Three Graces

Home > Other > Three Graces > Page 3
Three Graces Page 3

by Pax Asteriae


  The hum took him by surprise, jerking him from his thoughts like an electric shock. Half rising, twisting around, he shouted to the other man but the words were caught in the rising tone. The blast of light he should have been expecting caught him unawares; the unconsciousness he should have remembered was coming dropped him like a stone.

  Deor’s sleeping form looked oddly peaceful, the stranger concluded as he turned off the remarkable machine. He didn’t look like he’d just been coshed by his own invention, but instead like he’d chosen to sleep there himself, curled up with bare feet pressed together. He wouldn’t thank his visitor for it, but there was a lot David wasn’t going to be thankful for in his immediate future, and making him come peacefully now was worth the explanations later.

  * * *

  He should have expected it, he knew. That impending sense of something; he should have guessed that it was going to hit much sooner than he’d thought. The sand cushioned the impact as he slumped to his knees before the greenish-blue puddle that had once been an oasis, his nose only briefly protesting the smell before closing down entirely. The carcasses in various states of decay only reinforced what his eyes were telling him. This is it, then.

  The shifting sound behind him went unnoticed.

  The cold muzzle of a gun pressed to the back of his skull, the click as the safety was released; that wasn’t so easy to ignore.

  “Found you, ghost.”

  A sudden impact across the head, and then dreamless sleep.

  Cobwebs

  It was cold when he woke, and gloomy. His bare feet scrabbled reflexively against the floor, like a startled rabbit, and his fingers scraped across the rough surface. No joy; it was unyielding. His eyes took their time adjusting. He only knew it was as good as it’d get when he could make out cobwebs spreading from ceiling corner to corner.

  He was the first visitor here in a long time. Perhaps inmate was a better word.

  A sliver of light appeared in front of him, rapidly blocked.

  A sickeningly familiar voice. “Mr. Deor, please make yourself comfortable. You may be here some time.”

  Torture

  The back of his head was throbbing, that was the first thing he was conscious of. Beyond the heat and the discomfort and the sand in his mouth, the nagging, aching pain. He buried his head under his arms, wishing he could bury it beneath the sand too and forget everything.

  “Get up.”

  A foot caught him in the ribs, not hard—not hard enough to break anything, anyway—and David exhaled a heavy breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Fuck you,” he grunted, tensing his stomach for a second blow.

  Which didn’t come. Instead there was the click of the safety, like an echo of a nightmare. “Sit. Up.”

  The relentless sun (god he was starting to hate that sun now) scratched at his eyeballs as he grudgingly shifted his arms from his head and forced himself into an uncomfortable sitting position. The world had no business spinning so quickly. “What?”

  The man in front of him was crouched on his haunches and watching his every move without blinking once, the gun in one hand and a knife in the other, held loosely as if it was a casual thing, that he just happened to be holding it when David woke. His gaze flicked from the stranger’s face, to the gun, to the knife; which one he was supposed to keep an eye on he had no idea. “Tell me.”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Tell me,” the other man leaned in, his eyes firmly locked on David’s own with an intensity that finally inspired a spark of terror in him, “what you did that made them want you dead.”

  He opened his mouth to tell him exactly what he thought of that comment but stopped. Why, he didn’t know: whether it was the gun, the knife or the fact that, now he thought about it, it was the first time anyone had asked him, the insult caught in his throat and refused to budge. He just stared, and the stranger stared back; somehow the insult converted itself into words he never thought he’d speak aloud.

  “It was my own fault.”

  * * *

  The floor was harder than his own cell’s, if that was possible, and he hit it with enough force to wind him. The shadow that fell over him he’d seen often enough to recognise even as he gasped for breath. “Mr. Deor. I’m sorry we have to do this, but you really are being stubborn.”

  “I’m not,” he groaned, pushing himself up. It got harder each time. “I’m being principled.”

  The fingers that looped into his hair, pulling him into a kneeling position, were so familiar through habit. Their owner, his visitor who had so patiently and indulgently waited for him to complete the machines could no longer be described by either word. “No, David,” the word was spat in his face, “you’re being an idiot.”

  David tried to shake his head (unsuccessfully, as the grip on his hair tightened further) and forced a smile. “No, I’m—”

  The word was cut off abruptly by a hand wrapping itself around his throat. Instinctively his hands jerked towards his neck, trying to pry the fingers digging into his soft skin away. No success. The hand tensed, the man lifting him as though he weighed nothing, dragging him to his feet. “You will do what you’re told, do you understand me?” He hissed, his breath burning against his skin. “We can’t kill you but we can make you suffer and if I’m honest,” he leaned even closer, smirking as David failed to recoil, no matter how much he struggled against the grip, “I will enjoy it, you arrogant little shit.”

  The fingers slowly, one by one, released their hold and David slumped back to his knees, both hands pressed to the tender skin. Breathing hurt, each one a burning gasp. Any attempt to form a rebuttal went out the window; all he wanted to do was get some oxygen into his body without it feeling like each breath would kill him.

  The slip of something cool and rigid yet flexible around his neck paralysed him. Something cold, two solid lines, pressed against the nape of his neck, and then pressure again, uniform this time and not as hard. “Stand up.”

  David shook his head; immediately he wished he hadn’t. The pressure grew, the ligature tight enough that he couldn’t even try to get his fingers under the straight edge without gouging the skin of his throat.

  “This,” the voice whispered, uncomfortably close to his ear, “is my belt. It does a better job of hurting you than I can. So you are going to stand up.”

  David stood.

  The pressure eased almost immediately, air crashing back into his lungs. “Why are you doing this?” Each word was agony.

  “Because we need you. You made this machine, you can modify it.”

  “I—” He remembered when they told him, three days ago—at least he thought it was that long ago—what they truly wanted his machines for. They hadn’t been keen on his reaction then either. His jaw still ached. “I don’t want to...”

  Anticipating the reaction didn’t help. He choked, the belt the only thing stopping him from doubling over, hands pressed to his neck. “I don’t care what you want,” the man behind him snapped. “I thought that had been made abundantly clear; you will do it.” A sharp impact, the feel of shoes against the back of his knees, and David dropped like a stone, the belt the only thing holding him up. He let out a hoarse cry, thrashing around and pulling at the supple leather with enough force to open welts in his skin. “Do I make myself clear?”

  He didn’t know what scared him most: the flashes exploding across his vision or the impassive voice of the man inflicting this on him. He couldn’t even nod, couldn’t speak; how the hell was he supposed to respond?

  The pressure slackened without warning, the belt slapping him across the back as he hit the floor. The shoes came into blurred view as he curled into a ball on the floor, hands laced around the belt and knees pressed to his chest. “You have five minutes to pull yourself together and start work.”

  David nodded slowly, heart and head pounding; the foot came up and he cringed back but the fear was unfounded this time. The feet turned and walked away, leaving him gasping on the floor w
ith tears streaming down his cheeks.

  * * *

  The mercenary’s gaze had been unwavering and more than a little unnerving. Throughout David’s words the knife had been tossed into the air and unerringly caught several times. The only thing stopping the wanderer from slowly backing away from the big man had been the sneaking suspicion that he could impale him in any body part he chose with a simple flick of the wrist.

  “So they threatened you.”

  He shrugged. The gesture was barely noticeable through his clothes. “Something like that, yeah.”

  The merc leaned forward, resting both elbows on his knees, and gestured with the tip of the knife at David. The action made him feel unaccountably uncomfortable. “That isn’t the whole story.”

  “No.” There was no point in lying.

  “Why not?”

  “You’re taking me back to them, aren’t you.” It didn’t need to be a question. He’d known ever since the gun had been buried in his hair.

  The big man didn’t bat an eyelid. “Depends. If you are who I think you are, I could just kill you instead. There are people who would pay well. Or,” he tossed the knife into the air again. The handle landed with a gentle thump in his gloved palm, “I could make what they did to you seem like child’s play. People would pay well for that too.”

  David sighed, staring down at the sands between them, and smiled a smile he didn’t feel. “No. You couldn’t. No one could.”

  In The Shadows

  They watched him all the time he worked on the machines and, he suspected, times when he wasn’t too. He never really saw them unless it was a movement from the corner of his eye, or if he tried something rebellious.

  They didn’t like the little acts of defiance. David learned that very quickly, when sitting down for a rest earned him a kick that sent him sprawling across the tiled floor. By the time he’d gathered his wits enough to scramble up the offender had melted back into the shadows.

  He tried to keep an eye on them as much as possible while he worked, but the lighting conspired against him, the single bright bulb making working conditions as difficult as discerning the features of the men posted at intervals around the room.

  The machines spent most of their time on their sides on the floor, usually propped just so against David’s leg so the light shone into the internals. They hadn’t liked that either, the first time he’d knelt with the oversized monolith cradled awkwardly in his arms. There’d been no kick that time—couldn’t risk damaging the product, just its creator—but something had hit him round the back of the head so hard his vision clouded with stars. He’d swung round, only half-able to see but angry nonetheless, to find no one standing there; when he turned back his former employer was looming over him in the way he’d learned to both hate and fear. “What do you think you’re doing, Mr. Deor?”

  “I can’t see a fucking thing,” he snapped, flinching away instinctively. The expected blow didn’t arrive. “If you want this,” and if he wanted to get out again, “I’ve got to see what I’m doing. Right?”

  He regretted the final word instantly; it sounded cowardly. The spreading smirk on his captor’s face agreed. “If this is your reason, we’ll abide by it.” David looked down again, biting back the tears of frustration stinging his eyes, and when he looked back up all he was faced with was darkness. No more retribution came his way. For that, at least.

  The chance to finally sit and rest his legs was a relief. The position eased the cramps that had been sprinting the length of his muscles, even as new ones replaced them. Sitting also helped in other regards: it made it far easier to hide vital components in the folds and sleeves of the shapeless white sweaters and pants they’d dressed him in. They didn’t even notice, initially, although what they put the failures of each machine down to he had no idea. He’d been so proud to tell his benefactor of his easy successes but they didn’t seem surprised by the sudden, unremitting failures. Perhaps they thought it was only to be expected. What it was that tipped them off he’d no idea; perhaps he’d been tired. He had lost track of the time by that point: they weren’t big believers in letting him keep regular hours. A hand had snaked out of the gloom and gripped his narrow wrist hard enough that he yelped.

  The resistor fell from his nerveless fingers and clattered onto the floor.

  Fingers entangled themselves into his hair and dragged him upright. He made a grab for the wrist, only for both of his own hands to be caught by two more of the guards and jerked out to his sides.

  “Well well, Mr. Deor. What do we have here?”

  The flat intonation sent chills through David’s veins and ice into his heart.

  Hands slid roughly the length of his body as he tried to stare his captor in the eye without letting the sudden wave of terror show. A wordless grunt from one of the wordless grunts guarding him caught the man’s attention; David’s heart tried to relocate itself to his stomach. Without ceremony the sweatshirt was pulled over his head, the grips on his wrists released only long enough to get the fabric over his head and down his arms. It landed in a pile on the floor, half inside-out, a prime display of missing pieces snagged in the thick fabric.

  This time the expected blow came swift and hard across his face. “You think you can do this?” Another slap caught him hard enough to send him reeling.

  He stared at the furious man, heart pounding, and grinned. “Yes. I mean, I did and you didn’t even notice.”

  The uppercut knocked him from his feet. “Take his pants too. I want to know what else he hid.” Before he could regain his senses enough to struggle the cold air hit his thighs, his shins. Fingers reacquainted themselves with his tangled blond mop; he let out a yell as searing pain spread across his scalp.

  Stripped to his underwear, David struggled and howled the whole way to his cell. The far wall hit him like a sledgehammer—who knew that anyone could be strong enough to throw someone hard enough they’d hit it?—and he sprawled onto the floor, trying to regain his breath again and staring at the bristling silhouette in the doorway. Then he started to laugh.

  The door slammed with enough force that he felt the vibrations. Plunged into the pitch blackness, David lay there and laughed until his chest hurt and told himself the tears had nothing to do with the pain.

  Fearsome Creatures

  Sitting privileges were revoked. For a while he thought breathing privileges would be revoked too; the belt returned. What felt like two days—could have been more or less, he’d lost track entirely—were spent with his jailer standing a few inches from his back and a semi-constant pressure around his neck.

  He ignored the aches and pains and occasional garrotting. The machines were almost complete again, despite his best efforts. Some gift, he found himself thinking with increasing frequency, curses streaming through his head as he bit back the urge to scream and shout and smash the damn things to pieces.

  “You work remarkably quickly with the right incentive,” the man whispered. It was all David could do to suppress the shudder. “I’m impressed. Perhaps we should have tried this sooner.”

  His hands shook as he replaced the panel on the last glossy form. “It’s done.” The words were ragged and caught in his throat.

  The belt tightened. “You had better be telling the truth.” For a brief, painful instant the leather pressed closer and David gasped, splaying his fingers against the monolith. It offered absolutely no comfort whatsoever. The belt slackened and he took a deep, desperate draught of air. “The consequences would make everything that’s gone before seem... pleasant.”

  “It’s done,” he repeated with a conviction he didn’t feel. “I swear.”

  “Then we’d better test it, hadn’t we?”

  “Wait, what—?” He turned, almost strangling himself in the process, and stared up with horrified eyes. “You want to—”

  “Is something wrong?” The words were as smooth and cold as ice. “You did swear, please remember.”

  “No, but—” His mouth opened
and closed helplessly.

  “We can test it on you if you’d prefer.” He snapped, jerking the ligature like the leash of a dog. “And I think you know we’ve got no need for you now.”

  David wrapped his arms around himself and lowered his gaze.

  Sensing his victory, the man smirked broadly and with another jerk of the belt led David to one side, seemingly pleased with the newfound obedience of his prisoner. “Bring in the bear.”

  David watched from under his lashes as a hint of movement in the shadows indicated that some of the guards had shifted. Humane tests on small animals in the privacy of his own penthouse had been one thing, but this on big animals was terrifying. He wished desperately that he wasn’t going to witness this.

 

‹ Prev