by Candy Nicks
"Sorry.” Vin shook his head. “Rock gets kind of antsy if he can't have his bit. Look,” he said, running a hand through his wig. “I do feel sorry for her, okay? There is something left in here. But what the hell am I supposed to do? She's a goner, anyone can see that."
"You're going to do the same to Ancel? Use him up, then throw him out with the trash?"
"I don't give two fucks about Ancel. Brynn, get this sorry carcass to Rock."
Carine sprang from the floor and rounded on Vin. “Like hell you don't. I've seen the way you look at him. What? Are you in love with him?"
Vin back-handed her hard across the cheek. She spun abruptly and fell sideways, clipping her head on the corner of the metal post. Stood for a moment biting back the pain and recovering her wits, while in front of her Vin fought for breath. “Look at you,” she continued, uncaring of how far she pushed him. “You're a shell, nothing. Destined to spend the whole of eternity screaming in agony for your sins. And soon."
Jana went, unprotesting. Hoisted over Brynn's shoulder. No resistance left. No dignity.
"That's you,” Vin said in between frantic breaths. He fumbled in his pocket for his pills. Pushed one between his lips. Swallowed. “She's just a future version of you. That's where you're headed. You get your hell while you're still alive.” The second guard reappeared, his face flushed. Asked if Vin needed assistance. Vin waved him irritably away.
"Don't get high-handed with me, missy. If I want Ancel, I'll have him. There's no force on this earth will stop me. Least of all you."
Carine touched her forehead with her sleeve. It came away streaked with blood that would be difficult to explain away. Calm, calm. Temper would only make this delicate situation worse.
"It's all right.” She kept her voice even. Tried to blank out the panic in her mind. “We both love him. I understand your pain, Vin."
Vin placed a protective hand on his heart. “How can you? What fun is there in taking by force? I'm more into sub than dom. And he knows that."
He wanted sympathy now? The thought angered her almost more than his cruelty to Jana. Vin laughed suddenly and threw an arm around her shoulders.
"You're quite something,” he declared. “Ancel, or Paradise? You offer me one heck of a dilemma, sweetie. Go get yourself together. Chat with batty Martha for a while; she's a Moon-Child too. Taken quite a shine to you, she has. Go reminisce about days you'll never have back."
"Get me a Crystal. I'll save you—and Ancel."
"And Jana too?” Vin arched an eyebrow. “When did you suddenly become everyone's saviour?"
When? The day she'd met a dying warrior in a stinking slaver's cage, that's when. The Wish had decreed she save him, and save him she would. Even if it did mean losing her soul.
* * * *
"Ninety-four summers, I've been a guest here. Ninety-four."
Carine raised a sceptical brow, but said nothing. Martha appeared to have completely forgotten she was a slave. She'd dealt with her ordeal by retreating into a fantasy land and Carine found herself envying the grey-haired woman who sat happily on her stool, needle and thread in hand. Her only worry was seeing that the clothes were mended and sorted. She didn't have to make life and death decisions about who could be saved and who couldn't.
"Or is it sixty-four? I forget so much these day.” Martha held up a delicate pink slip. “Do you like it dear? I ordered it especially for you.” She leaned forward conspiratorially and tapped the side of her nose. “Our secret, eh?"
Carine took the garment, humouring her, as she usually did. “Thank you, Martha. You're very kind to me.” Ancel's punch had left the old woman with a yellowing bruise under one eye that was proving slow to heal. Carine felt vaguely guilty, although Martha seemed to think that she'd acquired it falling over.
"I've got one for Jana, too. Poor little thing."
Sitting on the floor, back against the wall, Carine pulled up her knees and wrapped her arms around them. She shouldn't stay long. Just time enough to unwind a little and let the effect of the stimulant wear off. She glanced in the tall mirror screwed to the wall. A thin scratch marred one cheek. Her pupils were still heavily dilated, her eyes dark. Her skin flushed. Ancel had believed her to be unwell, but he wouldn't be fooled for long.
"How long has Jana been here?"
"Two summers. Why do you ask?"
Because that will be me, one day. No. She stopped the thought. If sacrifice required pain, then so be it. “She doesn't look well. I'm concerned."
"Doesn't she?” Martha frowned, as if she should know that. “Tell me about Terralandia,” she said, snapping off a thread. “Is Mardom still queen?"
"Her daughter rules now. Our homeland is much the same. We try to keep the old ways alive, while accommodating the new. But it's hard."
Martha nodded agreement. “And the Temple? Who is Abbess now?"
"The Grand Liana."
Martha nodded. “I knew she would be one day."
"You were a novice?"
"Aye. I was taken away before I graduated."
Carine leaned forward, giving the old woman all of her attention. “You know the ways of the Crystal?"
"Of course."
"I too was a third daughter,” Carine said. “My Crystal was destroyed by the slave-runners. I miss it terribly. If only I had it now..."
Martha put down her sewing, her lips turned up in triumphant grin. “You want to escape? And take your nice young man with you? Then borrow mine.” She ferreted in her robes for a few moments, checking the numerous pockets while Carine's heart tripped over and started a slow pounding against her ribs.
"You managed to hide it all this time? Why didn't you use it to escape?"
Martha ignored the question and, with great dignity rose from her chair and placed her Crystal into Carine's palm. Carine stopped breathing. In her hand, lay Ancel's freedom. Hers too. If the Crystal was powerful enough and found her worthy, she might be able to escape, soul intact.
"Goddess,” she murmured. “If it be your will, use me as a channel for your power. Let this Crystal speak to me, and I to it."
Martha returned to her chair, nodding her encouragement. “I've kept it secret all these years. I'd like you to have it, my dear."
Carine waited. There should be heat. A knowing. Deep inside she should be feeling connection with the Source. Instead, nothing. The Crystal bestowed its power, or not; it was beyond the control of mortal woman. She concentrated harder, straining for the familiar feeling of one-ness. This was too good an opportunity to miss. She repeated the prayer four times before sitting back, dejected.
"It does not choose me. Here.” She opened her fist to pass back the Crystal. In her hand lay a plain shard of broken glass. Carine inspected it, disbelieving, tears stinging her eyes. Poor mad old Martha. This was her Crystal? “Here,” Carine dropped it back into Martha's palm. “Take back your Crystal and keep it safe. It does not choose me."
"No? What a pity.” Martha peered down at Carine's palm. “You still have your Wish-in-Hand."
"No, it's a Bonding mark.” Carine held up her other palm to show the smooth skin. “I gave my Wish-in-Hand to Ancel for his life."
Martha tucked the broken glass safely into her robe, muttering to herself as she did so. “You Bonded with him, and now you want to set him free. Why so?"
Wiping away the useless tears with the back of a hand, Carine rose and looked around for her clothes. When had she told Martha that? “I must return to Ancel. He'll be wondering where I am."
Martha handed back her gown. “He's besotted with you. Would that I had such a man."
"Magic. That's all it is. It's not real.” Carine dropped the robe and slipped back into the dress she'd discarded before the show. Pulled off the leather panties and replaced them with a plain white pair. Martha passed her a demaq pad which she rubbed vigorously over her lips and cheeks. The smell of smoke and sex would linger until she'd showered.
"Don't forget Jana's present,” she said, turning to le
ave. “She needs a little kindness."
"I won't. Carine, Listen to me. I know how to break the Bond."
Calm, Carine warned herself. This is mad old Martha, remember. She kissed the old woman on both cheeks, and patted her shoulder, but Martha wasn't about to let go. She hung onto Carine's wrists, holding her in place with a surprisingly strong grip. Carine felt a thread of panic. The old woman's eyes had turned darker than sea-coal.
"You must cut it off,” Martha said, spitting out the words. “Or burn it off. Come, I'll help you."
"Martha?” Carine shook herself, trying to break the hold. On the table, lay a pair of open shears, the blades glinting under the bright sewing-light. Martha let go of one hand and reached for them.
"Martha.” Carine eyed the shears. They were enough to raise the hairs on the back of her neck. Open shears invited discord; every Moon-Child knew that.
Martha picked them up and weighed them, a secretive smile on her lips. Her nails dug deeper into Carine's wrist. “It will only hurt a little,” she promised. “Then you'll be free."
Carine kept as still as her thundering heart would allow, watching every movement of Martha's hand. To struggle now might panic the old woman to disaster. She couldn't know what she was doing. “Martha,” she said again. “Give me the shears, so I can do it myself."
Martha turned her hand over and stroked the lines of the symbols with the blade of the shears, leaning her head down to stare intently at them. “We must cut out the Rom, then the Herta. Without them the others are powerless."
"No!” Carine took advantage of the distraction and chopped upwards with her forearm, knocking away the hand holding the shears. She ducked back to avoid them slashing her face and clamped her free hand firmly onto Martha's wrist. “Give them to me, Martha. This is not the way."
Martha pursed her lips and stubbornly shook her head. The hands holding the shears trembled in the struggle for dominance and for a moment Carine truly feared for her life. Martha's eyes glittered with malevolent intent, so far removed from the genial crone who would sit and smile and make everyone laugh with her inappropriate comments. Carine let go and shoved her flat palm into Martha's face, screaming as loudly as she could for Brynn, who was hovering outside the door. Martha stood her ground, slashing the shears wildly. Moments later they clattered to the tiled floor and Martha was firmly clamped against Brynn's chest.
"What the hell?” he demanded, shaking Martha to stop her wild writhing. She kicked at him, feebly now, her rage almost spent. “Get out,” he ordered Carine. “Into the corridor. Wait for me there."
"She attacked me,” Carine said, gasping for air. The front of her dress gaped open, the rip edged with red. Her hand came away tinged with a smear of blood.
"Nothing but a scratch,” Brynn said dismissively. “Get out of here so I can deal with her."
"Don't hurt her.” Carine backed away, a hand still clamped to her stomach. Martha reached out for her, a claw-like hand opening and closing convulsively. “She's just a mad old woman."
Brynn hoisted Martha effortlessly from the ground and fumbled in his tunic for a pair of restraints. “Should put the old bat out of her misery,” he said gathering both wrists together with no concession to the old woman's age or frailty. Carine winced at the snap of bones, almost feeling sympathy for the old woman's whimpering cries of pain. With her rage spent, Martha looked every bit as ancient as she claimed to be. Brynn dropped her unceremoniously to the ground then caught Carine by the elbow.
"Come,” he ordered. “I'll get you a medi-pak for that."
"I need a new dress.” Carine looked down at the tear, which exposed her navel and a thin line of open flesh. She swallowed down a wave of nausea. After the excitement of the attack, she suddenly felt too weak to stand. The sight of the blood sent her senses crashing and she pitched forward into the blurring shape of the guard, grabbing at his tunic to stop herself falling.
"Got you,” he said swinging her up. The room spun and settled. Moved of its own accord. Or was it her moving? Lights, doors, the corridor, another door, they flashed past her as she floated in and out of consciousness, aware of the strength holding her. Strong and hard, like Ancel, but the smell was all wrong. Sour sweat and smoke instead of Ancel's familiar soap and leather. She gazed around the small cubicle which served as a medical station. Brynn had placed her on a low cot and was now sorting through a box of supplies.
"Here,” he said gruffly handing her an acrid-smelling pad. “It's just a flesh wound. Hold this to it and count to ten. I'll get something to bind it with. Vin will have my hide if he finds out what happened."
"I'll tell him it was an accident."
Brynn returned her a curt nod of thanks. Grateful, no doubt that she didn't intend to report his failure to protect her. Sickened as she was to have to play this game, it was the way things worked. Any advantage to be seized up and used to get what you wanted.
"That leaves you in my debt, does it not?” she said, grasping his arm. “You owe me?"
"I will repay one favour.” Brynn ripped open her ruined dress and pressed the binding to her skin, smoothing it around the edges of the healing-pad. His fingers drifted occasionally to brush the undersides of her breasts, his dark eyes catching her gaze with an insolence that told her she wasn't going to have everything her own way. Too weak to fend him off, she was almost past caring what he did to her. Already, behaviour which would have at one time seemed abhorrent to her was starting to feel normal. One foot already in the Pit. The other soon to follow.
"Now wait here. I'll fetch you a new garment."
He locked the door behind him, leaving her to mull over Martha's words. Could she really destroy the power by desecrating the symbols? The marks cowered at the thought, tingling on her palms. Would she have to destroy Ancel's too?
Brynn returned with an armful of clothes, which he dropped onto the bed. “I intend to fight for you,” he announced bluntly, his voice gruff with desire.
He stood watching her intently when she stripped off the dress with shaking hands and slipped quickly into the first one on the pile. She leaned against the wall for support, taking deep even breaths to clear her head. “Vin won't use up guards for the entertainment,” she said. “You're far too valuable."
Brynn stepped closer and dipped his face to her neck, nuzzling against the skin. “You get me so hard, Carine. Just looking at you..."
Wearily she pushed him away. “Ancel will kill you,” she said equally as bluntly. “Are you ready to die?"
She raised her eyes to his in challenge, stunned to see a flash of deep longing cloud his features. The guards were largely anonymous creatures who did as they were told, executing their duty with a cold cruelty when required. Carine didn't want to see Brynn as anything other than an automaton, programmed to kill on command. She had too many burdens of her own to shoulder his.
"Death doesn't bother me,” he said shrugging his indifference. “Neither his, nor mine. Today, tomorrow. One day it will come."
He didn't look much more than twenty summers old, yet his skin was a mess of ageing and more recent scars. His dark weary eyes spoke of horrors best forgotten and he handled his weapon as if it was a part of him. “Go home, Brynn. Find yourself a good wife and start living your life."
"I'm under contract. Twenty years.” He tapped a circular tattoo on his wrist. “If I win you, we can live here, together..."
"No,” she said, refusing to meet his earnest gaze. Too disturbing to see the boy he once was, shining through this hard shell. “Have your dreams, Brynn. But not that one. Take me back, please.” He'd moved to stand between her and the closed door. A hard wall of muscle blocking her way.
"I'm not good enough for you?"
"I'm tired,” she said with genuine feeling. “And hurting. I just want to lie down. Don't ask to fight for me. I won't be responsible for your death. I ask that as the favour you owe me."
"You ask too much."
"I'm saving your life. It's what I do. Now ple
ase..."
The word choked in her throat, caught by his lips closing over hers. A firm hand clamped her jaw, another the back of her head, holding her still. Lifting her so that she was on tiptoe, with no option but to grab hold of his tunic to stabilise herself. Her stunned brain registered the sour taste of cheap wine and smoke, his tongue thrusting over and under hers. For a moment she could do nothing more than hold on and hope that he didn't break her neck in his desperation. He fell back, into the door, taking her with him, unflinching when she dug her nails into his flesh. The symbols bristled at the intrusion.
"You owe me too,” he said and drew in a breath. “I saved you from Martha. Let this be payment."
Hurt pride. It clouded his features, made him hold her too tightly, handle her too roughly. He let go suddenly, causing her to stagger back onto the small cot, the anger leaving him in a rush. Muttered something again, shook his head then laughed softly. When he looked up to find her standing, arms crossed protectively over her wound, his face was once again, impassive, impersonal. As if the kiss had never happened. He took her arm and steered her from the room, looking straight ahead, like a man on a mission. At the outer door to the cell, he punched in the release code and the catch gave with a sharp click. Shoving her ceremoniously through the door, he said, “It never happened."
"Yes, it did.” There's still a man in there somewhere, no matter how much you protest."
"You're wrong.” The door slammed, leaving her in darkness. She wiped away his bitter kisses with the back of her hand, disturbed by the sadness and the need she'd felt in them. She couldn't save them all; no use in thinking that. Brynn was a man grown and more than able to make his own path in life. Poor Jana probably wouldn't last long enough to be rescued, and getting out of the city with Martha in tow would be virtually impossible.
The latch of the inner door snapped back, allowing her to enter the room which for now she must learn to call home. Ancel sat, slumped against the wall, his fist curled around a bottle of fermented grain spirits, long legs out straight, head resting on his chest, eyes barely open. Carine pushed the door to and tip-toed around him to the bathing room. She smelled of sex and Brynn; something Ancel wouldn't miss. He gave her a bleary, lop-sided smile as she sidled past him.