Hotel Transylvania (36 page)

'Tonight," he went on with a grand gesture, "you remain here with me some little while." He glanced around his study as if the room itself were a pleasant discovery. "At the dark of night, which comes in the third hour after midnight, we will join the others."

"The others?" The words were hushed with dismay.

"There are quite a few of them. You will find many familiar faces, Madelaine." He strode around the room, taking satisfaction that her eyes followed him wherever he moved. "Those who have desired you will be gratified. Those who despise you will find the means to vindicate themselves. In the next forty days we will take away your humanity, my dear. And when you are nothing, you will die for the forces of Satan, for whom destruction is pleasing." He tugged at a bell rope, and almost instantly the door was opened by a tall, large man of saturnine face and greedy eyes. He was wearing the dark-blue-and-red livery of Saint Sebastien's household. "This is Tite, my manservant. He is your guard, my dear. Do not think that your beauty or your anguish will rouse pity in him: he takes pleasure in hatred."

Tite nodded, his eyes flicking over Madelaine's nakedness. "Five have arrived," he informed his master without taking his attention from her. "When will I have her?"

"Tomorrow night, Tite. After I do. She will be yours for the rest of the night." He said this as if giving a child a sweet. "Bring the others in. And her maid."

With a bow compounded of groveling and insolence, Tite withdrew.

Saint Sebastien stood by the door for a moment, then went to a large closed case that stood against the far wall. He opened the case and selected a few items from its interior, closing it once more as he turned back to Madelaine. His sjambok was coiled around one arm, and he held a short device in his hand that looked like a bamboo whisk broom. He held up the latter, considering it critically. "I think this will be best," he said to her. "It does not generally break the skin."

Madelaine felt a cringing fear begin, which she fought down. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her courage crumble. The marble table top felt even colder now.

"Good," Saint Sebastien approved. "It would be a pity if you were broken too soon. It is your resistance that makes the final degradation so potent." He tapped the stubby bamboo whip against his hand.

Once again the door opened, and five men came into the room. Madelaine gasped as she recognized them. There was de la Sept-Nuit, with an expression of lewd anticipation in his face; beside him. Châteaurose, who appeared nervously excited; with him was Achille Cressie, who showed Madelaine one contemptuous sneer before resuming his conversation with de les Radeux, who had come with his uncle, le Baron Beauvrai.

Châteaurose ambled across the study to the heavy table where Madelaine was tied. "Well met, Mademoiselle," he said at his most respectful. "You have no idea how delighted I am to see you this way."

"We're all delighted to see you this way," de la Sept-Nuit agreed. "And you cannot imagine how much I am looking forward to knowing you better." He, too, came to the table and looked down at her. "Charming, I protest," he said with insolent grace.

Madelaine said nothing, but an angry flush mounted in her face and neck.

A shocked cry from the door made her turn to see Cassandre, her maid, dragged into the room by Tite. "Oh, Merciful God and all the saints," she wailed.

"Tite," Saint Sebastien rapped out, "silence her."

"That I will," Tite said, and brought his huge hand down on Cassandre's neck. The blow was a heavy one, and Cassandre, middle-aged and exhausted with the appalling events of the day, slipped to the floor in a heap without resistance or protest.

The men had all gathered around the table where Madelaine lay now, and were silent, preparing for the task ahead of them.

They had not long to wait, for shortly Saint Sebastien said with languor, "I think we must turn her over. This"—he showed them the bamboo whip—"works best on the buttocks and thighs. You, Donatien, take her arms, and you, mon cher Baron"—he gave Beauvrai a formal bow—"her feet. The rest may untie her bonds and retie them when we have her in place. Be careful when you turn her, as she is very likely going to fight."

Achille had looked curiously at the bamboo whip, his interest piqued. "Is that a comb, Saint Sebastien?"

"I am loathe to disappoint you, Achille, but we will not use the combs for a few days yet. And those must be employed only on the soles of the feet. No, this is quite different. Shall I show you what it does?"

Though she had twisted, pulled, squirmed, and tried to bite, Madelaine had been ruthlessly turned prone and retied. Her head dangled over the end of the table, and her legs, still forced wide apart, were beginning to ache. She gritted her teeth as Saint Sebastien once again fondled her, promising the others that they would be allowed the same privilege after he had demonstrated the bamboo whip.

"It is used thus—the strokes very fast and light, hardly more than taps. The rhythm should be even," he said as he used the bamboo on her buttocks. "You say that this is dull. But wait, in a few minutes you will see the excellence of this little Chinese whip. I have always found that the Chinese are a most ingenious people."

Already Madelaine was feeling the effects of the bamboo. Blood rushed to her buttocks, and the skin started to swell, making each blow more agonizing than the last as the sensitivity increased.

"Do you see?" Saint Sebastien asked. "Ten more minutes of this, and the skin would enlarge to twice its normal size, and she would experience the keenest agony if so much as a drop of water touched the skin, or a feather."

"Will you do that?" Beauvrai asked hungrily.

"Not yet, I think. But certainly we must do so before we are done. Think of possessing her when her body cannot endure to be touched. That must be for later." He was about to continue, when there was a sudden breaking of glass and splintering of wood as one of the french doors at the end of the study burst open and Robert de Montalia stumbled into the room, followed by Gervaise d'Argenlac. The shattered remnants of the french doors spread around their feet.

"Stop!"
Robert de Montalia shouted as he brought his musket to his shoulder, aiming it unwaveringly at Saint Sebastien.

Most of the men around the table had the grace to be shocked, and Châteaurose looked embarrassed. Only Saint Sebastien was unperturbed, and even, judging by the smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth, amused. "Good evening," he said when he was certain that Robert would not pull the trigger at once. "I see you have decided to join us."

"Stand away from her."

"No." He nodded mockingly. "Your daughter is in my hands, Robert. As you gave me your word she would be."

"You can't do that!" Robert's desperation bordered on insanity now, and his voice rose to a scream.

"Why? Because you wish to reserve that honor for yourself?" He gestured to his companions. "I am sure these gentlemen will wait, if that is your pleasure. You have a right to her, after mine." He tweaked Madelaine's swollen buttocks, and the cry that escaped her brought new torment to her father's ravaged face.

"Let her go, Clotaire," Robert said hoarsely. "Let her go and I will stay. No matter what you do, or how long it takes you to do it. I will stay."

"Of course you will," Saint Sebastien agreed affably. Then, with feigned amazement: "Surely you did not think I would allow you to leave, did you? You read my note, I assume. You, of all people, should know that I meant what I said."

Gervaise, who had drunk most of a bottle of wine in the carriage ride to hôtel Saint Sebastien, gathered his fuddled wits and moved uncertainly toward the table. "Lord God of the Fishes," he slurred. "What are you doing to Madelaine?"

"We are making a sacrifice." Saint Sebastien motioned Gervaise away with a disdainful flick of his hand.

But Gervaise was not to be put off. He had a drunkard's tenacity, and had reached a pugnacious stage in his inebriation. "You can't make a sacrifice of a noble. It isn't done. What are you sacrificing her for, anyway? Tell me that.”

"For power," Saint Sebastien snapped, as he brought up his hand again. "Robert, you choose your allies most unwisely."

"Damn you for a pernicious whoreson," Gervaise roared as he reeled toward the table. "You don't strip a lady of quality and beat her for the amusement of your friends, Saint Sebastien." He peered at the others. "There's something damn wrong about this," he said slowly.

Ignoring Gervaise, Saint Sebastien said, "I am not a patient man, Robert. The more you prolong this little melodrama, the less charitable I will be with you."

"Stand away from my daughter," Robert said icily.

"I think not." Saint Sebastien did not turn as he issued his orders. "Tite, if I am shot by this foolish man, I give you leave to kill him in any way you like, with the help of our friends here." He motioned his servant to move aside, out of Robert's line of fire.

"Killing," Gervaise announced, though no one appeared to listen, "is a matter for the courts. We need a magistrate." He pushed away from the table and set out across the broken glass for the gaping hole where the french doors had been forced. "You hold 'em, Robert. I'll see if I can rouse an officer at this hour.... Should be one somewh—"

Saint Sebastien had already unwound his sjambok when he said, "Stand aside, gentlemen." The lash coiled out like something live and predatory, its thin, hard leather cutting deeply into Gervaise's neck above his loosened jabot. Gervaise made a sound like a hiccough as blood welled around the whip, spattering his waistcoat and cloak as he staggered backward. Saint Sebastien slackened the sjambok as if playing a fish on a line, then jerked the whip tight once more. In the silent room there was a sound like a tree branch snapping. Crazily, like a marionette whose strings have suddenly been cut, Gervaise crumpled to the floor and was still.

For a moment the study was still. Then:
"You monster!"
Even as his yell burst from his lips, Robert aimed his musket, at the same moment that Saint Sebastien flicked the sjambok free of Gervaise's flesh. There was an ear-shattering noise when the musket's charge exploded as the sjambok snatched it from Robert, sending it smashing against a case of antique musical instruments.

"Seize him, Tite," Saint Sebastien said as he gathered in his lethal African whip.

"I will," Tite said, stalking across the study to Robert. On the table, Madelaine saw this and moaned.

Le Marquis de Montalia stepped back from Tite, pulling at his sword which hung in its scabbard at his side under his cloak. There was a scrape, and the weapon was out, and Robert, with a cry, lunged forward, burying the sword halfway to its hilt in Tite's chest.

Tite howled and clawed first at the sword and then grabbed for Robert, his big bloodstained hands crashing into le Marquis' face as he fell forward onto Gervaise's body.

Robert swayed dangerously but did not fall. Tite's blows had been weakened, or Robert would have been stunned. He slipped once on the glass and blood, dropping to one knee before he recovered.

"Vastly entertaining," Saint Sebastien said slowly. "What did you think to prove, Robert?" He came toward le Marquis, negligently toying with the lash of the sjambok. "Surely you did not believe that I would allow you to stop me?"

"I don't know." It had seemed easy when he had rushed out of his sister's house. He had the full force of virtue and love in the face of vice and degeneracy. When he and Gervaise had arrived at hôtel Saint Sebastien, it had been only a matter of holding Saint Sebastien and his Circle at bay while Madelaine was carried to safety. How stupidly simplistic that was, Robert realized now.

"Poor Robert, so righteous." Saint Sebastien motioned to the other men in the room. "But you see, I have her, and now I have you, mon cher Robert." He paused. "I suppose you have told Gervaise's widow where you are? I see I need not have asked. That is inconvenient." He turned to his Circle. "One of you take him to the room in the stable, where Le Grâce is. You, Achille, I am sure you will find a way to amuse our guest until I have made up my mind what to do with him."

Achille's eyes grew bright. "He's a very attractive man, Clotaire. But be sure to allow me sufficient time." He saw Robert shrink as he understood. "He's reluctant." Achille was delighted. "He will not be reluctant when I have done with him."

"Certainly," Saint Sebastien agreed as he pushed Robert toward Achille. "But be sure he is firmly tied. He may have a few surprises left for us."

Achille giggled as he came nearer. "Are you sure you don't want me to minister to him here, where she can watch?"

"Perhaps later. But not now." He went to his chest and removed two lengths of braided leather. "Here. Secure him with these. Do not resist, mon cher Robert, or your daughter will suffer for it." He waited as Achille bound Robert's hands behind him, then said, "I had not planned to leave here until tomorrow, but it may be wise to go to the chapel tonight."

Achille pouted. "How long will I have?"

"Perhaps an hour. No more. There are a few things to finish up here." He slid a sideways glance at Madelaine. "We have not done all we might."

"Very well." Achille shoved Robert ahead of him to the library door. "I have a knife, Marquis. There are many painful places I might use it." With a last giggle he thrust Robert from the room, going out behind him.