…and so it begins

It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything; too much going on in my life, most of it of the “No fun, go home” variety. But I’m slowly working my way back into things.

This one is fairly long – over 4k words. And also of the “No fun, go home” variety, for Ari. Figured it was about time to give you the beginning of the story; now you’ll know the stakes, and the trap Ari is in – caught between a rock and a hard place.

Trigger warning.

* * *

 

Month 1, day 40 – 40 days on Thanah

The Agora

Khamasur, the Master of House Kel Arain, had rarely been so pleased; opportunities such as this did not often present themselves, and he meant to take every advantage of it that he possibly could. From his place across the square he watched the two women interact, his pale eyes missing nothing. He knew the older woman to be his enemy’s Keeper, a competent and able administrator. But the other—oh, the other! The red-haired one was just the tool he needed to destroy his enemy, and she might even serve as the toy he wanted when her usefulness was at an end.

He watched as the two completed their meal, and the younger one cleared their table. She was fit, he saw, unlike many of the other women the Gatherers had brought. Most of them were layered in flesh, like geese being fattened for the table, but this one was lean with muscle even with her curves. He took in her movements; smooth, with no wasted motion, but with an underlying confidence and power, like someone who regularly tested herself against an opponent in the skamma—the fighting ring. At the somatemporia he had noted the scars on her arms—knife scars, if he was not mistaken, but he knew he was not. It was unusual to see a woman who fought with knives; most were afraid to be cut. If she was not, she was unique in all his experience.

He followed and watched for nearly an hour before making up his mind. More than once she had paused, head up like a dog scenting predators, looking around as if aware she was being watched. Each time he had hidden himself from her, busying himself in one booth or another until her attention waned. Abruptly he raised a hand, and his gray-clad Armsman was instantly at his side. “The red-haired woman,” he murmured. “Take her and bring her to me.” He turned smoothly and was away without waiting for a response, knowing it would be done.

“Master,” the man replied, acknowledging the order even though the pale man would not hear, and, using a com unit, called for two men from the entourage to meet with him. He also warned the driver that their Master was on his way. It was never wrong for them to be prepared for him.

The Armsman kept an eye on her as she moved through the Agora, keeping her in his line of sight but staying out of hers. Not once did she seem aware of his scrutiny, as she had of his Master’s; it was the intensity of that concentration that had attracted her attention. The Armsman’s dispassion was his shield.

After some time two more men in gray uniforms approached him, and he pointed out their quarry. One of them grinned and elbowed the other, but the Armsman coldly told him to mind himself, that the girl was for the Master. The other man sobered instantly, and ducked his head. The three followed their mark as the two women wandered the rows, watching for their prey to separate.

At last came their chance. Ari lingered at one booth to look at something that had caught her eye, and Kanti, unaware, went on to the end of the row and turned the corner. The Armsman signaled to his men, who immediately flanked the red-haired woman. Each man caught an arm, and one bent his head, telling her to come quietly. None of the three men was prepared for her reaction.

Ari jerked her arms against their grip, ducking down and shoving backward on one foot to throw them off balance. The first man’s hand slipped, letting that arm free, and she snapped a side kick at him, just missing his crotch. He went down with a yelp. Ari used the rebound to recover, and raked her sandal down the other man’s shin. She turned her arm in his grip and caught hold of his wrist, pulling him forward over her hip into a throw. She kept her grip as he overbalanced and added her other hand, pulling back on his arm and putting torque into it. She heard a bone snap as he fell, and bared her teeth in a tight, feral grin at his shout of pain.

The first man was up again, charging her with arms wide. She sidestepped, ducked under his arm, grabbed it with both hands and redirected his momentum past her. He flailed his arms in an attempt at keeping his balance, barely catching himself on the post of a nearby shop; only the booth’s guylines kept both from going down. The Armsman shook his head in amazement, watching, then started forward, pulling something from his belt. The first man spun off the booth’s upright back toward her, throwing a wild punch, but Ari flung her arm up in a block and then knuckle-punched him in the nerve plexus under his armpit. He howled in pain and went down hard.

Ari bounced back a step, checking for the second man, and never saw the Armsman coming from behind. He stepped in close, threw his left arm around her neck, and jabbed her in the back with something. White light flared in her skull as all her muscles seized in galvanic response; then she went limp and slid to the ground.

The second man had climbed to his feet, holding his arm; he came over and kicked her in the face, catching her cheekbone. The Armsman angrily stiff-armed him, warning him off, and told him to ready their vehicle. The man left hurriedly, scowling. The Armsman and the other man together picked Ari up and quickly carried her out between two of the booths. Despite the action most of the fight had been quiet, and it had been quick; only now were the people nearby beginning to react.

In the next row Kanti had just realized that Ari was no longer with her, and started back around the corner. When she saw the City Guard hurrying toward the gathering crowd she started to run.

* * *

House Kel Arain: the atrium

Master Khamasur waited in his office, leaning against his desk in a languid pose. His dark hair was the only color about him, the focal point in an atrium of white marble, pale wood, and filmy white draperies. A moment ago a runner had come in to tell him that the Armsman had returned with the woman, and Khamasur had composed himself to receive his reluctant guest.

The Armsman and his subordinate came up along the arcade that separated the atrium office from the outer hall. Khamasur glanced aside to watch them, and realized that they were half dragging the woman between them. He shoved away from the desk in instant fury, his pale eyes snapping.

“Deimo, what is this? I ordered you to bring her to me, not to beat her senseless!”

The subordinate stopped several feet from their Master, fearing to come closer, and nervously dropped the woman’s arm, letting her half fall to the floor. She was conscious and able to catch herself, but clumsy with her hands bound together, her other arm held. Backing away, the man blurted out, “She fought us, Master! There was nothing else we could do!”

The Armsman, Deimo, lowered the woman to the floor and released her arm with an irritated shrug, distancing himself from the other. “I have never seen anyone who fought in the style she did.” His tone held grudging approval. “She broke Krio’s arm. I had to use the shock rod before the Agora was in an uproar.”

Between them Ari raised herself on her forearms, saying thickly, “Wha’s matter wi’ you people? Can’ you ever jus’ ask a person?”

Khamasur cocked an eyebrow, looking down at her. “And you would have come for the asking?” His voice was smooth and cultured, his manner urbane and somewhat amused.

Ari pushed herself up to sit on her hip, pushing her hair back from her eyes with both hands. “Prob’ly—prob-ab-ly not.” She shook her head to clear it, too late realizing her mistake; she retched and vomited, then pushed away from the mess. Her head pounded, and she closed her eyes tightly against the dizziness and pain.

Khamasur withdrew in disgust, going back to his desk. He picked up a little bell and rang it once, sharply; a maidservant ran in, and he gave terse orders. “Bring a bowl of water and a towel, and something for her to drink. And have someone clean that,” he flicked a hand at the mess. He looked at the two men, shaking his head angrily. “Deimo, unbind her. Then both of you get out of my sight.” The Armsman did so with alacrity, not wanting to annoy his Master further. The other man disappeared even before the Armsman had finished loosing the restraints.

By the time the servants arrived Ari was on her feet, albeit swaying a bit unsteadily. Khamasur had gone back to his pose against the desk, hands and hips on the edge, legs extended and crossed elegantly at the ankles. The servants bowed their heads to him as they entered, though he ignored them. One of them offered a bowl of water to Ari, who thanked the girl; then she washed her hands and face and dried them with the towel. She rinsed her mouth with what was in the glass—something citrusy, like lemon water—and spat the mouthful into the bowl, then drank the rest of the water gratefully. Then she simply stood there, breathing, as the servants finished their cleanup and left.

Khamasur watched her for several moments from under his lashes, taking in her stance, her body language. The more he saw of this woman, the more intrigued he became. At last he lifted his head and looked directly at her. “You know, you are in something of a quandary—what is your name?

“Ari Dillon.” Her words were clearer now, the slur fading.

“Ari Dillon.” He repeated the unfamiliar sounds. “Hm.” He paused, looking at her in calculated curiosity. “You are in an awkward position, Ari Dillon. You are not only barren, you were deliberately neutered. You do understand that you fall under an Assembly Kill Order for that? Yet the Black Dog took you under his protection. I take it that your Master—”

“My Lord.” She interrupted, clearly and coldly, and he paused, turning his head toward her.

Again he cocked an eyebrow, arrested. “Indeed? Interesting.” He smiled dismissively. “I take it that your ‘Lord’ did not tell you that his protection effectively ends at his gate. Once outside those gates you are subject to the law of the City, and any citizen who takes offence may act upon it.”

“When I get back to the House of the Black Dog I will be sure to look into that,” Ari said pointedly. “I assume, of course, that I will be going back?”

Khamasur smiled indulgently. “That will depend entirely on you,” he said, looking at her directly. “Which brings me to my proposal: when you do go back, you will do so as my agent. There is certain information I wish to know about your Master’s—” he smiled again, not quite a smirk, “Forgive me, your ‘Lord’s’—activities. You will seek out this information, and you will bring it to me when next you leave his House.”

“And I should do this why?”

Again Khamasur smiled. “Oh, dear,” he said with false sorrow, “I had so hoped it would not come to this.” He reached down and rang the bell again. Moments later the Armsman, Deimo, came in with a young black girl—Shanyse Patterson.

Ari saw her and felt her heart stop. Shanyse saw Ari and her face lit up in delight; she started to skip to Ari, then darted a glance at Khamasur and thought better of it. At his gesture of permission she walked over to Ari and smiled, and with all the awkward grace only a young teenager can muster said, “Hi, Ari! What happened to your face?”

“I made a mistake,” Ari answered tonelessly, meeting Khamasur’s eyes over the girl’s head. Then she looked down and forced a smile for the girl. “Hey, Shanyse! How’s your mama doing?” She hugged the girl, over her head giving the pale man a look of cold rage.

“She doin’ okay,” Shanyse chattered on. “She keepin’ busy, but she still cries a lot sometimes ‘cause she missin’ my nana an’ grampa. I miss them, too, but I don’t cry so much.”

Ari took her shoulders and shook her a little, looking down into her face. “That’s because you are a smart, brave girl.”

Khamasur stirred and languidly clapped his hands three times. “How touching, a reunion of friends of mere moments,” he said drily. “Tell me—it is Shanyse, is it not? You have been doing your lessons?”

The girl straightened immediately, answering him. “Yes, Master Khamasur.”

“Very good, child. Can you tell me this: what is your well-being, and how does a House provide it?”

Shanyse stood up even straighter, and recited “My well-being is what I need to live: food, and clothing, and shelter, and health. My House provides these to me in exchange for my loyalty, my service, and my obedience.” She nodded decisively on each point.

“And if you should behave badly?” the pale man asked. “If you should disobey, or betray this trust?”

Shanyse gave him a worried look, and sidled closer to Ari, who reflexively put an arm around her shoulders and hugged her close. In a small voice the girl said, “I would be punished.”

“And how would you be punished, child?” His words and tone were all kindness, but there was something in his pale eyes that gave it the lie.

“I could lose my priviges…” Shanyse started slowly.

“Your privileges,” Khamasur corrected her. He moved forward to stand directly in front of the girl, looking down at her.

“My privy-le-ges,” she hurriedly repeated, “or I could be beaten.”

“And if the infraction was severe?” Though his voice was soft still the girl flinched, and rage flashed through Ari like lightning.

“I–I could be put out of the House to make my way on the street with the rats, or—I promise I won’t never do nothing for you to kill me!”

“Now, child,” he said, reaching out and stroking her hair gently, “I’m quite sure that you would never do anything so bad as to warrant that.” He put particular emphasis on that one word, looking directly at Ari. “But now I do have to make one small change to the rules for you, Shanyse.” He dropped his hand to the girl’s shoulder, squeezing lightly, all the while looking directly into Ari’s eyes with sly humor. “You see, something very special has happened, and that means that I must make your good friend Ari responsible for your well-being. It is her behavior in the next little while that will decide how this House treats you. And we all know that Ari is a good person, so she would never do anything that would let harm come to you, isn’t that so, Ari?”

“That’s right,” she answered. Her voice was calm and level, but her eyes were hot and full of promise.

“Excellent!” Khamasur stepped back and clapped his hands together with a bright smile. “Then that will be all for you today, Shanyse. You have done all I could have wished for.” He reached out again and tousled her hair. “Say goodbye to Ari now, and tell Nomio that I said you might go and play.”

Shanyse turned and hugged Ari tight, then scampered out at Deimo’s heels. Ari stood there staring straight into Khamasur’s eyes until she was gone.

The pale man smiled again with heavy lidded eyes and sauntered back to his desk, toying with something on the surface. When Ari was sure Shanyse was gone, she took three quick steps forward, snarling in English, “You son of a bitch!”

Khamasur spun and surged up from his stance with no warning, his right hand a blurring fist. The movement was so fast and so savage that Ari had no chance to react or avoid the blow, and she went down hard, skidding back on the polished floor. Khamasur’s face was a mask of rage as he stood over her, spitting “That, for your disrespect!” And then as quickly as that his rage was gone, and the faintly mocking smile was back. He straightened and stepped back. “Actually,” he said with dry humor, “as I understand the idiom it would seem to apply more appropriately to your ‘Lord.’ As for me, I believe the proper phrase is ‘sick bastard’—although here the latter term lacks… relevance.”

He went back to his pose at the desk, leaning against it nonchalantly and inspecting his hand. There was a smear of blood on it. He flicked a glance toward Ari to see that she was watching, and slowly licked the blood off his fist with evident pleasure. He took in her narrowed eyes and clenched fists; saw the muscles jumping in her jaw and the way her breath came hard and fast, and he smiled in satisfaction. “A fighter, are you?” he asked softly, but there was a peculiar emphasis to the question, almost hungry. Then his tone changed; a sharp command. “Take off your clothes.”

Ari’s eyes flicked to his, heat meeting ice, and turned sick inside. His arousal was obvious; his eyes avid, his skin flushed, his breath coming faster. She hated to feed whatever sick fantasy he had in mind, but what choice did she have? She knew where she stood; she knew what was coming. He was the one with the power—and nothing outweighed the safety of a child.

Khamasur smiled as she reluctantly obeyed, watching intently as she slowly rose, unbelted her tunic, drew it over her head, and let it fall to the floor. He pursed his lips, taking her measure, while she stood silently staring inward at nothing.

He pushed away from the desk, prowling forward like the predator he was, and his smile now had a cruel edge. “Take it off—all of it,” he said with deliberate malice. “I want to see you.”

She unfastened the breast band and let it fall free; he inhaled with a sharp hiss at sight of the scars on her breasts, and he stepped forward, reaching but not touching, following their shapes in the air. “Oh,” he breathed. “Someone has been here before me, I see.” Then he stepped back again and gestured impatiently.

Ari unfastened the drawstring of the shorts and slid them down over her hips, then kicked them off. She kept her face impassive, giving nothing away, knowing he was watching. She had learned that the last time—give him nothing.

Never realizing that it gave him everything.

Khamasur prowled around Ari, bare inches away. When he spoke his breath washed over her skin, hot and moist. His words were a croon, not quite voiced yet not quite a whisper. “I can smell the blood on you,” he breathed. “Its taste was sweet.” He lingered over the words, urging, yearning, their bodies so close she could feel his heat. “I can smell your anger, your rage. You want to fight me, I can feel it. Your muscles are quivering with want. If you were a man, you would be hard as iron.

“Fight me,” he whispered, leaning in toward her. “Fight me.” He inhaled the scent of her hair, and when he turned there was a wrongness in the light in his eyes.

And then again he stepped back, the heat abruptly gone. He looked her over in cool appraisal, his voice matter-of-fact. “Has your Master seen this?” he asked, then caught himself. “Oh, I forgot—you don’t like that word, now why is that? Did someone master you before, teach you your proper place?” He stepped in again, face to face, unable to stay away, and his voice went soft and whispery once more. “The others think you a warrior, but I know the truth. The scars on your arms speak of a knife fight, but these—oh, these tell such a different story.” He stepped in closer, body to body, his palm on her belly, stroking the scars sensuously. When she flinched back, wild-eyed, he followed with that uncanny swiftness and fisted his fingers into the hair at the base of her skull, bowing her back while pulling her hips hard into his. He smiled as she froze under his hands; froze like a frightened animal, and an avid malice came into his eyes.

“Did he try to gut you, your savage lover?” he whispered into her face. “Or was this where you tore out your womanhood to kill his child?”

“No!” Ari gasped, shocked into speech. “I would never—

“Never what? Never kill a child?” Khamasur smiled savagely, triumphant, and yanked her upright against him. “I know you now. I own you now,” he hissed, their lips almost touching. She started to struggle against him but he clamped his free hand on her throat, digging his fingers in hard. “Body and soul, I own you—you will do anything I ask, and all for the sake of a dark-skinned child you’ve known for less than an hour. I wonder—would you do the same for one you’ve never met? Would you trade yourself for any child?” Abruptly he kissed her fiercely, then opened his hands and she fell to the floor, her legs gone weak. He pulled off his robe, dropped his trousers and kicked them away. He was beyond aroused, he was rampant, and the light in his eyes was no longer sane.

“Fight me!” he said fiercely, arms wide and ready. “Fight me, or I’ll kill you where you lie.” Then, when she still did not move, he roared, “Fight me!

From her huddle on the floor Ari whispered, “If I fight you, you’ll kill her.”

Khamasur leaned in and replied softly, dangerously, “If you don’t fight me, I’ll kill you.” His body was tense, its energy barely leashed.

Ari sat up and gathered herself into a ball, stretching her muscles. “Don’t hurt her,” she begged.

Khamasur licked his lips, stalking her. “If you fight me here, I won’t.”

Ari stood slowly, painfully. “One rule, then,” she said.

“No rules!” Khamasur barked, stepping closer, his breath coming faster.

“One rule,” Ari countered sharply, taking a chance, then cajolingly, “It’s to your advantage.”

Khamasur straightened somewhat from his crouch, looking almost like a sulky teenager. “What?” he asked sullenly.

“Just remember,” Ari said, “if you break me I can’t get the information you want.” She stared into his eyes in challenge. “Deal?”

Khamasur licked his lips again, and the crazy light went on again behind his eyes. “Deal.” Ari nodded, her face tight.

“Alright, you sick bastard,” she said. “Let’s dance.”

* * *

The fight was short, the outcome inevitable. Two blows to the head and a taser shock had put paid to Ari’s coordination, and however fit she might be Khamasur’s speed and agility in all ways simply outmatched hers. Added to that was his unfamiliar fighting style: a mixture of boxing, wrestling, kicks and strikes that, when she thought of it later, would remind her of the mixed martial arts she’d heard of back home. She couldn’t dodge him, and she couldn’t predict him, and it was no more than a few minutes of futility before he had her dazed and pinned.

What happened after was also inevitable.

* * *

When he was done with her he stood, shrugged on his robe, and rang the bell. It was Deimo who came in, as always, to clean up his Master’s messes. He barely glanced at Ari as he crossed the atrium, keeping his face impassive; he, too, had learned it was wise to dissemble.

Khamasur poured himself some wine; he was thirsty after his exertions. “Give her her clothes,” he ordered, gesturing with the wine cup. “Put her out on the street and show her the way to her Master’s—” he checked himself and laughed “—to the House of the Black Dog.” He sauntered out of the room, never looking back at either of them.

Deimo looked down at the defeated woman, noting the bruises already darkening on her skin; noting, too, the old scars that marked her body. He shut his eyes hard, shaking his head slowly, then took a long breath and bent to help her up.

* * *

Deimo did more than Ari would have expected, given his Master’s instructions. After she dressed he walked with her to the Household’s gate out of the compound, but instead of simply sending her on her way, as he had been ordered, he called for a metafora—a taxi—and waited with her inside the courtyard until it came. He stood one step up on the flight of stairs, watching her below; seeing how she moved, noting her stance. She was badly beaten, he knew, but she stood erect. Her expression was grim, but her head was up: angry, defiant. There was a stone bench at the foot of the stairs, but still she stood, refusing to give in.

It bothered him.

He was silent but restless, shifting from foot to foot, not looking at her. At last he muttered something to himself, sounding somehow both angry and ashamed. Finally he sighed and said quietly, “I do what I am told.”

Ari barely nodded, shivering in the thin afternoon sunlight. “You could leave here.”

“My family,” he said simply. “My friends. My House.”

“Gods,” Ari said, and shook her head.

Deimo spat on the ground. “The gods are deaf in Kel Arain,” he said bitterly.

Ari nodded. They weren’t all like him. It was enough.

When the metafora came, Deimo gave the driver several coins. “Take her to the Agora,” he said. “Take her where there are other metafori. Leave her there and come straight back here.” To Ari he gave more coins, and said quietly, “Wait until he leaves, then take another to your House.”

Once more Ari nodded, unable to speak at the unexpected kindness. She rested a hand on his arm for a moment, then painfully climbed into the metafora. She did not look back.

* * *

What Is She Doing?

This one was originally posted in November on my other site. I’m playing Catch-Up, can’t you tell? Another one about Deimo.

I figured it was time to post another snippet from my magnum opus, House of the Black Dog. Can you tell that, even though Ari Dillon is my protagonist, Deimo Agisiou is my favorite character? 

* * * 

Month 3, Day 32 – 112 days on Thanah ~ House Kel Arain, the atrium

The Master was agitated, that was evident. Deimo could hear him prowling back and forth in the atrium; a wonder in itself, when as a rule he could appear from anywhere and no-one hear him coming. Prowling, and muttering—never a good sign. Deimo would be on his guard now every moment until well after his Master was in for the night; one never knew what might set him off when he was like this, it could so easily turn ugly…

“Deimo!” His Master’s voice crackled with vexation, and Deimo moved quickly to respond, presenting himself in the atrium. It didn’t look good; Khamasur’s hair was in disarray, as though he had thrust his fingers through it and tugged every which way, and his robe hung askew.

“Master?”

“What is she doing?” Even his Master’s voice was off; a rasping growl where normally it was smooth and urbane, showing nothing save what he chose to put there. “I don’t know what she’s doing!”

“Who, Master?” Deimo asked, quietly cautious—though he had a fair idea.

Khamasur spun on him, half into a fighter’s crouch, and Deimo was hard put not to flinch at the sudden savagery. “That—that—woman, that laika, that—red-headed witch!” Khamasur spat, fighting to get the words out, enraged because they wouldn’t come. “That—Ari! Ari Dillon!” Khamasur visibly relaxed, having finally trapped the elusive words, and some of Deimo’s tension eased as well. Sometimes, when his Master fought with words like that, his anger went to rage and beyond; this time it seemed he’d fought and won, and was content. Deimo relaxed more as Khamasur looked at him, and he saw his Master’s eyes were clearing again, the irises rimmed with smoky gray and the pupils normal. “Why are you here?”

Deimo bowed, careful and precise. “I thought I heard you call for me, Master.”

Khamasur stared at him for a long moment, eyes glittering; his body remembering rage while his mind had already forgotten it. When he spoke, his voice was flat and mistrustful; even, perhaps, a little doubtful… “I called you.” He still breathed harshly, nostrils and lips tight and face gone to sharp planes and angles. Abruptly he turned and flung away across the atrium, shrugging his robes straight as he went. At the desk he snatched up his wine cup, took the pitcher and splashed some inside, and then took it down in one long swallow, his motions still sharp with agitation. He filled the cup again and set the pitcher down with a hard thump; froze for a tense instant, then picked it up and set it down again with precisely moderated care. “What is she doing?” he asked again, his words sharp-edged as glass. He turned in place as he spoke, eyes narrowed and fixed on Deimo’s, making it a demand for his response.

Deimo chose his words with care. “Master, you know I haven’t the breadth of knowledge you do. I couldn’t speculate, and I wouldn’t dare advise you.” He shook his head, watching his Master’s eyes. “I can only speak from my own experience.”

Khamasur gestured with his wine cup. “Go on.”

“You will have taken steps to verify what the woman has told you.” Deimo’s tone made it clear it was not a question, and Khamasur’s cold expression confirmed it. Again he gestured for Deimo to continue. The Armsman gave a half shrug, and went on diffidently. “If what the woman told you is confirmed, but the results are still not what you expect, then there must be something missing, something we don’t know, that is affecting the outcome.”

“Something she’s not telling me…” Khamasur’s voice was dark with suspicion, and his eyes began to pale. He stalked slowly across the atrium, pacing, and Deimo could see he was working his way up again to a real rage, a rage that could spell trouble for the House now, or for Ari Dillon later. He had to head it off.

“It’s possible…” he murmured, his tone thoughtful, and Khamasur rounded on him.

What’s possible?”

“It may not necessarily be a deliberate omission, Master. It may be something the woman doesn’t know herself.” Deimo raised his head and met Khamasur’s eyes, face impassive. ‘Gods bless, steer him away from her, make him think it through!’ He could no more stop Khamasur in his wrath than a karoukha, but sometimes a diversion… “If she only has limited access to his business affairs, then there will be aspects that are not available to her—and thus not to you.” Once again, the half shrug. “Perhaps the question should not be, ‘What is she doing,’ but ‘What is he?’”

Khamasur stopped pacing, arrested, his agile mind racing. Deimo waited; passive, calm. Abruptly, Khamasur swept into motion, going back to his desk and seating himself. “You may be right,” he said, and Deimo drew a cautious breath. Khamasur’s words were cool and precise once more, his movements smooth and controlled. “A different perspective is always valuable. I may have been looking at it too closely; I shall have to look at all the Black Dog’s actions, not only those she’s told me of.” His voice went pensive as he bent his head and scribbled notes on his com. “See if something suggests itself…” He flicked his fingers, not looking up, and Deimo bowed and left the atrium.

* * *

Deimo felt a shiver deep inside as he again took up his post in the side hall. His Master was back on balance, calm and thinking again, but for how long? Such respites were often chancy at best. And who knew where he would take the suggestion Deimo had offered?

It came back to the woman, Ari Dillon. The offer his Master had made her a day ago—that was a shock. What had he intended? An alliance, a liaison, even a marriage? How could he think she would accept such a thing, after what had gone before?

If his Master thought it was a way to control her, he had no idea what he was doing. Deimo took a breath; blew it out. There was a truth. His Master was desperate to control her, to—to have her—and he was going about it all wrong. She would never be his. Never.

The woman was stronger than Khamasur knew; if nothing else, the fact that she kept coming back should have told him that. To deliberately choose to come back to his hands, to the abuse and the degradation he put her through, to protect a child not even of her House? That spoke a strength of will and purpose the equal of his Master’s—something Khamasur might possibly recognize in another, but would never understand.

Deimo shook his head, thinking. He had to admire the woman’s strength—her will, her character, and yes, physically as well. His Master was wrong about her, though. The scars he’d seen on her body were not from fights; no fight put such regular scars on someone’s arms. They were not defensive scars, either; those were deliberately inflicted. Someone had held her arms, and cut, and cut, and cut. Nor had she flinched or pulled away—the scars were not ragged or tailed off; they were drawcuts, equally deep and evenly spaced. The other scars, as well. Bite marks, burns… all deliberate. No, those were not from fights, they were torture. Someone had held her, done those things to her, where she could not fight back.

Once again, Deimo shook his head, lips pressed thin. Almost he asked himself what kind of person could do such a thing—but he already knew the answer. Knew it, because he lived with it every day of his life…

The last scar he recognized as well; a surgical scar on her abdomen, straight and deliberate, bracketed on either side with small scars from sutures. That was where she had been neutered. He wondered if that had come before or after the others, but he’d wager it was after. What had she been through? Another wager—that whatever it was, it was that which had given her the strength to endure all this.

To what end, though?

The question his Master had posed was key—what was she doing? Not for the first time, Deimo considered this. It was more than just to protect the girl, Shanyse; of that he was certain. But what other goal motivated her, he hadn’t a clue. There was something about her, though. Something that crawled under the skin and gripped hard, something that made him want to—what? To help? To protect her? To fight for her? He had too much to protect already, and even if he dared, what could he do?

She’d gotten under the Master’s skin in a big way as well; he would never let her go. Whatever scheme he was pursuing now, he wouldn’t turn her loose when it was over, that was not in the stars. He would make use of her until he had what he wanted, and when her usefulness was at an end he would break her, body, mind, and spirit, until she was no use to anyone, not even herself.

He had seen it before. Watched it happen just as helplessly then as now, and he felt something inside him die just a little more each time he had to bring her back.

The stylus in his hand snapped with the sound of dry bones breaking, and he stared down at the pieces with hopeless eyes.

* * *

The White Madness

This was posted over on my other site in March of last year. I hadn’t really set this one up then, but it had to go somewhere.

This is in answer to  flash challenge from a really cool guy, Chuck Wendig. You should go see his blog at terribleminds.com. I do warn you, though, he is definitely NSFW. And so is this challenge. It’s in response to a new app called Clean Reader. I won’t go into it here – check out Chuck’s blog entry titled “Fuck You, Clean Reader: Authorial Consent Matters.” The link is just below. ‘Nuff said.

The challenge is this, and I quote: “So, given all the hullaballoo with Clean Reader (“read books, not profanity”) this week, I thought a flash fiction challenge in pure defiance had some meaning. Thus: I want you to be inspired by that debacle. I want you to write filthily. Or write about filth. Sex, profanity, perversion. Fiction or meta-fiction. Any genre.”

My entry is a cut from my current WIP (Work In Progress). It’s current time, but set on another world. Sometime soon I’ll fill you all in on that. Just now, though, here’s the excerpt. It’s about people who’ve broken the rules, and those who have to deal with the aftermath. It runs somewhat over the 2000 words Chuck asked for, but hey, breaking rules, yeh? Only one cuss word. Said innocently, too. It’s the rest that hurts…

* * *

It was one of the times Deimo most feared; what he called the white madness, when his Master’s eyes were pale as ice and there was nothing human inside. A time when there was nothing Deimo could do to prevent or protect, but only stand and listen, sick and shaking and grieving inside but ultimately and utterly—helpless.

Sometimes, if he was there and could recognize the signs soon enough, he could head off the rage. Could dull its edge by offering his own body for the beating, let his Master spend the madness in the ring by putting up a real fight. Save a life by hazarding his own, where he at least had a chance to survive by his own skills.

But other times…

It had happened before. He had tried, gods knew, he had tried to save the girl, to put himself in between her and his Master, to no avail. She was already dying, and it was weeks before all his own injuries healed.

The worst of it was that his Master remembered what happened. Oh, not what he had done to the girl, no. But that Deimo had tried to prevent him—that, he remembered. The next day Khamasur had called him to the atrium and struck him down with one savage blow that left him dazed and bleeding on the floor, and stood over him with glittering eyes. And told him what would happen to his family if ever again Deimo stood between him and his intent.

Now it was happening again. Deimo had been out of the House, gone to the Citadel to meet with the Security Chiefs of the other Houses for a conference. When he returned, the watch commander told him that the Master was in such a rage as he had never seen, and when Deimo went to the atrium he found the man who had stood guard in his place sick and shaking and cowering in the hall.

What he found in the atrium was pure horror.

Deimo had the halls cleared from the atrium to the Master’s chambers, and threatened dire consequence if anyone so much as stepped into the short hall before he gave permission. He ordered the guard away from the Master’s suite, so no-one would see him covered in blood. Then he took charge of Khamasur, walking slowly with him all the long way through the House as he staggered like a drunkard from the exhaustion of his fit.

In Khamasur’s chambers Deimo stripped off his Master’s bloody clothes, drew a bath and bathed him, and put him to bed. He cleaned up the room and disposed of the bloody robes, then went back down to the atrium.

What Khamasur had done to the girl was brutal. Her body looked as though it had been savaged by animals: beaten and broken, the flesh torn and bloody. He stripped off what remained of her clothes and washed the blood from her body, then wrapped her in a sheet. Then he cleaned the atrium, washing down the tiles and columns until they were once again pristine white.

When he was done he took the body out of the House, carrying the dead girl in his arms and laying her gently across the seat of the car. He drove through the deserted streets down to the Agora and laid her in the shadows on the path nearest the House of Apollo Akestor, where she was sure to be found by the guards of the City Watch. Then he drove back to his House, sick and sad and weary.

But the worst was still to come.

The last time a madness like this had come on him, Khamasur had slept through the night and far into the next day. This time he woke again, not long after Deimo had left the House on his sad errand. Khamasur’s appetites had woken with him, and, finding no guard at his door, he commed his Governor, Panourgo. The Governor sent his runner, Oso, for wine and a tray of meats and cheeses, while he himself went to the women’s dorm. He woke the hall, chose a woman, and brought her to Khamasur, ignoring her protests and her weeping.

When Deimo returned the Watch commander met him at the door, telling him what the door guard had heard when he took over at shift change.

Deimo ran.

He found the door guard waiting in the hall, as far away from the Master’s door as he could get and still stand his post. Deimo took his report, then sent the guard away, telling the man that he himself would look in on the Master and stand guard until the next shift change.

And then he went inside.

It was a scene of carnage. Blood was everywhere: on the floor, on the walls and pillars, on the hangings. Khamasur lay naked in the middle of the room in a welter of gore, and Deimo went to him first. For all the blood on his body, only a small amount of it was his; cuts and abrasions on his hands from the blows he had given, and a long shallow cut on his arm that looked as if it came from a knife.

Deimo heard a soft sound, and looking up he saw the runner boy, Oso, on the balcony, cowering hard against the balustrade. He was shivering in shock, staring with his gaze fixed on Khamasur.

Deimo rose and came forward, then stepped between the boy and his Master to block his view, crouching down a few feet away. The boy was spattered with blood; on his clothes, on his face, and in his pale hair. “Oso,” Deimo said softly. “Oso.” He reached out his hand and the boy cringed, but his eyes lost the fixed stare and tracked to Deimo. “Oso, are you alright? Are you hurt?” Deimo kept his voice soft, soothing. The boy shook his head.

He looked back at the boy, and gestured back to the horrific scene. “Did you see what happened here?” Oso nodded. Very gently Deimo asked him, “Can you tell me?” The boy nodded again, and Deimo shifted, settled down on one knee.

“Master called Panourgo,” the boy said, his voice faint but clear. “Master wanted a girl, wanted wine, and meat, and cheese. Panourgo sent me to fetch wine, and meat, and cheese for Master, told me to bring it here. I brought it here.”

Deimo nodded encouragement, reassuring the boy that he understood. It would take time to get the full story, he knew; the boy had to tell it in his own way, and with the life he had to live and the horror of what he had seen tonight… It would take time.

“Master took the wine, Master didn’t want the meat and cheese. He wanted the girl. Wanted her to drink wine with him. The girl was afraid of Master. She didn’t want wine. She wanted to go, go back to her room, go back to bed. Master hit the girl, hit her. The girl fell down, and Master fucked the girl, hard, hard.” Deimo winced at how casually the boy said it, knowing it was the only word he knew for the act. For what had so often been done to him. Gods, the life he led in this House… “She cried. She cried, and she screamed, and Master hit her.

“Master wanted more wine. He got up and put more wine in his cup and drank it. The girl got up, too. She wanted cheese and meat. She went to the plate with the cheese and meat, and she took the knife to cut the cheese and meat. But then she ran, she ran to Master and cut him with the knife. Master threw away the cup with the wine. He took the knife from the girl and hit her with the knife. Hit her. Hit her. Hit her…” The boy’s voice trailed off, and he looked again at Khamasur on the floor. “There was blood when he hit her. When he hit her with the knife. She screamed when he hit her with the knife, and then she didn’t scream any more. She fell down. Master kept hitting her with the knife.” The boy stopped, and just crouched there, shivering.

Deimo looked around the room, looking for the body that was the source of all the blood, but saw nothing, no-one. He looked back at the boy. “Oso,” he asked, gesturing around them again. “Where is she?”

The boy shifted his gaze back to Deimo, staring at him with stricken eyes. Slowly, very slowly, the boy turned his head to look over his shoulder—through the balusters at his back, out to the sea.

Gods bless…” Deimo breathed. Very slowly he stood, trying not to frighten the boy any further. He moved away and went to the railing a few feet from the boy, looked over and down. There on the rocks, hundreds of feet below, he could see the body. Broken and still, white robes swirling on the incoming tide.

The boy spoke again; still quiet, still matter-of-fact. “Master got up, and he looked at her. He looked at her a long time. Then he hit her with his foot, and he looked at her again. Then he bent down, and he picked up the girl, and he carried her here where we watch the sun. He held her up, made her be standing here. And then he made her fly. She flew. She had white wings, and she flew down, down, down to the sea.” There was something strange in his voice when he said it, almost a yearning.

Deimo stared down at the girl’s body, and his heart ached in his chest. There was no way to get down there, no way to reach her. But the tide would take her, and the sea would give her peace.

He turned to the boy. “Oso, will you do something for me? For me, and for the Master?” The boy nodded. “Go into the bathing room and draw a bath. You can wash yourself, too. Here,” he said. He took off the dark gray tunic of his uniform, then took off the soft linen one he wore underneath. “If you give me your tunic when you take it off, I will have it cleaned and give it back to you. You can wear this one to go home.” He shrugged. “It’s big, but it’s clean.” He started to reach out to hand it to Oso, but the boy cringed back, so he folded it instead and set it aside where the boy could get it. Then he backed away.

He left the suite of rooms and went down the hall; found the cleaning supplies and brought them back with him. The boy was gone and so was the tunic, but he could hear water running in the bathing room. He settled down to cleaning the room, but when the boy came back out Deimo went and picked Khamasur up in his arms. He carried his Master into the bathing room and washed him clean once more, dried him off, and put him to bed again.

When he came back out, the boy was gone.

Deimo pulled out his com and called Altheo, the House Physician, and told him to come up to Khamasur’s rooms—and told him to bring a galánas device. There was a moment of silence, and then the Physician said one word. “Bad?” he asked.

“The worst.” Deimo’s voice was tight and hard, the words almost choking him.

“I’ll be there.”

Deimo put the com away and kept washing.

* * *

He was still cleaning when Altheo arrived. He let the Physician in and stood aside, and Altheo stopped dead in the hall, staring around him. “What happened here?” he asked, appalled.

“Khamasur,” Deimo answered, curt and succinct. “Two women are dead. One down in the atrium, one here.” He didn’t look at Altheo when he said it; couldn’t look him in the eyes. “I took the one down to the Agora. Just like last time.” His words were bitter. “At least she’ll get a decent burial.” He knelt down, went back to scrubbing the floor.

“And the other?” Altheo’s voice was faint. Deimo gestured to the balcony.

Altheo went to the rail, looked over. “Great Kheiron’s bow…” When he turned back, his face was sick. “And Khamasur?”

Deimo gestured to the bedroom. “Sleeping it off.”

“Is he hurt?”

“Abrasions on his hands, and a scratch from a knife.” He looked up at the Physician, his face gone suddenly bitter. “If you could put him out for—” He cut himself off sharply, but both of them knew the word he hadn’t said. Forever… “For the night. Until tomorrow. Until night.”

Altheo nodded. “Give us all some time to breathe.” He headed off to the bedroom.

Deimo looked up again. “Altheo—” The Physician looked back at him. “Oso was here, the whole time. He saw it all.”

“Oh, gods…” Altheo stood there for a moment, then shook his head and continued on. He came out a few minutes later, putting the galánas device back in its case. He watched Deimo for a few moments. “Deimo, are you—?”

“Fine.” The word was more a grunt than anything.

“Deimo.”

I said I’m fine.” It hung there between them for a long moment. “I’m sorry, Altheo. But what do you want me to say? That I’m appalled? I am. That I’m angry? I am. That I’m hurting, that I’m devastated about both those girls, that I wish we could just…” He cut off his words, sat back on his heels and looked up at the other man. “I’m all those things and a hundred more, and what good does it do to say them?” He took a breath that was half a sob and threw down the rag he’d been using. “What good does any of it do? We’re here. We can’t leave, we have too many ties and too many responsibilities, and just like that poor boy Oso we’ll be here until we’re broken or we die, and there’s nothing we can do about it. Nothing, until we die, or he dies, or the world ends.” He looked away, picked up the rag, and started scrubbing again.

“This has to stop.”

“Let me know when you find a way,” Deimo said bitterly. “Until then there’s no use talking.”

“This has to stop. You can’t keep doing this.”

Deimo surged to his feet, and the Physician backed away hurriedly. “Then who, Altheo?” His words were savage, bitten off with an anger that had no recourse. “Should I have told Oso to do it? He would have, you know. He does what he’s told, it’s the only way he can be safe. It’s the only part of his life he can control. And we’re just like him, you know that, don’t you? It’s the only way we can survive here, keeping our heads down and doing what we’re told. The only way we can be safe. Except we can’t. Because there’s that…” He swung his arm, indicating the room around them, the bedroom beyond, and the balcony where a young girl’s life ended and he didn’t even know who she was. He wouldn’t know, until someone in the House reported her missing, and then what did he tell her family? His face shivered; too many emotions to show clearly, and then it went to stone. Cold. Hard. Expressionless. “Go back to your rooms, Altheo. You’ve done what you came to do. I have to finish.”

Altheo nodded, acknowledging what Deimo had said, and what he couldn’t say. He looked around again, then walked away. But he laid a hand on Deimo’s shoulder as he passed, silent commiseration. And then Deimo was alone.

* * *