Microsoft Word - FortunesFool.rtf (30 page)

The other woman held her gaze a long three seconds. Then she

blinked. "Wait here." She crossed the room and disappeared through a door behind the stage, leaving Leah to check out the club.

Nice digs. Not as fancy as the brothel in San Francisco, but the

Madre Donnatella apparently was no longer billing herself as the

premiere Madam for the S-and-M set. She was a respectable club owner

now, from everything Leah had been able to dig up in the five hours she

spent preparing.

The door behind the stage opened, and the blonde reappeared. "The

Madre will see you now," she said, her tone ungracious in the extreme.

Leah had to bite her lip to keep from smiling as she followed the other

woman down a long spiral staircase made of heavy wrought iron and

then about halfway along a shadowed corridor, where they stopped

before a wooden door. Leah looked further down the hallway. There was

another door, there, in the recessed area at the very end. Marcus was

behind it. She was almost sure.

The blonde knocked on the door. Leah heard the Madre's voice call

out permission to enter and tried to control her instinctive recoil from the sound.

A moment later, she found herself standing before the woman who'd

come to represent everything corrupt in her mind. The Madre Donnatella

sat behind a huge, black-lacquered desk, her small white hands steepled

before her. She was dressed in a billowing gown of rusty-red, just as

Leah recalled from a decade ago. A computer monitor and keyboard

rested to her right. A kitten—perhaps ten weeks old, perfectly white,

with wide blue eyes—lay curled on the desktop to her left. The room

around her was sparsely furnished, save for a gurgling fountain in the

corner carved from black stone in some odd, complex shape that made

Leah stare until the contorted angles and planes resolved themselves into three human bodies, twisted together in an agonized knot of torn flesh

and broken bone. She closed her eyes and turned her face away.

She waited for the Madre to speak. She waited...and

waited...knowing to a certainty that the older woman could see nothing

through her blank, white-filmed eyes, and still wondering what she

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perceived as she appeared to gaze at her. The seconds stretched into a

full minute. Leah's breathing became shallow. Rapid. She hated herself

for it, knowing this silent intimidation was only part of the game.

Finally, at the moment when she thought she would either scream or

turn tail and run from the room, Donnatella spoke.

"The little sparrow returns to the nest," she said. And that was all.

Leah swallowed with difficulty. "Yes, Madre. I've returned to you."

She could feel the blonde barmaid's eyes on her back from across the

room. She straightened her shoulders. "I've come to ask your forgiveness, and to plead for the chance to make amends. And to receive whatever

punishment you see fit, of course." It took some effort to force that last statement past her lips. She remembered punishment. What it meant,

even for the willing. Remembered far too well.

The Madre smiled. Once, long ago, Leah had found that same smile

charming. Beautiful, even. Then, it had represented safety. Acceptance.

Understanding, and lack of judgment.

Now she saw it for what it was—a Death's Head grin. And she

knew, without a doubt, that she'd stepped once again into the presence of evil.

* * * *

little strength he had left, and pulled against the chains for all he was worth. Not because he thought they'd break or yank loose from the wall,

because he knew better. But what the hell else was he going to do? Kneel there, on legs that had long since gone completely numb, and wait for

those lunatic females to come back and kill him?

Frustration burned him to the bone. A well-trained officer of the law

with fifteen years on the force, and this was how he was going out?

Chained to a wall by a bunch of crazy women? And maybe that wasn't

the most enlightened way to look at it, but fuck enlightenment. He'd

work on his sexism issues after he busted out of this loony bin and saw

every one of these nutzoid bitches locked up.

He stopped pulling on the chains when he found himself panting

from the useless exertion. No point in using up all his resources on

something so hopeless. What he needed to do was think.

What time is it? His internal clock was screwed to hell, but he knew

it was Saturday. At least, he thought he knew. Fuck, how he hated this

waiting game. He needed to focus. Come up with a plan. He closed his

eyes and concentrated on slowing his breathing...

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...and heard voices approaching. Here they come. Round four, or

was it five? He let himself go limp and listened as the door opened

and...yes, that was the Madre Donnatella, and Shannon the barmaid. Who

was the third? He waited to hear her speak.

"Shannon, please introduce Leah to our guest," the Madre said.

Leah? Shit.

Then Shannon's fingers were in his hair, yanking his head

backward. He opened his eyes and saw the hostile sneer on the blonde's

face. "Detective Marcus Colton, the weekend entertainment."

He looked past Shannon to where the other women stood. Yes, right

there next to Donnatella—the woman from before. Except instead of

short white nightshirt, she wore a black tube-top, a red leather skirt and stupidly high heels. Her light brown hair was pulled back in a loose bun, and her face was painted in lurid colors.

She didn't meet his gaze.

What the fuck?

He watched as the Madre curled one hand around Leah's arm, just

above the elbow. "Detective Colton," she said, "this is our little sparrow, who has returned to the nest to ask our forgiveness, and do penance for

her sins from long ago. She is lovely,
sí
?"

How was he supposed to respond to this? What the hell was going

on? If Donnatella was willing to tell Leah his name, then she couldn't be planning on letting her go.

The Madre kept on talking. "Leah tells us her life is a misery,

Detective. She tells us she wishes only to return to our service. To please herself by pleasing us.
Sí, cara
? Is that not so?"

Leah stared at the floor. "Yes, Madre."

"But we are not so trusting as once we were. We must challenge our

sparrow. We must test her loyalty." She gave Leah a shove in Marcus's direction. "Leah, someone ruined our play last night by interfering with our guest. He was worthless to us."

Leah stumbled forward toward where Marcus kneeled. As she

righted herself, she peered at him for the first time from the very corner of her eye. In her face, he saw...what? Fear? Guilt? Shame?

He looked away.

She turned to face Donnatella and said, "Who would do such a

thing? Your pleasure is our pleasure, always."

Her voice sounded different. The way she framed her words—it was

formal. Stilted. It reminded him of something...some other time he'd

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heard her speak that way. The only other time—when she'd told him the

story about the prisoner and the concubine.

A jolt of recognition shot through him. Of course—this was all an

act. What she was doing now, pretending to fall in with the Madre's

plans? A charade, a sham. She was here to help him, the little idiot. She'd walked right back into the lioness' den. For him.

Why did that make him so fucking enraged? Was it worse to be

caught and held captive by a woman, or to be saved by one? Maybe...just

maybe...he needed to tell his hypersensitive male ego to take a fucking

hike.

"
Bene, cara
. We're so glad to hear you say that, but still you must prove it. You must show perfect submission...perfect,
bellissimo

submission." The Madre snapped her fingers, and Leah jumped as if

startled. Then she lowered her head and stared at the floor. When she

moved to kneel at the Madre's feet, it was with the practiced grace of

much repetition. The older woman reached down and stroked her hair, as

she might a cat's fur. Marcus tried not to stare, afraid to give away

anything in his expression.

Donnatella inclined her head toward the barmaid. "Shannon, please

summon Yugiya."

Who the fuck was Yugiya? How many nutcases were in this joint,

anyway?

Shannon left the room for maybe thirty seconds. When she returned,

she was accompanied by a short but well-muscled young woman with

black hair and blacker eyes, dressed in the Hotel California employee

uniform of a black Latex cat-suit. In her right hand she held...Christ, was that a katana? It had to be. The slender, curved blade was hard to

mistake. The young woman struck a pose of subservience, holding the

weapon before her as if presenting it for a blessing.

The Madre, who'd been standing near the fireplace, smiled in her

general direction. "Yugiya, so good of you to join us on your day off,
cara
."

Yugiya nodded, lifted the katana over her head and spun in a

graceful circle, cleaving the thick, stale air in an intricate set of

movements. Obviously some sort of martial art. Marcus appreciated the

competent wielding of nice weaponry. Under other circumstances he

might've liked the beauty in it, but all he could see in his mind's eye was his own blood and Leah's dripping off the blade.

Shannon asked, "Should I release him now, Madre?" and gestured in 200

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his direction. He stared at the blonde, not believing he'd heard her right.

They were letting him go?

"
Sí, cara
, you may free him," the Madre replied. Then she turned her attention to Marcus, facing him with dead eyes that seemed to see

right through him all the same. "Do you observe Yugiya and her lethal friend, Detective?" she asked. "I would consider most carefully before making any foolish choices, if I were you. One wrong move and she'll

take a limb, or perhaps some other part you may not care to live

without."

"You're going to kill me anyway." The first words he'd offered in many hours. His voice sounded disgustingly weak in his own ears. He

watched Shannon remove a key from a chain around her neck and move

toward him, hating himself for flinching as she bent over him and

reached for his wrist.

The Madre Donnatella shrugged, as if this were a foregone

conclusion. "Then perhaps I'll choose to punish our little sparrow in your stead,
sí
? Yugiya could hack her to bits in the blink of an eye. I feel sure you wouldn't want that, honorable man that you are."

Leah looked at him, just a quick flick of a glance, but he saw the

warning in her eyes. Still, he couldn't quite manage to contain the single syllable that did a swan dive off his tongue...

"Cunt."

Shannon punched him hard in the gut. "We don't speak that way to

the Madre," she said from between clenched jaws. As he struggled to suck in air, doubled over and grunting, she unlocked the second shackle.

Then she grabbed him beneath his arms and hauled him to his feet. The

bitch was strong. Even when he slumped against her, unable to support

himself on his numb legs, she held him upright. And all the while, Leah

remained kneeling at the Madre's feet, staring at the floor.

Pins and needles began to crawl down his legs and his arms as the

blood flow returned full force. Uncomfortable, but he was glad enough to have use of his limbs.

"Can he perform, Shannon?" The Madre asked.

The barmaid groped his dick, yanking on it with no finesse. "I think he needs more time, Madre."

"Shall we inject him again,
cara
? That would be entertaining, no?"

"It's not been twenty-four hours yet, Madre. Some of the drug may

still be in his system. We could lose him."

"That would be a shame. I believe we can use him further—perhaps

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two more days, if we are cautious,
sí
? He is so strong. So stubborn."

Donnatella pressed a finger to her pointed chin, appearing to consider her options. "Tell me, Shannon, when Clarice approached him at the bar, how did she lure him? What did she promise him?"

"She asked him if he was into bondage games and spanking."

"And did the good Detective seem to respond to her suggestions?"

Shannon gave him a shove. He stumbled against the wall, scraping

his back. "He did, Madre."

"
Molto bene
. I believe I know how we shall proceed," said the Madre, her face beaming, her blank eyes darting around the room.

"Prepare the tall bench, Shannon, and then make our little sparrow ready for her test."

Marcus watched as Shannon strode over to the corner and struggled

to drag a large, obviously heavy piece of furniture to the center of the room. It appeared to be a tall, padded bench that looked like a pommel

horse minus the handles. Leather restraints hung open at the bottom of

each of its legs. He glanced at Leah, who never looked up from the floor.

He could see the rising color in her face.

Finally, the bench positioned to her liking, Shannon turned to Leah.

"Strip. Now. But keep the shoes." There was a cruel twist to her smile when she glanced at Leah's pumps. "They amuse me."