Ida’s place was nothing like that. Very modern, spotlessly clean, with minimum of furniture, at least in the hallway.
“Leave the jacket here,” Ida ordered. “And take your shoes off. Socks, too.”
He did. The parquet floor felt strangely comfortable against his bare feet as he followed her. Through the door to the right, he caught a glimpse of what looked like an office with a desk and a few filing cabinets, but Ida led him further, into a cozier, if sparsely furnished room, though it also seemed more of a lounge for guests and clients than a lived-in space.
She gestured at a leather couch.
“Sit. I’m not offering you alcohol, for I need you to be absolutely sober, but if you want something else to drink, feel free to ask.”
Dragomir shook his head. “Nah, I’m good.”
“Fine then.” She sat opposite, in a leather chair. “Let’s clear some things first.”
During their taxi ride, with small questions now and then, she’d fished out more information about him and his curse than he would have been comfortable to give if he had to tell his entire story in a monologue. Now she knew the basics. Betrayal. Pain. Death, but not for him.
What else would she want to poke into?
“Do you know the difference between magicians and witches?” she asked him rather unexpectedly.
The corners of his mouth twitched. “Yep. Everybody knows that.”
Magicians either used only their own energy, which was reckless because everyone’s strength had its limits and there was always the danger of using too much of it, or formed congregations to cast spells with each other’s assistance. Witches and warlocks were people with the sight, so to speak, but devoid of the ability to perform what most people still called miracles.
They could cast small spells, but only with the help of amulets that accumulated energy, charged by someone else, or with the aid of natural forces—the powers of the Earth and its creatures and plants—and sometimes supernatural ones. Such alliances were a rare thing though, because demons were highly unreliable colleagues, even when bound by legal contracts.
On the whole, witches were less efficient and less influential than magicians. But more abundant. Low-class workers.
They could curse, too, if it weren’t against the law. But with them, it was almost always more of a mindfuck trick than any real transformation done to a body.
Ida nodded, as if he’d given her a satisfactory, detailed answer. “Yes, exactly. We heal, we connect, we improve. Tie loose ends. But it’s nothing extraordinary. Most often, it’s mundane work, something a doctor or a psychologist would do, only we see through things much better. Our covens are not like magic schools. We don’t share power. We share knowledge and experience.”
Dragomir huffed. He was becoming moderately annoyed by talking of things seemingly unrelated to his own problems. “Sounds like a perfect propaganda speech. Witches are humans, too, only better.”
As soon as the words slipped out, he wished to take them back. But Ida suddenly giggled, though she should have felt offended, not amused. People didn’t usually give such a reaction when he snapped at them like the rabid dog he was now, and guilt mixed with embarrassment made him even more cross.
“I’m not implying we are better than others,” Ida said, “but nor are magicians. Or people of others professions. What I’m saying is—I’m not going to make your curse disappear. I have no means for that. But those who might … they have already failed. You know the curse stays.”
“You said you would help,” he protested almost accusingly, though not so long ago he’d been sure she couldn’t. He hated this note of betrayed hope in his voice. He should have stuck to pessimism. So far, it hadn’t brought him any disappointments.
“I said so, and I will do what I promised to. But it won’t be about getting rid of your curse. It will be about turning it into your strength.”
The sound he made wasn’t exactly a laugh, but bitter humor was certainly there.
“Strength? Are you kidding me?”
“Do you know an old fairytale about the three sons of a king, young idiots who played a practical joke on an old warlock?” she asked, instead of answering a rhetorical question. “It’s a rather long story, but I want you to listen to it. You’ll find it relevant. It doesn’t even matter what the lads did, but predictably, the warlock reacted very poorly to their jest. He cursed the first one of them that he would become a murderer, never letting a knife out of his hands. He cursed the second one that he would turn into a robber, and by robbery ever live. He cursed the third one that he would be a beggar, and in beggary live and die. After that, three black ravens appeared in the king’s castle. They were to follow the princes everywhere they went until their ill fortune was fulfilled.
“The king was heartbroken, for he loved his idiot boys. All the wise men at the court just shook their heads miserably, unable to do anything about the triple curse, despite the generous reward that was offered to them. But there was a humble, poor man known for his great wisdom who lived in a little hut in a remote corner of the country. Sadness overcame him when he heard of the king’s grief, so he set his feet on the road that led to the royal castle.
“When he knocked at the gates and announced he might be of help, everyone laughed at him, but not the king, who would listen to anyone at this point. ‘I heard your eldest son was cursed to become a murderer,’ the poor man said. ‘Send him to the best school of medicine. If he learns to be a surgeon and a patient dies by his hand, nobody will blame him.’ As he said these words, one of the ugly ravens gave a loud croak, spread its black wings, and flew away. ‘Was your second son cursed to be a robber?’ the man asked. ‘Send him to the best school of law, so he would become a judge and nobody else would judge him.’ After that, the second raven gave a fearsome croak and left, too! ‘As for your youngest son who is to be a beggar,’ the man continued, ‘send him to a seminary, so he would become a priest and live by the means people would give him willingly.’ The last crow made a shrill cry as if it were stabbed with a dagger, and disappeared in an instant. And thus the prophecy was fulfilled, but not in the way the warlock had hoped it would be.”
Dragomir listened more or less patiently, lulled by Ida’s low hypnotic voice. Fortunately, the fairytale was not as long as he feared it could be. Perhaps the definition of long varied.
“Well, it’s all very clever and funny,” he said when Ida was finished. “But what does it have to do with me?”
“There are several ways to deal with your curse. One of them you already know. It’s to burn out the aggression that builds up in you. To fight, to do something violent, something intense. We’ll probably need to increase your physical activity. Do you work out?”
“Not much.”
Sometimes he clobbered a makeshift stack of bald tires in the backyard as it was a much cheaper training option than a punching bag, and he watched tutorials on fighting tricks, but that was it. He’d used to jog, but stopped this winter because it had brought ridiculous amounts of wet snow and it had been no fun splashing through icy slush. He’d never resumed the habit. Why bother? To put up a good fight, he didn’t have to be stronger than he already was.
“Well, it’s to be changed,” Ida declared resolutely. “But it’s only a superficial decision. Even after a most satisfying fight, the effect is always short-lived, until your energy is restored, isn’t it? How long does it last? A few days? Or even less?”
He shrugged, not looking her in the face. Her legs, crossed elegantly, were a good distraction from the unpleasant truth—his numbing post-battle fatigue was never long-term, and his anger resurfaced pretty quickly.
She wore silky dark stockings and ankle strap shoes, vintage pin-up style. Enough to divert a man.
“Besides,” she went on as if his gesture was telling enough and if she didn’t mind him ogling her feet, “while this method works for now, you are injured repeatedly, and what if one day you won’t be able to take part in a boxing
match or a street fight? What about the time when you grow old?”
Dragomir shrugged again. He didn’t think much of getting old. He wasn’t sure he would.
He’d been an average magician, not valuable enough for Scholomance to keep him. Now he was a lousy fighter, not entirely hopeless only because of his desperate rage that made him into a wound-up punching machine. He was always a good spectacle. Fury incarnate. But to be honest, he lost too often, so he didn’t have illusions about having a career in boxing, illegal or not. What would he do when he’d be kicked out, most likely after a crippling injury? He had no idea. He didn’t know how to be anything else.
“So let’s dig deeper,” Ida suggested almost cheerfully. “Let’s not only burn off your energy on a daily basis, but try to redirect it. And to do it, we need to know where it is directed now. What triggers your aggression.”
Dragomir laughed huskily, amused enough to look up at her again. “Pretty much anything.”
She canted her head to the side, amused, too. “We’ll see. I’ll tell you of an exercise you’ll need later. Don’t try it now, just remember it. At some point, you’ll have to formulate: what exactly makes you angry this very moment. A person? A situation? What do you hate the most? Put it into words. You don’t have to say them, simply imagine you write these words on a chalkboard. And then … I’ll tell you what’s next in a while. For now, we are to decide how far you’ll go in order to find … well, maybe not a cure, but a helpful medicine.”
“Very far,” he said, and she nodded at him approvingly like his answer was the right one. The only possible choice.
****
A hushed female voice. Soft, ingratiating. Words in Latin. “…and when I say one, you’re going to open your eyes. Five … four … three … two … one.”
When he came to, the first thing he understood: he couldn’t see. A moment of panic—and then another realization: there was a blindfold of some kind over his eyes. He was standing with his arms up above him … and wait, were his hands bound? What the hell? He tried to reach up, rotating his wrists, and clutched at the chains he was hanging from. Yes, fucking chains. And leather handcuffs, buckled very tight. And he couldn’t feel any clothes upon himself, just something around his neck in addition to his dog tag.
Then he remembered. Ida. Her apartment. Talking about his curse. She said they had to negotiate…
And after that—nothing.
He jerked at the chains, hard. And again, and a few times more. They didn’t give. There was some slack, so at least his arms weren’t pulled up too tautly, but he couldn’t break free.
“You must be wondering what happened to you,” Ida said somewhere to his left. “You agreed to an experiment, remember? And here you are. A fine specimen for a very interesting test.”
Her hand touched his chest lightly, out of nowhere, and he jolted at the contact as if she had prodded him with a stun baton.
She chuckled quietly. “So skittish. But it’s understandable. Everyone would be jumpy in your place.” Her hand wandered across his pecs, brushed his nipple, and disappeared. “I’ll let you adjust. Try tugging at the chains again if you want to check whether they will break or not. I allow you. But here’s a spoiler: they won’t. They’re not some rusty old shackles. They are good and new, very sturdy, and secured to an eyehook in the ceiling. There was a large chandelier hanging from it once, so it’s quite reliable. I redecorated the room long ago, but I always thought the hook would come in handy one day. It’s a mild nuisance the handcuffs have to be hanging so high—I’m not that tall. But a bit of hypnosis, and you helped me to restrain you most eagerly.”
What the hell was going on?
As if through a fog, Dragomir remembered saying yes to some kind of experiment and even filling and signing a yes/no negotiation form, but it was a vague memory, distant and dream-like. Everything else—a boxing match, a fight before that—seemed even more surreal.
Ida’s hand slipped along his flank, ticklishly, up to his neck, and tugged at what he realized was a collar.
“And this is to ensure you wouldn’t break free using magic. Quite a special thing. Leather, silver, and a security spell. Meant especially for wayward mages, something of the kind they use in prisons when incarcerating a person with enhanced abilities.” She slipped a finger under the band around his throat, making it too tight, almost choking him. “So you will behave, no matter whether you want it or not. A bad boy will be a good boy for a change.”
“What are you doing?” he rasped out.
“Just making you harmless. Wasn’t it what you wanted, to cause no harm to me?”
Was she mocking him?
He stood there, wearing nothing but a collar, a dog tag, and a blindfold. It was ridiculous. Laughable. Humiliating.
And scary.
Rationally, he knew he probably had nothing to worry about. Or did he? But anyway, all rational thoughts gave way to a primitive bodily reaction—discomfort at being tied up, helpless. It felt like he was itching all over under his skin with uneasiness bordering on unwanted panic, too exposed, deprived of sight. He tried to wriggle his wrists out of the handcuffs instead of jerking at the chains, but to no avail.
“Nope, the handcuffs will hold, too,” Ida warned him. “I checked, and not just once. As I might have said, I do a bit of coaching now and then, but of an unusual kind. I call it expanding boundaries. Experiencing new sensations. It doesn’t normally include sex, but for you, I might make an exception.”
A peck of a kiss between his shoulder blades. Hands running up and down his sides, in a comforting manner, but at the same time, it was unnerving. He tried to twist away from her touch, stubbornly, but she squeezed his hips, adding a hint of nails.
“Sshh, don’t twitch, hold still,” she said, “or I’ll pull up the chains. They say it’s extremely painful to hang from your wrists. Excruciating.”
“Oh yeah?” he managed. “Someone else complained?”
“And very loudly. Good thing this room is soundproof. As I said, it had been redecorated.”
Her arms went ‘round him. She was still clothed, but he could feel her little perky breasts pressing against his back. His cock, already half-hard, immediately went into a very interested mode. It didn’t seem to mind the strangeness of the situation.
Dragomir thought he might reconcile with it, too, when Ida’s palms came to rest on his hipbones, teasingly close to where he wanted them, though he still felt very self-conscious. Down there, he was more on the average side than gigantic, but then again, the definition of long varied. Besides, Ida didn’t seem to dislike him.
“Ever tried anal sex?” she whispered into his neck. Almost an open-mouthed kiss, but not quite.
“Well, yes, once…” he began hoarsely, but then she backed off and her hand skimmed along his spine down to the crease between his buttocks. “Wait—you mean on the receiving end? Hell no!”
“Why so emphatic?” she asked, her index finger probing at his ass crack inquisitively.
“Because I didn’t want to. Stop it. Now.”
He tried to writhe from her touch again, still half-hoping she would listen.
“Hmm. So having anal sex is okay when you’re on top, but suddenly isn’t when you’re the one on the receiving end, as you put it?” she sing-songed, dangerously slow. “Is it about the fear of not being in control? You have a problem then. Because you’re very much not in control now. Don’t you still get it? I can do whatever I wish to you. Whatever pleases me. And you have no say in the matter.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” he muttered, though come of think of it, he knew nothing of her. A nice girl in vintage pin-up shoes could turn out to be a not-so-nice mass murderer. He couldn’t even see if she had or hadn’t an array of knives and bone saws laid out next to him.
“Maybe not quite afraid. Yet,” Ida said, not reassuringly at all. “But certainly apprehensive. You should have seen yourself sitting on that couch. All tense, arms crossed, head down… Such a po
sture might look aggressive, but it’s defensive-aggressive. You see the whole world as potentially unsafe, full of threats.”
Dragomir sighed. At least they were back to shrink-talking instead of discussing him being a bad boy. “Well yes, it is unsafe. Paranoia is actually a helpful survival instinct. Maybe I’m not paranoid enough though if I ended up like this.”
If he’d thought of his own safety instead of blindly following someone else’s orders, maybe things would have turned different for him. But it had been easier, following orders. It felt lonely now, caring for himself instead. But it was probably better.
“You want to take control, in an aggressive way, because you had been stripped of it,” Ida said almost sympathetically. “There are two ways to handle it. The first is to get your control back by force, violently, just to prove you can. That’s what you’ve been doing so far. But it’s never back for good. The other way is to give in and let your control be taken without struggle.”
He scowled, not getting what she was up to. “Why would I want to do that?”
“To see what might happen next. Will it be as bad again as you imagine? Or could it be something else entirely?”
The last time, it had brought him nothing but trouble. He suspected this time would be no different.
“It’s not my idea of a pleasantly spent evening. Will you unbind me?” he suggested. As they were back to being reasonable, maybe she would.
No such luck.
“You’ve been much more cooperative under hypnosis,” she chided him. “Yet less fun, I must admit. So I’m not going to hypnotize you again. Instead, I’ll show you the consequences of contradicting me.”
****
The first blow didn’t actually feel like a blow. Just a dull smack across the meaty part of his ass, right in the middle. Something flat and hard, applied with not too much force. Not enough to hurt. But of course he wasn’t going to tell Ida.
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