Alaskan Fury

by Sara King

  “Release me, you miserable creature!” she finally managed to gasp, when he paused to let her breathe.

  “You have reset your seven days.” Sometime throughout her ordeal, the djinni had leaned across her body, holding himself up with one hand as he traced her idly with the other. Now he met her eyes, and there was tenderness there. After a long moment, he said softly, “You really had no idea, did you?”

  “That a man could pleasure a woman?” she panted, too relieved by the respite to complain.

  “That you were so sensitive.” To prove his point, he gently took her hand and traced a finger across her palm… And Kaashifah immediately moaned at the sensations that flooded her body, racing along her spine, pooling between her thighs. She flexed against him, straining against his body, grateful for the resistance.

  He gently brushed his lips against her hand and released her. Then, seemingly finished with his torments, he waited as she panted for breath, his violet eyes much too rapt as he watched her sweaty chest rise and fall…

  “You,” Kaashifah panted, “had better forget this ever happened, djinni.” Groaning, she tried to peel herself from the sweaty blanket, but only succeeded in making it halfway to a seated position before she flopped back down beneath him. She settled for dragging half of the cover over her, to protect her modesty.

  “Forget?” he asked innocently. “Me?” He reached over, snagged a cluster of grapes from a pile of fruit, and idly popped one into his mouth as he stretched out beside her, propped up on an elbow, violet eyes watching her thoughtfully.

  “I know that look,” Kaashifah gasped. “You’re plotting something.” She pushed a sweat-soggy strand of hair out of her face. As dangerously as she could manage, she growled, “You will not use this to your advantage.”

  He grinned slowly around his grape. Then, glancing down at the cluster in his hand and plucked a few from the mass. “A grape, mon Dhi’b?” he offered, holding one out.

  “Djinni,” she warned, ignoring his offering.

  “They’re delicious. A nice Shirazi tang to them. Not like the bland, skinless mockeries they grow today.”

  “‘Aqrab,” she growled.

  Popping a grape into his mouth, he said in a woeful tone, “Once something has been learned, mon Dhi’b, as much as a man tries, it cannot be unlearned.” His mournful tone would have been more convincing if he hadn’t also had a devilish grin plastered across his face. “Especially if that man is a djinni.” His words—more or less a threat—released another thrill, and she felt heat once again pool between her legs.

  I am so screwed, she thought.

  Imelda slept only two hours that night. The rest of the time, she spent lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to tell herself that she wasn’t hearing voices in the basement.

  There is a foot of insulated, soundproofed floorspace between me and them, she told herself, for the thousandth time. I do not hear voices.

  Yet every time she started to drift off, the result was the same. The whimpers, the pleas, the moans and grunts of anguish seemed to drift into her awareness, until it was all she could hear, blotting out even the sounds of her own dreams. She heard the wereverine’s brazen taunts between screams of agony, the phoenix’s confused voice, rising in fear and pain, the bastet calling for his children, the various fey, their tremulous voices alternating between flinging insults and offering bribes. Hundreds of voices. More voices than they held in the prison below, Imelda knew.

  It’s in my head, Imelda thought.

  There was one voice in particular, though, that made her blood feel like acid in her veins when she heard it. When it first came, Imelda started awake, heart thundering in her chest, and laid there in the dark hum of silence, wondering if this was what it felt like to lose one’s mind.

  He’s not in the basement, Imelda thought. He’s not.

  After she heard the voice of her Padre cracking with tears for the third time that night, however, Imelda climbed out of bed and threw on her clothes. She barely took the time to knot the laces of her boots before she was out the door and rushing down the hall to the keycode-locked basement.

  The basement itself was cool and quiet. As she rumbled down the metal staircase, Imelda saw multiple heads lift in mixed states of disgust and fear. Mostly fear. The wereverine was one of the few who still seemed to be able to manage disgust. The rest were too…tired.

  …and had been sleeping.

  Though Zenaida never turned the light off in the basement, a tactic that Inquisitors used to disorient their victims and disrupt their sleep cycles, her fellow Segunda Inquisidora was not in attendance.

  No one had been screaming. No one had been whimpering or begging. And her Padre, after a thorough search of the premises, was not bound to a rack, slowly bleeding to death for Zenaida’s magics.

  Imelda paused in the hallway after doing a circuit of the prison. The phoenix was still unconscious in her cage, though her naked body showed plenty of signs of…purification. The wereverine was still strung up on the rack beside her, his body likewise covered in welts and cuts—healing slowly, doubtlessly, because Zenaida had been draining the Third Lander from his veins.

  “What the fuck do you want?”

  The tremble in the wereverine’s voice caught Imelda off-guard, and, startled, she met the wereverine’s glare.

  There were tears in his eyes.

  In that moment, the very foundation of Imelda’s world took a blow. This was not the look of a monster with a soul destined for Satan’s horde. This was not a demon lusting to corrupt the souls of innocents. This was a man, and his spirit was dying. Slowly. Her eyes dropped to the bowl beneath his feet. The crimson fluid had been emptied recently, for the collection in the basin was much less than what she had seen the last time she had been here.

  Suddenly, a question that she had always been too afraid to ask finally tumbled from her lips. “What does she do with the blood?”

  The wereverine’s face, pale with blood loss, nonetheless tightened in a sneer. “She drinks it.”

  At any other time, Imelda would have laughed and left the demon to his demise. But now, a tiny shard of ice wriggled through her soul and Imelda hesitated. She glanced again at the bowl of blood. Vampires and other despicable, cold-dwelling Third Landers utilized the powers of seiðr in such loathesome ways as consuming a victim’s blood, not servants of the Lord. “You said she was a hypocrite,” she said softly. “What is she? What do you smell?”

  The wereverine narrowed his eyes and showed his teeth. “She ain’t the only hypocrite here, bitch.”

  Imelda almost slapped him. Almost. Very slowly, her voice tightly under control, she said, “What is Zenaida? Is she human?”

  The wereverine snorted and looked away. “So the wolf find the dragons yet?”

  “Answer me!” Imelda snapped. “What do you smell on Zenaida?”

  Very slowly, the wereverine turned back. “Lady,” he said, “My instincts are good—” then he hesitated and gave her a bitter smile, “—unless it comes to pretty girls, like you figured when you caught me, but seein’ how you ain’t that pretty, I’m guessing it’s just my instincts are good. You’re the brains of this operation, ain’t ya?”

  Imelda narrowed her eyes at him.

  In response, the wereverine bared his teeth at her. “So here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna tell you what I know. You do whatever you want with it. I’m fucked anyway. Don’t really see a point to keepin’ my yap shut, considerin.” He gestured at the phoenix with his chin, and his face was suddenly torn with grief before he twisted away to hide it from Imelda.

  Imelda waited.

  “That sadistic whore of a blonde,” the wereverine managed, after a moment. His voice cracked when he turned to her and said, “Since you two don’t seem to be on the same page, here… She’s top tier. Something big. I’m surprised you don’t see it.”

  A trickle of red against his thigh caught her eye, and Imelda glanced down. He was missing, Imelda realiz
ed, a piece of his scrotum. And, upon further inspection, she realized the sack was empty.

  A deep, roiling sickness started bubbling up from within, and Imelda quickly turned away, lest the wereverine see her revulsion. She was, after all, an Inquisitor. He must have confessed to something horrible, to receive such a punishment as penance. Surely Zenaida had a reason.

  Seeing her gaze, the wereverine made a miserable sound. “I never did get around to makin’ myself some littles. Too late now, huh?” The strained chuckle wrenched at Imelda’s soul.

  Steel yourself, she thought, disgusted with her lack of poise. These are monsters and demons. They have no right to your pity. Yet, even as she had the thought, she remembered the wereverine’s bared soul, his tears.

  Clearing her throat, she said, “Zenaida is top tier? You have smelled such before?”

  “Never really spent much time around them ‘cause I’m the kind of critter they tended to stomp on, but yeah. The bitch’s got wings. I’d bet my balls she—” Then he hesitated, his voice cracking. He looked away. Softly, he said, “A fucked-up Fury, would be my guess,” the wereverine said. “One of the survivors. They were really screwed up to begin with, but with all her sisters dead… She probably took a dive off the deep end.”

  “She’s an angel,” Imelda reiterated, not liking to be reminded that there were older cultures with older myths with older names. “You are telling me she works as a messenger of God?”

  The wereverine snorted. “Her?” He made a bitter laugh. “She’s about as fallen as they fucking come. She cut off my fucking balls.” He flopped his limp member forward with a disgusted thrust of his hips. “Yeah, she ain’t working for fucking God.” He made a disgusted jerk against the rack that held him, then looked away again. She saw more tears brimming his eyes.

  Imelda’s heart began to pound as she considered.

  “You want my opinion?” the wereverine offered, still looking off to the side. “Get the fuck outta town. The shit’s about to hit the fan, girlie, and lots of folks are gonna die.”

  Softly, she said, “I am not in the habit of heeding the advice of rapists.”

  The wereverine jerked back to face her, making the metal rack rattle. “What?”

  Imelda scowled at him. “Whatever it is you confessed to. I am sure Zenaida was just in issuing you penance for it.”

  The wereverine’s green eyes peered at her for what seemed like forever. “Lady,” he said softly, “you ain’t got a fuckin’ clue, do ya?”

  Faced with his honest disdain, Imelda again felt that nagging stab of uncertainty before she stuffed it away. With all the carriage of her station, she said, “A clue about what, Third Lander?”

  He glared at her. “That thing ain’t in control of me, and never has been. You know that, just by lookin’ at me.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I know that Third Landers are cunning by nature, and that your entire speech tonight could easily have been an act.”

  He flipped his broken testes at her as he snarled, “Is this a fucking act?” His eyes glowed an unholy green as he stared her down, spittle wetting his lips.

  Imelda averted her eyes, fighting a wash of shame. She knew that she should have left, that too many good Inquisitors were corrupted by the very monsters they hunted. Yet her Padre’s voice, rising in agony amongst the prisoners around her, gave her pause. Softly, she said, “A clue about what?”

  For a long moment, the wereverine simply scowled at her. Then, in a low, inhuman rattle, he growled, “No. I think you do. I think you got a damn good clue. And you ain’t doin’ nothin’ ‘bout it. That puts you solidly on my shitlist, bitch.”

  Imelda jerked back to meet his angry gaze. “Listen to me,” she said softly. “I have a…dilemma. I had a dream. I saw…angels. Fighting.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “So?” It sounded like a startled animal grunt.

  “So,” Imelda said, “They were fighting each other.”

  “I’m failing to see why I should care.”

  Imelda took a deep breath and glanced over her shoulder, at the empty stairs. “You should care,” she managed, “because I’m beginning to think there are two of them, and I’m not sure which one is following God.”

  For a long moment, the wereverine simply stared at her. Then, softly, he said, “I think the answer’s pretty fucking evident, but if you really need a Sign, you should probably go ask ‘em.” He gave her a carnivorous smile. “I’m sure if you pick the right one, she’ll be happy to tell you which side she’s on.”

  …and if she picked the wrong one, she was dead.

  Imelda looked at him long and hard. Then, glancing at the phoenix, she considered the IV bag, the fluids dripping into the abnormally tall woman’s arm. Softly, she said, “I offered to put you both out of your misery, once. The offer is still open.”

  Flinching on the rack, the wereverine licked his lips and sniffed the air like a nervous weasel. Watching her warily, he said, “You said you saw angels fighting?”

  Imelda stiffened. “I did.”

  Hesitating a moment, scanning her face, the wereverine said, “Which one won?”

  Imelda snorted. “They both did. Many times. I saw it hundreds of times, in hundreds of different ways, and everything I’ve done or said since I woke up has had a bone-chilling wrench of déjà-vu, as if everything I say and do will—” She stopped, frowning. Here she was, talking about her dreams to a demon.

  Before she could say anything else, however, the demon said softly, “…affect the outcome.” He cocked his head at her. “Which one do you want to win?”

  Imelda felt her heart beginning to hammer. “The right one.”

  The demon snorted at her. “Guess you better figure out which one that is then, and fast, shouldn’t ya, tootz?”

  “All right, demon,” Imelda growled. “I gave you my word. I will end you both, for the sake of mercy.” When the wereverine simply sniffed and gave her a nervous look, she unholstered her pistol and began loading color-coded rounds into the chamber.

  “I met one of your Sisters before,” the creature said, watching her. “Long time ago. Egypt.”

  “That’s nice.” Imelda snapped the gun shut and put the muzzle to his forehead.

  Looking at the gun between his eyes, the wereverine said, “Served her for a couple decades.”

  Now that was interesting. A demon serving a Sister of the Order? Imelda’s finger hesitated on the trigger.

  Eyes still on the brushed black steel, he said, “Was right about the same time they burned Alexandria.”

  “Decide,” Imelda growled.

  “The first time they burned Alexandria.”

  She frowned at him. “What are you trying to say?” The burning of the Bibliotheca Alexandrina had been in the first century B.C. So the beast was older than they thought. It happened. Usually not to Third-Lander possessees, as they were often killed in their first couple centuries of mindless rampages, but if they survived long enough to learn to control their inner demons, it did happen. Then it dawned on her. B.C. Before Christ. The Order had not even been established until the 12th century A.D.

  The wereverine gave her a long, wary look over the barrel of her gun, seemingly waiting for something. When she simply continued to frown at him, however, he seemed to slump in disgust. “Never mind,” he muttered. “This place screws with my senses.”

  “What,” Imelda snapped, jabbing the barrel of the gun into his forehead with each emphasis, “Are. You. Trying. To. Say?”

  “What I’m sayin,” the wereverine growled, “is get that fucking gun outta my face. I wanna see how the dice fall ‘fore I go decide to do something stupid.”

  Imelda scowled at him, once again feeling that nagging sense of déjà-vu that had been plaguing her since she’d woken from that too-deep sleep. “In half my dreams, demon, I think you die today. Right now. Regardless of what you want.”

  He gave her a mirthless grin. “I got faith in my Fate.”

  She narrowed her eyes
at him. “I don’t. I think your Fate is malleable, demon.”

  He shrugged as best as he could with his arms bound above his head. “It is whatever you say it is, considerin’ you’re the one with the gun.”

  Imelda felt her finger tightening on the trigger, feeling that odd split-duality, as if she were experiencing something that had already happened. Twice. Damn it, she thought, realizing she was hesitating for that very fact. If this was what it was like to be given messages of God, she would be happy to allow someone else to shoulder that burden.

  “You know,” the wereverine said conversationally, “you almost had me fooled. Don’t smell no different, but I got that link, when I served my time in Egypt. Damn thing’s fucking killin me. Tellin me I need to protect your ass. Not sure it was you, but certainly gets the blood pumping, ya know? Like ya got a handful of the hairs growin’ off my heart and gave ‘em a damn good tug.”

  Imelda peered at him. “You are babbling nonsense.”

  “Yeah, well,” the wereverine admitted, “I’m a little woozy. Seein’ how there’s a fucking needle in my foot, you can fucking sue me.” The unnatural emerald gaze on the other side of the gun, however, was steady.

  Again, Imelda felt a wash of guilt for the monster’s condition before she forced it back down. She thought again of the dreams she had witnessed, of the eye-searing clashes in the sky by two of God’s chosen. That one battle had decided the fate of the Order, and every tiny event, every tiny choice she had made beforehand had affected the outcome, all of which were beginning to dull into a foggy fuzz in her mind, with simply too many choices to remember the exact repercussions of every word, every action. It was like a migraine, but broader, more expansive, more disorienting, and less acute. Like walking through life with her consciousness always experiencing a one-second lag behind her body, yet at the same time having the memory of the future three.

  That was bad enough, but something had been bothering her from the beginning, ever since she’d woken from her dance with death. God’s angels didn’t fight. God’s angels battled Lucifer’s angels. That meant one of them was fallen.