Tales from Arondell: Sodom - Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Isabella Darian

I study the rows of books, chemicals, pickled specimen jars, and other oddities cluttering Edwin's workroom. It's not a large space – hence why it looks so messy and disorganised – but it seems big enough for the tattooed Warlock.

His pale, work roughened fingers massage a second layer of the gritty poultice into my scars. I grimace: It stings a little at first, but as it seeps into my skin, the pain dissipates, leaving me feeling oddly refreshed.

I don't mind him touching me, even though he's a stranger. He's not so different from a doctor or a nurse, and his methodical movements soothe me. Until he orders me to drop my dress!

"What?" I baulk. “No! I can't do that.” Not in front of Zaenack My face burning, I whirl about on the Warlock, and come face to face with the scarred gentleman stepping out of the doorway.

My eyes widen, my mouth pops open and my wings tremble. My Gods. He's... He's a Netheren! Not once did I imagine I'd see one of his kind in the flesh, although I've certainly heard enough stories from Bayne and Uncle Kellen. I shudder.

Savages, monsters, demons, cannibals. They're creatures of the dark places, venturing out only at night to feed and haunt dreams. They prey upon the weak and helpless, butcher babies and pregnant women, drink blood and suffocate children in their sleep. They are masters of deception, seductive, beautiful and deadly, with the ability to change their forms at will and blend into their environment.  

Yet this disfigured gentleman doesn't fit any of those stories. For one, he looks civilised and his eyes seem lost and sad, although that could be part of his disguise. He's an impressive individual, the same height as Zaenack, but lean and sinewy beneath his smoking jacket and casual trousers.

He has spiked cherry red hair and a neat goatee, a generous mouth festooned with metal, black ear-plugs, studs in both eyebrows, the most striking sea-blue eyes I've ever seen, and more scars than any living man should have. The worst cut across his left eye – that orb isn't moving – covering the stumps where his horns should be.

My Gods, the poor man! I wince and cover my mouth with my hand. What on Arondell happened to him? No Netheren has ever looked so disfigured in their transient form.

My dress, gathered to my chest, slips from my hands for an instant, exposing my scarred left breast, and the large rosy nipple.

The stranger gazes at me and offers a weak, but lonely smile. "I'm sorry if I startled you, Miss Darian."

He knows my name? How does he know my name? I try not to squeak, and yank up my dress. How can I be so careless, exposing myself to a complete stranger? In front of Zaenack, no less! My face burns up, not in the least because I've been caught staring at the strange man.

"Please, allow me to introduce myself," he continues, dipping into a graceful bow. "I'm Nathanael Scarlett; Scourge of the Watch; Patron of free speech; Gaffer of the Fraternity; and a humble man, eager to welcome such a lovely young Lady into his home." His lips twitch, baring his sharp white teeth.

Well, he's certainly been busy. I swallow hard and shift nervously on the bench, quickly turning away lest he see my shame. Where are your manners, Isabella? I imagine mother scolding me. Didn't I teach you anything? Apparently not, otherwise I would've stopped ogling his disfigurements the minute I saw them.

I blush again. Honestly, how would I feel if he stared at my scars so brazenly? I tug up my dress even higher, ignoring the Warlock as he rubs the gritty paste into my shoulders, working the skin down to the tops of my breasts.

"You need to uncover yourself." He insists. "If you want all of your scars treated."

"I do, but..." I hesitate, and bite my lip. A quick glance at Zaenack, still absorbed in his newspaper – I'm not going to risk another glance at the Gaffer – and Edwin seems to understand what's troubling me.

"If you two would please leave?" He glances over my shoulder at the other two men.

"Of course." Mister Scarlett strikes a match, and an acrid whiff of cigarette smoke drifts into the room. Yuck. "Come along, Zaenack." His footsteps retreat into the library. "You can finish your paper later."

Zaenack folds his newspaper, packs away his belongings, and follows the Gaffer without a word.

How odd. I frown, looking over my shoulder, as the door closes behind them. If I didn't know any better, I'd say Zaenack leapt at the command too obediently; and that Mister Scarlett addressed him as he would a child, or a dog.

But that's silly. Most likely, Mister Scarlett has a more relaxed and informal attitude toward his employees and supporters; and they're comfortable with this approach.

"Feel better now?" Edwin interrupts my thoughts.

"Yes." I nod. Well, at least a little better. Hesitating again, because I've never felt comfortable undressing around strangers, I lower my dress. "Thank you."

But as the Warlock's cool fingers smooth the poultice into my flesh, I can't help but wonder: Why did I compare Zaenack to a complete stranger?
 

Edwin Rift pushes the door open, allowing me to step into the library. "Remember." The Warlock glances at the glass jar containing the speckled shale poultice. "If you experience any difficulties – rashes, swelling, discolouration, pain – stop the treatment, and come see me. Otherwise, I'll have another batch made up for you by the end of the week."

I nod, and smile at him. "I will. Thank you, Mister Rift."

"Any time. And another thing," Edwin's gaze flicks to the Gaffer, who seems to be absorbed in an old black book, "if that doesn't work, we'll have to try something else."

He bids us good night then, and shuts the door behind him. The Gaffer returns his book to a higher shelf and steps toward me. His steady gaze holds mine, and for some strange reason I can't look or back away. Not even when he takes my hands into his.

His grip is strong yet gentle, his touch hot and soothing, making my skin buzz in a way I've never experienced before. I jerk my hands back with a startled cry and rub my still tingling fingers. It's strange, because I want him to touch me again, and I regret pulling away.

Mister Scarlett's expression changes. For a moment he looks genuinely hurt, the smile in his eyes fading fast. “Well, Miss Darian,” He tugs at his jacket, and stands up straighter. “If you would follow me, please.” He turns abruptly on his heel and beckons me to follow him. "I'd like to show you to your new room."

A room for me already? Forgetting my momentary shock, I shake my head and hurry after him: His legs are so long, they've already carried him across the room. How long has Zae been planning...

"I'm sure you have many questions, Miss Darian." Mister Scarlett continues, taking me off-guard and turns about to look at me. "They'll be answered soon enough."

What? I nearly stumble, and stop before I trip over and make a fool of myself. No. He didn't... He didn't read my mind, did he? I hesitate, swallowing hard as I study him, searching for something – a subtle shift of his eyes, or a twitch in his mouth – that might confirm or dismiss my suspicions. But his scarred face, slight smile and intense gaze betray nothing. I shiver.

Admittedly, I don't know much about his kind. But the thought of anyone probing my mind, something that's supposed to be kept secret, is more than a little creepy. He's invading my privacy! I'm not sure I want a complete stranger inside my head. I'm not sure I'd want Zae prying into my thoughts, if by some twist of Fate he suddenly could. There are certain things inside me I'd like to keep to myself, thank you!

Mister Scarlett's eyes twinkle, and he smirks at me. Telling me in no uncertain terms everything I need to know.

Oh my Gods! He did! The bastard! I gape at him, my cheeks burning. The cad!

His smirk widens, and he snorts. Is he trying not to laugh at me? "Once you're rested, it'll be my pleasure to give you a tour of my home." Mister Scarlett turns away, shamelessly acting like nothing happened, and leads me down a long carpeted hallway. It's lined on either side with tarnished brass light fixtures, sepia photographs, old paintings, and many closed doors. Zaenack's quick, light footsteps follow close behind us.

The Gaffer stops before one of these doors, and Zaenack rushes forward, quicker than I expect, with a heavy-set of iron keys. He unlocks the door just as quickly, and pushes it inwards on well oiled hinges.

I gasp as I gaze into the bedroom beyond. It's as lavish as any I've seen in the Darian Household; possibly more so. The furnishings are old and well-loved, with a few antiques – like the rest of the house – but the colours are soft and delicate; the colours I've always wanted in my ideal bedroom. Oh wow. Only the Caines know about that.

I cover my mouth, scarcely able to contain my gasp. They went to all of this trouble... for me? I shake my head, feeling more self-conscious than ever before. I don't deserve any of this...

"Please, make yourself at home, Miss Darian." Mister Scarlett says, and Zaenack takes my arm, escorting me inside.

Everything is perfect, laid out with so much care and attention to detail. There's a rocking chair in one of the bay windows, with a mound of soft lilac cushions, and a hand-knitted rug draped over the back. A large bookshelf overflows with books and delicate wooden figurines. Wow. Some of them remind me of the hand carved dolls papa made for me, when I was little.

I moan as the tears well in my eyes. Why, Zae? Why do this for me? Breaking away from him, I circumvent the room; stopping to touch the books and figurines, the perfume bottles and skin-care products on the dressing table, and finally I pause at the canopy bed. It's solid oak, and the craftsmanship is exquisite. The bed alone would've cost a fortune, without the light silk draperies, expensive bed-linen, and the handmade patchwork quilt. My mother's old blanket has been carefully folded at the foot of the bed.

Dusk is asleep in the middle of the mattress, sprawled on the white sleep-suit already laid out for me. A corduroy and cotton rag bunny, with its over-sized ears and skewed button eyes – another childhood memory Sinah destroyed – rests on the quilt beside the old wolf.

I stuff my fingers into my mouth, as silent tears spill down my cheeks.

"So that's where you've been, boy..." I sob. Picking up the soft bunny, I sit down beside him.

Dusk raises his shaggy grey head, and yawns.

"Everything you see here is yours, Miss Darian," Mister Scarlett says at length.

Please, don't say that. Clutching the bunny to my chest, I stretch out on the bed. The mattress is so soft, like a giant pillow, and the quilt is warm. Beside me, Dusk studies me with his wise amber eyes, and shifts off the rumpled white sleep-suit. It's warm, and speckled with his fur.

"Now, if you would excuse us," Mister Scarlett continues. "Your friend and I have some things to discuss."

What things? I glance up, my face wet and eyes blurry, and try to focus on him. But now that I'm lying down, even fully dressed, the weight of my exhaustion crashes down upon me. My eyes drift shut.

"Good night, Miss Darian." Two pairs of footsteps retreat to the door. "I hope you sleep well." The door closes behind them; that's the last thing I hear...
 

I awake with a start. Groggy, grainy-eyed and disorientated, it takes me a moment to realise where I am. That I'm safe. My new bedroom, beyond the great bed and the light gauzy curtains, is silent and cloaked in shadows. I doubt it's more than an hour before dawn. Dark crooked shapes, like bony fingers or claws, sway across the moon-bathed windows and stretch across the carpet. I've never been afraid of the dark, so as creepy as this old house seems, I know that's just the trees outside, playing tricks on me.

I roll over, turning my back on the window, and touch the spot where Dusk lay during the night. It's still warm. He must've gone outside. Where to, I don't know, but he'll probably be back in the morning or sometime during the week.

Rising from the bed, I switch on the lamp and strip out of the clothes I borrowed from Lannie. Maybe that'll help me get back to sleep. Why did I wake up, anyway? Carefully folding the garments, I place them on the chair at the dressing table and shrug. The room is warm, most likely heated through the vents in the ceiling, like in the Darian household. So it's not the cold that woke me up.

I pull on the sleep-suit, and button it up. Much better. Stifling a yawn, I approach the east facing window and peer outside. A great skeletal oak blocks much of the view, but already smudges of red stain the brick and concrete skyline. One of three moons, little more than a bright sliver, rides the breaks in the clouds. It bathes the shadowed limbs of the gnarled tree, as they sway back and forth in the wind.

Go back to sleep, Isabella. I rub my sore eyes and return to the bed. But I still can't figure out what woke me up so early.

I climb under the covers, and pull them up to my chin. Maybe it's something in the house? It's old after all, and full of restless memories. Stories of the Black Shroud Beast, the Ladies on the lawn, and now the Fraternity and the Gaffer. I wonder what his story is, to be so horribly scarred.

Not that it's any of my business. I sigh and stare at the shadowy canopy.

Aside from the expected noises, the wall clock ticking, a heavy bass rumble from downstairs and the creaks and groans of the house itself, nothing seems out of the ordinary. Until I hear the squeaking bed and faint moaning in the room next door.

Oh. Oh my Gods... My heart races, and my cheeks burn. Is... Is that what I think it is? Unable to quell my curiosity – mama always said I'm too curious for my own good – I angle my ear to the wall, and listen.

The squeaking grows louder, and this time a headboard thumps into the wall. Above it all, a man pants in pleasure. "Oooh... Oooh yes... You feel so good..."

Sweet Mother Gaia! My eyes widen in mortification, and soon my whole face is aflame. It is! What am I doing... listening to this? I'm no pervert! For all I know, that's Lannie and Darneth making love... Yes, on the numerous occasions I've risked staying with my friends overnight, I've heard them in the early hours before dawn. They aren't exactly quiet. Yes, it excited me. It's making me wet now, but... They're my friends!

Disgusted with myself, I scoot to the foot of the bed and hide under mama's old blanket. There, in the dark, I try to think of something, anything other than the couple next door... But all my flailing mind comes up with is Zaenack. Does he sound the same as his brother in the throes of his ecstasy?

A sudden loud crack, muffled by the wall, shatters my unwanted fantasy. What on Arondell..? I sit up with a start, pulling the blanket tighter around me. My eyes widen and my heart pounds, rattling my ribs like a little hammer. Slowly I face the wall, and the sound returns, sharper and clearer than before. Only this time, soft moans of pain accompany the savage smacks. The bed still squeaks and the man, whoever he is, groans out loud. My Gods. My mind goes blank, and my mouth falls open. No way in Taros is that Darneth and Lannie!

The smacking noise continues with a devilish rhythm, making those cries rise and fall like waves. It's only after the tenth, or twentieth slap that I recognise the sound. It's a broad leather strap, or even a cane: two things Sinah enjoyed striking me with.

I cringe and shudder, my wings trembling beneath the covers. What's going on in there?

The cries reach a crescendo as the belting continues. Then, above the noise, a plaintive supplication cuts through me like a knife: "Please... Master..." That's Zae's voice.

Gaia, no! Say it isn't so! I freeze, my wings drooping as I stare into Nothingness. Tears mist my eyes unbidden. Well, that certainly explains why he rejected me. I blink against the salty wetness. He's a slave and I had no idea. Why didn't he tell me?

More importantly, does his family even know about this? I shake my head, wanting to deny it. Maybe I'm imagining things, mistaking a stranger's voice for Zaenack's. It's so easy to do that. Lying down, because the cries and the terrible slaps next door finally stop, I tuck the blankets around my chin and close my eyes. They're so sore. It's been a long, and trying day.

Noise cuts through the wall again, changing in pitch and rhythm. Throatier groaning, as the second man nears ecstasy, accompanies the rougher thwacks, and the whimpering of the man being punished.

Against my will – I never would've guessed that Zae's a masochist or homosexual – I picture it with alarming clarity: The slave, chained to the bed on his hands and knees, struggling as he receives the relentless belting. Or is he lashed to the bed post, naked, and welted from hip to knee? After all, that's how Sinah liked to hurt me.

"Please... Master... If it pleases You..." The belted man sobs. "Please, please... I need... release." This time there's no denying it: That's Zaenack being tortured in the next room.

A hot flood of emotion sweeps through me, stealing my breath and paralysing me beneath the blankets. For a moment I don't dare move, or even think, because doing so will mean it's real, and I can't accept that. Yet the longer I lie here, staring into the shadows, listening to my heart beating, and the exciting noises next door, the clearer the truth seems. I have to run to him, rescue him – as he rescued me – and give him the release he craves!

No! I gasp, covering my burning face with my hands. I mustn't... This is Zae... I mustn't think of him this way! Try as I might, I can't get his moaning, his begging, out of my head. I picture him again, naked, shackled, helpless... His large hairy body sheathed with sweat – glistening in the lamplight – his tidy brown hair a mess, gorgeous eyes misty with his passion, and his cock thick and erect. Ready for me.

I moan as those repressed desires flicker in my nipples and belly. It sweeps downwards, flooding my blossom with heat and pleasure... and the overwhelming need to touch myself, to probe my wet slit and push my fingers inside myself, as I listen to him through the wall.  

My Gods... Tears of horror and disgust mist my eyes. What am I thinking! I hide under the pillows, jamming them against my ears, and count to ten, to twenty, anything to get the horrific, arousing sounds and thoughts out of my head.

Eventually it works. My desire dies, and the sounds fade into the background. But my disgust remains. Maybe it's a good thing that Zae's been taken – even if his lover, his Master, is a vicious man – because I feel certain I won't treat him right...

Continued in Chapter 7