of immortality. The irony was indescribably delicious.
The first hypo still clutched in his hand, he dashed out of the lab, screeching to a halt some fifty feet away from Hecate and her main bootlicker. “Hey! Yeah, you—wicked stepmother face! I got your immortality virus and I'm not giving it back. Hah!"
He bounded toward the exit at the other end of the throne room as Worg shouted for reinforcements. The doors exploded inward, spewing a host of armed warriors—all stampeding in his direction.
He let out a fiendish giggle and leaped high, bouncing off the lead warrior's head and flinging himself far into the air, where he teleported away with a loud cackle of glee and a report like the discharge of a pistol.
"What was that thing?” Hecate snapped at Worg, who had no more idea than she did. “Forget it! I don't care! Find it and kill it!"
* * * *
"Boss?"
Jaz rolled over with a groan. What a weird dream. She could swear she heard Quickfingers. Her fingers came up and rubbed her face, careful to avoid her eye sockets. She'd been blind for what seemed like years, though knew it couldn't have been more than a couple of weeks.
The one compensation was that none of the warriors had come in to breed with her since her failed revolt. Maybe they were afraid of her, or perhaps Hecate had given her a reprieve until her wounds healed.
So much for vengeance. She had no choice but to remain here as some sort of living test tube for Hecate's breeding program. She'd rather have died. She wished she had.
"Dammit, boss. Wake up!” Something grasped her shoulder and shook her.
She rolled over, grasping outward and finding an oddly squishy form at the end of her reach. “Quickfingers!"
"In the flesh,” he replied, grinning from ear to ear to ear to ear—though she couldn't see it, “or a reasonable facsimile thereof."
She would have burst into tears if she'd any tear ducts remaining. As it was her voice jammed in her throat and she struggled to speak at all. He patted her shoulder. “I'm here to rescue you, but it might take a while. We're going to need you in top form for this. I can't quite get around this place the way I get around on Earth. Lie still ... this might sting a little."
She felt the jab of the needle into her arm and burning cold spreading through her limbs. “W ... what did
you give me?"
"Something to make it all better,” he said. “Just lie there and let it do its job."
"Thanks, Quickfing...” Her words fell off as she dropped into sleep. He climbed up on the cot beside her and pulled her head into his lap.
"I love you, boss,” he murmured softly.
* * * *
"I'm sure I can use the restroom by myself,” Breed growled, glowering at Deryk Shea from the doorway.
"Can you be absolutely certain of that?” he replied, leaning against the corridor wall and crossing his arms over his broad chest. “We don't know how the others have been snatched. Maybe they were taken from off the toilet, or out of the shower. It would explain how they didn't manage to defend themselves."
They'd been sniping at one another in much the same manner for the past two weeks—Nemesis Breed growing more irritable by the day, Shea becoming far calmer and more unflappable. He actually had an amazing talent for remaining unobtrusive—at least as unobtrusive as a squat, homely man built like a fireplug could remain.
Breed was moderately surprised no one had mistaken him for a coat rack. He could stand for hours just inside the door of her office, in much the same position as he was now, gray-blue eyes affixed on something far beyond the range of her vision.
Frankly, she found it more than little disconcerting. She'd wanted very much to spend time with him, and had jumped at the chance when offered, but now she was seriously starting to regret it. He was terrible company. The only time he ever said anything was when he wanted to argue against her having any privacy at all.
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