Theta Waves Book 1 (Episodes 1-3) (24 page)

There was no pretense to the auction. Sasha demonstrated no hint of moral indignity as he cupped her ass through the gold lame material and twisted her so the crowd could catch a glimpse of her round cheek. "You'll find her healthy, free of disease, and able to copulate."

A murmur of appraisal shuddered through the crowd. Theda tried to peer out into the darkness, but the lights blinded her. All she could see were her own trembling hands as she tangled her fingers together.

"Come see for yourself," Sasha said. "If you don't believe me."

Out of the darkness came a tall strip of a man who in the light reminded Theda of a string of copper wire tarnished by age and filth. His fingers invaded Theda's mouth, pulling down her lips and stretching them this way and that. He tasted of fish and she had to fight not to gag. Abruptly, those fingers left her mouth and ran down her chest, pinching her nipples through the dress.

"Is she disfigured?" The man said to Sasha.

"Strip her and see," Sasha replied.

She heard her own whimper, but could do nothing as the man wrenched the dress down from the shoulders, tearing it as he twisted it over her torso, down past the belt, peeling her like fruit. He grunted as he studied her breasts, jiggled one in his palm, testing the weight. He looked faintly displeased at her paltry Bcups and she tried to work down a lump that caught in her throat. His hand went beneath the dress, cupping her ass, then, frustrated, pulled free and twisted the dress up through the belt so it lay in a bunch on her waist. She had no choice as he tugged further, but to lift her arms so he could pull it off. He tossed the garment to the floor and then both of his hands returned to her skin, poking, pinching. Three fingers at a time drove into her sex and extracted themselves. She clenched her thighs together against the sting they left.

"50,000," he said thoughtfully. Someone in the back whistled.

"Surely you jest," Sasha said. "You do know there's a reserve?"

The man looked wickedly chagrined. "Can't blame a man for trying," he said, shrugging.

Sasha stepped into the light, pushing the man gently aside. "Gentlemen, in case you don't understand, the reserve is set at a quarter of a million." He eyed the bidder speculatively. "Care to look again?"

"Is she a virgin?" Someone from the darkness asked.

"No," the bidder responded and turned to Sasha. "Too hefty a price, then," he said. "Even for your wares. Even for wares of this quality." He poked a finger at the corner of Theda's eye and pulled. "She could be a spitter like the rest of your goods."

"All the easier to control if you're fortunate enough for her to be," Sasha explained. "She'd be far more docile."

"Unless I want some fire," he corrected.

"Fire can be bought like anything else."

"Still too hefty."

The snake of Sasha's smile slithered across his face. "You have before you the woman the beast seeks. I'm sure that changes the value."

A renewed hush fell over the room as the news struck each occupant differently. Theda didn't want to see the look of renewed hunger in the men's eyes and stared at her toes in the light.

"If you don't want to satisfy your own cravings with this girl, feel free to resell her to the beast."

"You double crossing bitch," Theda hissed. "You were supposed to –"

"Supposed to what?" Sasha inquired politely. "You knew what you were agreeing to. What does it matter the method of your demise?"

"You were supposed to save Ezekiel."

" I did," Sasha answered. "Even now, he's reclining ever so comfortably on a chaise lounge."

"You gave him godspit?" Theda couldn't believe her ears.

Sasha wouldn't answer. Instead he addressed the room again. "Come now," he said. "Surely you can imagine the price of my risk. I do this for you, my most loyal patrons. I'm offering you a unique opportunity. Dress her as Joan of Arc if you like and burn her alive. Milk her like a vampire would. Shoot her an overdose and watch her slip away in a delirium. You're limited only by your imagination here at Sasha's Boutique."

Theda's tongue stabbed at her parched lips as she tried to rekindle her resolve. The absolution she'd felt, the liberation at saving Ezekiel, felt like water in her veins, but it was the voice that came from immediately in front of her that made her legs turn to liquid.

"I'll take her."

She didn't have to search the faces to know the owner of the voice.

"Councilman Prusser," Sasha drawled. "Ever a discerning choice as always."

The Councilman stepped forward, his eyes greedy on Theda's face. "You have my account number."

"Music to my ears," said Sasha and hooked his arm through the Councilman's, turning discreetly away from the crowd.

"I know full well that you have cooperated with the beast like you always do," Prusser said. He chuckled. "I'm even certain he has found the religion mongerer." He winked conspiratorially and Sasha smiled thinly.

He stretched his arm out toward Theda. "Come along, child." He quirked his finger impatiently. "You have duties to attend to." He twisted his gaze to Sasha. "You do realize I'm paying double for her?" he said, pouting. "I never got to finish –"

Sasha's neck snapped almost audibly. "You paid for a regular girl before, and you failed to complete your own fantasy. That has nothing to do with my business. I provided the canvas as required, all you had to do was lay down your paint."

Don't worry," the Councilman said. "I intend to do just that. Lots and lots of red."

Theda weaved along on her feet, struggling to keep even footing as she trailed along behind them. She had chosen this, she kept telling herself. She had chosen for Ezekiel. Just the thought that he might change, that the beast's horseman could evolve into something different than what he was. She would hold onto that thought. That would drive her forward.

And if he hadn't changed, what then? Would it lessen her action any? She gave it consideration as she stumbled along, realizing that it didn't. She'd made the choice because she wanted him to live, couldn't imagine him facing an end like Salima's, with no do over, no peace.

Maybe that's what their shared vision had been about. Maybe it was about her own absolution, her own evolution. Maybe her choice could help her find some peace finally. She kept telling herself that deep within she received more satisfaction from knowing he was alive than thinking she could find peace. She wondered what that meant, why she would feel so strongly, and realized he'd changed her as much she'd changed him.

They exited the room on the opposite side of the way they'd come in. Theda hadn't realized the complex was so large. The building itself must have stretched into several of the older buildings back before the Holocaust so that now it was a large complex of varying styles. The wing that she entered had a Gothic feel. Several gargoyle statues squatted beside door ways, and the wall sconces had a distinctly medieval temperament.

The Councilman nearly squealed with delight when they stopped outside an ornately carved door with a brass knocker. He tested it by lifting it and letting it drop. The sound made Theda's teeth hurt.

"You read my mind," he said to Sasha.

"Your file, more like," Sasha answered. "Our debriefer takes very good notes. You did mention that the next time you visited you might like to have a medieval torture chamber?"

The Councilman put a pudgy finger to his lip. "Yes I did, but I'm thinking now that I might need to have a vent for smoke."

"I thought you might like the Joan of Arc touch."

"Perhaps I could mix and match," he said, musing out loud. "Kind of a blend of heretic and witch hunt." He looked at Theda meaningfully.

She swallowed hard. She had given him that vision. Had walked him through a life that mingled with her own generations ago when he'd been the one tortured and she had been the torturer.

"He eyed Theda's face in earnest. "Do you remember?" He asked her and she nodded numbly.

"I do too. Every little nuance." His face lit up with an evil gleam. His fingers shook in anticipation as he fitted the key into the lock. The door creaked open almost as though it were echoing the pain of generations past. She watched him swallow convulsively, barely able to contain his eagerness.

He turned to Sasha. "We'll be just fine in here."

"Indeed, and if you should find an industrial fan vented to the exhaust, then perhaps consider leaving your server a tip." Sasha grinned as Prusser's face went agape in wonder. That was when Theda realized this life, the choice she'd made for Ezekiel, wasn't about her own absolution at all.

It was about retribution.

She didn't have to use much of her imagination to remember the vision she brought to both Ezekiel and Councilman Prusser. Certainly, she'd gone through the visions with them almost as though they were her own, but part of the gift that allowed her to stream backwards in time as though she were living it at the moment, also allowed her different perspective. She didn't want to see it, but the memory came anyway: shown in the re-visions she'd given both Ezekiel and Prusser. The memory of it chilled her more than the air in the chamber.

She saw the wainscoting and linen paneling of a luxurious home, kissed the fingers of her wife when she'd been that sadistic bastard Ezekiel had guessed her to be after his re-vision. He'd said he forgave her and she'd protested that she didn't need it, then promptly stomped down the memory so flat, she couldn't recognize it as hers.

But here in this room, amid the instruments of torture she'd known intimately as Cathrin's husband, she could bring forth that renewed perspective. Saw herself through the eyes of the people both Ezekiel and Prusser had been. A handsome man, roguish looking, with a sex appeal and charisma that exuded from every pore.

Despite the polite veneer of carefully crafted gentility, she recognized a ruthlessness that harbored on sadism. She saw a man who took pleasure in the acquisition of wealth and beyond that, who took pleasure in the pain of others.

Being able to inflict torture was just an added benefit to the wealth he gained from questioning accused witches. Hidden in the shadows during the Inquisition of each victim, coming forth when it was time to touch them in an intimately painful way the first time, with the promise of an ever-blooming agony as time went on and they prolonged their own torture with denials.

When Cathrin entered the chamber, he made sure to be hooded. Not from shame, but because if she recognized him she might explain that the torturer of Trier had enjoyed the embrace of his wife at the same time as the embrace of his best friend. That might cast doubts on his own purity--not something to toy with lightly in the presence of devout judges. He had to keep the mask of purity intact, pretending to loathe the acts he inflicted upon others.

Cathrin came forward, pledging her innocence of course, and then refused to answer at all. How delightful it would be to get her to speak again, the cuckolding bitch. When he racked her, he did so slowly, taking his time to let her feel the fibers of her muscles and tissues separate from one another. When he wedged a block of wood between his best friend's knees and hammered them together, emitting a loud crack from the kneecaps, he whispered into his friend's ear, "Screams of pain so close to the screams of pleasure." He hated Markus now. He wanted the bastard to die slowly, twisting on his own terror.

And when he had tied the gunpowder around Cathrin's neck tenderly, lovingly, he kissed her on the earlobe, lifted his hood so that she could peer into his eyes. Oh the shock and horror on her face when she realized that the man torturing her all along was the man she took to bed each night with such zeal that she cried out, begging for more. She was a voracious thing, that one. And she was as passionate in her panic as she was in bed.

Rather than disgusting him, rather than making him put down his instruments for good, it had seeded a craving for more. How could it be that his wounds would not be staunched by the pain of those who had hurt him? How could he still thirst for revenge when the betrayers were dead and dusting the crops for spring?

He took to torture like most men took to snuff. Like some women took to laudanum. It was a cold reimbursement to divest his victims of money. The financial gain became secondary as each person brought a new opportunity for vengeance. Each woman became Cathrin. Each man, Markus.

The woman the Councilman had been during his lifetime in Trier had been especially succulent. She had very little wealth to gain from, but her sobs of pain reminded him so much of Cathrin's sobs of pleasure, that he didn't want the experience to ever end.

He took great care to build her torture. First doing simple things like pulling out clumps of hair, then laying hot pokers briefly against her skin, watching the flesh beneath bubble and steam. Then taking the same hot pincers and pulling at each fingernail, pausing in between so the inquisitors could check to see if she would admit to being a witch.

Thankfully, he could return to his ministrations and build the experience. He used the strappado on her to the inquisitor's great chagrin. They expected that surely she would confess then, and end the torture, but she didn't. She'd passed out and Erich had to wake her by slapping her twice across each cheek.

When he ran out of citizens to torture, when the Inquisition moved on, he settled into a life of memories in his great manse, but no one would work for him then. By the time everyone in the county had been put to death for witchcraft, with the sole survivors being the inquisitors and the torturer, people put one and one together. If they hadn't succumbed to the Inquisition, they moved away. And those who did remain out of sheer poverty, would starve themselves to death rather than ease one moment of his day by doing menial chores for him.