‘He needs a few more lashes yet. I’ll do it.’
From out of the flickering darkness, a leather-gloved hand took possession of the cat. Tortrulla was there, in boots and gloves, helmet and harness, seated beside Juliet on the table.
On needle heels she stood, and dealt blistering cat-strokes to the crouching slave. Roars of pain and ecstasy filled the storeroom. Andrew came - but no, it wasn’t Andrew any more. The figure at Juliet’s feet was Damien, horned and repulsive. The chair on which she sat was no longer an executive seat upholstered in black leather, but a massive thing of rough, splintery wood, solid as a blacksmith’s forge; and she was pinned to it, unable to move, as if tied with iron bands.
Then, with a soundless thud, it tipped backwards. Her head was down on the floor, her legs were stretched wide somewhere high above. She screamed and screamed, and her throat was scalded by the air.
Tortrulla laughed.
‘I told you Juliet, that I was part of this organisation. That wasn’t exactly true. But you might say I do a lot of headhunting from the people here,’ she said. ‘I’ve had my eye on you for a long time. You’re ready to be recruited. Needless to say that in your new position, there will be many changes. You won’t possess quite your old authority. You shan’t be needing these.’
She plucked the heels from Juliet’s feet and tossed them away.
‘And now, you can be despatched.’
Needle-heeled and dagger-toed, Tortrulla’s boot drove down on Juliet.
The storeroom floor was gone from under her. She was falling, falling, secured by invisible bonds to the seat of doom. With a last long shriek, she plummeted backwards into an abyss of heat and darkness.
‘You WERE the Queen Bitch, Juliet. But every reign comes to an end!’
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