Microsoft Word - FortunesFool.rtf (24 page)

"Yes, Madre." The redhead's voice shook harder.

In the space of an instant, Donnatella dropped her hand from

Marcus's chest and clutched his wrist, sliding her fingers beneath the

leather of his coat and the fabric of his sleeve. Her long nails bit into the flesh. He knew it because he could see them pressing, leaving marks. But he couldn't feel it.

"How..." Fuck, his head was buzzing now, the sound muffling his own voice and hers. "How long was he here?"

Donnatella smiled, wide and shark-like. She licked her lips, and her

tongue looked as red as the bricks surrounding the fireplace. "A day?"

she said and shrugged. "Three days? A week?"

Marcus pulled his wrist away, feeling her nails make welts as they

dragged on his skin. The buzzing grew louder, pressing in on his brain.

He could feel himself swaying. The room...so fucking warm. Not enough

air. He wanted out, but wanted answers more.

"What was he doing here?" He could barely force the words past his 159

D'ARC, GALE, KENT, MARCH

lips.

She laughed. The sound abraded the air, cutting through the noise in

his head. Next to him Clarice wrapped her arms around herself and

hunched as if in pain. Donnatella lifted her hand again and caressed his jaw, as if she had no doubt as to his shape or the amount of space he

occupied. Almost as if she could see through the opaque film that

covered her eyes.

"He was weeping, Marcus Colton.
Bellissimo
, the way he sobbed so sweet for me." She lifted her other hand so that she cradled Marcus' face.

He tried to pull away and found himself frozen, his muscles locked and

quivering. "This one's not so sweet, is he, Clarice? Tell me."

The redhead cleared her throat. Tears had left wet tracks on her

cheeks. "He's taller, Madre, with black hair. His shoulders and chest are very broad. His eyes are dark and hard."

"Ah,
bravo
, not so sweet, I was right. But maybe he'll weep for me anyway? What do you think, Clarice?"

"Yes, Madre."

"I think so, too.
Sí
, I think I will drink his tears like champagne."

It was as if all of it was happening to someone else. Like he was

watching a movie in which Clarice—at Donnatella's direction—stripped

him of his jacket and shirt and jeans and everything else that served to protect his body. Because he couldn't move. Couldn't feel. Couldn't react, or even speak.

"A policeman? Like the other one,
sí
?" Donnatella said when Clarice told her about the nine millimeter she'd removed from his

shoulder holster. "But no badge, I think. You work under the covers, as they say? How do they call this, Clarice?"

"A detective, Madre."

"
Sí
," she said, "Detective."

He stared at her, willing words to force themselves over his

paralyzed tongue. Willing movement—struggle. But he must've lost a

few seconds, because then he was on his knees, sitting on his heels, with his back and shoulders pressed against the wall. The door had been

closed. Had Clarice maneuvered him there, like a mannequin in a store

window? How had he missed that?

The bricks were rough against his ass—his naked ass, for Christ's

sake—what the fuck was he doing, letting it get this far? He summoned

everything he had and took a swing at Clarice's face, where it bobbed in front of him like a freckled balloon. There was only the rattle of

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tempered-steel links against brick as his arm twitched. That's when he

knew they'd chained him like a dog.

Donnatella approached him, holding something in her hand. A

whip, long and thick and black, with a heavy handle. Crafted for doing

serious damage. Its surface glowed like the skin of a cottonmouth.

"Now you are my guest, Detective Colton—
sí
, just like your friend.

Will you entertain me as he did?" She passed the whip to the redhead, who held it as if it might bite her. "Let us see. Give him three, Clarice, across the chest. Be careful not to mar his face."

He watched as Clarice stepped back and raised her arm, lifting the

whip over her shoulder. His eyes tracked the arc of its descent. He heard the crack as it struck his flesh, but he felt...nothing.

Again she raised the whip, and again he felt nothing, though he

flinched this time because the blow fell higher, closer to his throat. And one last time, Clarice hefting the whip over her other shoulder and

crossing the first two blows with a third, backhanded strike.

He struggled to drop his head to survey the damage. But Clarice was

there before him, holding a mirror. The glass was surrounded by a

wooden frame carved in an ornate pattern. On the surface were dark

splotches of varying sizes. He thought he knew what they must be.

He focused on his reflection. His chest now sported three long, red

welts. The third welled with blood where it crossed the other two. Still, he felt nothing. He lifted his gaze to Clarice's face. Her makeup was

smudged beneath her eyes, and she was panting. Excitement? Terror?

Hard to tell.

Donnatella appeared at her side. At some point during the

festivities, they'd been joined by a third woman. Tall, with platinum

blonde hair and a mischievous expression. The barmaid. Looked like he'd

get his threesome after all, one way or another.

"
Caro
, you look disturbed," Donnatella said. "This is Shannon. She, like Clarice, is my acolyte. The drug she gave you dulls sensation. I

could flay the flesh from your bones and you would feel nothing." She held out her hand and Clarice presented the whip.

Madre Donnatella, Priestess of Pain. Marcus had heard her called

that by people in the lifestyle. As a priestess, of course she'd have

acolytes.

"But where would be the fun in that?" She laughed, and the sound of it made the small muscles in his face twitch. "My eyes have failed me,"

she said. "I can no longer see the suffering of my chosen. I can only 161

D'ARC, GALE, KENT, MARCH

listen and feel. Taste and smell and touch."

She approached him, Clarice and Shannon at either elbow, guiding

her steps. "How I adore to hear the cries of my chosen as I love them.

The scent and flavor of their pain. The feel of hot, bruised flesh under my fingers. The falling tears,
sí
, and the flowing blood.
Bellissimo
. My favorite of all."

He wanted to spit in her face as she bent to breathe on him. His

throat worked, but his mouth was dry. She reached out and ran a

fingertip down the length of one welt, then flicked at the pad of her

finger with her tongue. He felt none of it. Only rage and helplessness.

And the first stirrings of fear.

"You will be
molto bellissimo
in your suffering, Detective. I tremble in anticipation of hearing you beg for your own death." She straightened and crossed her arms over her chest. "But first? First there are others who need attention. Is that not right, Clarice?"

Shannon moved quickly, stepping behind Donatella to grasp

Clarice's arms and pull them behind her back. Then she forced the

redhead to her knees.

"Madre, please—"

"Silence." Donnatella's lip curled as she turned to the redhead. "You have betrayed me with your foolish mistakes one time too many,
cara
.

You swore the body would not be found, and yet here I have another

policeman in my establishment, asking questions."

"I'm sorry, Madre. Please..." Clarice choked on a sob and lifted her tear-stained face, wrenching her neck to look behind her at Donnatella. "I am your supplicant. I beg you to punish me for my faults."

Donnatella smiled—a grin so evil Marcus felt his balls make a fair

attempt at crawling back into his body cavity.

The next several moments moved at half-speed. He watched as

Shannon stripped Clarice of her cat-suit, tearing the thin black Latex as if it had no worth. Her carelessness struck a sense of dread in Marcus's

gut—this could go nowhere good.

Then the barmaid dragged the unresisting redhead over to where he

was chained. "Cuddle up and grab on, Clarice. And if you let go—even once—I'll double the count."

Clarice draped herself on him, stretching out her hands to grasp his

forearms where they hung in chains at either side of him. She pressed her naked breasts against his chest. He took no pleasure in it, nor in the fact that he'd been right about the nipple piercings. She rested her head on his 162

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shoulder, tucked her face into his neck and said, "I'm ready."

The first forty blows made his stomach churn. The sound of the

leather striking her flesh seemed to get louder as time slowed down

between each fall of the whip. Her body rocked against him with each

blow, her hips grinding against his in a way that would've been a total

turn-on if he could feel anything but the slightest shift of pressure. And if she weren't being beaten within an inch of her life. Because as much as

he loved the kink, he had his limits, and this had crossed the line way, way back.

Clarice seemed to take it all better than he did, beginning by sighing

into his neck, ending by keening quietly with every fall of the lash. He kept his eyes open 'til he made the mistake of looking down and seeing

the mess Shannon was making of her back. Then it was all he could do to

keep from throwing up over the poor girl's shoulder.

"Madre wants you to take the last ten from the cat o' nine," Shannon said, her voice breathy from exertion, and then moved away to the other

side of the room to a large, glass-fronted cabinet. Clarice groaned. The vibration traveled from his neck downward, making his stomach clench

harder. The drug was wearing off.

Shannon returned, holding another dangerous-looking leather

weapon. Each of its nine floggers was tipped with something sharp that

glinted in the candlelight. Hooks? Shards of glass? He shuddered and

looked away.

Clarice lost it halfway through the last ten, throwing her head back

and howling like the damned. Blood splattered everywhere, landing in

droplets on his cheeks and getting caught in his eyelashes. Then, finally, it was over.

"Don't let go," Shannon said and moved to put away the cat o' nine.

Clarice sagged against him, still gripping his arms. He found that if he pushed forward with his hips, he could help support her weight. Yeah,

the drug was definitely wearing off.

He turned his head slightly and saw Donnatella standing by the

fireplace, where she'd stationed herself for the duration of the flogging.

Her lips were stretched in a faint, pleased smile. Insane, murderous bitch.

When he finally got out of this fucked up mess—

"What have we learned tonight, Clarice?" Shannon had returned and was kneeling behind the redhead. She buried her hand in Clarice's hair

and pulled back on her head.

"To keep the Madre safe and protected at all times," Clarice

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whispered. "To think only of the Madre—her pleasure and her will. To serve the Madre in all things." She licked her lips, catching a rivulet of blood on her tongue.

"Good girl."

He didn't see where the knife came from. He only saw the gleam of

the blade as it descended, and heard the sound it made as it sliced

through Clarice's throat. And then the gurgling scream that rose from her lips, spraying more blood. A moment later he was drenched, covered in

spurting, flowing crimson. He let his head fall back against the bricks, gritting his teeth and forcing a grunt of horror and pain past his lips.

He felt Clarice's still-twitching body being pulled away from his,

and heard the thud as it fell to the floor in the center of the room. When he looked, Shannon was using a rag to wipe the blood from her hands

and paying him no mind. Did they mean to leave the body there?

Christ...she was staring at him. Glassy eyes and a second, lurid smile

where her unblemished throat used to be.

From the other side of the room, Donnatella said, "Check his

reflexes,
cara
."

He was ashamed at the way he flinched when Shannon stepped

forward. But she only grabbed his left nipple between two fingers and

twisted. He could feel the pressure, faraway and vaguely unpleasant. He

didn't react.

"Nothing yet, Madre."

"
Bene
. We will leave him for a time."

Shannon crossed the room and allowed Donnatella to take her arm.

Just before they reached the door, Donnatella turned her head in his

direction and spoke, her every word like a bell tolling in his head. "I will return, Detective Colton,
sí
? And when I do, you will feel...everything."

* * * *

So much blood...

It ran in rivers down the walls of the room, splashed in puddles on

the hardwood floor. And the Madre's voice, like the bass line of a funeral dirge set to techno-funk, rising and falling in her head. She couldn't make it stop. It was never going to stop. It was going to keep going, on and on, until she lost her mind and—

It stopped.

Perfect, sweet silence settled over her. After a few seconds, she

lifted her head from her hands and glanced around. The blood was gone,

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too.

"Thank you," she said to no one in particular.

She'd managed to fall asleep with the help of one of those nifty

yellow pills she kept for just such emergencies. On top of the tequila, it pretty much knocked her on her ass. She hadn't even bothered to