Darr

by Theresa Beachman

  He opened his mouth to say something then changed his mind, pursing his lips as he eased into the chair that faced the bed. He placed his gun on the armrest, nudging it with his fingertip to ensure the barrel was straight.

  “Cassy is here for the same reason as you.” He inhaled, savoring the moment, a wicked smile on his too-perfect lips.

  Violet repressed a shudder. “You can go fuck yourself.”

  Behind Judge, Clarkie blanched, his eyes bugging out, but Judge laughed. “No, sweetheart. That’s your job.” He stood, retrieved his weapon, and stretched, walking toward her in measured steps.

  He took her shoulders and squeezed them. “Men have a higher survival rate in this new world of ours. Makes sense. But that makes you special—well, a little, anyway. A commodity to be enjoyed as required, given that the men are out there doing all the fighting.”

  “Women fight too.” The words were out before she could stop them.

  The edges of his mouth turned down. “There are more important roles for women now. Equality is a goner, and women are good for three things.” He held up his large hand and ticked off points. “One, domestic crap. Two, babies. And three, entertainment.” He raised an eyebrow. “That’s where you come in sweetheart. Fucking.”

  Violet swallowed and slowed her breathing, battling to remain in control.

  Judge stood up. “Cassy will let you know what’s expected.” He clicked his fingers in Cassy’s direction. “Get her ready.” Cassy lowered her head in acknowledgment.

  At the door, Clarkie tailing him, Judge paused. He twirled the room key on his finger and grinned, his lips peeling back. “I think I’m going to really enjoy our friendship, sweetheart.”

  36

  Darr arrived at the Box with fresh bruises from being stashed in the trunk of the boosted car Mathew had thrashed every inch of the goddamn way. Darr was still handcuffed, his hands linked to his feet by a length of dirty rope.

  After hustling him out of the car, Mathew walked him in a shuffling parade down a long corridor painted red, jabbing Darr in the spine with his gun.

  Darr let himself be guided. The Scutter was still in the vicinity, its nearness prompting a tang of pain.

  Violet was also here, and she was alive. He knew it.

  In the space of forty-eight hours, she’d upended his world and burrowed her way into his heart—the heart he’d isolated from the rest of the world to protect himself and everyone else. But his defenses had been no match for her. Violet had shown him other possibilities, and while the emotions surrounding his ‘ability’ were raw and new, something else had taken root.

  Hope.

  Hope he could live a life with other people again. And hope that Violet might agree to be a part of that life. He was going to find her and tell her the Chittrix had stolen his life, but she’d given it back to him.

  Darr released a breath. Something was coming. He saw it in the arrogant tilt of Mathew’s shoulders as they headed deeper into the Box.

  But he was ready. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he was ready.

  Finally, they left the corridor, cutting through an abandoned telephone exchange. Wires still hung from the black Bakelite system running the length of the room. A single cup rested on the countertop, long forgotten.

  On the other side of the exchange, a wall had been demolished within a large walk-in cupboard, creating a passageway to an enormous cavern on the other side.

  Darr stumbled into the underground chamber tripping on loose rubble. Around him, rock walls soared, narrowing to a chimney through which the sky was visible. He turned, soaking it in, his mouth loose in momentary wonder.

  At ground level, it was the size of a basketball court, roughly oval in shape, its jagged walls scored with ledges and crannies. A breeze drifted from above, bringing the scent of snow and moss. Darr inhaled, calming his nerves.

  His skin prickled in warning, and Judge appeared from a dark arch at the far end of the vast space. He clapped his hands at seeing Darr and strode over, his eyes bright with enjoyment. A thickset man with red hair tagged along behind him, his hands clumsy and awkward-looking on the pulse rifle he carried.

  Judge came to a halt, and he extended his hand. “Ah. The dead boyfriend. Excellent.”

  Darr eyeballed Judge, meeting his steely glare without hesitation.

  Judge slapped his hand across his eyes and bent backward in mock horror. “Fuck me. How can you shake my hand when you’re tied up like a baboon?” He snapped his fingers. “Mathew.” He pointed at the rope binding Darr.

  Mathew frowned. “But—”

  “We do not tie up our guests. Be quick.” He stepped back to allow Mathew to cut the rope.

  Favoring his damaged fingers, Mathew sawed through the knot of thick hessian, sweat peppering the skin above his eyebrows. The rope snapped free, and Mathew tapped Darr once on the forearm with the flat blade of his knife and retreated.

  Darr rubbed the red welts on his wrists. His ankles remained shackled, but at least there was blood circulating to his hands again. “Where’s Violet?”

  Judge stuck out a big hand.

  Darr glanced from Judge to the other two men. Mathew stared right back while the big, redheaded guy’s eyes jived all over the place.

  “Waiting.” Judge indicated his outstretched palm.

  Darr placed his hand against Judge’s and shook it, his skin crawling. He broke the grip, fighting the urge to wipe his palm on the bare rock to scrape Judge’s skin cells from his body.

  Judge tilted his head. “I do like to shake hands with participants.”

  Darr frowned. What the hell was he talking about?

  At Darr’s feet lay neat piles of chains, clean and rust free. Mathew shifted and kicked a bolt secured deep into the rock floor, drawing Darr’s attention. Their eyes locked.

  Judge ignored Mathew or remained oblivious—Darr wasn’t sure which. If Judge ran this place, he wasn’t a man to underestimate.

  “Where’s Violet?” Darr repeated.

  This time Judge answered. “She’s quite the prize, isn’t she? Women are a rare commodity nowadays, especially beautiful ones.” Judge walked away from Darr, widening his arms in an expansive gesture. He peered over his shoulder. “I’m not going to let that sweetheart just walk away. She’s mine now.”

  Darr squared his shoulders, cricking his neck as a vein throbbed uncomfortably.

  Judge was on a roll. He raised his arms to the circle of azure sky above their heads, then swiveled on his heel. “Don’t you find life a bit fucking boring since everything went to shit?” He stalked back to Darr and leaned in close, his breath tickling Darr’s earlobe. “I’ve had to improvise. Make my own entertainment.” He whirled a finger at Darr and gave a soft chuckle.

  Sweat pooled in the small of Darr’s back. “I’m glad you’re amused by your own brilliance. What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “I am brilliant aren’t I, Clarkie?”

  Darr fixated on a spot to the left of Judge’s temple, blanking out the roar of blood in his ears.

  “Um, yeah.” Red-haired Clarkie fiddled with the safety of his pulse rifle, avoiding eye contact.

  “I want to make you an offer,” Judge finally volunteered.

  Darr scowled. “An offer?”

  “Yes. Well, opportunity. Not optional, sadly.”

  Darr sucked in a breath. Humoring Judge was the only way forward. He clamped his teeth to contain all the words he wanted to unleash on the megalomaniac strutting through the dust. “What opportunity?” Darr ground out.

  “To fight your way out of here.”

  “I don’t understand,” Darr said.

  “This. My arena. The entertainment in this fucking boring world with no internet or TV or naked bars. Fighting is what I enjoy and what I give my men. Keeps them motivated.”

  Judge stepped close and jabbed Darr on the breastbone. “I like you, you’re smart. You might last more than ten minutes.” He grinned, his teeth gleaming in the pa
le light, his eyes shining with bloodlust.

  Darr turned around, reassessing the vast cavern. Studying the walls, he clocked deep gouges scarring the surface. Blood marked the pale rock.

  Realization sank deep and cold into his bones.

  This was a gladiatorial arena.

  Heaviness pressed against his chest, slowing his breathing. He rolled his shoulders to free his ribs and spoke in a clear voice. “Okay. But I want Violet’s freedom in return.” He was a freak. What could be more fitting than putting him in an arena to fight for entertainment?

  Judge feigned surprise. “You will?”

  Darr glared. “You fucking deaf?”

  Judge clapped his hands and bounced on the balls of his feet. “I knew you’d be agreeable—not that there’s an alternative anyway.” He glanced at his bare wrist then grinned up through dark lashes, his eyebrows knitted in anticipation. “Wouldn’t you know, there’s an empty slot in the schedule. Mathew. Take him, and let the men know. Tonight, there will be entertainment!”

  Mathew grabbed Darr and hustled him toward the arena exit, but Darr shook him off and came to a dead halt. “I said I want Violet’s freedom in return.”

  Judge smirked, but his eyes were cold and reptilian. “I’m sorry. At what point did I give you the impression this is up for negotiation?”

  “I fight. You let Violet go free.” Darr waited for a response.

  Judge regarded him, tapping one finger on his lips as if he really was giving the issue consideration. “You seem to think you’ll survive this.”

  “There’s always a chance,” Darr said, his face impassive.

  Mathew stepped between Darr and Judge and opened his mouth to speak but Judge stopped him with a raised palm, not taking his eyes off Darr.

  Judge leered. “If you survive.” He snapped his fingers. The conversation was over.

  Darr let himself be led. Judge clearly thought this was a death sentence but he had a plan…and a new skill set.

  37

  It was evening when Violet was finally escorted from the room by Clarkie. Three more men shadowed them, their pulse rifles cocked and ready, but they deferred to Clarkie as he lumbered at the head of their small entourage. He held the door open for Violet as if they were on a first date and walked at her side, guiding her with his large hand in the small of her back.

  Cassy shadowed behind Violet like some archaic lady-in-waiting, dressed in a crimson high-necked dress that hugged her curves and left nothing to the imagination. A thick leather collar still constrained her neck, resting on the soft fabric of her dress—a brutal reminder of their captivity. Fiona skirted alongside, sucking her thumb and clutching a ruined plastic doll’s head, her fingers laced through Cassy’s.

  Violet was free from the cutting edges of the cable ties, and she was thankful. She was less grateful for the change of wardrobe.

  She’d been stripped of the clothes Darr had given her. Unobserved for a moment, Violet had buried her face into the softness and inhaled the scent of green and leaves. The smell of freedom. She’d allowed herself a second of grief before locking herself down.

  Cassy had handed her a dress and Violet relinquished the pants, her jaw locked, and her head high. Darr had given up on her. He’d turned and walked away. She was on her own now.

  The dress Cassy had chosen was of soft gray wool. It would prevent her from freezing to death, but it clasped every inch of her from mid-thigh to the curve of her collarbone. Violet kept tugging at the hem in a futile effort to cover her bare thighs. At least she was wearing her own boots. Cassy had been unable to find shoes that fit her, so she’d be able to kick any would-be assaulters in the face. Violet consoled herself with that image as she wrapped her arms in a protective embrace over her breasts.

  A collar also circled Violet’s neck. She was convinced it had belonged to a dog. The leather chafed the skin on her clavicle, a physical reminder that Judge had claimed her like an animal. She was still uncertain what he had planned for her. Cassy remained tight-lipped, although the compressed lines of her mouth confirmed Violet’s worst suspicions.

  As they walked past other men, there were catcalls and leers. His face flaming red, Clarkie told them to shut the fuck up, throwing one against the wall like he was tossing a cat. “No fucking manners,” he muttered, straightening his neck.

  Violet took comfort that even in this misogynistic hellhole, decent men were still alive. Maybe there was hope for the human race yet.

  She heard the noise of their destination before they arrived. Men roared and cheered, their voices cascading down the bleak tunnel. By the time she was hustled into the cavernous space, the din of men was deafening. It elevated to another level as they noticed the women. Violet flinched, wanting to protect her ears but determined not to show any sign of weakness.

  It was a vast natural vault, an arena. All around, men filled the walls, sitting on planks of wood bolted to the stone or resting on ledges hacked into the rock. Ropes and makeshift ladders littered the gaps between their perches.

  A large barrel stood at the far end, and going by the stench of raw alcohol in the air, they were helping themselves to some impressive gut rot. They tossed crushed plastic cups from their vantage points, shouting and gesticulating with their weapons. Two men drummed next to the barrel, hammering their fists on large calfskin drums and furiously chugging back the alcohol to fuel the rising beat.

  The air stank of male sweat. It smothered Violet, and her hand lifted reflexively to her throat in a self-soothing gesture. Her fingers bumped the collar as she swallowed.

  She scanned the arena for an escape route. There was a door on the far wall and an ominously dark arch opposite. That was it. Apart from the ascending rock shaft above their heads that led to the night sky, they were surrounded by solid rock. Violet calculated her best chance of escape lay in obtaining a pneumatic drill.

  Shit.

  Judge walked toward her, elegant in a white shirt and dark dress trousers. He looked like he’d wandered in from a wedding. His crisp clothes contrasted harshly with the grime and roughness of the arena and the men filling it.

  He took her hand and raised it to his mouth, his lips brushing the back, and although her face remained blank, her toes cramped in her boots. “Lovely.” He turned and slapped Clarkie on the back. “Well done, sir. Put her in her seat.”

  Clarkie pointed to a bench, high up on the biggest platform. Violet headed toward it first with Cassy and Fiona at her side, while Clarkie and the armed entourage flanked them.

  Judge raised his hands, waiting for the catcalls and jeers to settle down.

  Gradually, a grudging silence descended, and Judge turned in a circle, acknowledging his men. He smiled benevolently as if he was about to bestow some great gift.

  Violet’s thighs trembled as she climbed a homemade ladder to the rock ledge. Electric lights powered by a petrol generator floodlit her way.

  “What the hell is going on, Cassy?” she asked, her voice catching as she sat down.

  Cassy shook her head and shushed Fiona at her side. “You’ll find out soon,” she replied, her voice a subdued whisper. She dipped her head, avoiding eye contact, and curved her arm around Fiona protectively

  Violet scanned the crowd. There were no other females. “Where the hell are all the women?”

  Cassy didn’t answer, her face blank as she stared resolutely ahead.

  Violet turned to Clarkie, standing at her side, but he also ignored her question, focusing intently on Judge working the crowd below.

  “Men. We are here tonight for some entertainment as my way of showing thanks for all your hard work.” Judge turned three-hundred-and-sixty degrees with a dip and a flourish, acknowledging every one of the cheering men lining the rock face. Slopping plastic cups were raised.

  Judge turned and pointed. “We have a new lady with us tonight. Show her your appreciation.”

  Wolf whistles and jeers erupted from the assembled mob. Violet flinched, her face and neck impossibly
hot.

  Judge took a step toward her and cupped his hand to his mouth as if divulging a secret. “They like you.”

  Violet dropped her gaze in what she hoped looked like deference. A bulge at the back of his waistband suggested a handgun. Could she disarm him and use him as a hostage to escape?

  Judge ran over to the base of the platform, ascended the ladder in a few quick steps, and dropped down on the bench beside her. Steely fingers gripped her upper arm. “I have a surprise for you, sweetheart,” he drawled.

  The men chanted. Fight, fight, fight. The drums started up again, keeping pace with the mantra.

  Judge applied pressure to Violet’s arm, twisting her upright so she could appreciate what made the men so excited.

  From where she’d just entered, a man was marched into the arena.

  Her breath froze in her throat, and her heart cramped to an instant halt.

  Darr.

  Fury and relief boiled through her in an intoxicating wave. He was bare from the waist up, stripped of his belt and boots, his black cargo pants riding low on his hips. His hands were tied in front of him, Mathew leading him like an animal.

  Violet ground her fingernails into the wooden bench as her heart lurched and restarted in an erratic explosion. His face was livid with purple bruises, his cheek puffed and swollen. Dried blood rimmed the strong line of his jaw.

  But he was alive.

  Her breathing was erratic as he was paraded around the arena like a prize bull.

  Darr was finally brought to stand in front of her. Despite his beaten appearance, his blue gaze was strong, and he held his head high, his shoulders back. Judge clicked his fingers, and Darr was dragged to the center of the arena where Mathew cracked a gun on Darr’s temple with a bandaged hand and forced him to his knees.

  Violet lunged toward Darr, but Judge was prepared. He yanked her violently back against his side, his thick fingers hooked in her collar, making her gag. He hissed in her ear. “You’re mine now.”

  Two men restrained Darr while Mathew buckled a collar around his neck and attached a chain from the collar to a pinion buried in the rock. Darr was now captive in the center of the arena.