The Vixen Torn (10 page)

It filled her nostrils, and her stomach felt queasy. “Blood,”
she whispered, and it was so quiet she wasn’t even sure Loren
could hear it.

Continuing undaunted, Loren probed further into the stone
catacomb. It was big, so big that neither of them could tell at all
how much further it extended. Though still holding the lamp in one
hand, when she heard a soft groan to one side she turned the lamp in
that direction she saw something more alarming than she’d
anticipated: a lone woman, in the tattered remains of a dancer’s
outfit lay on the other side of a barred cage, blood pouring down
from her head or neck across her torso.

She was still alive, but so deathly pale and weak it was hard for
Anjasa to say if she’d have a chance at surviving if she was
freed then and there.

Anger rose in her but she forced her scream to die in her chest.
Her breath came harder and she looked around, panic making her more
alert. She would not die down here. She would not let Loren die down
here. There was a way out of this, she simply didn’t know it
yet. She refused to look at the dancer again, but her heart ached.

“Loren,” she said again. “I don’t like
this.”

Her heart stilled. There was no response.

No sound permeated the catacomb. Even the sickly dancer, on
death’s doorstep, neither moved nor groaned further.

As her panic began to rise she finally heard something, the sound
of scuffing upon the floor. It too went quiet immediately after,
though it came from deeper ahead, out of the range of her lantern.

She instinctively didn’t believe it could be the killer.
He’d never be so careless as to make a sound like that. Her
lantern lifted as she took a step forward. She could feel the prickly
heat grow under her jacket, and her hair began to stick to her
forehead.

Following after the sound all she caught was a glimpse of a booted
foot seemingly kicking out in her direction that vanished ahead. She
followed it, though just as she nearly gave up in futility she found
it: Loren’s body. Still and upon its back.

Before she could see his face, she felt something. A hand landed
upon her shoulder, obviously strong as it pulled her about to stare
at the visage of the dark, stony killer, towering over her, still and
quiet.

Her shoulders slumped. She had nothing to say, and even her
thoughts seemed to have gone quiet. All there was was a sense of
failure, of once more leading someone she liked to their doom. It was
a feeling that never grew easier to cope with.

In the dark of that catacomb he stared down at her in her misery a
while. He observed her wallowing, and it was some time before he
said, “You did well in luring him here.” The statement
simple and direct, uttered in that strangely foreign manner, so deep
and dark.

“Would you classify it as perfect?” she asked, trying
to hold back her bitterness, her angry rebellion. It was too late.

It had no observable effect upon him either way. He held her
shoulder in the same precise grip, still watched her with his deathly
gaze. “You wished that man to live, did you not?” he
asked in his exotic way. “Yet you led him here all the same.
Why is that?”

“I wish for me to live more,” she admitted. That was
what it boiled down to. She wasn’t willing to try to lead Loren
away if it meant that her life was going to be put at risk.

Was there shame in that?

Certainly the dark killer before her understood that sort of
reasoning, though he showed no sign of it. “You think
sacrificing him will help secure your life with Zarach?” he
asked in his sinister voice, his hand still holding her in place as
he studied her with unblinking eyes. “By now you’ve been
able to discern he is a fickle, cruel man.”

She laughed and gave a slight nod. “Well. I’ll cross
that bridge when I come to it.” Her eyes rose to him, narrowed
in her curiosity before she glanced away and lowered the lantern. “It
seems good enough for you.”

The silence hung between them in that dark space. He was slow
getting to his words. “You would do this thing for a slight
hope of securing your own life. What would you do for something
real?” he asked, and she felt she could see it there: some
faint flicker of change in his cold eyes. She had something he
wanted.

Anjasa was a survivor. If ever there was a word to describe her,
that was it. She’d been through the pits of hell. She’d
fucked and pleased men, demons, and worse things still. She’d
dared people to take her life and still she clung to it, after so
many years. After so many close calls, tempting death like was
something she craved.

Yet still she survived and persevered.

“What it takes,” she answered honestly. She wasn’t
above putting other people’s lives beneath her own, and
sometimes that even gave her a sadistic thrill. She’d felt
something for Loren, however fleeting, but it was mostly pity. It
wasn’t an emotion she had much time for, and already she was
finding her mourning period had begun to pass.

The dark killer nodded to her in some mild approval. “You
could hope to last with Zarach for a while, if you are as skilled and
committed as you seem to be. But he would ultimately grow bored, and
with his cruel nature your fate would be sealed.” The words
came so fluidly, so truthful in the way he said them. “He was a
great asset for me, I thought. But as his power grows, he becomes
increasingly obstinate. Ego gets in the way of reason. And when it
would come to a matter of import at which I could not suffer a
refusal, I fear he would force my hand to do him in and waste
resources rather than submit to my will over his.”

Her eyes narrowed into the dim light as she took in his words.
“Then why did you so gladly take out a threat to that power?
Without that will, at least, he would have had one less leg to stand
on.”

Even in the dim light she could see the slight betrayal of the
dark man’s humour. “Your friend is not dead,” he
said, and she knew the words to be true immediately. “He is
unconscious, but unharmed.”

Relief washed through her and she couldn’t help but smile.
“The dancer doesn’t have the same luck?”

The ominous man’s eyes moved towards where the dancer was,
even though no light reached anywhere near her form. “It is
likely too late for her,” he said before looking back to
Anjasa. “But as you can tell, Zarach is a twisted man. And
giving him more power will only lead to... complications. Yet there
needs to be someone to run the affairs of the criminal underworld,
no?”

“Of course.” She took a step away from the frightening
man, towards the woman. She’d had to sit by while others like
her had been tortured and killed, but there was still an inkling of
hope as she inspected the cage. “What did you have in mind?”
she asked the killer.

“You will go back to Zarach,” he said. Silently he had
re approached her without her noticing, standing right there
alongside the bars next to her. “You’ll pretend to know
nothing of his charnel house here. You’ll report how you
tricked him into drinking himself into passing out, then handed him
to me for disposal, which I performed before your very eyes,”
he paused, watching her keenly. “You’ll ingratiate
yourself with him, use your ways to make him comfortable. Pleased. At
ease. Then... wait.”

She took out a hair pin from somewhere between the waves of her
hair, fixing it into a lock pick. “And if he grows cold and
cruel before my wait is up?” Her elven ears perked as she
listened to the sounds of metal on metal, working the lock with
practiced ease.

“I will be there,” he said simply, as if his presence
guaranteed it all. “You need not worry for her,” he said
simply, pulling open the door as she unlocked it. “I will take
your friend and her away from here once you leave. Your friend will
take a long nap, until you are ready to return to him with a tale of
how you saved him from the catacombs and rescued the will all at
once. And as for her,” he said with a nod towards the sickly
dancer, “I will bring her to what help there is before I return
to you and Zarach.”

“Thank you.” Anjasa righted herself and folded her
arms, looking at him keenly for a moment. “And I’m to
trust you in this, I take it? Is my stink of desperation that obvious
over the bile down here?”

So tall and mighty, he reached one hand up and smoothly took hold
of her face. He wore nothing on his arms but a wrap of leather about
his wrists and palms, and her chin rested against the leather as he
touched her with his cool grip. “You’re a survivor,”
he said simply. “You will do what I want, when I want it,
because it will be your best shot at surviving this mess you have
gotten yourself into.”

He stared down at her, into her, his head tilting just slightly as
he observed her.

“Fuck, all I wanted was a damned drink,” she sighed.
How easy was it to fall into the underbelly of society for her. How
many bosses had she pissed off this late in her life?

Nothing about that man before her felt natural, not his dark gaze,
not his cold grip. “What you wanted is irrelevant. Only what
you need now. And you need to survive. Keep that in mind, and we
shall have a long and mutually beneficial relationship, elf.”
He leaned down closer to her level, the dark mask over his lips
moving as he spoke, “Zarach lost his usefulness to me because
he has ceased to put his life before his pride and ambitions. Do not
make the same mistake.”

She laughed, her eyes sparkling in the lantern’s dim light
as she shook her head. “If you knew me better, you’d be
in on the joke,” she assured him. Pride. That was beaten out of
her long ago, and her ambitions only stretched so far as experiencing
freedom to the fullest.

“Set her up somewhere decent, and I’ll take care of it
in the future, alright?” she asked, her tone more serious.

“If she survives,” he added, the agreement implicit.
“Now go. Do as I say and you will have yourself life, riches
and a Lord to toy with in the end.” He released her face and
stood aside, giving her room to leave.

She opened her mouth but thought better of it, quickly moving up
the catacomb steps and gulping in the musty air. At least it didn’t
stink of blood. Was she really going to trust this faceless brute?
She’d dealt with men worse than him, demons and dragonkin
notwithstanding. Anjasa was a woman that would seem, to the outside
world, to have a death wish.

That couldn’t be further from the truth, though. She loved
life. She loved living. She just wanted to experience both the pain
and the pleasure, the fear and the excitement. She wanted it all.

Her walk back to Zarach’s place, though, was mostly filled
with fear. Walking through the winding streets alone at night was a
risk in any neighbourhood, but through the lower class dredge was
worse still.

She made it back unmolested somehow, only to arrive at the gate in
time to witness Zarach’s henchman Berro coming forward and
unlocking it for her. “He’s waitin’ inside,”
he gruffly stated, allowing her on in.

The dark manor was like she had left it, the chandelier casting
its light upon the great main hall as she entered during the late
night hours. Berro re—entered behind her and pointed up the stairs,
“He’s upstairs,” he gestured to a different end of
the manor this time, away from the room she’d first been used
by the Lord to be.

“Thanks,” she smiled brightly. She’d just
succeeded, after all. Killed off the competition, returned a glowing
prize that deserved to be rewarded and displayed. Everything had gone
just as planned.

She had rehearsed the lie the entire way there until she believed
it, heart and soul. There was no treachery, no hidden agenda, and she
kicked off her shoes before striding proudly towards Zarach’s
new hiding place.

The door was open as she approached, and she saw a massive canopy
bed, thick drapes all about, and candles lighting the place. But as
she entered there was nobody. The cruel Zarach was not to be seen,
though there could be no other room in the direction to which Berro
pointed. It was the place, and judging by the wealth on display it
had to be Zarach’s personal bed chambers.

A shiver went down her spine as she walked in, her shoulders
straight and her head dipped demurely as she looked around. Her hands
clasped behind her back, thrusting out her chest as she cleared her
throat.

He came from behind her, his hand moving to her shoulder as he
stepped into the room, shutting the door with a click of the lock.

He said nothing at first, but she felt him bend down over her
shoulder to speak into her ear in a husky whisper. “Undress.
And tell me of how it went,” his breath lapping at her lobe as
his other hand touched upon the back of her thigh, that strong, cruel
grasp a reminder of all she had witnessed him do.

It had excited her then, and even though her fear of him had grown
by leaps and bounds, it continued to light a fire in her loins. Her
fingers went to the clasps at her side and her dexterous hands
stripped away that red, worn dress. “It was perfect,” she
admitted as she pushed the straps off her shoulders, letting the
material gather at her waist.

“It was... easy. Your... friend is efficient.” She
licked her lips and moved towards his body, even as she continued to
reveal her curvaceous form. She was fit and toned, but her breasts
and ass were soft and feminine, and almost too large for her small,
elven frame.

“It must have,” he said, walking about her slowly so
that his boots padded softly on the carpeted floor. “Otherwise
my compatriot wouldn’t have sent you back to me quite so
pristinely,” he remarked with a wry crook on his lips that made
the scar on his face look malicious. “How did it feel to offer
up a sacrifice for my favour, bitch?” and he lowered himself
onto the edge of the bed, his vest from earlier gone, only an open
white shirt on, that displayed his pale chest, ridged with firm abs.