Anew: Book Two: Hunted (32 page)

As I do, the ritual ends. Another gong sounds. The naked
women rise as one and fan out among the guests. Some straddle the men’s laps,
others are directed to kneel on the floor. I see one man put an arm around a
woman’s hips, holding her immobile as he slides a finger between her thighs.
She winces but does not resist. Another man pinches a woman’s nipples so
harshly that she smothers a cry. He laughs in response. When one of the men
pulls out his cock and directs the woman he’s chosen to suck it, I redouble my
efforts to find a way out.

Amelia

I’
ve been standing on
the pedestal for half-an-hour before I finally accept that there is no obvious
means of escape. A columned passageway at the far end of the room may lead to
the doors through which the men entered but is it to the right or left? Make
the wrong choice and I’ll be trapped. That’s presuming that I can get off the
pedestal without being noticed.

I’m at least reassured that attention has shifted away from
me. The pace of debauchery is increasing with each passing moment. I try to
look away but there is nowhere that does not contain a scene of sensual
abandon. In an effort to deny the terror that threatens to panic me, I tell
myself that when--not if--I get out of here, I’ll give every part of me
including my eyes a good bath.

Female heads are bobbing up and down all over the room as
several women mount a round platform and begin pleasuring one another,
displaying themselves to the men who offer lewd encouragement. Nearby, a woman
crawls on all fours between a gauntlet of men wielding riding crops. I wince as
she is struck repeatedly on the buttocks and thighs.

The man in the red mask watches it all from a throne-like
chair not far from where I am standing. He sits at his ease, his posture that
of regal aloofness. But his legs, beneath the cloak, are spread. When his left
hand slips inside the garment, I realize queasily that he is touching himself.
Several of the women keep their eyes on him, waiting for a summons, but they
might as well not exist. For the moment at least, he seems satisfied merely to
pleasure himself as he watches the others.

Meanwhile, the faceless, black-garbed servants move among
the guests, delivering drinks in cut-crystal tumblers along with silver serving
dishes heaped high with pharmaceuticals. Whatever instinct for restraint might
still be present in any of the men is falling away quickly. Several have
already begun to disrobe. The room is rapidly becoming a writhing mass of
bodies.

I can’t wait any longer. Feeling backward with my toes, I
find the first step and slowly lower myself onto it. I’m afraid to turn around
for fear that would attract notice but if I can avoid making any sudden
movements and just--

Before I can take another step, the room suddenly goes dark.
I teeter and only just manage to catch myself. A circle of light appears,
surrounding a stage that is rising up out of the floor. At the center of it is
a low couch occupied by a beautiful, naked woman stretched out on her side
facing the audience. She wears a mask of beaten gold and a sprinkling of gold
dust over her skin, nothing else. As the light expands around her, a man steps
out onto the stage. He, too, is naked except for a mask and a coating of gold
dust. His body is superb--tall, heavily muscled, powerful. His large cock
strains upward toward his abdomen. As he approaches the woman, the high,
keening voice of a flute rises above the throbbing rhythm of drums.

The woman spreads her legs and arches her back, blatantly
presenting herself to him. At once, he joins her on the couch, grasps her by
the neck and, holding her in place, mounts her. Her breathy cries and his
grunts form a human counterpoint to the music. His thrusts become faster and
deeper, pounding into her.

The audience cheers as a chant begins, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
The man obliges, holding the woman spread open so that she is displayed to the
avid eyes of the watching men as he drives into her. Rivulets of sweat flow
over them both, forming trails where the gold dust is washed away. After she
appears to come several times, he drags her off the couch and positions her
upright with her back to him. His cock juts engorged and glistening. He grips
her wrists and pulls her arms behind her, using them for leverage as he thrusts
into her again. Her head falls forward. She looks like a rag doll, helpless to
stop the relentless pounding into her body.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

The powerful muscles of his arms and chest clench as he
obeys the crowd’s command. It goes on for what seems like an impossibly long
time. The woman’s moans become weak and hoarse as her body clenches and jerks
repeatedly. The man no longer seems aware of her. He has become something
between a beast and a machine. Bile rises in my throat as I witness this
perversion of what has been called, in vastly different circumstances, an act
of love.

At last, the gong sounds. Faceless servants appear on the
stage. They move soundlessly, drawing the couple apart and positioning the
woman onto her knees in front of the man. Their gazes meet. Something in the
way they look at each other makes me think that they are not strangers, thrown
together for a night by the depraved vagaries of Carnival. I wonder if they are
a couple instead, workers like the woman in the window, fighting to survive and
advance in a society that seems more brutal and ruthless to me with each
passing day.

The woman takes the man’s penis in her hands gently. With
evident care, she reaches around to undo the latch of a metal ring that I
realize belatedly has kept him engorged all this time. A low moan breaks from
him as she takes him in her mouth. He grasps her hair, holding her in place,
his head thrown back and his eyes closed as he comes at last desperately and
convulsively.

I look away. Their vulnerability is anguishing. They are
human beings but their humanity is not recognized by the audience that has
turned them into an expression of its own depravity. Everything in me cries out
against such debasement even as I confront the very real likelihood that Davos
intends for me to experience it myself in some form of his devising. More than
ever, I know that I have to get away.

In the aftermath of the show, the lights come back on,
revealing couples, trios, and even more ambitious arrangements arrayed on every
table, couch, and chair or writhing on the floor. The smell of sex becomes
overpowering. I take another step back, feeling my way down the first step only
to freeze when a sudden realization hits me. Every other woman and most of the
men are naked. Wearing the red cloak, I will be all too noticeable. Even the
transparent silk tunic will draw attention. If I’m not spotted by the faceless
servants, I will be by one of the men…or more. That possibility makes me feel
ill but so does the thought of staying where I am, waiting helplessly for
whatever Davos has planned for me.

My legs are shaking. I’m afraid they won’t hold me upright
much longer. I have to act but I remain frozen. Longing wells up in me…to
escape this horrible place, to stand in the light again, to live in a world where
Davos and his kind don’t exist. But above all is my yearning for the man who
awakened me to the world and who has been my sanctuary from it even as he has
longed for another woman. I ache for him with every particle of my being.

Tears burn my eyes. I blink them away and force myself to
breathe. As I do, a flicker of movement near the columns draws my attention.
Another guest has arrived. Still fully dressed in a darkly elegant business
suit, he stands looking out over the scene with cool, aloof amusement. His
gaze, hooded and impenetrable, slides past me and does not return.

I gasp and close my eyes in disbelief, certain that in my
terror, I am hallucinating. When I open them again, the clash of relief and
panic threatens to overwhelm me. Ian! Here, alone! Any joy I might feel burns
away before the realization of the danger he has put himself in. How could he
do such a thing? Does he have no regard for his own safety ? If he’s harmed
because of me--

The thought is unbearable but hard on it comes another. I
can’t deny that he looks alarmingly at ease in this environment. As I watch, he
accepts a drink from one of the faceless servants and makes his way to a vacant
club chair not far from where I stand on display. I want to cry out to him but
my throat is so tight that no sound escapes. It clenches even further when
several women--all beautiful, all naked, swiftly approach him. For a horrible
moment, I’m afraid that I’m going to be forced to watch them pleasure him. When
he waves them off with a shake of his head, I all but sag with relief.

The debauchery continues all around us but Ian appears not
to notice. He sets his drink aside on a nearby table, shoots the cuffs of his
shirt, and stifles a yawn. In the midst of a full-blown orgy, he looks bored. I
desperately wish that I could feel the same. The sickness in me continues to
mount, made all the worse as I consider more fully the implications of Ian
being in such a place. What memories must it evoke of the experience that
scarred him so badly when he was still little more than a child?

Across the width of the club, Ian and the man in the red
mask face each other. As the minutes pass, neither moves. I’m struck by the
sense that a contest of wills is playing out in front of me, one that only the
two of them can fully comprehend.

Finally, the man in the red mask stands. He leaves his
throne-like chair, comes down from the dais, and crosses the floor to mount the
stage. To the cheers of the crowd, he raises his arms over his head and walks
in a full circle, soliciting their fervor before taking up a position once
again facing Ian.

Several moments pass. I’m aware of the frantic beating of my
heart and the chill moving over my skin. But mostly all I can focus on is Ian.
His eyes are hooded, his expression inscrutable. He shows no interest in whatever
is about to happen.

 Two of the faceless servants appear, holding between
them a naked, trembling young woman. They pull her up the steps and onto the
stage, where she falls to her knees in front of the man. He moves aside a flap
in his cloak and forces her head under the garment. Almost at once, she begins
to bob back and forth. My relief at being spared a direct view of what she’s
doing vanishes when one of the servants approaches and holds out a long,
leather flail. The man takes it, slashing it once through the air as though to
get the feel of it. I jump at the sound it makes, then jump again when he
brings the next strike down against the woman’s bare buttocks. She jerks but
does not falter in her rhythm. Not with the first blow or with the dozen and
more than follow.

I cringe, imagining her desperation as the need to make the
man come is made all the more difficult by the pain of the flagellation she is
suffering at his hands. Her entire body is shaking before he finally stiffens
and throws back his head. The red mask catches the light of the hanging
chandeliers and glows as though with an inner, demonic fire.

In the aftermath, the woman slumps to the floor, gasping for
air. The crowd cheers. Several of the faceless servants appear and drag her upright.
The servants place her in front a large wooden cross in the shape of an X. Her
arms are raised over her head, her legs spread wide as she is secured to it.
Positioned out toward the audience as she is, I can see that she is crying.

For the first time since the performance began, I dare to
look at Ian. He shows no reaction to what he has just witnessed. The suffering
of the woman and her continued plight appear not to affect him in the least.
But when I look more closely, I can see that his gaze remains locked on the man
in the red mask.

Who now throws off his disguise and steps forward, swiftly
crossing the distance between them. Charles Davos oozes magnanimity as he
offers his hand. Without hesitation, Ian stands and takes it.

Ian

A
red mist moves in
front of my eyes. I’ve seen it before and I know what it means just as I know
that I can’t yield to it. The Norse had a name for men who lost themselves in
the frenzy of battle, becoming something more--or less--than human. Berserkers.
Men who killed without remorse or hesitation, with no fear for their own
safety, wading through blood until at last they found the only solace that
mattered, victory.

I’m not that man. I refuse to be him. It’s enough that I’m
here despite Gab and Hollis’ best efforts to convince me to wait until an
assault can be organized. Or at the very least, not to go in without back-up. I
couldn’t do either. Waiting was out of the question once I knew where Amelia
was. And I understand Davos well enough to be sure that if I didn’t walk in the
door alone, he’d use her as a human shield even if that meant getting her
killed.

Not that what he already has in mind is much better. I know
that’s her on the pedestal. I’d recognize her anywhere but worse yet, I realize
what her being on display like that means. She’s this evening’s special
entertainment, an experience she’s likely to only barely survive. No doubt he
intends it as the start of the process that will break her down, take her apart
layer by layer. The knowledge fills me with rage. I want nothing so much as to
tear his throat out and feed him to the wolves.

Instead, I shake the sick bastard’s hand and say, “Bo-Peep
was a nice touch. That Jekyll/Hyde stuff is the real deal.”

Davos chuckles but his gaze is narrow, assessing me. He
hasn’t survived, much less thrived all these years by taking anything for
granted.

“So you know what’s happened to you? Good. Frankly, it’s a
relief to see the real you instead of that cardboard mask you’ve been hiding
behind all these years.”

He may think so. I sure as hell don’t but I’ll deal with
that later. I tighten my grip. “Still, I have to be honest, Charles. I don’t
appreciate your making off with my property. Not to mention the little matter
of trying to kill me at the Crystal Palace.”

The slime ball shrugs. “I didn’t think that you would on
either count. Still, you’ve impressed me with your durability. I thought we
should have a civilized conversation.” His smile tightens. “But perhaps you’d
like a tour first?”

I drop my hand. We both take a step back, eyeing each other.
“That won’t be necessary. From what I’ve seen already, you’ve brought back my
father’s old Club. Same location, same décor…same activities. And the same
purpose, I assume?”

A look of derision flits across his face. “I’m not the blunt
instrument that you are, Ian. All that heavy weaponry and so on isn’t for me. I
prefer a subtler approach. Manipulating men is much more satisfying than merely
killing them.”

Subtler, I wonder? Like whipping a woman while she sucks you
off? Davos is as delusional as they come. Especially if he thinks there’s any
chance of co-opting me to his side. No drug on earth--smart or otherwise--could
ever accomplish that. Still, I’m willing to play along, if only for the moment.

 “You’re being modest, Charles. There was nothing
subtle about the Crystal Palace. If you had your way, Edward McClellan and I
would be dead, and Amelia would be all yours.”

My candor startles him. He bares his teeth as he says, “She
already is. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, now more than ever.”

“Sorry, but that won’t hold up in this case. My lawyers have
everything they need to prove that the replica known as Amelia McClellan is my
property. In the event of my demise, ownership transfers to Edward. He’ll be watching
his back from now on. You won’t get anywhere near him and he’ll keep you tied
up in court for years. In the end, you won’t make a penny off anything you
learn from her.”

Davos frowns. “If you say so but that hardly matters if
you’re imagining that you can take her back by force.”

I smile, as though the thought amuses me. “And risk
destroying what may very well be the single most valuable piece of property in
the world, the key to replica technology? Hardly.” Parodying his own words back
at him, I add, “I’m not like you, Charles. Blowing up the Crystal Palace
because you were pissed off when your original plan failed isn’t my style.”

His mouth thins at the suggestion that he lost control of
the situation and of himself. He makes a feeble effort to claim otherwise. “I
knew you would get her out of there, dear boy. Good Sir Ian could always be
counted on to do the right thing, tedious bore that he was.”

He looks at me speculatively. “On the other hand, the real
you is proving to be a surprise. I was confident that she would end up fleeing
from you after you were, shall we say, liberated by Jekyll/Hyde. But frankly I
didn’t expect her to be in such good condition. From what I understand, there’s
hardly a mark on her.”

I resist the urge to look at Amelia and instead focus on the
mental image of my fist ramming into Davos’ throat. Or just grabbing his head
and twisting until I hear the satisfying snap of his spine.

Shrugging, I say, “I was pacing myself.”

“Were you? I’d like to take your word for that but if we’re
going to be doing business, I need more.”

Before I can reply, he flicks a hand, summoning one of the
faceless servants. They have a brief conversation that I can’t overhear. The
servant withdraws but he returns moments later with a young woman who, unlike
some of the others, looks far more excited than afraid. My stomach knots as I
realize that she’s one of those whose brain is hardwired to produce massive
amounts of endorphins in response to pain. Pain slut, my father called women
like her, but then he was an asshole.

No doubt if Davos gets his chance, he’ll be creating lots
more like her. Among other things. Once in possession of the replica
technology, he can produce legions of human beings programmed to do whatever he
chooses. The possibilities are as limitless as they are sickening.

The young woman kneels in front of me. Naked, with her head
lowered in a properly submissive attitude, she peeks up at me through her
lashes. Objectively, she’s beautiful but my cock and I are in agreement for
once. Neither of us wants anything to do with her. When she raises her hands in
offering and I see what’s in them, it takes every ounce of self-control that
I’ve got not to react.

The coiled whip she holds out to me is made of oxblood red
braided leather, possibly cow, maybe kangaroo, but probably, knowing Davos,
something rarer and endangered. Rhino, most likely. Between the short, rigid
handle and the flexible lash, it’s a little over eight feet long. Wielded
correctly, it can be as delicate as a lover’s tongue or as cutting as the
sharpest knife. With enough power behind it, the tip of the lash will break the
sound barrier, creating a mini sonic boom. I know all this because, God help
me, there was a time when I knew much more.

Without warning, the crack of the whip--and the screams and
moans that inevitably follow it--explode in my mind. I haven’t had a flashback
to the Club in years but suddenly I’m teetering on the edge of an abyss that
threatens to swallow me whole. Stunned and disoriented, I grasp for the only
possible lifeline. Amelia’s face is hidden by the shadows of the hood but I’m
sure that she sees me. I cling to the sight of her, holding on for dear life,
until my breathing steadies.

When it does, the young woman is still looking at me. Her
nipples are erect, her skin flushed. Bile rises in my throat. I’m well aware
that some sane, consenting adults find the savage dance of the whip sexually
arousing. I don’t. Getting dosed with Jekyll/Hyde hasn’t changed that. To me,
the whip is just a reminder of evil. I want nothing to do with it but I may not
have any choice. Davos is getting impatient.

“Why don’t you show us how it’s done?” he says, indicating
the empty cross beside the one where the woman he used earlier is shackled.

I know that he’s set up this little test to make sure that
I’m no longer, as he dubbed me so derisively, Good Sir Ian. No way he’ll let me
off the hook. My only hope is that I can somehow turn this to my advantage. But
for that to happen, Amelia is going to have to trust me. What are the odds of
that when I’ve given her every reason not to?

Slowly, I say, “I’m out of practice.”

“Nonsense, you’re being humble. I remember how skilled you
were, especially given that you were only a boy.” A flush creeps over his
cheeks. “Of course, you were big for your age and quite strong. Impressive,
really. The awkwardness of youth quite passed you by. I often thought how well
you would have done among the ancient Greeks or Romans.” He laughs faintly.
“Just think, if you’d been born a few thousand years sooner, we could be
admiring statues of you.”

His eyes run over me in a way that has me once again wanting
to reach for his throat. When I was in the Club, being the ‘man’ my father
wanted me to be, I steered clear of Davos. He was a predator then just as he is
now. I have no problem with anything consenting adults do between themselves
but he’s always liked his partners young, as in very. The rumors about him have
only gotten worse over the years.

“Yeah, that’s great,” I cut in. To get past Davos’ security
screening, I’m not carrying any kind of communicator, let alone a weapon. Gab
and Hollis have no way of knowing if I’m dead or alive. They won’t wait forever
to find out.

I’ve got one shot at making this work and I’m running out of
time. Before I can entertain any more doubts, I say, “If you want a show, fine.
But not with her.”

Davos glances at the kneeling woman. “Why not? What’s wrong
with her?”

I manage a sneer. “She’ll enjoy it too much. Besides, you
want to start breaking the replica down, don’t you?”

I stand before he can answer and take the whip from the
woman’s hands. It’s heavy with the weight of old memories I’ve never been able
to escape. They close in around me now, a dark, suffocating cloak that blocks
out even the hope of light.

Without waiting for a response, I walk toward the pedestal.