Chained

by Kim Fielding

  Fuck.

  “Is it worth it?” Terry asked Whitaker. Not only the deal he was being pressured into, but the bargain Whitaker must have struck to become a broker of souls.

  “Abso-fucking-lutely.” Whitaker seemed entirely sincere. “But I’ll tell you what. I’ve got a little something extra for you. Sweetening the pot, yeah? A demo of what you’re being given.” He turned and opened the door.

  Terry didn’t want to enter, but everyone was waiting for him, and he couldn’t very well stand there forever. He summoned a quick image—he was about to enter a nightclub with great music and hundreds of hot men—and stepped inside.

  No music, of course, and only one man. Edge. Naked, his arms shackled to chains hanging from the ceiling, his feet barely touching the ground. When he saw Terry, he groaned and hung his head. The room was… well, no other words for it. It was a fucking torture chamber, and it reeked of sweat, piss, and blood.

  Whitaker and Ms. Stroman came in behind Terry, pushing him forward, and then the dogs entered too. The dogs stood just inside the door, panting with anxiety. Whitaker and Ms. Stroman, however, were cool as ice.

  Terry wanted to rush to Edge, unchain him, comfort him, protect him, but he remained several feet away, hands balled at his sides. “What is this?”

  “Told you. A gift and an illustration. As soon as you sign that contract, I’ll let you use him as much as you want. Any way you want. And he’ll be a good little pup for you. Isn’t that right, Edge?”

  “Yes, sir,” Edge whispered.

  Those two words broke Terry’s heart.

  “You already know you can fuck him,” said Whitaker, perhaps oblivious to Terry’s distress—and definitely uncaring of Edge’s. “But you’re pretty. You can probably get all the ass you want without my help. How many of those cute things you pick up will let you do this?” He strode to a nearby shelf and grabbed a leather strap. Then, as Terry watched in shock, he pulled his arm back and struck Edge with all his might. Three times: once on the back, once on the ass, and then, hardest of all, once on the lower belly and groin.

  Edge was silent for the first two blows but cried out at the third. He didn’t lift his head, though. Didn’t look at Terry.

  Stroking the strap obscenely, Whitaker grinned at Terry. “Just a taste. He can take whatever you dish out and come crawling back for more. And when you get tired of him, well, there’s plenty more fun out there.”

  For the second time in—what? five minutes?—a solid truth hit Terry in the gut. Whitaker believed that the power to abuse others was a lure. That everyone else was, like him, hungry for the chance to mistreat others.

  This was a blindness in Whitaker’s worldview, just as Terry had been blind to Ms. Stroman’s true identity. And although Terry himself was fucked, at least he could use Whitaker’s weakness to help Edge.

  “I’ll sign,” Terry said.

  Ms. Stroman grinned in triumph and handed him a pen. Whitaker hugged the strap to his chest. But Edge raised his head and barked, “No! Don’t do it!”

  Apparently surprised by Edge’s outburst, Whitaker stepped toward him, strap raised. Edge shook his head frantically, ignoring Whitaker and looking pleadingly at Terry. “Don’t. It’s better to let them kill you. It’s—”

  The strap hit the side of his face, causing him to grunt and sending blood spraying onto Whitaker’s preppy clothes. And even still, with more blood flowing from his eye and mouth, Edge pleaded. “Terry. No.”

  Another blow, this one savage enough to make him shriek, and already Whitaker had his hand back for another. How much damage could a dog shifter take?

  “I’ll sign,” Terry repeated, sounding eerily calm to his own ears.

  Edge sobbed once, but Whitaker dropped the strap and marched over. “Right here.” He pointed to a blank line on the third page.

  Terry walked to the nearest shelf—it held a cane and several small metal items he didn’t care to inspect more closely—found the spot Whitaker had pointed to, and set the pen to paper. Terrence Alan Brandt. The last time he’d signed his full legal name was when he joined the Bureau.

  Whitaker took the pen and added his signature to the line below Terry’s, as Edge continued to whimper softly in the background. Then it was Ms. Stroman’s turn. Apparently she didn’t need a pen. She used only her fingertip, and a glowing symbol appeared as if aflame. It burned even more brightly for a moment, so brightly that Terry could barely look, and then the entire contract disappeared.

  Something shifted in Terry’s chest. A tearing pain that made him stagger, followed by an odd sense of heaviness, as if he’d swallowed a rock. Would he get used to it in time? He guessed it wouldn’t matter.

  Ms. Stroman looked satisfied, as if she’d gone into a fancy department store and come out with an incredible bargain. Whitaker, on the other hand, glanced at his watch. “Got a meeting with a producer in thirty minutes. Tomorrow we’ll get you all set up, Terry. I’ve got a juicy role in mind for you: star billing in a rom-com about a rich guy who falls for a hooker.”

  Terry gestured at Edge, who now hung motionless, tiny droplets of blood pattering onto the floor beneath him. “Can I play?”

  “Sure,” Whitaker said, barking a laugh. “Knock yourself out.”

  “Not here, though.” He gave a crocodile smile to rival Ms. Stroman’s. “I have a little fantasy. There’s a place I know out in the desert, past Barstow. Nothing out there but sand and Joshua Trees. I want to know what it’s like to make a man scream under the nighttime desert sky.”

  Whitaker gazed at him with what might have been admiration. “You actors. Always the creative types. Sure, take him. Just bring him back with you tomorrow—and don’t fuck him up too bad. He was expensive.”

  “And he’ll… he’ll just let me do whatever to him?”

  “Sure, as long as I tell him to. He’s a very good dog. Right, bitch?”

  Edge gave a tiny nod.

  Whitaker released the chains, and Edge collapsed to the floor with a thud. After Whitaker prodded him with a foot, Edge struggled to his feet. Then with Whitaker leading the way, they all left the torture chamber, wound their way to the front door, and walked to Terry’s car. Edge stumbled and fell several times along the way but always got up again. He never raised his head, and nobody offered clothing.

  Whitaker frowned when they reached the parking lot. “You can’t drive around with him looking like that. Edge, shift.” He shrugged at Terry. “Just order him to change back when you get there.”

  Apparently it was no longer necessary to pretend that Edge was human. It made sense. A dog-shifter would be no big deal to a guy who’d just sold his soul to the devil.

  Edge collapsed onto his knees and then onto all fours and let his head droop. His back was crisscrossed with bloody welts and mottled with ugly bruises. His collar glinted in the sunlight. Then his skin rippled, his body spasmed, and he let out an unearthly howl. As Terry watched in fascination, Edge skewed and transformed, looking for a few moments like an entirely strange creature before settling into the familiar form of a large, panting dog.

  “Told you,” Whitaker said smugly. “The world is full of secrets you’ve never imagined.”

  “Secrets,” Terry agreed. Then he turned and opened the rear passenger door. “Get in,” he ordered Edge.

  Edge moved slowly, tail between his legs. He was about to squeeze into the back seat when Whitaker grabbed his collar, hauling him back. As Edge cowered, Whitaker bent to glare at him. “Be very, very good, bitch. Act as if Mr. Brandt were your master. Be grateful I’m letting you get used by Hollywood’s next big star.” He reached forward, as if to pat Edge’s head.

  Edge bit him.

  It was a hard bite—a chomp—right through the meat of Whitaker’s hand. Bones crunched. Whitaker screamed and tried to pull away, but Edge shook his head savagely, sending Whitaker tumbling to the ground.

  And then Edge let go and collapsed to his belly.

  Terry, trained to assess a situation
instantly, took note of several things. Ms. Stroman stood back several feet, laughing as if this were high comedy. Edge’s brothers surged forward but stopped, both of them clearly torn over their allegiances. And Whitaker reached into his pants pocket with his good hand and pulled out a handgun. He raised the weapon, pointed it at Edge’s motionless head, and—

  Terry tackled him.

  He didn’t actually hear the gun fire, which was odd, but he certainly felt the bullet tear into his abdomen. The pain was distant, however. More important was wrestling with Whitaker, trying to yank the weapon away despite a damaging second shot, even though everything was slippery with their blood. His thoughts seemed to move faster than his body, and he wondered whether the bullets were silver, or whether that was necessary for dog-shifters as it was for werewolves. He wondered if Ms. Stroman would be happy she’d received such a good deal—a brand new soul for her collection, and she hadn’t even had to pony up Terry’s fortune and fame. He wondered if this was the outcome Townsend had planned on.

  Whitaker snarled in his grip as they rolled on the pavement. The gun slipped away from both of them. Terry tried to reach for it, but his arms weren’t cooperating well. He felt sluggish. Whitaker touched the barrel with his good hand, dropped it, and grabbed it again. Then Edge, in dog form, leapt on them both and sank his powerful jaws into Whitaker’s throat.

  Terry managed to roll away. He tried to get to his feet but couldn’t manage it. He ignored the gun; he was as likely to hit Edge as Whitaker. Anyway, it didn’t look as if the gun would be necessary. Edge was effectively ripping Whitaker apart with his teeth.

  Ms. Stroman had no such compunctions about the weapon; she darted forward and snatched it off the ground. But before she had the chance to aim, Duke and Holt leapt on her. She didn’t sound remotely human as she screeched under their ferocious onslaught. And devil or not, she also didn’t stand a chance against them. They tore at her until the screaming finally stopped.

  Time jumped—probably just a few minutes, but Terry couldn’t judge. Whitaker and Ms. Stroman were nothing but lifeless heaps. Terry lay on his side near his beloved car, feeling oddly disconnected from his body, as if he were a balloon straining to break free. Three very strong naked men knelt around him. “My fantasies involve less blood,” Terry slurred, trying to smile up at them.

  Edge was pressing his hands to Terry’s wounds, trying to keep the life inside. “What do we do?” he cried. “I don’t know how—”

  “’S’okay. You’re safe now.” Terry’s teeth began to chatter even though he wasn’t cold. “No more boss.” God, that was good to know. He smiled. “G-go dancing.”

  “Terry, please, don’t….” Edge looked frantic, which made Terry sad. Edge was supposed to have joy now. Wasn’t that the deal? The goal?

  Terry remembered a song he used to dance to, back when he still went to the clubs. He’d sing it teasingly to Amos and Amos would laugh at him, and Christ, they were so young. “Your love.” Terry tried to sing now, but the words were elusive and it was hard to find enough breath. “Emotion… new… love….”

  Holt and Duke were trying to help Edge stop the bleeding, but it was far too late for that. He smiled at them. It was nice to see their human faces. “ABBA. Let Edge… show you… ABBA….” Maybe they’d like music too.

  There was a palm tree nearby. Its fronds waved at him.

  Engines roared closer. Holt and Duke leapt to their feet, growling, while Edge clutched Terry close. Squealing tires. Shouting voices. Terry recognized one of them.

  “Don’t shoot!” he yelled. Or hoped he did. His connection to himself was tenuous at best. “Don’t hurt them.” Then, more quietly, he told Edge, “Bureau.”

  As Edge held him even tighter, Townsend loomed over them both, Homburg perched on his head. “Well, that’s one way to solve the problem.” He knelt as well.

  With nearly the last of his energy, Terry shook his head and whispered. “Don’t. I’m Edge’s.”

  “Then let’s keep it that way, my boy.” He touched Terry’s stomach very gently.

  Terry closed his eyes and slipped away.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The room smelled awful, the medicines and cleaners sharp in Edge’s nose, and he didn’t like the fluorescent lights or the beeps of the machines. But at least people had stopped coming in and flooding him with questions. And even better, Terry was right there where Edge could touch him, although he was pale and unmoving in the narrow bed and filled with tubes and wires. But alive. Still alive.

  Sometimes Terry’s eyes fluttered open, and he’d smile at Edge and murmur a few sounds before drifting off again. One of the Bureau’s doctors had to keep reminding Edge that Terry was only human, and that humans healed more slowly than shifters. It wasn’t fair. Edge would have healed for Terry, but when he asked if that was possible, the doctor laughed and said he didn’t have that kind of magic.

  So Edge waited in the annoying little room, would wait forever if he had to. Edge would be loyal to him no matter what. Not because Terry owned him, like the boss, but because Terry belonged to him. He’d said so himself. That knowledge comforted Edge when the strangeness of the hospital threatened to overwhelm him.

  The door swung open soundlessly and the chief came in. He had an odd odor, similar to human but not quite, and Edge didn’t know what he was. He did know, however, that the chief was important. Not just to Terry, who was his employee, but to a lot of people. Edge also sensed that the chief was enormously powerful in ways Edge didn’t understand.

  “How is he doing today?”

  “The doctor says better. But he won’t stay awake.”

  “He’s working hard to repair the damage to his body. Give him time.”

  Edge nodded. He’d been told this already.

  “Have they been taking good care of you as well?”

  “Yes, sir.” At first they hadn’t even let him see Terry, but apparently Terry had asked for him during one of his brief periods of consciousness and became upset when Edge wasn’t there. Edge would have been willing to sleep on the floor, but they’d given him his own bed and comfortable clothes. He had plenty of food too, and it was far better than the monotonous fare the boss had provided. The nurses told him he could watch the TV in the room as long as he kept the volume down.

  “You can send a message to me if you need anything,” the chief said. “But are you sure you wouldn’t rather wait with your brothers? We’ve set up a nice little house for them while they decide on their future.”

  Edge already knew that, because Duke and Holt had visited him briefly twice and reported that they were safe and comfortable, if a little overwhelmed. Edge hadn’t been able to find the words to thank them for their commitment to him, an allegiance he still found astounding. He was profoundly grateful, but maybe they knew that. Through gestures and a few words, they made it clear that they loved him.

  “I want to stay here, sir.”

  “All right. We’ll have a discussion later, the three of us.” The chief clapped his hat back on and left the room.

  Edge paced, full of energy that he couldn’t expend. He would have loved a long, hard run, but he was a little afraid he’d get lost if he left the hospital alone, and anyway, he didn’t dare leave Terry’s side. That left little to occupy him. The nurses had offered books, and he’d ashamedly admitted he could barely read. Literacy hadn’t been deemed an important part of his training. They brought him magazines instead, with glossy photos of food and faraway places, and those were fun to look at for a little while. He avoided the magazines about celebrities. He recognized too many of them—those handsome faces with their blank eyes—from the boss’s parties.

  Blank eyes like Terry would have when he fully awoke.

  Edge didn’t want to think about that. He’d remain with Terry anyway, but he dreaded finding out just how much of Terry’s life force had been stolen. He’d been so vibrant, so interesting and deep and unique. The only solace was the memory of the boss’s flesh rip
ping beneath Edge’s teeth, of his bones crunching, of his corrupted life bleeding away onto the pavement.

  After a few more circuits of the room, Edge turned on the TV. He didn’t often watch it. When he was in dog form, the moving pictures looked strange, and when he was in human form, the stories confused him. Not to mention the additional victims of the boss who kept popping up on the screen, playing their parts, grinning their soulless grins.

  Now he flipped through the channels in search of distraction. He stopped when he came across a program where several people were singing while driving down the road in a big convertible. The car stopped at a building, the people got out, and then they were inside with a lot of other people, singing and dancing. Edge swayed to the beat.

  “Bang.”

  Edge whirled around to discover Terry with his eyes open, smiling widely and tapping his fingers. Edge raced to his side.

  “Good song.” Terry’s voice was weak and raspy, but his words were clear.

  Edge tentatively reached out and touched his fingers to Terry’s cheek. “Hello,” was all he could manage.

  “Hi.” Terry took a deep breath and winced. “Bureau clinic?”

  “I… I think.”

  “Yeah. They’ve patched me up here before. I recognize the ugly walls.” He caught Edge’s hand and held it. “You’re okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Your brothers?”

  “Also fine.”

  “Is the Bureau being decent to you?”

  “Yes.” Edge shook his head impatiently. “You! You made him shoot you instead of me.”

  “I guess I did.” Terry peered down at himself, but he was covered in blankets. “Where’d he get me? The gut?”

  “Yes. Three times.”

  “Huh. I thought just twice.” He shifted slightly, wincing again. “God, I hate this place. How long until they spring me?”

  “Don’t know. But you—you saved me! Why?”

  Terry smiled at him. “Because I’m falling in love with you. Maybe I’ve already fallen—I don’t know. But I know I don’t want to live if you don’t.”