The Black Prince: Part I (43 page)

“They’re human skin.”

Bonel dropped the glove, almost into his food.

“I had them made for me. They once belonged to a man who harmed children.”

“I…oh.”

“But you’d never do that, Oliver, would you.”

Bonel shook his head. “No. Of course not.”

“You don’t like children. You like women.”

“Yes!”

“In fact, I hear you’re quite the ladies’ man.”

Bonel, believing that they’d returned to safer territory, grinned. He hadn’t, apparently, thought too much of Hart’s digression. Everyone knew that the Viper was crazy.

“I suppose,” he allowed, with false modesty.

Arvid was following the conversation with interest.

“And that, even more, you’re whom to speak with if a man wants to find virgins.”

Bonel brightened further.

“Tell me,” Hart invited.

“If you haven’t…you need to.” Bonel chewed, and swallowed, and drank more ale. “That’s all I can really tell you. The power.” He sighed. “Of course, it’s hard to find a real virgin. Too many of these places try all sorts of tricks, to pass a girl off as one. Or to sell her purity more than once. Disgusting.”

Yes, indeed. But unlike lusting for children, lusting for virgins was something their culture accepted; even promoted. The collective imagination filled, as it was, with dreams of princes and princesses and long-awaited weddings. Along with the idea, so popular in the South, that a woman’s value lay between her legs. Did Prince Charming fight the dragon to prove himself worthy of his bride’s heart, or her cunt?

“And after?”

Bonel shrugged. “Who cares.”

“Tell me about some of your exploits.”

Bonel must have thought he’d been transported to the halls of the Gods. More food, more ale, a willing audience for as long as he willed it. Hart felt his stomach turn as he was treated to tale after tale of exploitation and degradation and all of it—if not moral, then not illegal. Bonel was smart. He didn’t prey on girls whose families would cause a fuss. Either because their families didn’t care or because they weren’t around.

Hart knew, better than anyone, that the world was a hard place.

“I hear that there was one girl in particular, a year or two ago…blonde hair? Blue eyes? Thin, quite childlike in appearance?”

“Ah. So that’s what you like.” Bonel finished his ale. He’d had several tankards, but showed no real sign of inebriation. “If I know the one, she’s owned by Marcus. Up at The Hobgoblin. Small breasts, but firm. Nice nipples. No ass. Oh, did I have to save for her.” His eyes came back into focus. “But you must know the place. That’s more your group.”

Hart waited.

“She’s not a maiden anymore, regardless. And it wasn’t two years ago, it was three.”

Hart kept his face a perfect mask. “Oh?”

“Trust me. I still remember every detail. Just what I always thought fucking a nobleman’s daughter would be like. They’re all thin, you know. Thin and pale and afraid of sex. And they all think poking it in means you’re going to marry them.”

He’d evidently forgotten that Hart’s sister was a nobleman’s daughter.

But Hart gave no response to the insult, to his sister and his class.

Bonel was talking.

“Her name was Lissa. Is, I suppose. She’s not dead. At least, not that I know of.” He laughed. “You know, like the flower. Claimed she was from the mountains, but I didn’t believe her. They all claim something of the like. But can you believe this? She begged me to take her with me. Told me she wanted to be a good girl.” He laughed again. “How ridiculous. All girls are whores, you just need to show it to them.”

Hart’s tone was pleasant. Almost warm. “I have a story to tell you of her.”

“Oh?” Bonel seemed genuinely interested.

“She remained at that inn. Until, one night, she met a soldier and pleased him.”

Bonel waited. He seemed to have no idea where this tale might be headed. He’d finished his ale and soon would start looking around for more. Or for the garderobes; where was he storing it all?

Hart had, honestly, thought that Bonel would have made the connection far before this. But he had the sinking sensation that he could sit here, stringing the man along, until the Gods returned to earth for the final battle and Bonel would ever be none the wiser. But Hart, unlike Bonel, had places to be. “That soldier is me.”

Finally.

“That girl is now a beautiful woman. Intelligent and articulate. She is also now my mistress, and enjoys my complete and undying devotion. I intend for her to bear my children. She would be my wife,” Hart continued, “except for the regrettable difference in our social classes.” Let Bonel remember that Hart was a nobleman, now. “And it is on her behalf that I sit here, before you, at this table.”

Bonel blanched.

“She, of course, is far too kind and decent to ask that you be held accountable for your crimes against her.” He raised his hand, only slightly. It was enough. “And they were crimes. Stealing a young girl’s innocence is the worst crime. Innocence is precious. I should know.” His lips curved into the barest smile, an expression that didn’t reach his eyes. Eyes, which remained as clear and cold as ice. “I have none.”

Bonel opened his mouth, and then shut it.

“Even though I have the duke’s ear, and Lissa in turn has mine. She hasn’t said a word against you. Indeed, she even speaks well of you. Praising you for not hurting her more.” He placed just a hint of emphasis on the last word. Hart’s methods were those of restraint. “She blames herself for hoping.”

“I—I never—”

“I can only blame her inexperience with men, that she mistook you for one.”

“But—”

“An inexperience she retains still.” To her everlasting credit. She might not be pure, at least in the sense of how men like Bonel understood the term, but she was still innocent. She’d mistaken Hart for a man, too. She was a flower in a dung heap, creating beauty from the worst of surroundings.

Bonel tried to stand up. Arvid’s hand came down on his shoulder. Bonel seemed to have forgotten that the tribesman was there, and he gasped. Arvid hadn’t spoken in some time; he’d been listening, and learning. Hart trusted that he understood, now, what their errand was about.

Indeed, there was a certain enthusiasm in his expression.

Bonel squeaked.

Hart stood. “Bring him.”

He walked across the common room, still unpopulated, toward the bar. Where, as he suspected, the door to the right of the barrels opened up onto a storage room. Built from the same stone as the rest of the inn. Not a lean-to. Meant to withstand burglars, and with only the one entrance. It would do.

He turned to the barmaid, who’d given up any pretense of not watching. She was staring, now, and looked as frightened as Bonel. “I’m going to borrow the use of your storage room,” he told her politely. “But only for about an hour. Nothing will be disturbed.”

She nodded.

“Do not open this door. Do not allow it to be opened. Unless you wish to join in. Do you understand?”

“I’ll close the inn,” she said, and rushed to shut and bar the main door.

Hart nodded at Arvid.

Arvid maneuvered Bonel inside. He did so easily, despite the other man’s frantic struggles. As though he weighed no more than a child.

“Now.” Hart pretended to consider. “What to do with you.”

“Please! Don’t do anything! Please, just let me go.”

There were hooks in the ceiling, meant to hold slabs of meat. And indeed there were some, lined up along the far wall. Mostly parts of various pigs. But, fortuitously, this being early spring and the inn’s stores depleted, the greater part of the hooks were empty.

“Brother, have you rope?” Of course he did and, even if he didn’t, they were in a storeroom.

“Yes, brother.”

“Tie his hands to that hook.” Hart pointed. “Leave him enough slack to stand.”

As Arvid did so, Bonel began to yell for help. A little late, in Hart’s opinion. Hart, meanwhile, surveyed the room. There wasn’t much light, just from a series of small grated windows near the ceiling that were meant to let air circulate. Which was fine. Hart was used to working in near darkness. Dungeons were not, after all, exactly famed for their sunlit expanses.

He removed his vest, and laid it with his cloak and his gloves. Neatly, and out of the way. Straightening, he walked over to his victim. Slowly. As though they had all the time in the world.

“Do you know why I don’t wear gloves, to work? Most torturers do.”

The unfortunate man shook his head.

In a flash, Hart’s knife was free from his waistband and the man’s shirt lay in tatters on the floor. The knife vanished just as quickly. Hart trailed fingertips down the newly exposed flesh. Delicately. Almost lovingly.

“I like to feel the skin of my victims.”

His fingertips trailed lower.

“The cold. The clamminess. Like a corpse’s skin, fear is so powerful. And then the heat of the blood, in contrast. How the blood cools, over time.”

If the man hadn’t pissed himself yet, he would soon.

He’d begun to make a strange keening noise, deep in the back of his throat.

“What?” Hart’s fingers stopped. “So frightened, so soon? And we’ve only just begun.”

“There was a man before Borghild, too,” Arvid offered. He was lounging against a barrel. “I ate his liver.”

Hart turned. “Was it good?”

Arvid shrugged.

Hart turned and, like the viper he was known for, struck before his victim could blink. A punishing punch to the gut. And another. And another. And ah, there it was. The bloom of urine in the damp air. His favorite devices might be unavailable to him, including various specially designed blades and his favorite set of branding irons, but no matter. The truest, the deadliest powers were the ones one carried within: imagination and, above all, will. Fear was fear and pain was pain.

He felt his knuckles split skin.

“Tell me.” The words were insidious, soft. They hung in the air, a lover’s invitation.

“Please…please stop.” The man was gasping for breath.

“No,” Hart corrected him. “Tell me how much you love it.”

He removed his belt. The hard leather would make easy work of skin already primed. Welts and bruises covered his victim’s body.
Crack
. A drop of blood landed on Hart’s cheek, near the corner of his mouth. With a delicate movement, he removed it. And licked it from his fingertip, all the while holding the other man’s gaze.

“Brother?” Arvid asked.

“He tastes like filth.”

Hart still hadn’t raised his voice. He seldom did. He didn’t have to.

The belt cracked again. And again. “Not all men need fear me. Nor women.”

And again.

And again.

“Those who keep their covenants, and live in quiet alongside their neighbors.”

And again.

“Because, you see, like my namesake, I prefer to hunt in my own domain.” And again. “Don’t all predators have their chosen hunting grounds? Their chosen prey?”

“Indeed they do,” Arvid agreed. “The wolf hunts along the stream bed, not in the open plain.”

And again.

“Please,” his victim begged. “Please stop.”

“Tell me you love it, and I will.” Hart paused. “But there’s one caveat: you have to convince me.”

And again.

“Please—”

And again.

“I—”

And again.

“I love it!”

And again.

“I love it!”

And again.

“Do it harder! Beat me! Harder! Harder! Please, for the love of the Gods, beat me!”

Hart exchanged a glance with Arvid.

“Cut him down. But first, cut his breeches off.”

As Bonel fell forward, screaming from the sudden pain in his arms, Hart grabbed him and threw him over the top of the barrel. Arvid took his place at Bonel’s head, holding him, his fingers digging into Bonel’s open wounds. Hart, walking around him, kicked his feet wide. He tossed his belt aside and unlaced his own breeches.

Bonel was fat, but the twin globes of his ass parted easily enough. And Hart was already rock hard. With a single thrust, he forced himself inside. Past the ring of muscle at the entrance and deep that most secret canal. Further and further, until Bonel was forced, in his prone position, to take Hart up to the hilt and feel the weight of his balls as they rested against the stretched, unwilling flesh.

Bonel’s yells became screams, high pitched and inhuman.

It was the accomplishment, he thought, that aroused him. Of achieving ultimate control. There was nothing more dominant than taking a person—male or female—in this fashion.

With Lissa, with others, the need was driven by lust.

Here, there was none. Only something much darker. He felt everything and, yet, he felt nothing.

“How does it feel,” he asked. “Your first time?”

But Bonel couldn’t answer.

Hart thrust, and thrust again, eventually spending his seed deep inside the other man.

And then, bored, he broke his neck.

T
he earl had asked to see him, which Tristan thought odd.

Peregrine Cavendish, the 12
^th
Earl of Enzie, was on his deathbed. A fact that the old man had only recently seemed to acknowledge. Before, part of him had been playing at being sick. Despite his exhaustion, despite his collapse. And, after, despite his near-crippling weakness and his lessened appetite. He’d held court from his bed, enjoying the torment he inflicted on his daughter. And even on the servants, who came in to wait on him. Tristan was certain that, at long last, in the earl’s mind, he was getting his proper due.