Anew: Book Two: Hunted

by Litton, Josie

  Across the width of the club, Ian and the man in the red mask face each other. As the minutes pass, neither moves. I’m struck by the sense that a contest of wills is playing out in front of me, one that only the two of them can fully comprehend.

  Finally, the man in the red mask stands. He leaves his throne-like chair, comes down from the dais, and crosses the floor to mount the stage. To the cheers of the crowd, he raises his arms over his head and walks in a full circle, soliciting their fervor before taking up a position once again facing Ian.

  Several moments pass. I’m aware of the frantic beating of my heart and the chill moving over my skin. But mostly all I can focus on is Ian. His eyes are hooded, his expression inscrutable. He shows no interest in whatever is about to happen.

  Two of the faceless servants appear, holding between them a naked, trembling young woman. They pull her up the steps and onto the stage, where she falls to her knees in front of the man. He moves aside a flap in his cloak and forces her head under the garment. Almost at once, she begins to bob back and forth. My relief at being spared a direct view of what she’s doing vanishes when one of the servants approaches and holds out a long, leather flail. The man takes it, slashing it once through the air as though to get the feel of it. I jump at the sound it makes, then jump again when he brings the next strike down against the woman’s bare buttocks. She jerks but does not falter in her rhythm. Not with the first blow or with the dozen and more than follow.

  I cringe, imagining her desperation as the need to make the man come is made all the more difficult by the pain of the flagellation she is suffering at his hands. Her entire body is shaking before he finally stiffens and throws back his head. The red mask catches the light of the hanging chandeliers and glows as though with an inner, demonic fire.

  In the aftermath, the woman slumps to the floor, gasping for air. The crowd cheers. Several of the faceless servants appear and drag her upright. The servants place her in front a large wooden cross in the shape of an X. Her arms are raised over her head, her legs spread wide as she is secured to it. Positioned out toward the audience as she is, I can see that she is crying.

  For the first time since the performance began, I dare to look at Ian. He shows no reaction to what he has just witnessed. The suffering of the woman and her continued plight appear not to affect him in the least. But when I look more closely, I can see that his gaze remains locked on the man in the red mask.

  Who now throws off his disguise and steps forward, swiftly crossing the distance between them. Charles Davos oozes magnanimity as he offers his hand. Without hesitation, Ian stands and takes it.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Ian

  A red mist moves in front of my eyes. I’ve seen it before and I know what it means just as I know that I can’t yield to it. The Norse had a name for men who lost themselves in the frenzy of battle, becoming something more--or less--than human. Berserkers. Men who killed without remorse or hesitation, with no fear for their own safety, wading through blood until at last they found the only solace that mattered, victory.

  I’m not that man. I refuse to be him. It’s enough that I’m here despite Gab and Hollis’ best efforts to convince me to wait until an assault can be organized. Or at the very least, not to go in without back-up. I couldn’t do either. Waiting was out of the question once I knew where Amelia was. And I understand Davos well enough to be sure that if I didn’t walk in the door alone, he’d use her as a human shield even if that meant getting her killed.

  Not that what he already has in mind is much better. I know that’s her on the pedestal. I’d recognize her anywhere but worse yet, I realize what her being on display like that means. She’s this evening’s special entertainment, an experience she’s likely to only barely survive. No doubt he intends it as the start of the process that will break her down, take her apart layer by layer. The knowledge fills me with rage. I want nothing so much as to tear his throat out and feed him to the wolves.

  Instead, I shake the sick bastard’s hand and say, “Bo-Peep was a nice touch. That Jekyll/Hyde stuff is the real deal.”

  Davos chuckles but his gaze is narrow, assessing me. He hasn’t survived, much less thrived all these years by taking anything for granted.

  “So you know what’s happened to you? Good. Frankly, it’s a relief to see the real you instead of that cardboard mask you’ve been hiding behind all these years.”

  He may think so. I sure as hell don’t but I’ll deal with that later. I tighten my grip. “Still, I have to be honest, Charles. I don’t appreciate your making off with my property. Not to mention the little matter of trying to kill me at the Crystal Palace.”

  The slime ball shrugs. “I didn’t think that you would on either count. Still, you’ve impressed me with your durability. I thought we should have a civilized conversation.” His smile tightens. “But perhaps you’d like a tour first?”

  I drop my hand. We both take a step back, eyeing each other. “That won’t be necessary. From what I’ve seen already, you’ve brought back my father’s old Club. Same location, same décor…same activities. And the same purpose, I assume?”

  A look of derision flits across his face. “I’m not the blunt instrument that you are, Ian. All that heavy weaponry and so on isn’t for me. I prefer a subtler approach. Manipulating men is much more satisfying than merely killing them.”

  Subtler, I wonder? Like whipping a woman while she sucks you off? Davos is as delusional as they come. Especially if he thinks there’s any chance of co-opting me to his side. No drug on earth--smart or otherwise--could ever accomplish that. Still, I’m willing to play along, if only for the moment.

  “You’re being modest, Charles. There was nothing subtle about the Crystal Palace. If you had your way, Edward McClellan and I would be dead, and Amelia would be all yours.”

  My candor startles him. He bares his teeth as he says, “She already is. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, now more than ever.”

  “Sorry, but that won’t hold up in this case. My lawyers have everything they need to prove that the replica known as Amelia McClellan is my property. In the event of my demise, ownership transfers to Edward. He’ll be watching his back from now on. You won’t get anywhere near him and he’ll keep you tied up in court for years. In the end, you won’t make a penny off anything you learn from her.”

  Davos frowns. “If you say so but that hardly matters if you’re imagining that you can take her back by force.”

  I smile, as though the thought amuses me. “And risk destroying what may very well be the single most valuable piece of property in the world, the key to replica technology? Hardly.” Parodying his own words back at him, I add, “I’m not like you, Charles. Blowing up the Crystal Palace because you were pissed off when your original plan failed isn’t my style.”

  His mouth thins at the suggestion that he lost control of the situation and of himself. He makes a feeble effort to claim otherwise. “I knew you would get her out of there, dear boy. Good Sir Ian could always be counted on to do the right thing, tedious bore that he was.”

  He looks at me speculatively. “On the other hand, the real you is proving to be a surprise. I was confident that she would end up fleeing from you after you were, shall we say, liberated by Jekyll/Hyde. But frankly I didn’t expect her to be in such good condition. From what I understand, there’s hardly a mark on her.”

  I resist the urge to look at Amelia and instead focus on the mental image of my fist ramming into Davos’ throat. Or just grabbing his head and twisting until I hear the satisfying snap of his spine.

  Shrugging, I say, “I was pacing myself.”

  “Were you? I’d like to take your word for that but if we’re going to be doing business, I need more.”

  Before I can reply, he flicks a hand, summoning one of the faceless servants. They have a brief conversation that I can’t overhear. The servant withdraws but he returns moments later with a young woman who, unlike some of the others, looks far mor
e excited than afraid. My stomach knots as I realize that she’s one of those whose brain is hardwired to produce massive amounts of endorphins in response to pain. Pain slut, my father called women like her, but then he was an asshole.

  No doubt if Davos gets his chance, he’ll be creating lots more like her. Among other things. Once in possession of the replica technology, he can produce legions of human beings programmed to do whatever he chooses. The possibilities are as limitless as they are sickening.

  The young woman kneels in front of me. Naked, with her head lowered in a properly submissive attitude, she peeks up at me through her lashes. Objectively, she’s beautiful but my cock and I are in agreement for once. Neither of us wants anything to do with her. When she raises her hands in offering and I see what’s in them, it takes every ounce of self-control that I’ve got not to react.

  The coiled whip she holds out to me is made of oxblood red braided leather, possibly cow, maybe kangaroo, but probably, knowing Davos, something rarer and endangered. Rhino, most likely. Between the short, rigid handle and the flexible lash, it’s a little over eight feet long. Wielded correctly, it can be as delicate as a lover’s tongue or as cutting as the sharpest knife. With enough power behind it, the tip of the lash will break the sound barrier, creating a mini sonic boom. I know all this because, God help me, there was a time when I knew much more.

  Without warning, the crack of the whip--and the screams and moans that inevitably follow it--explode in my mind. I haven’t had a flashback to the Club in years but suddenly I’m teetering on the edge of an abyss that threatens to swallow me whole. Stunned and disoriented, I grasp for the only possible lifeline. Amelia’s face is hidden by the shadows of the hood but I’m sure that she sees me. I cling to the sight of her, holding on for dear life, until my breathing steadies.

  When it does, the young woman is still looking at me. Her nipples are erect, her skin flushed. Bile rises in my throat. I’m well aware that some sane, consenting adults find the savage dance of the whip sexually arousing. I don’t. Getting dosed with Jekyll/Hyde hasn’t changed that. To me, the whip is just a reminder of evil. I want nothing to do with it but I may not have any choice. Davos is getting impatient.

  “Why don’t you show us how it’s done?” he says, indicating the empty cross beside the one where the woman he used earlier is shackled.

  I know that he’s set up this little test to make sure that I’m no longer, as he dubbed me so derisively, Good Sir Ian. No way he’ll let me off the hook. My only hope is that I can somehow turn this to my advantage. But for that to happen, Amelia is going to have to trust me. What are the odds of that when I’ve given her every reason not to?

  Slowly, I say, “I’m out of practice.”

  “Nonsense, you’re being humble. I remember how skilled you were, especially given that you were only a boy.” A flush creeps over his cheeks. “Of course, you were big for your age and quite strong. Impressive, really. The awkwardness of youth quite passed you by. I often thought how well you would have done among the ancient Greeks or Romans.” He laughs faintly. “Just think, if you’d been born a few thousand years sooner, we could be admiring statues of you.”

  His eyes run over me in a way that has me once again wanting to reach for his throat. When I was in the Club, being the ‘man’ my father wanted me to be, I steered clear of Davos. He was a predator then just as he is now. I have no problem with anything consenting adults do between themselves but he’s always liked his partners young, as in very. The rumors about him have only gotten worse over the years.

  “Yeah, that’s great,” I cut in. To get past Davos’ security screening, I’m not carrying any kind of communicator, let alone a weapon. Gab and Hollis have no way of knowing if I’m dead or alive. They won’t wait forever to find out.

  I’ve got one shot at making this work and I’m running out of time. Before I can entertain any more doubts, I say, “If you want a show, fine. But not with her.”

  Davos glances at the kneeling woman. “Why not? What’s wrong with her?”

  I manage a sneer. “She’ll enjoy it too much. Besides, you want to start breaking the replica down, don’t you?”

  I stand before he can answer and take the whip from the woman’s hands. It’s heavy with the weight of old memories I’ve never been able to escape. They close in around me now, a dark, suffocating cloak that blocks out even the hope of light.

  Without waiting for a response, I walk toward the pedestal.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Amelia

  As Ian comes toward me, I begin to shake. The look in his eyes…what he’s carrying…the verbal sparring between him and Davos that I’ve just witnessed without being able to hear. They all fill me with confusion rapidly being crowded out by terror.

  What is he going to do? What is about to happen to me? Who is this man who seems so at ease amid such depraved surroundings?

  From the moment he announced that we were going to attend Carnival, I’ve known that something was wrong. He’s not himself. He’s changed in some way. I have no idea what to expect from him but I do know that he can hurt me badly. My emotions are already bruised and battered. Will my body be next?

  The thought fills me with horror. For a sickening moment, I’m afraid that I’m about to vomit. I’m on the verge of breaking down entirely when common sense comes to the rescue. I know who Ian is. He is the man who awakened me to the world and then set me free. The man who, even though his heart still calls out to a dead woman, has walked into his worst nightmare to save me.

  The panic rising in me vanishes. I take a deep breath as my body stills. By the time Ian reaches the foot of the steps leading up to where I’m standing, I’m as ready as I can be.

  Without a word, he holds out his hand. Without a word, I take it. Curling my fingers around his, I step down from the pedestal. When I reach the bottom, our bodies brush against one another. I feel the heat radiating from his. He is not remotely as calm as he appears.

  So softly that only I can hear him, he pleads, “Please, Amelia, trust me. I’ll get you out of here but you have to do as I say.”

  This close, I can see that his eyes are filled with dread that I might refuse. Belatedly, I realize that he has no way of knowing why I left the hotel suite so precipitously. He may even assume that I was embarrassed or otherwise upset by what happened between us. If only I had been, I might be the woman he calls out to rather than Susannah.

  That is too paradoxical for me to think about, especially under the circumstances. Instead of trying, I make an instant decision to trust him, at least with my own safety. His is another matter. I want to tell him that I won’t leave without him but Davos is staring at us. All I can do is nod.

  Ian leads me over to the cross beside the quietly sobbing young woman. He sets me against it but makes no move to secure the restraints. Instead, he steps over and undoes hers.

  “You don’t mind, do you?” he says casually to Davos. “She’s in the way.”

  The silver-haired monster frowns but he doesn’t object as the woman darts off. He’s waiting to see what Ian will do next. Some of those among the writhing mass of bodies scattered across the floor and furniture of the room are beginning to do the same. Slowly, awareness spreads that a new show is about to begin.

  Ian returns to me, his body brushing once more against mine in a move that is unmistakably intended to reassure. His hands grip my shoulders lightly. As they do, the coils of the whip rests for a moment against my breasts.

  “Breathe,” he says and removes my cloak.

  A ripple of excitement goes through the audience as men I have met at the Opera House and the Polo Club, and at various soirees and charity galas recognize me. For a brief moment, I wonder if, now that I am no longer an anonymous woman, any of them will protest or otherwise intervene on my behalf.

  None does and I realize quickly that I shouldn’t be surprised. These are the Lords of Misrule, men so perverted by power that they have lost all touch with wha
t it truly means to be human. If they were ever capable of empathy, compassion, or even simple decency, they aren’t any longer.

  Ian tosses the cloak aside and takes several steps back, leaving me standing alone in front of the cross. At the slightest motion of his wrist, the whip uncoils, its long, sinuous length seeming to come alive. I stifle a gasp and only just manage to hold myself still.

  “Haven’t you forgotten something?” Davos interjects.

  Ian flicks the whip as though testing how it feels in his hand. Without taking his eyes from it, he says, “If you’re referring to the fact that she’s unrestrained, no, I haven’t. Where is she going to run to?”

  Davos doesn’t look entirely convinced but he gestures for Ian to continue. I ponder the answer to that question. Ian must have a plan. If I can figure it out, I might be able to help. Between us and the entrance to the club are several dozen guests and at least as many of the faceless servants. We could get past some of them but surely not all. And that’s without even considering Davos’ goons. They must be nearby, probably spread throughout the building.

  Caught up in my thoughts of escape--and of keeping Ian safe while doing so--I jump suddenly as the whip flicks past. It doesn’t come close to striking me but the sudden sight of it is nonetheless electrifying. So is the sound that follows. The crack reverberates through the air. Anyone in the room who wasn’t paying attention is now. Although the women continue dutifully to suck and grind, their eyes and those of all the men are on us.