Demon's Captive (5 page)

Chapter Nine

      The cook arrived with their food, and Charity's attention focused on her plate. Although the food was unfamiliar, it was good, and she ate with gusto, stopping only when completely satisfied. Once her fork was laid aside, she realized her captor had already finished. Blood rushed to her face as she dropped her gaze to the table, angry with herself for drawing his attention. She should have made sure she finished at the same time.
      Across the table, he rose and came to her side. His hand took her upper arm and pulled her from her seat. They walked back down the hallway, then took a sort of elevator to another floor, though she had never actually felt it move. Lost in her own thoughts, she wondered why he had to hold her arm. It wasn't as if she would wander off.
      "Would you prefer a leash for this collar?" His words made her jump. She swallowed a squeak as his other hand came to her throat, tugging at the band she had forgotten about. Just as she had forgotten how he could read her mind.
      "No, thank you." Her hand rose tentatively to his, curling around the two fingers against her collar. "What's your name?" Her eyes widened as she realized what she had said. She started to drop her hand, but instead found herself gripping his fingers even tighter.
      "Melmanon. But you will call me Master." His face was completely expressionless. "Is that clear?"
      "Yes, Master." She couldn't seem to stop herself. "Am I a slave then?"
      "My slave. You have been given the status of a torture slave. Do you want me to tell you what that means?"
      Charity almost wished she had never spoken. Aside from her trembling fear, she felt desperate to know her own fate. "Yes, please." Then quickly, "Master."       The hand at her throat moved to cup her face. She felt her own fingers, still wrapped around his, against her cheek. It was a tender gesture, but his words and the hard hand at her arm dispelled the illusion.
      "Because of the unique…challenge…you presented me, I asked and was granted permission to keep you. Instead of having a limited time in which to satisfy my bloodlust, I can keep you as long as I like." He stroked her face like a lover. "Until you die."
      Charity shook. She couldn't help it. When he dropped his hand from her face, her own slipped back to her side. She stared at his vest until a sudden jerk on her arm alerted her to the fact they were moving out of the elevator and down a new hallway. More steel, rivets, and doors with unfamiliar characters on them.
      When they reached the end of the hall, a large open portal led into a great room. From the amount of activity and the layout, she could tell this room held the ship's controls. She was not given much opportunity to look around. Melmanon walked directly to the center of the room where a large chair and console waited, pulling her along. As he sat, he tugged her to the floor at his feet.
      She followed, leaning against his leg and the base of his chair for support. He released her and activated the console in front of him with motions of his hands and words in a language she didn't understand, but sounded the same as the one he had used in the dining room. After a few minutes of watching him, then looking around surreptitiously at the other warriors and marveling again at how different they were, Charity drifted into her own thoughts.
      In six months of running and hiding that had led to this moment, there had been no time to think of what had happened to her, no time to break down and sob over the loss of her family.
      How strange that I feel so detached. Images of her life, her family, and friends haunted her. How ashamed they would be at how easily she had surrendered! Sadness gripped her as she thought of all she had lost, and a tight band of grief compressed her chest. She drew her knees up and rested her face against the soft leather of her pants, hiding the slow tears that trailed down her cheeks.
      With her arms curled protectively around her body, Charity castigated herself for her cowardice. Although she had run desperately to escape, she had never fought back, never lashed out against her enemies. The bloody results of their conquering had dissuaded her from any rebellion. Her will to live burned too brightly for a meek acceptance of death, but not strong enough to burn in fury. She was certain anyone else would have fought to the death rather than allow, or find satisfaction in, the sexual demands she'd faced.
      She might have been able to convince herself she submitted to her captor in order to prolong her life, but the fierce pleasure she felt belied those claims. A fool could see she was a coward and a traitor. Even now, when the demon named Melmanon confirmed her worst fears -- a torture slave! -- she couldn't find the courage to defy him.
      Unable to lie, even to herself, Charity bitterly acknowledged she didn't fear death, or even captivity. It was the pain, the humiliation, and the helplessness that terrified her.
      What he had already done to her was terrible in its own way, but the thought of real torture, real pain, made her stomach clench. As pitiful as it seemed, her best defense against future anguish would be to either infuriate him until he killed her in a rage, or try to appease him and satisfy his every whim.
      Of the two choices, there was really only one that would do. She did not have the ability to rebel, to bring about her own destruction. Her head resting uneasily on her crossed arms, Charity gave in to her exhaustion.
      Melmanon sensed his captive slip into an uneasy sleep. Her revelations didn't surprise him; while she possessed an agile mind to have eluded capture for so long, she did not have the core of fearlessness that marked a warrior. It was good she recognized her own weaknesses and didn't try any rebellious tactics.
      Her decision to be a good slave fit in well with his own plans, and he made a silent vow to give her no needless pain. As long as she fulfilled his desires and obeyed him without question, there would be no torture. If he became bored with her, he would end it quickly, if only to honor the pleasure she had already given him.
      Returning to work, Melmanon spent several more hours at his console, aware each time Charity woke. He also felt her restlessness and the soreness of her body. She shifted several times to relieve her discomfort. After what seemed to be the millionth time, he let out an aggravated growl that froze her in place. He reached down impatiently and grasped her beneath the arms, lifting her onto his lap.
      Pinning her with his gaze and one hard hand at her throat, he grunted, "Do not make me take you back to the room." All the color leached from her face, and her hands involuntarily gripped his wrist.
      "I'm sorry, Master."
      Growling low, Melmanon felt himself harden when Charity's mind replayed the last time he'd held her that way, and the first time he'd taken her. He released her neck, stood with her in his arms, and crossed the deck to a narrow door that opened automatically.
      Charity looked around cautiously, and thought they must be in his office. A large desk made of black glass dominated the far end, with a bulky padded leather chair behind it. There were all sorts of interesting items shelved on the walls, and she would have looked, but he strode rapidly to the desk and didn't pause until he dropped her lightly into the big chair.
      Startled by how soft it was, she realized she could easily curl up and take a nap in it. Her gaze rose to the large form of her captor standing over her, and she resisted the urge to apologize again. In light of their exchange in the elevator, she was uncertain if he wanted her to speak at all.
      He settled his hands on his hips. "Very good, Charity. Before you do anything, think of my desires first. You will be much better for it." He pointed to another door, a bit to the left of the one they had entered through.
      "That is the lavatory. You may use it if you need to. You may sit in the chair, or walk around the room if you are restless." His face came close to hers. "Do not touch anything." With that, he left, the door closing automatically behind him.
      For a while, Charity sat, grateful for the comfort of the chair and puzzled by her demon captor. Nervously, she wondered if he still heard her thoughts. After a moment, she decided probably not. He must be the only one who was able to read her mind; otherwise, she would never have been able to remain uncaptured for six months.
      That he was the only one who violated her thoughts was a small comfort. He was the only one who would hurt her. To be fair, he had not punished her as she had expected. Even in the sex act, he used his body to give pleasure as well as take it. His size was the real reason she had felt any pain, and he didn't use it to inflict the damage he could have.
      The title of torture slave still worried her, as did knowing she would die here. She would never be free, not so long as he lived. What would happen if he died? Would she be burned on his funeral pyre? Buried alive with him? The precarious nature of her existence and the fragility of life drove her from the chair. For a while, she simply paced, then performed some stretches on the hard floor.
      After a tour of the lavatory, she resumed her pacing, not knowing when she might have another chance for the meager exercise. Using her movements as an excuse, she looked at the unfamiliar objects on the walls. Some obviously served as decorations, rather like abstract paintings framed in black glass, but other oddly shaped devices on bowl-like shelves intrigued her. Not enough to touch, but enough to stare.
      Charity sat in the big chair, staring into her reflection in the black glass desk when Melmanon returned. He showed no emotion at seeing her where he had left her hours earlier, and she wondered if he had known every move she had made in his absence. The realization she would never have the right of privacy again, for any reason, made her shudder a little.
      As he reached her side, Charity stiffened, unsure whether she should stand or wait for him to decide for her. He pulled her to her feet and started to lead her from the room but came to an abrupt stop. With his free hand, he plucked something from its shelf on the wall and held it in his palm. Curious, but frightened, too, she waited for him to speak.
      "Do you see how sharp the point is?" He turned his palm slightly so the tip of the thing was in profile. She thought it looked a bit like a carving of a musical trumpet, except that the tip, where a mouth might go, was wickedly pointed and sharp. Nodding her head, she didn't wait long for him to continue.
      "This primitive piece was fired by our enemy. The sharp point pierced your skin at incredible speed, and the flared end drug through your flesh, inflicting mortal damage." This recital was utterly emotionless.
      "How -- I mean, where did you get it?" She looked to his face, a little frightened of what his answer might be.
      "From the body of a fallen soldier." He said no more, replaced the thing on the wall, and pulled her from the room, Charity's head spun with questions.
      Why? What horrible purpose could be served by taking it and saving it, a token from a corpse? The feral nature of these people was clear to her. She had seen them in battle, knew their ruthless and mercenary natures. Unsettled, she wondered if it was something they were trained to do, or born to do. Either way, it did not bode well for her future.
      She did not imagine a man who dug a weapon from a fallen comrade would balk at snapping her neck.

Chapter Ten

      Charity spent every moment of the day under Melmanon's eye. Throughout the day, they would couple several times. He was insatiable. She sometimes felt as if he was experimenting with her. He would often spend a long time simply touching her, watching how she reacted. Other times, he would order her about, seemingly intent on ensuring her absolute cooperation. Regardless of the exercise, he pleasured her more often than himself, driving her to shuddering ecstasy in his arms.
      Day-to-day life was somewhat routine during their first two weeks. They took meals in the dining room. He worked every day; sometimes on the deck, sometimes in his office. They spent time going through the ship, which seemed huge and complicated to her. Everywhere there were people working, and he oversaw them all.
      Almost a full month after her arrival, he took her off the ship to visit places where work had begun on her planet. The warriors had given way to a new wave, still alien, but with a far different purpose. She was astounded by their industrious natures. Instead of decimating her world, they were remodeling existing cities and towns to suit their purposes.
      They visited a farming operation she had been to twice before. Harvesting the crops had taken no time at all. Now that the land was bare, tests were done, she assumed, to determine if their own crops could grow in the foreign soil.
      Her gaze wandered to the fields, and she saw people! In obvious good health, planting seeds in the long rows of the earth. Charity stood rooted to the spot, staring at them.
      Some talked amongst themselves; they did not appear abused. Most importantly, though, they were her people. She had believed all of them were dead, killed by the war tribe. This unexpected vision brought her first real joy in almost a year. She recalled forgotten dreams of a family, her own children, and a life of happiness. Those dreams were still possible if her people had survived!
      Without thinking, she took several steps toward the ramp leading down to the earth. She never made it off the platform.
      Brutal fingers caught the back of her neck, holding her immobile. Melmanon! Breathless from the pressure at her neck, with the others warriors gone, she and Melmanon were alone on the platform outside the transport they had arrived on.
      Unable to see her master, she felt him step close behind her. His hands pressed down on her shoulders, causing her to stumble to her knees. Ahead, she still saw the people, but it was his words, spoken hotly into the delicate shell of her ear, that had her attention.
      "You will never know them, slave." His fingers bit deeply into her arms. She cried out in pain. "They did not fight our warriors, and so they have earned the right to live. But you…you ran from us. You put yourself above a warrior, slave. You will never have a friend. Never lie with a man. Never bear a child. Do you understand?"
      Tears trailed fast in hot streams down her face. His words stung, and his hands hurt her flesh. She was so used to his controlled manner that this frightening brutality shocked her. Charity heard herself whimper, and when he pulled her into the transport and dropped her to the floor of the ship, she moaned in relief.