Pietre walked down the dark, stone passageway into the deepest section of his keep. At his side, the Indian maintained a respectful silence.
"Stay close to me," Pietre reminded him. "The woman is a viper. If you suspect that she's controlling me, kill her."
Long Shadow acknowledged the command with a curt nod and Pietre went back to his contemplations, his eyes fixed on the ancient cobblestones beneath his boots.
He tried not to look at Long Shadow. Every time he did he imagined those hands caressing his Wendee as he'd not been able to — might never be able to now. And what if there was no other? If she'd been the only one?
Pietre's own hands rubbed against each other in their desperation to touch, but the one person he could touch had been taken beyond his control.
If Armande had damaged her…
The hands ceased their rubbing and clenched together in a battle fist as the black fury boiled up inside. Pietre struggled, but each time the emotion gripped him it was harder to control.
The night he'd returned to find Wendee gone, he'd wanted to punish everyone who'd touched her as he'd not been able to, even Long Shadow who'd rescued her from Belle's treachery. It had been a wild moment where he'd almost killed the messenger. Long Shadow must have seen his death in Pietre's eyes but the 'Brave' had been fearless in the face of it, and in that control, Pietre had found his own.
His enmity, then, had focused on its true target. Belle — killer of Xavion, accomplice in the abduction of Wendee. Traitor.
He should have left her in the backwater Louisiana whorehouse he'd bought her from — left her to a life of performing 'freak-shows'. But instead he'd trusted her and…
Pietre's teeth gritted together painfully.
The anger was strong, but with it came a poignant grief at Belle's loss. She'd been more than a business partner — she'd been his companion, and importantly, his only source of physical release.
So he hated her all over again for taking that comfort away from him.
She'd left him with nothing. No Xavion. No Belle. No Wendee. Nothing.
Long Shadow stopped outside the cell door and Pietre turned to him. "Can you kill her? She's a witch. She broke Xavion."
The Indian raised his security card to the lock, turned to face Pietre. "She is the enemy. I will cut out her heart and put it in your hands if you ask it."
Pietre nodded, seeing the fanaticism in his eyes. "Only if you have to. She may yet be valuable to me." Pietre trembled as he thought of what Belle could do for him. But he couldn't allow that now — couldn't trust her anymore.
"As you command." Long Shadow inserted the card then lowered his hand to rest it over his gun. The door slid silently open.
Pietre composed his face, ignoring the stench that billowed out with the door's opening. The Indian entered the cell and Pietre stepped in behind him, brushing a hand over the light activator, flooding the small room with stark white light. The door slid shut behind them.
"Belle, my dear, you've looked better," he remarked.
Her clothing, or what remained of it, was encrusted with food and excrement, her face filthy. Dark roots grew through hair as stiff and yellowed as the urine-soaked straw on which she sprawled.
"I hope the accommodation is to your liking," he added. "You always admired the medieval flavour of these cells," and he let his gaze wander around the bare rock walls, then back to Belle who sat propped in the corner, wrists manacled.
Belle remained silent, prompting Pietre to turn to Long Shadow who was watching her intently, "You've been observing Belle’s confinement, Long Shadow. Do you think she appreciates the tables being turned?"
The Indian shrugged.
"There you are, Belle. An unbiased opinion. Long Shadow couldn't care less. All he's interested in is finding the slowest method of killing you if you don't tell me where Armande has taken Wendee." Pietre waited patiently but as the seconds ticked over his bland expression resettled into a frown.
Belle’s stared, her lips were slack and a vacant expression dulling her eyes. She was slipping out of his reach.
"Tell me where she is, Belle," he said, his voice gentling as he watched the madness descend on her. "Or would death be a kindness — "
She startled him with a short staccato burst of wheezing exhalations, then fell silent, huddled on her mound of straw like some demoniacal hen.
Pietre looked away. He'd put off his visit too long. In his fear of Belle's power over him, he'd lost any chance he might have had of extracting information from her. Still, he resisted the urge to end it.
Turning back, he asked again, "Where is she, Belle? Tell me where Wendee is."
They waited in silence. Then faintly he heard, "Pietre? Is that you?" Her lips barely moved.
"Yes, Belle. It's me."
"Is that really you?"
He watched as she straightened and pushed the matted hair out of her eyes — eyes that had suddenly grown cunning.
"My baby. My little boy," she croaked in a hollow parody of the voice she used only with him. Her 'proof' voice. "Has my little boy come to visit me?"
Caught off-guard, Pietre felt the instinctive tightening in his belly. He flicked a glance at Long Shadow. The Indian must not fail as Xavion had.
He addressed the creature on the straw. "Tell me where Armande has Wendee and I might forgive you." It was a bad lie and Pietre knew she would hear it in his voice, yet he continued with it. "You want to come back to me, don't you, Belle?"
Her tiny fingers unbuttoned what was left of her shirt. "I never left you, boy," she drawled as her manacled hands parted the edges of her shirt. Pietre watched in dread fascination as she revealed a pair of surprisingly clean and perfectly shaped breasts. "Remember these?" She cupped one, offering it to him, her filthy hand a sordid contrast to the creamy ripe flesh. "Have a good look at them boy. I might let you touch them this time if you're bad."
Pietre closed his eyes, swallowing down the sickness. "Where is she, Belle? If you tell me where she — "
"I know what you need, you naughty boy."
Pietre opened his eyes, saw Long Shadow crouched just out of Belle's reach, the barrel of his gun pointed unwaveringly at her head.
"I'll give you to Mr Black if you don't tell me, Belle," Pietre said, his voice faint. The compulsion to close his eyes and go to that source, to take that succour again, was overpowering. "You know what he’s capable of," Pietre reminded her. "You don't want to die that way."
There was a pause where Pietre should have realised he'd frightened Belle — should have pursued the threat, enlarging it, speculating as to which orifice Mr Black would chose to penetrate with his elephantine organ. But his mind was working against him, regurgitating the past, pushing it into the present.
There were no memory-pictures from his childhood, no movie reel that ran behind his eyes — his sanity couldn't have born it. But the sounds, the smells and the physical sensations were locked into his psyche like a blind man's nightmare. They were inside him now and they tugged at his gut. He knew what he needed and he knew the thing in the corner could give it to him.
"Come to me, boy," she wheedled, "You know it's worse if you don't come. If I have to catch you." The voice was so precise he simply had to close his eyes…
"I can't keep on," he said softly, in the same admonishing tone he recalled so painfully. "Just this once and no more."
"Just this once," the voice from his past agreed, but he knew it would be more. It was always more. "I have to be cruel to be kind," she said, "You know that, boy."
"I know," Pietre whispered as he took a faltering step away from the door, his muscles clenching as he prepared for the pain. He hated the pain. Hated it every time. But that was what it took and he couldn't stop. His need was too great — the compulsion too strong. "Just this once," he whispered.
"Come to me, boy," she husked and he blindly followed the voice.
In front of him the chains clanked in preparation but he kept his eyes tightly closed. The part of him that was inside a filthy cell with an animal and a killer was draining away. He was the 'boy' again, talking faltering steps towards the release he could no longer live without.
Then he jerked to a stop.
The sound had been nothing more than a puff of air, but it had stilled the clanking. Pietre's hands balled into fists.
Beside him, a voice said, "Wendee. Remember Wendee. We have to find her." But Pietre was thinking of a weapon, something he could kill this intruder with. He had nothing but his bare hands and he couldn't use them. Couldn't touch…
"We have to find Wendee," the voice said persuasively, and he remembered then that he could touch someone — would touch. But he had to find her first.
Opening his hands, Pietre flexed the fingers, then turned to face the door. Seconds ticked over as his mind, adept at blocking horror, swept what lay behind him into the past.
"The game is over and my brother has won," he said at last, pleased by the normality of his tone. "Tell Christophe to send the acknowledgment — Armande will reply. Whatever his demands, I must accede to them. I must have Wendee back."
Beside him the Indian sighed deeply. A strange sigh, as though there were more to his relief than the mere fact that his master had regained his sanity.
Pietre glanced at him surreptitiously as he holstered his gun and keyed the security number in the doorpad. Could Long Shadow have a vested interested in seeing the Wendee returned?
Pietre wondered if he was becoming paranoid. The Indian's actions could be motivated by nothing more sinister than obedience to his master's needs.
Could be…
The door opened and Pietre stepped out. He had much to do. And much to think about.
"Hey man, watcha got for me?"
Long Shadow watched the Greek boy approach, his shiny black boots striking loudly on the cobblestones. Swaggering. Long Shadow hated Nick's swagger.
"A body to dispose of," he said, indicating the cell door with a tilt of his head. "In there."
Nick smirked. "Anyone I know?"
Long Shadow stared at him, thought, Wendee has lain with this one. Several times. And she liked it. "Belle." He bit off the word.
"Belladonna…? The bosses' broad?"
"That's right."
"Little pixie Belle? With the fake hair and — "
"That's the one."
Nick was incredulous. "Fuck me. Does the boss know?"
"He ordered it."
There was silence. Then, "Fuck me," Nick said again, with feeling. He shook his head, then seemed to gather himself and slapped a palm on the door. "Open it up, man. I gotta see this."
Long Shadow slotted his card in the lock and the door slid open. The smell was bad. He wanted to leave Nick to it but he hesitated, unsure why.
Nick strode past him. "Neat entry hole," he complimented, looking down at the corpse. "I had a broad in Calcutta once. She had a mark…" He pointed to the centre of his forehead.
"Ticka," Long Shadow said tonelessly.
Nick waved a hand in agreement. "Yeah. Religious thing." He hunkered down beside the body. "Man, you'd swear she was just asleep." He reached across and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Still warm."
Long Shadow felt a wave of revulsion despite the fact that Nick meant nothing by the comment. Belle's spirit was perverting everything and for a horrible moment he felt as if it was reaching for him with invisible tendrils, trying to envelope his body, to capture his manhood. With a jerky movement he stepped backwards, bumping into the doorframe. Nick turned back from inspecting the corpse to frown at him but he had to get away so he turned to walk blindly down the stone passageways. The next thing he was aware of was being on his knees in the surf, vomiting.
Spasm after spasm of nausea rolled over him as he sought to expel the evil from his body. It went on and on, draining him of strength until he felt weak. Shocky. The same way he had the time his testicles had been injured in a fight. Had she hurt him somehow? Had her spirit reached out and crushed his manhood between those claw-like fingers.
Limply, he stripped off his clothing, threw it up onto the dry sand and inspected his penis and testicles. They were unharmed but tingled strangely, as though coated with a substance that would eventually burn.
Waves broke over him as he lay in the shallow water rinsing himself, trying to wash away the memory of those invisible fingers and the effect they'd had on him, but it was still strong, even though he knew Nick would have burnt the body by now.
Frustration gripped Long Shadow and grabbed a handful of wet sand and scoured his penis with it. The burning sensation grew with the size of his erection and then it was too late to stop the ejaculation — quick, unsatisfying. Almost immediately the burning sensation was back.
His hand fell limply to his side. Another wave rolled over him and he noticed a subtle temperature change. The air that touched his skin was cooling. It was getting late so he forced himself up onto his elbows and shook the hair out of his eyes to look across the waves. Within half an hour, the sun would set — it's life-force bleeding into the thin clouds that hung below it like a dancer's tulle skirt.
He had seen many such sunsets in the last few weeks — picture post-card images — but they failed to inspire him. Without Wendee, the part of him that responded to beauty had shut down. She was his lens. His focus. He was half-alive without her.
Yet he forced that half-life on, dragging himself out of the surf and dressing in the fading light before heading back to his camp. There were other responsibilities to keep him busy while he waited for DeMartande to rescue his love, and he hurried his steps to return before the deeper dark fell.
On reaching his camp, he called across the compound, "It's me, Long Shadow," remembering the time he'd surprised Skye in his teepee and she'd tried to stab him with a knife.
DeMartande had given her into Long Shadow's care a fortnight earlier, but Skye was still traumatized by the ordeal she’d put herself through. Leaves rustling made her skin crawl and when the wind howled at night she huddled under her furs, inconsolable.
Long Shadow knew he couldn't hold her, couldn't comfort her that way. She was over-sensitized now and would never willingly let a man touch her again. But his non-threatening presence had gone some way to restoring her self-confidence and the herbal creams he'd given her had healed her torn and bruised flesh.
In her own words, she was, 'A toilet. A receptacle for the filth of men's bodies.' The innocent beauty of her genitals — the guava-pink flower Wendee had admired and so playful aroused, no longer existed for Skye. It was dark down there. Dark and dirty and she didn't want anything more to do with it, hated herself for what she’d willingly done out of love.
Long Shadow understood, and it saddened him. Skye was a victim of sexual obsession, just as his Wendee was, and he if he had the opportunity, he would save them both. But realistically, he knew love must come first.
"It's me, Long Shadow," he said again as he stepped through the opening and closed the door-flap behind him.
Skye knelt by the fire, her stark blonde hair plaited down her back the way his sometimes was, her body — the body she hated — wrapped loosely in a sheet. She looked up. "Hello," she said shortly, then went back to tending the simmering pot.
Cooking smells filled his lodge, pleasant meaty aromas. The simple domesticity of the scene calmed the remnants of his earlier agitation. He found he was hungry.
Skye's first attempts at cooking had been less than palatable, but he understood her need to keep busy, felt the need himself. Teaching her had filled a void for both of them and he was proud of the fact that she'd become a creditable cook. Skye was probably proud too, but she'd never admit it.
"Smells delicious," he commented as he sat across the fire from her.
She glanced up again, a barely-perceptible light of appreciation in her eyes. "I dug up those plants you showed me. The yellow ones. And I caught a bird. A noisy bird. Koo-koo-koo Kah-kah-kah," she imitated.
He smiled. "Kookaburra." At times Skye made him feel like a new husband with a trainee bride. Except that there would be no consummation between them. Skye would never allow it, and Long Shadow had no desire for anyone but Wendee.
As though picking up his thoughts, Skye asked, "Any word of Wendee?"
Long Shadow's smile faded. "Belle said nothing." He picked up the wooden bowl at his side and began ladling out the thick stew, trying to disguise the unrest that stirred in him, the remnants of her evil that still clung to his body.
"Did DeMartande torture her? Did he give her to the big negro?" Skye was unrepentantly eager. Her lust for vengeance was as strong as his own.
He handed her the filled bowl and picked up another for himself. "She's dead," he said, surprised at how devastating that admission was — how much he'd been relying on information from Belle. The crack of the door through which he'd hoped to follow Wendee's trail was closed and despite DeMartande's optimism, they might never find her now.
"Dead?" Skye echoed and Long Shadow was reminded of Wendee's habit of echoing his words.
A mixture of memory-emotions surged inside him — feelings of sadness and longing — he saw clearly a picture of Wendee lying beneath him, her languid eyes making him hard, making him want to love her like no man had loved her before, slowly, expertly, until she begged for his possession. But equally wanting to stab straight into her, jack-hammering that velvet pool until the explosion of sensations lifted the top off his head.
"How did she die?" Skye asked, her voice avid.
Long Shadow put down his bowl and cleared his throat. "I shot her." His body was stirring, his chaotic emotions encouraging an erection he knew would only frighten Skye. He must control himself, but the trauma of killing Belle and the memory of Wendee's lovemaking confused him. A thought of what Skye had been through crept in and he pushed it away.
" You killed her?" Skye asked, and her incredulous tone caught his attention. He looked up, but the sight of her large breasts covered only in the thin sheet that had once wrapped Wendee's body confused him more and encouraged his defiant erection. A memory flash came back to him of Nick reminiscing about their 'juicy firmness' and he felt sickened and excited at the same time.
He looked down. Into the fire. "Yes, I killed her with my gun. I shot her. She's dead. She won't tell us anything now."
His gaze slid to his hands pressed down on his breech-clout, covering the evidence of his arousal. They were shaking.
"It's all right," Skye said, misinterpreting the reason for his turmoil. "I'd have killed her myself if I'd had the chance. She deserved to die. Only I would have done it slowly."
"She suffered," Long Shadow said, and shuddered.
"I would have done to her what they did to me. I would have — "
Long Shadow lurched to his feet. "I have to go. I can't — "
"Oh Lord," she whispered, and Long Shadow closed his eyes. He knew what she was looking at.
"I can't stay," he said. "You know why. I have to go."
"Will you come back?" she asked, her voice more fearful than he'd ever heard it. "If you leave me here alone the others will come. I gave it to them once but I can’t do it again."
Long Shadow shook his head. "I have to go," he said again and took a step sideways, towards the door.
Skye grabbed his ankle. "Don't go. Don't leave me. I'm frightened." She scrabbled across until she was kneeling in front of him to block his exit, her hand grabbing higher on his leg. "Did I do this? Should I wear more clothes? I didn't — "
"It's not you," Long Shadow said, forcing himself to look down at her.
Her pleading azure eyes reminded him of the stone that had been his Grandfather's favourite and he tried to focus on that, but beneath them her breasts had fallen out of their scant covering and swayed invitingly.
"It's dark," she pleaded. "I won't be safe if you — "
"You're not safe now," Long Shadow said, his voice deadly serious. "Let me go."
Skye ignored him, looked down at her breasts again, then at the conspicuous lump that lifted the front of his breech-clout.
He wanted to groan. He wanted to push her out of the way and run to the cliff and jump off it. And he wanted to shove her back onto the rug and plunder her softness as violently as any of the other men who had defiled her.
"I'm going," he said and moved one leg.
In a swift movement, her hand came up and closed over his erection. Mindless pleasure spiralled up into his brain as his penis jumped under her touch. He stood still.
"I can't let you go," she said as her fingers moved along his throbbing flesh. The burning sensation he'd experienced earlier in the surf came back to him. His eyelids fluttered. Fell. She squeezed and it was all he could do to keep standing.
Wendee! He tried to focus on Wendee, but all he could see behind his closed eyelids were quick-shutter images of them making love. So many times. Then nothing. All that desire, all that passion suppressed.
"No…" he groaned as Skye untied the coverings and released his erection to the warmth of the firelight. It was wrong. It was so wrong to let her do this, but he didn't stop her. He just stood there.
"I know what to do," she said, and she did. Long Shadow tried not to think of how she'd learnt the techniques she used on him — tried not to think of the instruction that had encouraged her to lick and suck so expertly.
But it was all there, swirling around inside his mind as the pleasure swirled around his loins. The sucking, like a whirlpool drawing him down, drawing the sensations from all over his body to concentrate in the piece of flesh she quickly brought to climax inside her mouth.
" Wendee…" He groaned and bucked against her, the torment pulsing out of his body with the warm fluid she accepted.
But even before the spasm was complete, Skye released him. He swayed slightly, his mind still locked into the rhythm of his orgasm, still following those last rivulets of pleasure back to the source.
Then the skin of his penis, made wet by her mouth, cooled, and his body came back to him. He felt the grit of dried salt on his eyelashes, still-damp hair stuck to his back, and the trembling of his legs.
The euphoria faded and he remembered what he'd allowed. What it must have been like for Skye.
He pressed his lips together, knowing there were no words to exonerate himself. Yet he felt compelled to say something. "Skye…" He couldn't even open his eyes.
"It's all right," she said. "I had to pretend I was Wendee too." Long Shadow barely had time to assimilate that before she added, "I don't want you to go unless you have to. Unless he calls you."
"All right." It was the least he could do to make amends for what had happened.
There was an awkward pause. Then she added, "If you want that again, just tell me. Only don't go. I'd go mad if they got me again."
"I understand." Long Shadow sat awkwardly at the fire, but he had no appetite, and later when he was lying across the teepee from Skye who was pretending to sleep he hated himself for the thoughts that filled his mind — of the tapes he'd seen of her in that cavern with two men ploughing her body as another waited his turn, the sucking mouths, scraping teeth, squeezing and probing hands. The looks of pained ecstasy on their faces as they'd filled her with their 'filth'.
Then he hated himself more as his body reacted to those thoughts. He rolled onto his side, away from her, but the more he tried to clear his mind the more he imagined what they’d done to her — what she’d allowed them to do because she loved Wendee. That was the worst part, but instead of quelling his excitement, the thought of Wendee watching that debauchery fuelled his arousal. It was nothing of love and all of sex and in despair he groaned, soft and low. Seconds later he felt Skye’s hand encompass the resurgent flesh. He covered it with his own, meaning to push her away, but when he tried to move, to stand, she shoved him back down with surprising strength and crawled onto his legs
"As many times as it takes," she said, and through a silent scream of denial he felt the lips encompass him again.