The Beast

FIFTY-THREE

When Assail was satisfied that there was no closed-circuit, or otherwise, monitoring in the study, he went to the carved door panels and cracked one open. Hearing nothing, he stepped out into the foyer and stood stock-still, listening for sounds of voices or footsteps.

“A coast that is clear, indeed,” he murmured, looking all around.

He was about to head toward the grand staircase when there was a shriek from the closed room across the way.

“—untrue!” Naasha bellowed, her volume barely dimmed. “Then it is a forgery of his signature! This is an abomination!”

Bad news? he wondered with a smile. Perhaps a long-lost relation had just come into a windfall in the will?

He jumped back into the study and closed the door most of the way just as she burst out into the foyer and stomped her way toward the stairs. Throe was on her, though, taking her elbow in a rough grip and wheeling her around.

Jutting himself forward, the male said in a low tone, “You must listen to the rest of the provisions. Yes, I realize this is a shock, but we can’t fight what we don’t know the full story of. You will go back in there. You will stop yelling. And you will let Saxton finish the presentation. When he has concluded, we shall ask him what your rights may be and who will adjudicate your contesting of the will. Then we shall engage a solicitor of our own. But you will not run out of there half-cocked and hysterical. Not if you want to get the money you’re due. Do you understand what I am saying to you.”

The voice that came out of the female’s well-greased throat was nasty as a growling dog’s. “It’s supposed to be mine. I spent the last twenty years listening to him complain. I have earned every penny of that money.”

“And I shall help you get what is yours. But that shall not happen if you do not control yourself. Emotion is not welcome here.”

There was a little more back-and-forth. And then Naasha squared those padded shoulders of hers and stalked back into the meeting.

One had to feel sorry for Saxton.

Although there was no dwelling on that now.

Assail wasted no time when they closed that door. He popped out of the study, re-shut things, and hit the stairs at a dead run. As he got to the second floor, he went down the hall farther than he had before, to a grand bedroom suite, the door of which was open. The moment he smelled astringent in the air, he knew he was in her hellren’s room—and what did one know, but the bed had been stripped, the pillows stacked in the center of the mattress, the whole of it looking well-worn.

He took out his camera phone and started snapping pictures. He had no idea what might or might not have been out of place, but that was for later perusal.

Stains. On the mattress.

High up on the mattress, not where one would expect them from a loss of bladder control.

The pillows were likewise marked.

A quick whiff told him it was not blood, nor urine. But what was the substance?

Into the bathroom. Medications everywhere, bottles with caps on cockeyed or not at all. A walker. A cane. Depends.

He was in and out of the suite in under seven minutes, and he paused at the head of the stairs. Two ways to get to the basement. The back fashion, which he had traveled the previous night . . .

No, he would use the other set of steps this time.

Closing his eyes, he dematerialized to the first floor and ghosted under doorways until he presented his physical form at the top of the front stairs to the cellar.

His ears gave him no reason to be worried, so he opened the way and stole into the darkness. Using his phone’s flashlight to navigate, he stuck to the sides of the rough-cut steps, the damp, cold air stinging his sinuses.

Down at the bottom, he continued on apace, passing by Naasha’s playroom. He did not like the amount of noise his leather-soled shoes made on the stone floor, but there was naught to be done about that—and presently, he came up to the door with the Master Lock on it.

That smell was still in the air, he thought, as he took out Vishous’s tool and inserted it where the proper key would go. Manipulating the slice of metal around, the lock went loose, and he sloughed the thing off its perch.

Without checking to see what precisely he was getting into, he slipped inside and shut himself in.

In the utter blackness, there was a shuffling sound in the corner. And a rattle of . . .

Chains?

Breathing. Something was breathing over there.

Assail pointed his phone in that direction, but the little beam reached no farther than a couple of feet. Putting the cell away, he palmed one of his guns and patted around the exposed beams next to the door.

When he found the light switch, he flipped it—

And recoiled in horror.

A naked male was chained on the bare stone floor in the corner. Chained and trembling as he curled in upon himself, ducking his head and holding onto his skeletal legs, his long hair the only covering he had.

The smell . . . the smell was of an old meal that had been left on a tray just within reach of him. Facilities, such as they were, were beside him, a mere hole that opened into the earth. There was also a hose, as one might find in a garden, hanging on a peg. And a bucket.

As long as Assail would live, he would ne’er forget the soft chiming sounds that rose up from the male’s tethers as that scrawny body shook.

Assail took a step forward.

The whimpering was of that of an animal.

“I shall not hurt you,” Assail said roughly. “Please know . . . I . . . whate’er are you imprisoned herein for?”

Even though he knew.

This was a blood slave. He was staring at a blood slave—there were even . . . yes, there were the tattoos: one around the throat, and a pair on the wrists.

“How may I be of help?”

There was no reply, the male merely tightening himself even further, the bones of his elbows seeming to break through his skin, his ribs like claw marks down the sides of his torso, his thighs so small that his knees seemed as great swollen knots.

Assail looked around, although that was daft. What was in the room was there and unchanged.

“I need to get you out of here.”

Wrenching around, he pictured the way out. “I’m getting you . . .”

What could he do? Carry the poor male?

Assail went further into the dungeon. “Here now, be of ease. I am not about to harm you.”

He was cautious as he approached, and he was very aware that his brain had lit up like a switchboard, all kinds of thoughts swirling and disturbing him.

“My dear male, you mustn’t fear me.” He made his voice stronger. “I am here to rescue you.”

The slave’s head lifted a little. And then some more.

And finally, the male looked at him with terrified, red-rimmed eyes that were sunken so far into his skull that Assail wondered how much longer life could be sustained.

“Can you walk?” Assail demanded. When there was no response, he nodded down at those legs. “Can you stand? Can you walk?”

“Who . . .” The word was so reedy, it was barely a syllable.

“I am Assail.” He touched his chest. “I am . . . no one of importance. But I shall save you.”

The slave’s eyes began to water. “Why . . .”

Assail leaned down to touch the male’s arm, but the slave’s autonomic jerk was so violent, he retracted his hand immediately.

“Because you are in need of saving.” As he spoke in an utterly raw tone, he felt in some way as if he were addressing himself. “And I . . . I am in need of a good deed to prove myself.”

Glancing over his shoulder, he calculated the distance up to, and out of, the grand home’s front door. The time that had elapsed since he had left the study. The amount of ammunition he had on him. The calls that would have to be made to his cousins. To Vishous.

To anyone.

Shit. The chains.

No, he could handle them.

Reaching into the holster under his arm, he took out the nine millimeter he’d brought with him and then retrieved its silencer from his jacket pocket. With quick twists, he screwed the equipment into place on the muzzle.

“I need you to move.” He indicated the way toward himself. “I need you away from the wall.”

The slave was still trembling, but he attempted to comply, dragging himself on all fours from the place he habitually curled up—indeed, one could see the imprinted shadow on the stone of both the floor and the wall as the male vacated the area.

All at once, sweat broke out over Assail’s body, beading upon his upper lip and across his brow—and his heart abruptly thundered.

“Stop it—” As the male froze, Assail shook his head. “No, I’m speaking with myself. That was not directed at you.”

The chains were anchored to the wall via a ring that was thick as a male’s thumb and as wide as a neck—and which was bolted into the stone.

Any bullet was going to ricochet around. But what choice did he have?

Leaving the slave here was certainly not an option.

“You’re going to have to—here, will you allow me to touch you?”

The male nodded mutely, and braced himself for the contact. With quick work, Assail lifted him up—

Fates, he weighed not a thing.

The chains rattled as they moved over the floor—likewise, the male’s teeth chattered as he moaned, there being some obvious soreness.

When they were as far away as possible, Assail put the slave down and stepped in front, shielding the male with his body. Then he took aim and—

The bullet didn’t make a sound as it was discharged, but it pinged around the cell, hitting rock faces until it buried itself somewhere far from its intended target. Assail took a moment to see if he’d been hit. Then he checked on the slave.

“You all right?” When he got a nod, he went over to inspect the ring. “Close, but not quite there, damn it.”

His aim had been good, but the metal was stout. He daren’t take another shot, however.

Grasping onto the thing, he moved the injury he’d imparted upon the metal to the bolt and put all his weight and strength into the pull. Grunting, straining, he was curiously desperate as he sought to break the hold.

After much struggle, there was a high-pitched whine, as if the metal were cursing him, and then he stumbled back, the ring in his hands, his loafers slipping out from under him.

The landing hurt like a bitch, but he did not care. He was on his feet and back at the male a split second later.

Shrugging out of his suit jacket, he wished he’d thought to take a proper coat with him, but as he’d just been dematerializing over, he’d assumed there would be no need for more appropriate cold-weather wear.

“Let us put this upon you.”

That proved better in theory than reality, the chains not lending themselves to sleeves or lapels. In the end, he put the thing back on just so he did not leave it behind.

Wrapping the chains around his own neck—twice on account of their length—he picked up the male and managed to hold him up with only one arm. Then he proceeded forward to the door.

The slave was the one who opened the way out for them both.

Which enabled Assail to keep his gun up.

He left the light on. Soon enough the household would realize the slave was gone, and he didn’t want to waste time futzing around with shutting things back up.

The far worse outcome would be to find that the meeting with Saxton was over, and Throe and the mistress of the house were looking for him.

Past the sex dungeon. Up the stairs.

The slave reached for the door handle again.

“Slowly,” Assail said between breaths. “Let me listen.”

No sounds. At the nod, the male opened the way fully and Assail broke through at a fast walk, his heart thundering, his legs curiously numb even as they functioned appropriately.

Quickly, quickly, fleet of foot and keen of ear, he raced through the various pantries and ante-rooms until he came up to the foyer. Pausing before he stepped out into the space, he prayed to the Virgin Scribe, the Fates, destiny, fucking anything, that the vast open area would not just be empty, but remain so as he made a mad dash to the front door.

After that? He would have to run far enough to find some safety and call his cousins. Then the Brotherhood.

Blood slavery had been outlawed by the King—so there might well be a legal way of seizing this living, breathing chattel who should never have been property. But Assail wasn’t leaving the male behind just so that he could show up with a bunch of Brothers, head down to the basement, and find out that Naasha had disappeared the slave into a grave because something had tipped her off.

Just let there be a way out of this house, he thought. Please . . .

“Through the front door,” he whispered. “We’re going right out the front door. You ready? Try to hang on to me.”

The male nodded over and over again and tightened his hold a fraction.

“Here we go.”

Assail broke out into the space, moving fast, the chains clanking, his cargo slipping, all that dirty, damp hair slapping—

He had to stop dead not even halfway to their goal.