by Ana Calin
“Please don’t do that, Rux.”
“It’s hard for me to keep the darkness in check when you’re being such a pain, Vlad.”
“It’s for your own protection.”
“I don’t need protection, damn it.”
I turn to look at her. Fuck, the molten rage in those deep black eyes, the don’t-you-boss-me-around expression on that pretty little face, it makes my cock twitch. I pace the room to keep control of my raging body.
“I wish I could believe that, Rux, trust me. But, unfortunately, there are creatures out there more powerful than you could ever imagine. I have to keep you well shielded against the Devil’s Son until we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”
“I can’t imagine he’s anywhere near as dangerous as Moros. I banished the brother of the Fates, haven’t I?”
“At what cost?” I snarl, and she flinches. I’m immediately sorry for losing my temper, but with every minute that passes it’s harder for me to control the craving deep in my body.
“You’re not getting involved, Ruxandra, and that is my final word.”
“I’m your wife, Vlad, not your child. You don’t get to have a final word.” With that she storms out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
CHAPTER VII
Rux
I’m here against Vlad’s wishes. I’m not even sure how aware he is that I actually came along with Irina—I did my best to avoid him. Even though I stood up to him, it didn’t leave me with a good feeling, so I kinda snuck into the mission.
Music blasts from loudspeakers positioned all over the place, the sound pounding inside my skull.
I know Vlad is here somewhere, mingling with the guests—hundreds of them, to my great surprise. I thought it would be just the bad boys of Sector 5, and sure, there are the glaring, tattooed, golden-chained, clearly-carrying-knives Pit Bull faces in clusters here and there. But there are also many students, innocent-looking nerds and I-don’t-drink sports fanatics. There are also clean-shaven or hippie-haired, bony young men, and women with makeup so stark they look double their age.
Then there’s the highest category of clients. Businessmen lounging on the cream leather sofas around tables, more or less hidden from the limelight, sprawled over the sofas. Collars open, you-have-to-work-to-get-my-attention faces in place, mouths lopsided in boredom—the sign that they’re V.I.P, and girls should be working to impress them.
These are the men most of the girls here are looking to get to, their eyes moving greedily in their direction often, batting fake lashes over heavy eye-shadow and glitter. They keep crossing and uncrossing their long, toned legs, their mini-skirts showcasing their thighs, their cleavages highlighting breast implants. High heels and glittery cocktail dresses shine in the limelight.
“Not even sure we stand a chance at drawing attention,” I yell in Irina’s ear. Even though we’re sitting crammed together between strongly perfumed bodies at one of the many bars in this establishment, I have to yell to make myself heard over the music.
I feel rather proper in my green pencil-dress, despite the generous cleavage. An elaborate necklace of emeralds covers most of my snow-white chest. The swell of my boobs, even though large, is obviously natural, not surgically added. From what I’ve noticed, fucking women with Botox and boob implants is a matter of status among the rich men of the Bucharest underworld.
Irina looks around with her catlike eyes, her gaze sexy, alluring. She could stand out among all the girls here, if anyone would pay any attention to natural beauty. Even her style is understated in this crowd.
“None of the men are considering making a move,” she tells me over the music. “We don’t look slutty enough, damn it.”
“Told you we should’ve gone for net stockings and leather bras, like Lumi. She’s like the stereotype for what these men want.”
“And for what certain women want,” she says, referring to Geneva Daniel.
The first band steps onto the small stage at the back of the club. All heads from the different bars turn to them as they adjust their instruments, their mikes, run their hands through their hair. They give each other the signal, the guitarist runs his fingers over his electric guitar, and then the music blasts again.
Both Irina and I look around at the people staring at the stage, searching for Geneva Daniel. I imagine she should be sitting on one of the cream sofas, among the V.I.P.s. Maybe she has some girls around her, too, because women must know of her preferences, and I can imagine that many of them would be willing to bank on that.
But at the tables there are only men.
“If I were Geneva Daniel,” I whisper to myself, “where would I be sitting tonight? What would I be doing?”
I like this role-playing approach to situations like this. Even though I don’t possess any acting talent whatsoever, I did always enjoy the acting classes back in school, where mum took me. It was supposed to help with socializing, but look where I get to use what I learned.
“I don’t see her anywhere,” Irina says, her voice a bit panicky.
“She’ll probably make her appearance at the end. She has to pick a winner, right?”
“If she’s not already up in the building, shagging her lover, having sent other representatives from Fox Ro in her place.” She sighs, her shoulders slumping. “Let’s hope Lord Dracula and Tristan are making better progress.”
I keep scanning the place, my brain searching for solutions, when I spot one familiar face—the haggard guy from the other club, the one with dark rings under his eyes, and the slanted mouth that always expressed disdain.
“Look at that.” I point discreetly to him, head to head with Irina. “He’s a producer at Fox Ro, he told me the first time we met.” I get down from the barstool. “Why don’t we go say hello?”
Irina follows me without protesting. He is our best lead, and she knows it.
I make our way among the people, my moves turning more and more undulating as I get into the part of the dark demoness. I will bank on the fear that I drove into his bones the last time we met.
The closer I get to him, the more obvious it becomes that he’s not paying attention to the music. His mouth expresses contempt, maybe mixed with lust. He’s caressing the toned leg of a curly redhead on his right, a blonde on his left. He seems to prefer the redhead, though, his ashen-grey, veined, dry hand slipping under her dress. She arches briskly from her waist, and I know he must have dipped his finger inside of her. He takes the hand out and pushes his fingers roughly into her mouth, her throat swelling like that of a pelican as he reaches too deep. He keeps his eyes on her mouth with the sick expression of a man who enjoys humiliating women. It gives me fuel to torment him.
The ache hits him in the gut the moment I take a seat elegantly on the leather stool across from him.
“I hope you weren’t saving this seat for someone else,” I say as his tormented eyes find me, but I doubt he actually heard me over the music.
I let the blackness fill my eyes. The girls sit to attention, opening their mouths in awe, surely at the difference between the whiteness of my face and the darkness of my irises.
Irina steps in immediately and sends them away, telling them, “The lady has business to discuss with Mr—” She reads his name off the tag on the table. “Croitoru.”
The redhead seems particularly eager to go, and the blonde doesn’t appear too keen on staying either. Once the sofa is free I take a seat on his left, Irina on his right. He stares terrified into my black eyes, and I give him a satisfied grin.
“I’m a little she-devil, I like being on the left.” I motion to Irina. “My friend here is the more angelic of us, I’m sure you’ll find her presence on your right soothing.” I lean in closer. “For you will need soothing.”
Eyes fixed on his to relish what’s going to happen, I send pain through his testicles. He hisses, revealing coffee-stained teeth in a flash of laser, deep lines digging into his cheeks.
“This is what it feels like for a wom
an when you stick your fingers inside of her—hard.” I glance at his hand that’s now fisted on his thigh. Face to face with him, one hand on the back of the sofa behind him, I’m sure I look like a sadistic dominatrix. Still, no one but the victim—boy, I love thinking about him that way—and Irina can see. This is a table close to the stage, which means that pretty much only the band has us in sight, and they are blinded from the limelight. I couldn’t have hoped for more privacy to deal with this piece of shit.
I drive the pain higher through his balls to his bladder, making him shriek. I’m close enough to hear him. The pain makes him sweat and stink, saliva pushing out of his mouth. I lessen the pain just a little to let him talk when I know he wants to.
“What the fuck are you?”
“I just told you. A devil from hell.” I grin, and a shudder goes through him.
“What do you want from me?”
“Just a piece of information, a trifle, really.” I pause until I can read the acceptance in his face. “Geneva Daniel. I want to get to her. Now.”
He shudders again, the dark circles around his eyes deepening. He presses his lips together as if he wants to prevent himself from saying anything.
“All right then,” I hiss, and send a current of pain through his gut up to his stomach. He falls back, knocking against Irina’s strong body. She grabs him tightly as he convulses, as if I’ve put a defibrillator on him. I let him suffer for a few seconds until I lessen the pain again, allowing his body to become soft against Irina’s. He breathes hard, his eyes rolled back, his mouth open, looking like a sick man clawing to a moment of respite.
“This only gets as painful as you let it, Mr Croitoru,” I say so warmly he’s compelled to find my eyes. I feel like an executioner playing with her victim, and I wish I were sorry, but I’m not. I know how vile this piece of shit can be to women, how misogynistic, what he’d do to me if not for my power over him.
“Now, here’s what’s going to happen,” I say, tracing the contour of his stubbly jaw with my finger. You’ll tell me where to find Mrs Daniel, right now, or I’ll put you through so much pain that it’ll eventually kill you. Make no mistake. I’m going to do it slowly, making sure you go through the worst things possible before you draw your last breath. Do I make myself clear?”
He purses his lips, whimpering as if he can barely stifle the need to cry, but he still doesn’t talk. I send a current of pain through his body, a pain so great it drives him to push himself back against Irina, howling like an animal being disembowelled alive. Unfortunately for him, the guitarist is giving his best on a guitar solo, so no one can hear even the slightest sound from his throat.
Irina remains a stone wall behind him.
“What is it, Mr Croitoru?” I mock with what I know is the grin of a predator. “You don’t like it between two women? You sure seemed to be enjoying yourself before we sat down at your table, why not now? Don’t you find us as attractive as the two girls with absolutely no power to resist your sick lust?”
His limbs tremble as if he suffers from Parkinson’s, but he still won’t talk. Looking more carefully at him, I think he’s too terrified to do it.
“Listen, Mr Croitoru,” I say softly, adjusting my strategy. “I’ll be honest with you. I take no pleasure in torturing you like this. In fact, I’ve reached the end of what I trust myself to do. Last time I wasn’t careful with how I applied my power, and the guy’s head burst open like a watermelon.” I take in the fright in his bloodshot eyes. “It happened at the club where we first met. On that very night, actually. The manager, Conrad the Sultan. You knew him?”
I pretend to be stunned at the realization that he did.
“Oh, you were friends?”
Meanwhile, on the inside, I’m really beginning to lose confidence. The band is coming to the end of their piece, their rhythm now softer, the volume of the loudspeakers dying down. Just one more minute, that’s all I have to make this bastard talk, and I’m almost convinced I’ll fail. My eyelashes flutter as I glance at Irina. A fraction of a second is all it takes for me to convey my despair, and to recognize hers. But then he breaks.
“Up in the building,” he says, his voice thick and rusty. “All the way to the top, the only apartment. That’s where she meets him.”
Relief courses through my body from head to toes. I can feel it turn soft, but I manage to keep a cool façade and ask one last, vital question.
“That’s where she meets the Devil’s Son?”
He shakes his head, sweaty ashen hair clinging to his forehead and lined neck. That’s how scared he is of me.
“No one knows for sure, but we all suspect it’s him.”
I meet Irina’s eyes over his head. She nods, and I grab the bastard’s elbow.
“Mr Croitoru, one last question—what is your first name?”
“Do-Dobre.”
“All right, Dobre,” I push his elbow, making him understand I want him to get up. He does just as the song comes to an end, and people burst into applause. There’s confusion and panic in his face.
“You’re coming with us,” I say close to him, under my breath.
“W-what? W-why?”
“Because I doubt that we’ll be able to make it to the top floor, let alone inside that apartment without your help—I gather we’re not the first people who tried, are we? I hear the press and even the special forces have done their best to uncover Mrs Daniel’s secrets, and they didn’t succeed.”
“But I can’t—”
“I know that you’re worried about the consequences, and I understand. But look at it this way.” I take one step closer, looking up into his sweaty ashen face, sending intense blackness into my eyes and intense white into my face. He’s so scared by the time I open my mouth to speak that his teeth clatter. “If you don’t do what I tell you, you won’t live another five minutes. Make no mistake, Dobre, I will kill you. Now. Start walking, lead the way. And just know that I have an invisible hand inside your body at all times. One wrong move—no—if I get only the impression that you’re about to make a wrong move, I’m going to make it very painful for you.”
He stares terrified into my eyes for another few moments until the next band is announced to take the stage. He turns around and starts walking, Irina and I giving each other a relieved glance, and following. But then people come his way, puzzled.
“Mr Croitoru, aren’t you going to stay to choose a winner?”
He barks a name at them, pointing them to somebody else from Fox Ro. “He’ll do it.”
I scan the club fruitlessly for Vlad and Tristan until we emerge out into the night air. Irina activates the device on her wrist and takes it to her mouth, opening her lips to transmit the information, but Dobre stops her with a look of worry and warning.
“I suggest you don’t alert anyone just yet,” he whispers as if even the streetlights could be spies. “Mrs Daniel and the man she’s seeing, they both have experience with stalking press, police, military. They’ll know someone is in the building to surprise them. They can tell the difference between the steps of the inhabitants, and the steps of strangers. They say no matter how good an undercover agent is, they always give themselves away.” He glances at the device on Irina’s wrist again. “I actually suggest you deactivate that thing, I think they installed sensors to detect gadgets.”
“Good to see you’ve come to care about the success of our mission, Dobre,” I mock.
“You’re not leaving me a choice, Mrs—” He frowns, realizing he doesn’t know my name. Still, there’s respect in his face—probably for the first time in his entire life, he fears and respects a woman. I’m momentarily taken with a sense of fulfilment—this was the lesson I wanted to teach him. Now I suppose it’s time for another shocker.
“Basarab. Lady Ruxandra Basarab, wife to Lord Vlad Basarab.”
“Oh,” he says. “I think I heard of him. Vlad Dracula’s descendant?”
“He’s not Dracula’s descendant. He is Dracula.”
Dobre stares at me like at a train racing toward him. “You gotta be shitting me.”
I twist the pain in his gut, making him grimace and groan. “No more than I’m shitting you with this.”
I release the pain and Dobre starts walking towards the iron doors of the building, hunched and barely still carrying himself from the strain through which I’ve put his body and his mind.
Irina and I look up at the building, assessing it before we step inside. Graffiti spreads over the walls. Old windows line them, many of them barred, making the place seem a prison rather than a block of flats. Inside it’s chilly, the shuffle of our steps echoing through the building. I take Dobre’s arm.
“Why don’t you sing for us, you know, like when you’re drunk? Act like someone who’s taking two hookers up to his place.” Irina takes his other arm as I talk.
“Considering the events downstairs, it wouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary, would it?” she says in her crystalline, seductress voice.
He does as told, even though his voice wavers, his singing bordering on whining. We take the rattling elevator to the story before last. I put a finger to Dobre’s white lips, and mouth ‘thank you.’
“Stay here with him,” I whisper to Irina, and make to go up the last flight of stairs to the top story, heading to the flat where he said I’d find Geneva Daniel and her lover, the Devil’s Son. But Irina stops me.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing? You’re not going up there alone,” she says close to my face, her breath hitting my cheek.
“One of us has to stay here with him,” I whisper back. “He could start yelling the moment we’re in front of Geneva’s door, and everything we achieved will be for nothing.”
Irina ponders, looking from me to the wretched Dobre, who’s sitting on a step bracing his knees, and whimpering in what I suspect is a quiet fit of self-pity.
“Maybe I should just kill him, and go and warn Lord Dracula and Tristan,” she says, glancing at her deactivated wrist device.
“No.” The idea alone upsets me. “I promised to leave him alone if he helped, and help he did. I won’t go back on my word.”