by Kallysten
As he blinked, the object seemed to absorb the drop of blood. The next second, a flash of light emanated from it and blinded Marc. He shut his eyes tightly, feeling disoriented. When he opened them again, the world shifted around him. Nothing, no one moved, but Marc felt as though he were caught in a sudden earthquake. Everything slipped out of focus.
He blinked several times, trying to clear his vision. It didn’t work. Instead, it got worse. His ears buzzed, and while he could hear Simon say something, he couldn’t make out the words. Raising both hands to his ears, Marc pressed down on them, closed his eyes, and tried to steady his stance. When he opened his eyes again, everything was different. Including him.
Chapter 19
Blake’s Master was leaning against the wall, watching Blake sleep.
Watching, and planning.
He doubted he’d ever get tired of what a pretty boy Blake was. Even more so when he was naked and covered in blood.
Blake’s Master expected that the boy would be both things quite often under his charge. Blake was as stubborn, as willful, as he was pretty, and it would be quite interesting to teach him to submit. Really submit. There was no room here for half-hearted games. Blake’s Master wanted a toy, nothing more, nothing less, and he would have it. It didn’t matter how long it would take, or what he needed to do to break Blake.
The only thing that mattered was for the awakening boy to learn his place. And his place, his Master quickly showed him, was on his knees, and silent.
* * * *
Marc shook his head, trying to get a grip on himself, on who he was, but the memory clung to him, like a second skin. They weren’t images in his head; they were a lot more than that. He remembered what Blake had smelled like with caked blood and dirt staining his skin. He remembered the muted sounds of crying and pleading from the other prisoners. And every thought that had crossed that creature’s mind was as clear as if it had been Marc’s own.
* * * *
With an angry growl, Blake’s Master stormed out of the cell, pushing the demon guarding the corridor out of his way. The insolent boy had defied him. Again. Months of working with him, of teaching him with fists and whips and his cock, and still Blake wouldn’t understand that resistance was useless. But he would learn. His Master would see to it. And if punishment didn’t work, there were other ways.
They had finally managed to get the girl’s blood a few days earlier. It had been hard for the demons to find a specific human. To demons, everything with a beating heart was the same: something to kill. Blake’s Master had asked for a spy to be sent with a group of demons, and while all the demons had been killed, the spy had retrieved a sword covered in the girl’s blood. A flesh wound for her, but for Blake’s Master, the opening he had been waiting for.
The demon magic that changed the Master’s appearance, transforming his human body to match the larger, younger-looking body of his toy’s Sire, transformed another prisoner into a replica of the human girl that held Blake’s heart.
A heart was a very dangerous thing to give away. Blake’s Master had learned that lesson from the demons a long time ago, and now he would teach it to Blake.
Blake’s Master had wanted to break the girl in a little more, shape her into the proper toy he wanted Blake to be, and show Blake how to stop the beatings. But he could work with this.
Oh yes, it would work just fine.
She kicked and screamed all the way from her cell to Blake’s, and for that, Blake’s Master added fifty blows to the fifty she would receive in lieu of Blake. The boy strained against his chains when his Master entered with the girl, and she stopped fighting back instantly to stare at him. Blake’s Master used the opportunity to throw her down to the opposite corner and turned to Blake.
“You earned fifty strokes,” he reminded him darkly. “But since you don’t seem to care about pain, I thought we’d try something new. You can thank your girl for taking your punishment in your place.”
The boy’s widening eyes were a delicious treat. His pleading, once his Master started, even sweeter.
* * * *
Marc opened his hands, trying to drop the whip that he still held in his mind. The sound of leather falling on stones didn’t come, however, and all Marc could hear were the long-gone echoes of Blake’s and Kate’s pain. But no, it hadn’t been Kate. She had never been the demons’ prisoner.
Had she?
He blinked wildly and looked around, fighting past the images in his mind to focus on what was really there. Both Simon and Jen were looking at him with the same confusion.
“They must have used my blood,” he said; his voice sounded like a croak. “Like they used Kate’s. How did they get…”
But the how did not matter as much as what they had done with it.
* * * *
It had been years since Blake’s Master had first taught Blake to call him ‘master.’ No, not years. Decades. Time passed so quickly when one was having fun. And Blake’s Master was having a lot of fun indeed. His toy had a sinful mouth, and he was quite a sight on his knees. As for fucking him… Blake’s Master doubted he would ever tire of him.
Still, Blake was every bit as rebellious as the day he had been brought in. And while a bit of a fight could be fun, every now and then, and bringing in a new incarnation of the girl to remind the boy of his place was a favorite game of his Master’s, it was sometimes tiresome to keep going back to square one yet again.
The part of Blake that was purely vampire wouldn’t be broken, it seemed. But his Master had an answer to that: another bit of magic that the demon mages had agreed to perform for him. They were tiring of his lack of progress, but he had managed to convince them nonetheless.
Once Blake was half human, that pesky vampire part would only sustain his life without giving him such strength anymore.
Maybe some might consider it cheating, but Blake’s Master had been given entire latitude to turn Blake to their cause, and the only rule that mattered as far as he was concerned was that he always had his way.
* * * *
Marc brought a hand up and covered his mouth. Vomiting was a human thing, but his stomach was roiling with dry heaves. He wanted to escape the flow of images, stop watching his Childe get hurt by hands that so resembled his own, but he didn’t know how. And at the same time, a little voice deep inside him demanded that he let the images pour over him. So often, he had asked Blake to share what had happened to him, to explain—to let go of those memories so he could start healing. But Blake was too stubborn, and would rather risk being triggered by an old memory than share his pain. This was the only way Marc would ever know what had happened—everything that had happened. Even if he had known how to stop it, maybe he wouldn’t have.
* * * *
Tight. Always so tight. It had been centuries, and still… Always perfect, his boy. Always so fucking tight. Not always as docile as he was now, but the girl had been in just a few days before, and Blake was always on his best behavior after one of her visits. Always eager to please and not earn further punishment for her. After all this time, it still surprised Blake’s Master that she was such a good tool to control his boy, but he didn’t question it. He didn’t question anything that let him enjoy his boy so thoroughly.
He came with a wordless shout and a hard snap of his hips, his hands tight on Blake’s hips and holding him in place. After a few moments, he pulled out and took a step back.
“Clean me, my boy.”
Diligently, Blake pushed back from the wall and turned before gracefully falling to his knees. His deformed hands remained on his thighs as his mouth sought his Master’s cock; he had learned, at long last, not to touch himself, even when he was hard and aching, like he now was.
Thoughtlessly threading his hands through his boy’s hair, Blake’s Master pondered Blake’s fate. Would he let Blake come today?
* * * *
Marc blinked several times to focus his gaze again.
“Did you know?” Words came out as
a growl, and Jen shuddered under his stare. “Did you know this would happen?”
She shook her head, and her mouth worked silently a couple of times before anything came out. “What is happening?” she asked. “I don’t know…”
Her voice faded when her face—all of her—disappeared again, giving way to another vision.
Another memory.
* * * *
Blake’s burning eyes asked why. The Master refused to listen, refused to answer, and redoubled his efforts, the whip cracking and making more noise than Blake did, stirring more air than he was. So perfectly trained. So beautifully broken in to satisfy his Master. And now they were taking him back. Taking his Master’s toy away, and sending him back to the world from which they had taken him.
Blake’s Master had known this moment would come. He had known from the start that this was how it would end. But he had told them, just days earlier, that with just a little more time, Blake would make the most wonderful spy. A few more months, even a couple of years, and it would only be hours or days on the other side. Blake’s Master had never questioned his orders until now—he had never needed to—but this time, he had. And he had been reminded of his place in a very effective manner.
A very undignified manner.
Blake’s eyes closed, freeing two more tears, one on each cheek, but still not a sound. He wouldn’t be making sounds anymore, not for anyone. If his Master couldn’t have his moans and pleas, no one else would have them, either. The boy’s front and back were already a bloody mess, but his Master continued, putting all his frustrations in each blow.
His boy. His. No one else’s.
* * * *
“Marc!”
It wasn’t the sound of his name that brought Marc back to the present, but the slap that accompanied it. He blinked several times and raised a hand to touch his stinging cheek. Jen had quite an arm on her. She stood in front of him, looking at him with undisguised worry.
“Are you in there?” she asked, and from the sound of it, she was ready to slap him again if she found his answer lacking.
“Yes,” he said, and even to his own ears, it didn’t sound convincing.
“Come on.” Simon tugged at his arm. “We have to go.”
He stared at Simon and repeated numbly, “Go? Go where?”
Didn’t Simon realize that there was no going back? Couldn’t he understand that after what Marc had just seen, what he had experienced—remembered—he couldn’t bear the thought of facing Blake and Kate again?
The images he had seen in that cell weren’t just images. They were memories, each accompanied by sensations and thoughts. He remembered what Blake had sounded like when he had pleaded for the pain to stop. He remembered the smell of his Childe’s fear, a fear as bitter as it was deep, inspired by Marc himself. He remembered the feel of the whip handle in his hand, and how Blake had trembled under him. He remembered watching Blake for hours, waiting for him to move when he had been ordered not to, waiting, hoping for that slip up that would justify another round of punishment—not that a justification had ever been necessary. He remembered the taste of Blake’s blood laced with hate and pain, and that memory obliterated the memory of Blake’s blood flavored with lust and that thing neither of them would call love, even if they both knew it was.
“Go where?” Simon sounded dumbstruck. “To free the prisoners? Isn’t that what we came for? And then we can go home. This place gives me the creeps.”
The prisoners. Yes, they had to free the prisoners. That was why they had come, even if it wouldn’t make up for Blake’s imprisonment. And then…
“I can’t go back,” he murmured and took hold of his sword again.
He looked around the small room, trying to decide where he would go. Back to Riverton and its quiet mountain? No, that wouldn’t do. Blake would find him there. The whole point was not to be found again, to disappear from Blake’s life as thoroughly as Marc possibly could without dying. Blake didn’t need the pain of that broken bond on top of everything else he had endured. Maybe then, when Marc’s presence didn’t remind Blake of his ordeal, day in and day out, he would finally be able to start healing.
“Can’t go back?” A burst of bitter fear rose from Simon, and his voice rose in pitch. “What do you mean, you can’t go back? What happened?”
Marc considered him for a few seconds. He didn’t want to answer, but if it helped Simon understand demon magic better…
“That orb. The demons used it to change someone into my double. They used my blood, I think. And when I touched it, I saw what that other Marc did. I saw it all. And I—”
A loud sound suddenly blared, high pitched and deafening, reminiscent of the wail that had once echoed through the foggy streets of the City.
“Damn it!” Sudden fear flashed from where Jen stood by the door, acrid and unpleasant enough that Marc rubbed his nose. “They know we’re here. We have to leave. Now!”
“But the prisoners,” Simon started. He was still looking at Marc with an expression of fascinated horror.
She interrupted him at once. “Forget the prisoners. If we don’t get out of here, we’ll be prisoners ourselves. Or worse.”
Marc stared at her. Worse than prisoners? Couldn’t she see that nothing was worse than that, not even death? She had been in one of those cells; she should have known.
She frowned at him, then grabbed his arm and shook it. “Snap out of it!” she demanded. “You’re going to get yourself killed. And us with you.”
She looked ready to slap him again. Marc blinked. The alarm was still shrieking. Somewhere outside the tower, demons were shouting in their harsh grunting language. Jen was scared. Simon was terrified. Both were looking at him like they were waiting for him to do something. And of course he had to do something. He had brought them there. He was responsible for them. He couldn’t let them be taken—like he had let Blake be taken from him.
“Let’s go,” he said, firming his grip on his sword and taking a resolute step toward the door. “Simon. Is the glamour still active?”
Simon nodded frantically, but he still pulled that small jar from the bag he clutched to his chest like a shield and threw a pinch of the glitter powder on all three of them.
“Jen? You’re ready?”
“No,” she replied flatly, but she nonetheless stepped forward, her sword in her hand.
“We’re not fighting demons,” Marc reminded them. “We’re just going through. Only kill if it can be done quickly, quietly, and with no one noticing.”
They both nodded, although the words had been meant for Jen. Marc pulled the door open very quietly; he could hear hurried demon steps coming closer.
“Let’s go,” he said, and preceded them out into the corridor.
At the very end, a handful of demons were approaching, weapons raised and obviously ready to fight—to kill. Even knowing that they couldn’t sense his presence, Marc couldn’t help but tense. When Simon and Jen joined him, he motioned for them to press close to the wall like he was, where a passing demon wouldn’t accidentally jostle them and realize someone was there. They started down the hallway, stilling when the demons passed them, then hurrying further. At the end of the hallway, they should have turned right to retrace their steps, but another group of demons was guarding the way out.
“This way,” Jen said urgently, turning left instead. “It’s longer, but there’s a way.”
Longer meant passing in front of cell after cell, the heavy doors doing a poor job of blocking the crying and moaning inside. With each new cell they passed, Marc’s steps grew heavier until he finally stopped.
“What is it?” Simon all but squeaked, stopping next to Marc and looking around nervously.
“How many people can you put under the glamour?” Marc asked, his eyes on the closest door; the stench of fear poured right through it.
“How many…” Simon followed Marc’s gaze and gulped. “I don’t know. Five, maybe six. It’s a strain to hold on as it is. Something is pu
lling at my magic and—”
“We don’t have time for this,” Jen interrupted. “They know we’re here. They’ll be guarding the breach even more closely.”
“It’s what we came here for,” Marc said, shaking his head and reaching for the padlock that secured the door. “They are what we came here for.”
Jen’s hand closed over his wrist. “If you open it, they’ll hear it. If you have to carry someone too scared to even walk, you won’t be able to fight. And then what?”
“And then I’ll have tried,” Marc growled, wrenching his arm free. “If we can free even one of them, it’s enough. Better than allowing two hundred and thirteen people to be taken.”
She recoiled like he had struck her. He crushed the padlock in his hand and pulled the door open. Before he had motioned for Simon to go inside and put the prisoner under the glamour so they could help him out, Jen had already opened two more cell doors.
Six people, Simon had said. No more than six. Marc considered the corridor and the many doors it held, chewing on his lip as he thought.
In the next cell could be someone else’s Blake, someone who was loved and missed. Someone he could free.