The Dark Arts

by Kitty Thomas

  He couldn't let himself admit that a girl so small and fragile-looking had the power to break him, given enough time.

  “Do your worst,” he said, unable to stop himself. His mouth was going to get him killed. He knew it. He was so used to being the one with the power.

  Sure, everybody said subs had all the power, but that was only if they weren't with an abuser. The reality was if someone half your size was tied up and you had a whip in your hand, you had the power, and they just had to hope you were a decent enough human not to abuse their trust. The person chained up never had the power.

  But it was a nice idea to put on a T-shirt.

  The whip struck him with more force than he remembered from the times he'd submitted to it in the past. It was hard to believe this slight girl could put so much power into her strikes. But she was fueled entirely on rage and fear and adrenaline. And a need for payback.

  He winced when the whip came down a second time and then a third and a fourth. She wasn't talking now or screaming at him. Or making threats. She seemed to have found a rhythm and had fallen into a zone.

  Ari didn't cry out or beg her to stop even though after a while the sting of the whip was a real and present thing lighting up all the nerve endings along his back, and not in a good way. He just stood there and took it. He told himself it was because he wanted to save her. And a part of him did. It was another habit that was hard to break.

  But none of that mattered. She would do this no matter what he said or did or no matter how much he wanted to get his hands on the man who had turned her into this. Her pain was a raw living thing, and it was impossible to be exposed to it for any amount of time and not wish an agonizing death on the person who had created it.

  He listened to the crack echoing against the cell walls until he felt his skin break and the blood dripping down. Was she waiting for him to scream, beg, cry? She'd be waiting a long damned time for that.

  He gritted his teeth against the blows that continued to fall until finally the whip clattered to the hard floor. And then she was sobbing. He turned back around to see her crumpled on the concrete, her head in her hands, rocking and sobbing.

  “How long did he keep you?”

  She looked up, and their gazes locked together for a long moment.

  “You!” she screamed at him through her tears. “You. Stop pretending. I know it was you! I can see the fucking scar!”

  Ari looked down at his chest. He didn't ask about the scar and what she thought it meant. It was obviously such an upsetting issue for her, she'd no doubt just start shrieking at him and threatening to kill him. He needed her calm. So he sidestepped that issue for now.

  “How long?” he repeated quietly.

  “Forty-three days.”

  “Is that how long you're going to keep me?”

  She didn't answer. Instead she struggled to her feet and wiped the tears off her face. She withdrew a set of keys from her pocket and put them on the metal table at the end of the cell, far out of his reach—the keys to the chains. Then she took out a syringe.

  “We both know I can take that from you,” he said.

  “And we both know you can't get out of the chains without me. I've got a tranquilizer gun if you're going to make this difficult. Are you going to fight me?”

  Ari thought about it for a moment. The chains might have enough give that if she got close enough he could overpower her, but he couldn't reach the key. He needed her for that. Finally he sighed.

  “No, I'm not going to fight you.”

  She inched warily closer to him like she didn't believe he wouldn't just kill her out of spite and let them both die.

  “Did you get the air out?” he asked. The last thing he needed was someone who didn't know how to operate a syringe.

  “I do it when I first prepare them so I won't forget.”

  He couldn't stop himself from inhaling her fresh clean scent as she moved closer. Ari winced as she plunged the syringe into the muscle in his arm. The drugs burned in his veins. The scent of her shampoo hit him then, and it was all he could focus on. Raspberries, was his last thought before the room went dark.

  Claire sat behind the monitor, watching him. The drug in the syringe had taken a few hours to wear off, though she wondered if he might be pretending to sleep for longer than was necessary. He was a fool if he thought she'd ever go near him unchained any time but right after the drugs first kicked in.

  She knew if he woke unchained and she was in the cell with him, her life was over. The stakes were far too high to break the pattern she'd planned. She'd laid it all out so meticulously, and there could be no deviation from even the slightest detail. She would get her revenge, and then he would die. She tried not to think about the logistics of body disposal.

  Except for the microphones in the camera that allowed her to hear him from the surveillance panel, the cell was soundproof. No one would hear the chainsaw. She didn't want to think about that right now. It was too grotesque. But if she didn't want to go to prison for the rest of her life she had to get rid of the body when she was done. She'd known when she'd taken him that there was no backing out of this once she started because even if he'd arrogantly forgotten about her and moved on, after this, it was kill or be killed.

  He winced and stood, stretched, and began to pace like the caged animal he was. Blood from the whip lashes had dried on his back while he was unconscious. He stared at the bucket of water at the end of the cell and then up at the camera.

  Claire flipped a switch on the control panel and spoke into the microphone. “Leave your clothes beside the door.”

  He flipped off the camera with both hands, but started to take off his jeans, not particularly concerned with the prospect of nudity.

  She took a deep breath and switched off the microphone. It was an expensive control panel. The microphone wasn't the kind where you had to be constantly pressing a button to talk. You just flipped the switch and could talk hands-free.

  He put his shoes and socks and jeans and boxers in a pile next to the door.

  “Will I be getting laundry service?” he asked.

  Claire flipped the switch again and said, “You won't be needing clothes. You'll spend the rest of your life a naked animal, and then you'll die a naked animal in that cell.”

  Her hands shook as she leaned back in her chair. She'd questioned this choice a thousand times. Even chained, him being naked felt like a real threat to her safety. But she wasn't going to wash his clothes. The thought made bile rise in her throat. She'd burn them when this was over. And even that short period of handling them would be difficult to stomach.

  The simplest solution was no clothes and a daily bath. But it was still hard to justify that choice given how much violence she knew his body was capable of.

  This was the clearest look she'd ever gotten of him. When he'd kept her in the basement he'd always blindfolded her when he'd... when he'd done things. He'd blindfolded her when he'd passed her around, too. She closed her eyes against the memory of all the men who had paid to take a ride on her.

  She watched as he stood over the drain, sponging some of the water over himself, gritting his teeth and wincing again as the now-cold water slid down his back. Good. She hoped his skin burned like the hell he was going to when she killed him.

  Then she watched as he took the soap and lathered up. A sudden throbbing ache started between her legs at the sight of the sudsy water running over the muscles of his chest and abs. She immediately looked away from the screen. What was wrong with her? She was sick. Objectively he was far better looking unclothed than she ever could have imagined. A truly beautiful monster. But she should react with revulsion at the sight of him, not fucking desire.

  When he'd had her in the basement he'd never been able to turn her body against her. Not once. Neither he, nor any of the men he'd pimped her to had the finesse to make her body want anything they did to her or to feel even the slightest pleasure from their touch.

  Part of it was beca
use he'd kept her so drugged and starved and terrorized. But if she'd seen him like this, he might have made her body want him. And in many ways, that would have been worse.

  He was succeeding now—not even trying. He made no lewd gestures or obscene statements now. He just bathed. And he was winning. He was still winning—still breaking her down in new and different ways just by his presence filling up the cell.

  It enraged her that seeing him naked created a visceral physical reaction. Did her body not know what this man had done to her? She wished like hell she could keep him dressed, but clothes got too dirty. The idea of doing his laundry was too fucking repulsive to her. And she couldn't handle the stench if she let him wear the same clothes day after day. It would remind her too much of the basement. She had to keep him clean. And the only way was this way.

  22

  Ari bit back a scream as he bathed and cleaned the whip marks she'd left on his back. In any other situation he would have taunted her. He would have stroked himself for the camera and said filthy things to the woman watching. But he wouldn't do that with this girl.

  He had too much of an idea of what she must have suffered in order to bring her to this point of desperation. So he just cleaned up, rinsed out the sponge, and poured the remaining water down the drain. He shivered in the cell as he paced, thinking through everything. It had been a comfortable temperature with clothes on, but the room chilled him now that he was naked with water dripping off him.

  He didn't have a problem with his own nudity. He wasn't particularly bothered by this girl seeing him naked. And he had no fears she would try to force anything sexual on him, not after what she'd clearly gone through. And even if she did try, he wasn't sure it would be forced. In spite of how fucked-up this situation was, he wanted her. The real problem now was, she was going to know that. And given her current emotional state, she would see it as a threat even if he couldn't touch her. It could go very badly for him.

  Ari sighed and crossed the room to the metal table. He took one of the waters, broke the seal on the cap, and drank the whole bottle down in one long unending gulp. He needed to keep his wits and figure out how to outsmart her and get out of here. This girl knew she had to kill him. If she really believed he was the man who'd hurt her enough to drive her to this reaction, there was no reasoning with her or talking her into letting him go.

  Behind the rage, he could see the fear. She'd obviously thought all this through very carefully. She'd set things up so he couldn't hurt her, but she was still petrified of him, even through the rage, even while he was chained up and at her mercy locked in a cell he had no hope of getting out of. She still feared him.

  He took the hard plastic bottle cap and crossed to one wall and etched a faint white line. He needed to estimate the days that passed so he could keep up with the number of meals. He needed to figure out if there was a pattern to which meal she drugged or if it was entirely random. A pattern would be better for his escape odds.

  He had no idea what time it was, or if it was day or night now, but he was exhausted. Cold and exhausted. He lay down on the hard floor and, in spite of everything, slept.

  Ari jumped, ripped from sleep by a scream coming through the speaker overhead. For a moment he thought she was fucking with him with some kind of sleep depriving sound torture, but then he realized the screams weren't a recording. They were her.

  Agonized, sobbing screams.

  “No! Please please please,” she pleaded.

  It finally occurred to him, she'd left the microphone on. Her bed must be right next to her surveillance set-up. She was having a fucking night terror.

  “Please!” she screamed. It came out a long seemingly endless wail for mercy.

  It was the most gut-wrenching sound he'd ever heard in his life. All he wanted in this moment was to get to her and make those screams stop.

  Ari crossed the room to the metal door and banged on it. “Wake up!” he shouted. “Wake up! You're having a nightmare!” He felt more powerless now than he'd felt when she'd been whipping him. He wasn't sure how far the cell door was from her—if she'd even be able to hear him.

  But she just kept screaming and sobbing and begging the man in her nightmare not to hurt her. Something shattered suddenly—like she'd kicked a lamp in her sleep and flailing struggles. The screaming stopped. Then all he heard was soft crying.

  Claire sat shaking on the edge of the bed, taking deep gulping breaths, trying to slow her panicked heart. It was just a dream. Just a dream. She told herself this over and over as if to convince herself. She hadn't had the nightmares in a year. And now they'd come back. It was because he was here, so close to her. Even with him caged, she couldn't sleep with him so close to her. How could she have thought this revenge fantasy wouldn't break her completely? How had she ever thought the rage could outstrip her terror?

  She looked up at the screen across the room to see him staring at the camera as if he could actually see her through the lens. She leapt out of bed and raced to the control panel. The green light was on. She'd forgotten to turn off the fucking microphone. He'd heard her screams. That fucking bastard had heard her screaming and begging him.

  And now he knew he still had all the power. He stared quietly at the camera, and she couldn't read the look in his eyes.

  “Did you enjoy the show?” she asked into the microphone, venom threading her voice.

  “No.”

  “Why not? Because I know you don't feel guilt. Was it because I interrupted your precious sleep?”

  He didn't respond. Claire searched through her sound files and selected one.

  “Here, let's have a change of playlist. Here's a fitting song for you to sleep to.”

  She turned down the volume on the sound coming from the hidden microphones in the cell, plugged in a cord that would send the music to him and not her own room, cranked up the volume, and pushed play on Rob Zombie's, “Living Dead Girl.”

  A satisfied smile curved her lips as he paced, agitated, holding his hands to his ears.

  23

  Claire was exhausted from so little sleep the previous night. She'd played that song on a loop for about an hour until she was satisfied she'd gotten payback for his intrusion into her privacy. Then she'd turned the microphone off and tried to go back to sleep. She'd failed and finally got up when the sun streamed in through the curtains.

  She made bacon and eggs and fixed two plates. She ate hers first, then slipped the cold leftover food on the second plate through the slot to her prisoner. She wasn't going to let her own eggs get cold while delivering his breakfast. She didn't drug it this time.

  His food was on a plastic disposable plate. She wasn't about to wash his dishes. Fuck that.

  Claire switched on the microphone and said, “When you're finished with breakfast, put the plate under the metal table.”

  “Don't I get a fork?” he asked calmly. He didn't say anything about the previous night. She was surprised he wasn't goading her. It would be the perfect opportunity. Maybe he knew how close she was to just going ahead and killing him. Maybe he had the intelligence and self-preservation instinct not to push her.

  “Animals don't eat with utensils. Now be a good dog.” She switched off the microphone. She wouldn't make the mistake of leaving it on again. She was still angry with herself for doing something so foolish, something that left her vulnerable again in even the smallest way to him.

  Claire showered and got ready. She needed to get groceries and other supplies—more importantly she had to get away from him for a while. She kept wanting to think of him as her captor. She'd never known his name so “captor” was the only word she'd been able to attach to him. But he wasn't her captor now. And even with the clear evidence of that fact, she still had to force herself to attach the new word to him. Prisoner.

  She started to put the hoodie and sunglasses on but stopped short. Those things had been to protect herself from discovery by the man she now had locked in a cell.

  She smiled at the r
ealization that she could wear any outfit she wanted and go out into the city without hiding. She'd never have to hide again.

  Outside the air felt crisp and fresh in a way it hadn't felt to her in a long time. Despite all the things this experience with her captive was bringing up for her, he was in there. And she was out here. He couldn't get to her. She was only able to enjoy this sense of freedom for a few minutes. Then she regressed to worrying about what would happen if he escaped. What if he escaped and found her and...?

  Claire took a slow deep breath. He couldn't escape. Yes, he was strong, but that cell was military-grade containment. There was no way out except a steel door that wouldn't open without her thumbprint. There was no lock to pick. No code to figure out. The only key was attached to her hand. He wasn't getting away.

  At the grocery store she picked up the usual things she liked to cook along with several cans of beef stew. It was quick, it was easy, and it hid the taste of the sedative. On her way back, she picked up a few necessities from the hardware store.

  Even with the rational self-talk, when she returned, she eased inside her temporary living quarters, glancing around furtively, afraid he would jump out at her. She didn't relax until she went to the screen to find him still where she'd left him.

  She unloaded her bags and waited for enough time to pass to feed and drug him again. She had to remind him who had the power here. Not him.

  Ari woke to find himself chained again, this time with duct tape over his mouth. She stood over him wearing a red sundress, a black cardigan sweater, and again no shoes. She held the whip in a death grip. Despite this, he still couldn't get the image of her as his captive out of his mind. The dark fantasy was a coping mechanism so he didn't have to think too hard about the way this all ended.

  “I thought you'd never wake up,” she said. “I worried I gave you too much. Wouldn't that be a tragedy?”