eyes and go to that source, to take that succour again, was overpowering. 'You know what he’s capable of,' Pietre reminded her. 'You don't want to die that way.'
There was a pause where Pietre should have realised he'd frightened Belle — should have pursued the threat, enlarging it, speculating as to which orifice Mr Black would chose to penetrate with his elephantine organ. But his mind was working against him, regurgitating the past, pushing it into the present.
There were no memory-pictures from his childhood, no movie reel that ran behind his eyes — his sanity couldn't have born it. But the sounds, the smells and the physical sensations were locked into his psyche like a blind man's nightmare. They were inside him now and they tugged at his gut. He knew what he needed and he knew the thing in the corner could give it to him.
'Come to me, boy,' she wheedled, 'You know it's worse if you don't come. If I have to catch you.' The voice was so precise he simply had to close his eyes…
'I can't keep on,' he said softly, in the same admonishing tone he recalled so painfully. 'Just this once and no more.'
'Just this once,' the voice from his past agreed, but he knew it would be more. It was always more. 'I have to be cruel to be kind,' she said, 'You know that, boy.'
'I know,' Pietre whispered as he took a faltering step away from the door, his muscles clenching as he prepared for the pain. He hated the pain. Hated it every time. But that was what it took and he couldn't stop. His need was too great — the compulsion too strong. 'Just this once,' he whispered.
'Come to me, boy,' she husked and he blindly followed the voice.
In front of him the chains clanked in preparation but he kept his eyes tightly closed. The part of him that was inside a filthy cell with an animal and a killer was draining away. He was the 'boy' again, talking faltering steps towards the release he could no longer live without.
Then he jerked to a stop.
The sound had been nothing more than a puff of air, but it had stilled the clanking. Pietre's hands balled into fists.
Beside him, a voice said, 'Wendee. Remember Wendee. We have to find her.' But Pietre was thinking of a weapon, something he could kill this intruder with. He had nothing but his bare hands and he couldn't use them. Couldn't touch…
'We have to find Wendee,' the voice said persuasively, and he remembered then that he could touch someone — would touch. But he had to find her first.
Opening his hands, Pietre flexed the fingers, then turned to face the door. Seconds ticked over as his mind, adept at blocking horror, swept what lay behind him into the past.
'The game is over and my brother has won,' he said at last, pleased by the normality of his tone. 'Tell Christophe to send the acknowledgment — Armande will reply. Whatever his demands, I must accede to them. I must have Wendee back.'
Beside him the Indian sighed deeply. A strange sigh, as though there were more to his relief than the mere fact that his master had regained his sanity.
Pietre glanced at him surreptitiously as he holstered his gun and keyed the security number in the doorpad. Could Long Shadow have a vested interested in seeing the Wendee returned?
Pietre wondered if he was becoming paranoid. The Indian's actions could be motivated by nothing more sinister than obedience to his master's needs.
Could be…
The door opened and Pietre stepped out. He had much to do. And much to think about.
'Hey man, watcha got for me?'
Long Shadow watched the Greek boy approach, his shiny black boots striking loudly on the cobblestones. Swaggering. Long Shadow hated Nick's swagger.
'A body to dispose of,' he said, indicating the cell door with a tilt of his head. 'In there.'
Nick smirked. 'Anyone I know?'
Long Shadow stared at him, thought, Wendee has lain with this one. Several times. And she liked it. 'Belle.' He bit off the word.
'Belladonna…? The bosses' broad?'
'That's right.'
'Little pixie Belle? With the fake hair and — '
'That's the one.'
Nick was incredulous. 'Fuck me. Does the boss know?'
'He ordered it.'
There was silence. Then, 'Fuck me,' Nick said again, with feeling. He shook his head, then seemed to gather himself and slapped a palm on the door. 'Open it up, man. I gotta see this.'
Long Shadow slotted his card in the lock and the door slid open. The smell was bad. He wanted to leave Nick to it but he hesitated, unsure why.
Nick strode past him. 'Neat entry hole,' he complimented, looking down at the corpse. 'I had a broad in Calcutta once. She had a mark…' He pointed to the centre of his forehead.
'Ticka,' Long Shadow said tonelessly.
Nick waved a hand in agreement. 'Yeah. Religious thing.' He hunkered down beside the body. 'Man, you'd swear she was just asleep.' He reached across and laid a hand on her shoulder. 'Still warm.'
Long Shadow felt a wave of revulsion despite the fact that Nick meant nothing by the comment. Belle's spirit was perverting everything and for a horrible moment he felt as if it was reaching for him with invisible tendrils, trying to envelope his body, to capture his manhood. With a jerky movement he stepped backwards, bumping into the doorframe. Nick turned back from inspecting the corpse to frown at him but he had to get away so he turned to walk blindly down the stone passageways. The next thing he was aware of was being on his knees in the surf, vomiting.
Spasm after spasm of nausea rolled over him as he sought to expel the evil from his body. It went on and on, draining him of strength until he felt weak. Shocky. The same way he had the time his testicles had been injured in a fight. Had she hurt him somehow? Had her spirit reached out and crushed his manhood between those claw-like fingers.
Limply, he stripped off his clothing, threw it up onto the dry sand and inspected his penis and testicles. They were unharmed but tingled strangely, as though coated with a substance that would eventually burn.
Waves broke over him as he lay in the shallow water rinsing himself, trying to wash away the memory of those invisible fingers and the effect they'd had on him, but it was still strong, even though he knew Nick would have burnt the body by now.
Frustration gripped Long Shadow and grabbed a handful of wet sand and scoured his penis with it. The burning sensation grew with the size of his erection and then it was too late to stop the ejaculation — quick, unsatisfying. Almost immediately the burning sensation was back.
His hand fell limply to his side. Another wave rolled over him and he noticed a subtle temperature change. The air that touched his skin was cooling. It was getting late so he forced himself up onto his elbows and shook the hair out of his eyes to look across the waves. Within half an hour, the sun would set — it's life-force bleeding into the thin clouds that hung below it like a dancer's tulle skirt.
He had seen many such sunsets in the last few weeks — picture post-card images — but they failed to inspire him. Without Wendee, the part of him that responded to beauty had shut down. She was his lens. His focus. He was half-alive without her.
Yet he forced that half-life on, dragging himself out of the surf and dressing in the fading light before heading back to his camp. There were other responsibilities to keep him busy while he waited for DeMartande to rescue his love, and he hurried his steps to return before the deeper dark fell.
On reaching his camp, he called across the compound, 'It's me, Long Shadow,' remembering the time he'd surprised Skye in his teepee and she'd tried to stab him with a knife.
DeMartande had given her into Long Shadow's care a fortnight earlier, but Skye was still traumatized by the ordeal she’d put herself through. Leaves rustling made her skin crawl and when the wind howled at night she huddled under her furs, inconsolable.
