Made to Suffer (Journeyman Book 3)

by Golden Czermak

  She caught a glimpse of a wince. “Still hurting?” she asked.

  “Like a fire,” he told her, “that won't stop burning.”

  “Let's take your mind off that for a while,” she said, leaning in for a kiss. They did so, lightly at first, but rapidly picking up pace and heat.

  Still on his side, his jeans throbbed as she reached down to undo the button, unzipping slowly as his pulsing shaft came into view. It was far from dormant, leaping out the moment the zipper reached the end of its run.

  She grabbed him with her hand, looking up to his face which closed itself off in bliss. As she stroked him, they both grew wetter from the anticipation; especially when his girth expanded, forcing her fingers further apart. Monsters indeed did exist.

  She continued stroking, long and fast as he grew to full length. Grasping the wide head of his dick, she rubbed it excitedly. It filled most of her hand as she continued to work it, coaxing plenty of nectar out to guarantee smooth, gliding strokes.

  He moaned in agonizing pleasure.

  “I have to have you inside me,” she said, removing her leggings then that top in the slowest, most glorious motion of all time. She dropped back down, nuzzling the base of his neck to take in that intoxicating musk that drove her wild. It was like a drug, instantly making her wetter, if that were even possible.

  She then climbed atop him while rolling on a condom plucked out of his back pocket. Forcing him down, his back grazed the deck, sending a sharp pain up his spine and across the full width of his shoulders. He didn’t care in the slightest – those scars be damned. Gage was primed and ready for action, so fuck the pain, and fuck he did.

  She slipped her way onto him, the thickness spreading her apart as she dove down, rising and falling like the sundering sea. He had to pause for a second, the tightness of him against the softness of her threatening to bring him to climax far too soon.

  “Goddamn it, ya feel so good,” Gage murmured before he pulled her body right against his, continuing to thrust deep into her. Those chocolate tresses bounced around, whipping into a frenzy as she built up to cascading decadence. If the Odyssey hadn’t been christened properly before, the airship had been now. Gage could feel her contracting around him, her warmth reassuring, the wetness at his base exhilarating, and it was sheer debauchery – all as beautiful as the night above them was long.

  Gage looked up at her writhing body, breasts firm in the moonlight, and even with the tangled mess of hair, she was the most striking thing in the world. It was his job to keep her safe and with him, always.

  Adrienne moaned again, her hands above her head as she began grinding intensely, knowing damn well what to do with that beast of a man.

  He filled her with each motion, faster and faster still until it all came crashing down around them in splendid bliss. Both of them bellowed so loudly they could have woken the entire ship and they realized that they didn’t give the slightest fuck.

  She slumped forward, keeping him inside as she returned to her favorite spot, speaking in whispers. “I love you, Gage Crosse.”

  “Me too, gorgeous,” he replied.

  She took herself off him and the filled condom shone brightly. Glancing down at it, she was surprised it could hold that much.

  “We should nickname you ‘Fire hose’,” she suggested, the look on her face all but serious. “You did say you liked that other Journeyman’s call sign. ‘Hammer’ wasn’t it?”

  “Always with the jokes,” Gage replied, yanking the condom off and tossing it in her direction. “Thank God for ya, I’m hard to offend.”

  DAJJAL WAS PACING within the circle at the front of the sanitarium's control room, his mind heavily burdened, showing in each of his plodding steps. He paused for a moment, placing a hand on the weeping wall. The space felt larger now that most of the congested equipment had been cleared away, taken by demons and beasts of burden to the new manor. Yet at the same time, the place pressed in on Dajjal like a vice, the barrenness a monument to his own isolation.

  He reflected on this transfer and though it was still on schedule, it had been filled to the brim with unneeded stress. Things that should be so simple a child could manage them became wrought with ceaseless amounts of bickering and drama. His imposition of fear had proven itself a great motivator, getting them at least to this point, but it still needed time to become fully ingrained. That was time the demons did not have.

  Adding to Dajjal's worries, the other parties conspiring against them had been no less occupied and more successful, continuing to be thorns in his side. Monsters were resisting demonic oversight, pockets of their insurgence proving their alliance was more difficult to maintain than any benefit received for it. Additionally, the Journeymen had grown their own coalition of forces, using that fresh motivation to reclaim lost footing and gain new ground.

  “My Lord,” came a worried voice from the entrance, interrupting his runaway train of thought.

  Dajjal glanced across the room, his eyes meeting with a lesser demon’s as she stood under the archway.

  Her head sank apologetically. “So sorry to interrupt,” she said to the floor, a leather bound notepad gripped tightly in her dangling hands, “but you requested an update on the relocation to Warminster and any other pertinent information about the Journeymen.”

  “Yes, and I assume you have some,” Dajjal replied, returning to his pacing as she recounted detail after excruciating detail of the move. She droned on for nearly a half hour, even detailing the numbers of empty potion bottles that had been set in the wine cellar. It was almost as if she were delaying. “Is there anything else?” he asked briskly, seizing the opportunity when she finished her last account.

  “Well there's still the network updates and then…”

  He looked at her menacingly.

  “Nothing too detailed,” the demon corrected, observing a relieved look across Dajjal's face. She didn't want to continue, knowing that her next words would wipe that expression away. But against her better judgment, she did. “Except for the elves…”

  Dajjal frowned as the final nail in the proverbial coffin was struck. He shot a hand out toward her and the wall to her left buckled and cracked. If all the other shit that was happening weren't enough, add to it the brewing conflict in the Otherworld and you had a recipe for insanity.

  She began speaking, seeing his irritation begin to simmer before reaching a full boil as she recounted the latest intelligence on two Journeymen entering the realm. They were Gage's cohorts, the two men departing soon after war threatened to break out across those lands.

  “What is causing this unrest?” Dajjal asked impolitely. “What were they doing there?”

  “From reconnaissance reports,” the lesser replied, looking over to the dented wall, “it seems as though civil war is brewing. A difference in ideologies it would seem.”

  “Ideologies concerning what? How to braid one’s hair? Why would the Journeymen have any interest in this?”

  She shook her head, shrinking in stature. “We do not know, my Lord.”

  Certainly not the answer he had hoped for, given the lengthy descriptors from her previous accounts. He sighed, staving the urge to snap his fingers.

  No matter, the elves would soon be entangled in their own bloody battles and whoever the victor was would be weaker for it, primed and ready to fall beneath his heel. It still nagged him about the Journeymen being there, though, in the Otherworld. Humans again meddling in the affairs of the other realms.

  There was something more to this and he couldn't help but think it had to do with the treasures, which seemed to leap into Gage’s open arms. In the end though, Dajjal did not think it necessary to press her any further, though a glint in his eyes showed that he certainly wanted to.

  “Well then,” he responded at last and much to her relief, waving a hand dismissively. “Given the circumstances, I believe it’s time to bolster our ranks.” He turned away and resumed his back and forth pacing. “Alert Ronove. The time has ar
rived.”

  Without another word and very thankful she was still unharmed, the lesser turned around on the spot and set off to do what she was told.

  THE BOLIVIAN LANDSCAPE was quiet; a full moon overhead shone its pallid light across the expansive salt plains. The ground was slightly damp in places, casting a mirror-like sheen across those surfaces such that the night sky was reflected within them. In the center of the region, a hilly and brown outcrop rose like an island in the center of an endless white sea.

  Atop those rocks, cages had been hastily assembled, strengthened with wards to prevent the loosely tethered wood from coming apart. Within them, every beast that had brazenly shown itself on the steps of Whittingham was imprisoned along with their relatives, weakened from days of hunger, thirst, and torture. They might have been barely alive, but were enough for what was needed.

  In a flash, Dajjal had appeared at the far end of the pens, followed shortly after by Ronove. As their eyes adjusted, three rows of enclosures came into focus, each set in a gentle arch along the southern edge of rock – the outermost row teetering precariously on the edge. The stench of stale blood and feces was undeniable, assaulting their senses as soon as that of sulfur dwindled away.

  “You really did take heed of my request for a remote location,” Dajjal said while he took in the surrounds, motioning across the makeshift prison as he walked. “You see all of this? It’s how the world should be.”

  “Yes, my Lord,” Ronove replied somewhat robotically as he tried to keep up. It was far easier to just agree, saving himself from any further torment.

  With disdain Dajjal gazed through the crooked bars of each cage as he swept past, the struggling creatures inside a gratifying sight. “My vision for the world,” he spoke assuredly, “is one full of the music of pain, playing from one horizon to the next as it rises to the heavens from the smoky ruin of all.”

  “Please…” came a faint voice, so light it had to fight the breeze to be heard. “Let us go…we have done nothing to you…”

  Dajjal looked in the direction of the whispers, finding a cage full of harpies. It was overstuffed, with one of the wretched things pressed firmly against the wood as she looked at him with beseeching eyes. Her face indented, she struggled to speak again. “Please… We just want to live our lives…”

  “We all want to do that,” Dajjal responded in kind. He kneeled beside her, noting her frail claws clinging to the bars, their once bluish feathers dulled by the squalor that was around them. “In nature, no matter the world, there are those of us that are hunters, while the others are for their part, the hunted. Likewise, there are those who are meant to rule and others who, like yourselves and all the rest of you, are made to suffer beneath it.”

  Dread had spread across her face as he spoke, more after each word. She realized escape was not on the horizon. “You are insane…”

  “That I may be,” Dajjal responded, wrenching her filthy claws off of the bars as his eyes changed over in an instant. “Let’s see how much.”

  He squeezed mercilessly until her fingers cracked, the scream escaping her lips as nothing more than a whimper.

  “My Lord!” Ronove interrupted, distraught by what he saw. “The others are waiting for us.”

  To the north, four humans had been chained to the ground about a hundred feet out from the rocks. Naked and kneeling, their forearms were gored with taut chains and hooks while barbed wire crisscrossed their lower legs. Blood pooled all around them, staining the virgin earth as the starry sky reflected into those dark pools of crimson.

  “Let them wait,” he said, releasing the creature from his grasp. “They’ll soon be occupied with plenty.” His beard showed off a sneer as he continued east toward the center of the innermost arc.

  Ronove followed, Dajjal cocking his head to the side when he heard the demon’s footsteps close behind.

  “Where are you going?” Dajjal asked, stopping dead in his tracks.

  Ronove paused with an apprehensive look on his face. “To… the pens, my Lord?”

  “Oh no,” Dajjal said. “I nearly forgot; not just yet. I need you to do something for me. Right now, your place is out on the salt about halfway from here to our guests. There you will stay until your particular duties are done.”

  Too weak to flee – even though he wanted to more than anything – Ronove obeyed, watching as Dajjal shrank away over his shoulder. He made it to the northern edge of the rocks and then continued into the salt beyond. Concerns escalating with each step, he plodded to the middle and there he remained, waiting, though for what he had no idea.

  Dajjal too reached his middle position, turning to face Ronove while he reached into his pockets. Four stubs of black wax were removed, bundled in his left hand, and a wadded parchment appeared in his right. The setup was similar to what Astaroth had used to communicate with him while still imprisoned down below. Breathing calmly, he began to mutter indecipherable words; the language wasn’t demonic, but its power was no less potent.

  By command, the wax floated away and journeyed toward the captives, a piece settling in place above each of the injured prisoners. One of them, a burly man with disheveled hair and tattoos covering just one half of his body, craned his neck skyward as the wax settled above.

  The parchment drifted away as well, though it stayed within arm’s reach of Dajjal. The paper unfolded, revealing his sigil circumscribed by another, drawn in much darker ink. It became ominously quiet, even the moans of the dying inside the cages fading away while they watched. The only sound that remained was the soft crumple of paper as it blew in the wind.

  Dajjal looked up at the moon, now speaking demonically. With each archaic word he uttered, the very ground shook.

  “Powers of the world, I am Al-Masih ad-Dajjal, Great Demon of Hell. By the words spoken in the tongue of the First, I seek access to the prisons of Hell. This I command, now!”

  The wax responded, melting into shiny blobs that expanded to three times their size. Slowly, the oily orbs dripped onto each body below, the liquid black scalding their skin.

  Ronove spun to look at the cages, the creatures now on edge and panicked. He attempted to retreat but it was too late, the spell already binding him to that spot. Beneath his feet, faint red lines swirled in the dirt, connecting him to the four captives, drunk in agonizing delirium.

  “Brothers within,” Dajjal continued, “hearken to me! I cast myself out and extend my hand. Its protections shall bring you here, unbound.”

  Ronove braced himself as best he could, hardening his defenses while trying to weave a counter spell, though his normally quick movements were slowed considerably.

  Dajjal concluded, his voice like a hurricane. “Aperio!”

  Instantly, the lives of all the imprisoned monsters were snuffed and Ronove wept.

  Their life force, churning like a powerful white river, smashed straight into Ronove. The blast was split into four as it passed through him and onto the hostages. Like a match to gasoline, the waxy orbs exploded on impact like bombs. The fires of Hell gushed out, sparks raining down to the plains.

  “Now is the time!” Dajjal called as the light show faded away, gaping holes left in the air, their edges trembling as if the Earth itself were trying to shut them. “Come forth!”

  Voices came from the fires as the wind whipped the plains. They were dark and menacing.

  “How is it you have you summoned us here?”

  Another came, lighter but no less intimidating. “Who exactly are you? Your visage is shrouded.”

  “What is it you want of us?” asked a third.

  Dajjal answered each one in turn, confirming for himself that the three were indeed the Hell Knights Purson, Beleth, and Asmoday.

  Which left the fourth…

  “And why should we trust you at all, Deceiver?” he asked coldly, the most suspicious of them all.

  “You can’t, Botis,” Dajjal stated plainly. “By your own word you have already named me a deceiver and I’ll accept that t
itle wholeheartedly. Yet, here it is I stand before you now with my own vessel’s feet firmly planted on the Earth while you, my austere friends, are still locked away on the other side of the fence casting judgements.” Dajjal paused, watching as the portals struggled to keep shape, sputtering and bending. “There is not much time left before the gateways close. You must decide quickly.”

  There was a silence, long enough to stretch Dajjal’s concern, but at last an answer came from Botis, belching forth in a plume of fire.

  “Very well.”

  Dajjal didn't respond, simply smiling while Ronove, barely conscious on the ground and finally able to move, looked to the captives before departing to places unknown.

  The Hell Knights had appeared behind the prisoners, their smoky forms towering a dozen feet high as the portals appeared like halos around their monstrous heads. Grabbing their hosts, they pulled back their necks as vapor gushed down into their mouths.

  While the others might have been overtaken with excitement and the prospect of being free, Botis was not okay with forced possession. As cunning as much as he was suspicious, he wasn't about to be left vulnerable in front of Dajjal, armed with only a pittance of his full powers. He noticed the state of the host’s bodies, so confidently and secretly, he engaged his potential host.

  “Listen to me,” Botis spoke quickly while hovering just above the man’s lips like a viper. “I do not have much time to explain, but should you invite me inside, I can make sure all your hurts are made better. I just need a yes.”

  “How can things be better?” the hefty man with the half-tattooed body asked, surprisingly unfazed by the sight of a smoking, demonic body standing over him. As his short hair flapped in the wind, his mind was occupied with visions of a slain family – his family – while Dajjal stood pompously over their decimated corpses when he came to bring him here. “Nothing can ever bring them back. Now, if you promised me revenge against that bald fucker…”