Altered: A Beyond the Brothel Walls Novel

by Ryans, Rae Z.

  One by one, the Seven Archangels arrived. The last two were Michael and Raguel. His opinion and blessing mattered, and his gaze immediately jumped to Korrigan. “Interesting…”

  “Hallo, Fauna, and Mark, can you take everyone elsewhere?”

  “Not everyone,” Rag said, flicking dust from his shirt. “Take the filthy human away. The agents can debrief as well. Headquarters should do.”

  My siblings removed Nicolai and the ABDA agents to safety.

  Tomas clasped his hands together. “This won’t do.” His magic swirled at the room’s center, and the seating he’d summoned before blinked from the space. In its place, a large table and leather, executive chairs manifested.

  Rag cleared his throat and glared at him.

  I had one chance to win Rag over and by the frozen sneer painted on his delicate features; it wasn’t an easy task. My stomach churned. Everyone else grabbed a chair, but I remained standing. Drumming my fingers against the wooden table, I searched for the words, pushing thoughts of Cain aside. My lips parted.

  Rag said, “No.”

  “No?” I blinked.

  “She’s not ready, Dorian.”

  Petre smacked the table and said, “I’ll make her ready.”

  Rag smirked. “You can’t train her, vampire.” He pointed to Veric. “But he can.” His tone said he knew exactly who Veric truly was.

  “Whatever’s necessary,” Veric said, “but ducky might feel more comfortable with another bloke.”

  Tomas’s brows rose, and he whispered, “Rag wants an Elioud to train her?”

  “He’s not an Elioud,” I said, staring at Veric. “None of the Garland family are Elioud, are they?”

  Murmurs spread around the table. I didn’t doubt the discovery, but I had one question. Why hide? From the moment I met Veric… he wielded power too great for an Elioud. The tattoo cemented my belief. Almost too great for Nephilim, but he wasn’t evil.

  Veric’s head bowed, and his shoulders rolled forward. “Millennia we remained hidden,” he whispered, and tilted his ginger head. “I’d like to point out that Boric and I rarely saw eye-to-eye, then or now…” Veric turned to Petre. “Remember when I asked you about Asmodeus back in Delphia?”

  I froze at the name we seldom used for Boric anymore. Prince of Lechery—one of the original watchers and the first to spread his seed among the humans—ruled over sexual desires. No man or woman could resist him, but that didn’t mean him charming. Boric took what he wanted; he stole my Cain.

  Petre’s black brows creased. “In Delphia, yes.”

  “That is Boric’s real name.” Veric rose and met Rag’s curious stare. “You know who I am, my brothers and sisters.”

  “Azazel.” His tone seethed. “Although, Raphael will need to explain how it is you are among us and not in Hell.” Rag’s attention drifted. The Archangel leaned on his staff; black hair framed his pale face.

  “I tied him, but freed him after Remy had a vision,” Raphael said, motioning to Remiel. “He’s been undercover with us ever since. I sent a memo.”

  Rag’s eyes narrowed on Veric. “You should be locked away, burning for eternity, like Father sentenced you.” Azazel had given humans weaponry, magic, and taught them war. Father hadn’t wanted this for his humans; it led to sin. “Tartarus is too good for you, but I have half the mind to march you into a cell this moment.”

  Veric gulped and nodded. But I disagreed with Rag and opened my mouth.

  “I take full responsibility,” Remy stood, “but my visions are never wrong, and Azazel has been a powerful asset, both before and after. Like most of the fallen, he is misunderstood, but his heart belongs to our father.”

  Politics… All talk and no action… I shook my head. We needed to save Cain, not mosey down memory lane. Would there be any good news at this gathering? So far, they’d remembered Boric was a damned fallen angel—a damned Prince of fucking Hell. Vital information that would’ve been nice to have.

  “Who was Jules?” Korrigan asked. “He couldn’t have been your father.”

  Veric whispered, “Jules was Boric’s son. Asmodeus is bisexual with a stronger attraction toward men, toward one man in particular, your brother.”

  “Shite.” I tore a hand through my hair. “Anyone else have a bomb to drop, or can we get my boyfriend back now?” I kicked my chair and it skidded backward. I gripped the tabletop. As the seat smashed against the marble, a crash resonated and echoed from the walls.

  Rag thudded the table with his hand and said, “Grow up, Dorian.”

  Heaving for breath, I scowled at him. Heat creeped along my neck. “I will not grow up. I don’t give a shit about politics.” I clawed at my neck, ripping the key free, and tossed it on the table. It clattered before resting. “Either we shut the hell up and rescue Cain, or I will destroy us all.”

  “Michael and Raphael will accompany you. The rest of us will head to Anchorage.”

  Gabriel glowered, muttering to himself.

  “Fine, take the watchdog too, but keep a leash on him, Dorian. We don’t need to wipe out any innocents, yeah?” The remaining Archangels each grasped a hand, and white light flooded the small space.

  A flash of copper light shimmered before Gabriel manifested in front of me. “Sorry, Dorian but you know how Rag gets. We had to do this by the book. But chin up. We’re a go, yeah?” His tone bordered between cheery and excited.

  “You wasted time… time that Cain doesn’t have.” My knees slumped to the floor, and my head followed.

  Gabe’s hands grasped me and hefted me up.

  Michael said, “You can’t fall apart on us now. Let’s go, my brother.”

  “Where? How? You said you can’t blink on a ship.”

  Michael and Gabe shared a strange glance.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” My hardening bones pressed against my skin.

  “Calm down… It’s…”

  Gabe interjected, “Time moves differently outside of Sheol. Garland should’ve landed by now… in Texas…”

  “What do you mean by now? How long has it been?”

  “Weeks,” Michael whispered. “Give or take.”

  “As minutes ticked into hours inside of Sheol, those hours had ticked into days on Earth,” Gabe added. “No one argues that time wasn’t wasted, but let’s not squander anymore. Time to armor up.”

  Chapter

  Eighteen

  Cain

  The airship had halted, engines died. Guards, dressed in green, entered the makeshift prison. Hinges groaned their sorrowful tunes.

  An unknown guard barked, “Move it.”

  They emptied each cell of its precious cargo. Meaty paws gripped and shoved my sister, Lily, and her friend. I bit my tongue. Their magic eased my pain for a bit, but it didn’t heal the gaping wounds covering my body. Gaze averted, she whispered my name. But the butt of a rifle flung into her back, and Lily slammed against the wooden floor, landing on her hands and knees.

  A guard cracked a whip against my flesh. No strength remained and shouting proved no good.

  “Slaves stick together. Thought you fancied the harder variety.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Boss said you like it rough… well boys, let’s show ‘em once we’ve had our fill of tender, wanton screams.” The guard behind me chuckled.

  Gritting my teeth and swaying my body, chains rattled overhead. “Don’t touch her.” No use.

  His buddies laughed, but I knew the truth. The young and beautiful would go to the brothels. Others would see work camps or death. But where would they take me?

  Lily stared at the floor. So docile and obedient. Jules had trained her well.

  One of the guards reached down and hefted her to her feet. “Tell me, would you prefer a real man or your friend?”

  “A real man.”

  He leaned in and licked her face. Lily didn’t move.

  “Hear that? She doesn’t want the likes of you, but she’ll answer for her,” his gaze traveled the length
of her body, “crimes…”

  Once the ship’s cells were emptied, the guards returned. Two men lifted my battered body while a third removed the chains from the hook. They didn’t say a word, and I didn’t either. The man who’d touched my sister grabbed my head and pressed my face against the grimy wall. He kicked my legs apart.

  I accepted my fate… every thrust, grunt, kick, and blow with a shit-eating grin. They could break my body… my secrets, heart, and soul belonged to me.

  “Oi!” Cross stormed in.

  I lay on the floor, bleeding. His sharp breath said I looked worse for wear.

  “What the fuck are you doing? Get off him.” He yanked one of the guards aside, sending him flying across the room. “No one gave you rejects permission to touch him. You two, take him to medical, and then to Boric’s chambers.”

  The larger of the two guards scooped me up, scowling; the second one tagged along.

  Sunlight blinded me. He carried me outside. The stench of their fluids sickened my stomach. Clattering noises and voices carried, but I made nothing out, not that it would have mattered. Hotness swept over me, and the stink baked deeper into my skin. Branded, like a pig, and displayed, like a common whore: they marched me through the busy streets of Garland, Texas.

  My head swung; people appeared upside down, and the images churned my stomach even more. Desperately, I searched for Dorian’s face in the crowds, heart sinking when he wasn’t there. Would he bother? Would I? The thought swelled in my throat, and wetness burned my nose. A cough lodged in my chest, but I lacked the strength to release it.

  A door jingled and my guard stepped over a threshold and into a building. “Another one, doc.”

  “He’s in bad shape…” Cold metal brushed my skin, his brown, bare feet shuffled over the dirt floor. Odd for a doctor to walk around without shoes, but stranger events had occurred in the south. “Place him in the basin.”

  He deposited me into a tub. “Orders are to treat and—”

  Glass crashed. “He’s my patient, and you will do as I say.” Fingers snapped, his maybe, and a strong odor burned my nostrils. “He’s too close. If Boric wants him dead, then by all means take him away.” As the doctor shouted at the men, I gasped for breath. Ammonia filled and assaulted my senses. Pointing his finger, he snapped again, shooing them away. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, after they had left, and knelt. “They did a real number on you.” His lips pursed while gentle fingers smoothed over my skin.

  “Thanks,” I mouthed, and leaned my head back. The long tub had no water inside of it.

  “Syringe,” he said, and footsteps followed, but I saw not who made the sound. Metal scraped against metal. “For the pain,” the doctor said. The needle’s pinch didn’t compare, nor did the medicine’s burn, to torture and rape.

  Relief rolled over in varying waves as I fought the gentle pull of heavy eyelids. I lost the battle quickly.

  A cool, moist cloth rested on my head, and warm water soothed my stinging cuts and bruises. Alcohol filled my nostrils.

  “He’s coming to.” A feminine voice spoke in a hushed whisper. The cloth fell from my face.

  My eyes refused to open; brightness bled through the thin lids.

  “Doc’ll fix ya up real good.”

  No. Not feminine, but the voice was childlike. My lips parted, licking the dried surface.

  “What’s ya name?”

  “Cain Westcott,” I said, tilting my head at the softness and whispered pitch of my tone. Daggers followed, stabbing up and down my throat.

  “Westcott you say… Boyo get me the aloe.” A chair creaked, and someone sighed. “No wonder you look run over.”

  “Why’s that?” I blinked and tried to focus.

  “Boric has laws against consorting with the Westcott family, and you fling the name around, as if it means nothing.”

  It didn’t in the North, and I shrugged.

  “Name like that’ll get ya killed ‘round here.” The doctor mumbled something about time. “This might sting a little. But it’s better than the alternative.”

  Nothing the doctor did could’ve hurt as much as Boric’s acid touch.

  Shivers wracked my body, and my eyes flew open. White sheets were draped over my body, stained with dried blood and urine. Scratch, scratch, scratch: a brown-skinned man hovered over me, scowling and scribbling away on his notepad. He must’ve been the doctor.

  “Sleep,” he commanded me.

  Shaking my head, I fought the compulsion to shut my heavy eyelids. My mouth opened and sticky dryness greeted me.

  “You must to survive. He’s coming for you.”

  For a moment, my heart leaped, thinking he meant Dorian. Boric’s voice boomed, and I shut my eyes, willing my breath and heart to steady. Sleeping patients didn’t have panic attacks. A needle pinched my arm, and euphoria followed if only in my mind. The doctor’s words made sense. He was keeping me under to keep me safe; Boric wanted me conscious. Bless this man, God. Another needle punctured my skin, and darkness enveloped me in a warm cocoon of endless dreams.

  Dorian greeted me, arms wide and inviting. My lips parted, we connected, and my hands fisted into his hair. He drew away and whispered, “Hold on, babe. I’m coming.”

  On the sixth day in Garland Hell, I awoke and ate a light broth.

  The doctor said, “I can’t hold off Boric forever.”

  I asked, “Have you seen Lily? My Sister?”

  “No.” He glanced at his papers. “It’d help if you knew the name they gave her. Don’t anybody keep their names.”

  I kept mine. Boric liked it. “Thank you for taking care of me. But why?”

  “He is my master, but I don’t condone his actions. You seem like a good kid. Before the collapse, doctors held an oath, and I take mine seriously.” Doc sighed and rubbed a hand over his black brows. His mind was a blank slate, but his compassion lit hope, like a wildfire. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  Fourteen days after my arrival—the doctor kept me apprised to the days—Cross hand-delivered my healed, naked body to Boric’s chambers. I recognized the room, and it wasn’t my first dance in the den of the true devil. Stale blood tainted the air. Mine would join it soon, but remnants of me already existed within the old outpost walls.

  “Remember the drill, or do I need to give you a refresher?” Cross asked.

  As instructed, I stood in the middle of Boric’s bedroom floor, gaze obediently aimed at the wooden slats, and bowed my head.

  “Good lad.” Footsteps carried away from me. Drawers opened and closed. “You know how I feel about all this.” He stopped in front of me, leather shackles in his hands. “Hands behind your back and don’t try any magic. We have the crystals up, so you’ll only be hurting yourself.”

  After years of freedom, I didn’t think I’d ever wear them again. He grabbed each wrist, though gentle, and wrapped the cuff until it clicked.

  “Do I need to do your legs?”

  “No, Master,” I replied beneath a shield of heated flesh. My arms were useless behind my back. I closed my eyes and faced the demons of my past. Me then had changed some, but I had been scrawnier, weaker, and without much willpower.

  Long before the keys, I had become a plaything for the King of Garland. For all his talk and names, he never entertained women in these walls. He despised them, raped them, yes, but even his Queen visited only when necessary to produce an heir.

  The door creaked and slammed, rattling the old fort floors and glass windows. Garland had stood as an Army base before the Sundering, and its military strengths were perfect for the rising south. Footsteps stomped, as if to intimidate me; I counted three sets.

  “Pillow biter,” Boric said, and rubbed his hand over my naked back, sliding down to my exposed cheeks. His nose dripped sweat on my neck. “Undo those binds and fasten them in the front.”

  Cross obeyed.

  “Push him to his knees.”

  Cross’s hands applied pressure to my shoulders and my knees bent toward
the floor. Aches speared through me in anticipation for Boric’s assault. Teeth gritting, I gulped and fought the sweltering edge of tears. My forehead scraped against the sandy floorboards. Dirt and a citrusy oil coated my tongue.

  “You are nothing more than a dog.” A black, leather boot kicked forth.

  Lights blinded my vision. My rib bones cracked. Mouth open, nothing but a strangled hiss released. Another sickening snap sounded, along with a huff. My teeth mashed together, and I lost my balance, toppling onto my side. Burning for breath refusing to fill them, my lungs ached. He thrusted his boot again. My hands rose to protect my face, but he didn’t stop kicking.

  I screamed, but no vocal sounds announced, only a gasping hiss.

  “Worthless, can’t even bloody-well-stay-righted. Fix this wanker, Cross.”

  “Yes, Master,” he replied in a solemn tone.

  Blood filled my mouth and poured from my nose. Metallic flavor lingered on my tongue. Cross lifted me from the ground and placed me on my knees again. But Boric’s fingers gripped me hard, and his nails sliced into my shoulders. His boot swung backward and propelled forward again. Nothing existed beyond the pain, sweat, blood, and tears seeping into the walls and floors holding me captive.

  I had become their prisoner, and the walls laughed.

  Once more, I awoke in the good doctor’s care. I didn’t catch his name, but the young boy called him Doc. Bandages covered my middle. Air filled my lungs, yet each intake caused me to wince. Balls of light procured my vision, but the quaint, whitewashed cinderblocks and putrid ammonia overwhelmed my senses.

  Boric roared unintelligible words. I pinched my eyes shut, despite him arguing behind a closed, sound-muffling door.

  “Doc a good man… no more pain for ya,” the childlike voice whispered. “He keep Cain safe till help arrives.”

  Help? No one was coming for me. No one loved me. I turned my head away, wondering how many days had passed without word from Dorian. Only in my hallucinations did I see him. My eyelids fluttered to a close.

  A door groaned, followed by footsteps. “Let him rest. Now get on out of here,” Doc shot back, laying into Boric.