InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Anhanguera ❯ Status Quo ( Chapter 2 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

The dull scratch of the ball point against the paper offered him a strange sense of comfort, even as he ignored the cramping in his fingers, wrapped around the warmed metal barrel of the pen in his hand.  He paused long enough to flick his wrist, to frown at the time.

It was late—early—however one wanted to look at it.  For some reason, that thought reminded him of the difference between an optimist and a pessimist and how each would view a half-glass of water.  That idea—the relative innocence of taking the time to mentally debate such a mundane thing—brought to mind a fleeing flicker of memories of a life that felt so long ago—that he’d left behind willingly, and for what . . .?

He had precisely twenty-one minutes before he had to meet his agent for his semi-annual delivery.  This time, however, he had a favor to ask of the one they’d sent.

He had to hurry.

‘No further contact from the dragon-fish-youkai known as Anhanguera.  Am hopeful that he will have need to meet with me soon as I have noticed certain, subtle changes in the Overmaster’s behavior.  However, I have since learned how to hack the cameras, so I’ve been able to cull some of the recordings into files I will send along with this.  I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’

Letting out a deep breath, dropping the pen and raking his hand through his long, dark brown hair—hair that held a color that was, by design, wholly forgettable—a shade that was neither bright nor enviable, and that was fine, too.  Hair color and eye color had been easy enough to alter.  His face, however—his accursed face . . . It drew entirely too much attention—the wrong kind of attention . . .

Reading over the page letter, satisfied that he’d said all he meant to, he rolled it closed, holding it loosely as he stuck the end of the black wax stick into the candle’s flame on the desk top.  Allowing it a few minutes to melt, he smeared it over the open edge before pressing the front of his index finger claw into it.  A moment later, the hazy golden glow of his youki bonded with the fibers of the paper and wax.  There was no way anyone could break it—no one but the intended recipient, anyway . . .

Standing up, he strode over to the wide bed, bathed in the light of the full moon that tumbled through the skylight high overhead.  He ignored that, kneeling down to reach up under the wooden frame, feeling along the bottom of the box spring until he found the gap between pins the held the fabric over it.  Using his knuckles to slide the thin card out of the gap, he pulled it out, held it in the dim light, turning it over in the palm of his hand.

The card contained hours of video footage—random days, arbitrary moments that were pieced together to create an overall decent depiction of the day-to-day operations of the Virgin House.  It had taken him weeks to cull the clips that would work best, to give the best impression without having to sort through hours of nonsense.  Pushing himself to his feet, he stowed the card in the pocket of his rumpled jeans and reached for the thin black leather jacket that had been carelessly tossed on the foot of the bed.

He took the time to make sure that his door was locked.  Normally, he wouldn’t bother.  There wasn’t a soul in the place who could harm him, anyway.  Tonight, however, it was more of a precaution to make sure that no one realized that he was going to slip out . . .

Satisfied that the outer door was, indeed, locked, he headed back through the antechamber and into the bedroom without pausing, striding toward the balcony, pausing just long enough to force a good dose of his youki into the pillow—enough to fool anyone who happened past into thinking that he was sleeping.  Fascinating trick, really: one that he’d learned a long time ago . . .

The night air was brisk, carrying with it the salt of the sea when he stepped out onto the balcony, closing the door behind himself.  He hesitated long enough to scan the area, to make sure that no one was watching.

He bounded over the short railing, landing with a dull thud in the soft sand.  The Virgin House, like the rest of the other specialized camps, was built on a small island.  The other islands surrounding it were roughly the same size.  Four of the other compounds were situated on them, and the group of islands was located far enough out and inhabited by quite a number of various sharks that made escape virtually impossible.

He’d seen that the first week at the breeding camp—his first assignment years ago.  Waking up one morning to the terrified shrieks, he’d been the first one on the beach and could only watch in horror as a small woman—one of the breeding stock—flailed around, not more than twenty yards offshore.  He watched her body as it was ripped to shreds, her blood staining the waves as three sharks tore her limb from limb . . .

She’d tried to escape—a foolish and futile thing to do.  The overmaster of the compound had only grunted when he was briefed—grunted and muttered something about the waste, given that the deceased was almost five months pregnant at the time.  He hadn’t missed a bite as he’d kept eating.

It had taken a long time to get that image out of Caipora’s head.  Every now and then, he remembered it in the depths of his dreams . . .

Dropping to a brisk stride as he stepped into the cover of the dense foliage, he kept his eyes moving.  He couldn’t afford to get caught.  If he could forego these little liaisons every six months, he would.  Unfortunately, it was a necessity, and no amount of consideration could change that.

‘You know, all it would take is for you to say you’d had enough . . .’

Blinking as the jarring sound of his youkai-voice spoke to him, he stopped abruptly for almost a full minute, though his eyes didn’t stop moving despite the moment of almost predatory suspicion that attested to the idea that he hadn’t heard that particular voice in a very long time.  ‘What do you want?’

The voice sighed. ‘You can’t blame me, you know.  You’re the one who thought it would be easier if you shoved me down, repressed me into the darkest corners of your psyche.  Can’t you . . .?  Can’t you just . . . just tell them that you’re done?’

He snorted inwardly and started moving once more.  ‘I’m not done, and you know it.  If you’ve only piped up to bitch at me about it, then do me a favor and lock yourself up again, will you?’

‘But the evidence you’ve got on that card . . . That should be more than enough.  When he gets that, he can issue whatever orders he needs to, and—’

‘And I fucking just told you, I’m not fucking done, so do me a favor and just shut the hell up!  Anhanguera . . . He’s the one I have to get.  This won’t end if he’s not taken down.  Even if they were able to break up the camps, Anhanguera has the means to just start over again somewhere else . . .’

His youkai uttered a terse grunt, but fell silent once more.

For some reason, as welcome as the stillness was, he had to grit his teeth as the overwhelming sense of being completely alone assailed him once more.

How long had it been? he wondered.  How long had it been since his youkai-voice had fallen silent, leaving him entirely alone . . .? Funny how he hadn’t realized, just how much he tended to rely upon that voice.  Funny and a little pathetic . . .

But that voice . . . He’d silenced it, hadn’t he?  That night so long ago—the night he’d truly realized, just what kind of hell he had willingly walked right into, when he was still Diego, well before he had become Caipora . . .

“You’re the newbie?  Diego, right? They call me Franco.  I—”

Glancing up from the ledger that he’d been told to keep, he gave one terse nod before dismissing the chameleon-youkai who was lounging in the doorway.  Idly tapping a pair of thin, brown leather gloves against his thigh, he chuckled.  It was an arrogant, borderline nasty, kind of sound, as though he were trying to annoy him.  Maybe he was.  “I don’t care,” he stated flatly.

“Sabatini wants to see you,” Franco said, ignoring Diego’s terse response.

Snapping the ledger closed, he stood up.  Franco stopped him with a hand to his chest, only to chuckle again when Diego very pointedly lowered his gaze to stare at the offending limb.  He didn’t move his hand, though.  “It’s a test.”

Diego knocked Franco’s hand away without a change in expression.  “What kind of test?”

“Interested, are you?”

“Not especially,” he replied, stepping around the shorter youkai, the heels of his heavy boots, echoing in the corridor like claps of thunder in the dark.

“If you fail, you die,” Franco commented, sounding as though he were relishing the idea of Diego’s imminent demise.

He said nothing as he continued down the hallway.

Franco sighed.  “Choose death,” he muttered, quickening his pace as they neared the end of the corridor.  “If you choose to knock her up, he’ll think that you’re only here for the cheap thrills.”

Diego wasn’t entirely sure he trusted Franco’s words—not that it made much sense to him, anyway.  It was little more than a poorly constructed riddle, and if there was one thing that Diego knew, it was how to interpret far more complex riddles than that.

Sabatini stood in the center of the wide foyer—the white marble, shining, polished.  Behind the overmaster of the breeding camp stood a woman—a hanyou woman—a fruit-bat-hanyou.  She was a pretty little thing with hair as black as night, her skin, a beautiful, tawny shade . . . She stood with her arms straight at her sides, but even at a glance, he could see the slightest trembling in her fingers . . . Her chest rose and fell with the cadence of her breathing, her small but well-formed breasts, her chocolate-shaded nipples, constricting in the cool air of the room.  She was staring down at the floor, her chin touching her chest, and if she was aware of the things going on around her, Diego couldn’t tell . . . Standing against the far wall were the rest of the enforcers.  Franco strode over to stand beside them, crossing his arms over his chest, his gaze unnaturally steady, as though he were willing Diego to remember what he’d said.  The others whispered to each other, passing money, hand to hand, obviously taking bets on the outcome.

Sabatini regarded Diego, his murky black eyes not blinking as he strode toward him.  He didn’t smile, but he seemed almost amused.  “It’s time for your initiation,” he said.  “I have two rules for the enforcers that work in this camp.  The first one, when I summon you, you will run.  I am too busy to wait for the likes of you.  Before we discuss the second rule, I want to offer you a choice.”  Turning at the waist just far enough to hold a hand out in the hanyou’s direction, he slowly turned his face back to narrow his gaze on Diego.  “As a part of your initiation, I will allow you to fuck that.  However, if you do, you will impregnate her.”  He chuckled.  It was a repugnant sound.  “Don’t worry.  You’ll be reimbursed for your . . . trouble.”

“What’s my second option?” Diego asked.  In that moment, he realized that what Franco had said was true.  The enforcers weren’t there for the simple sport of it.  They were there to make sure that he either killed or was killed.  Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the flash of metal—a sword, hanging from one of their hips—then another . . . and another . . .  ‘Kill or be killed . . .’

“If you choose not to fuck her, then you will kill her.  It’s as plain as that.”

‘Wh . . .? What are you doing?’ his youkai voice asked when he stepped past Sabatini and approached the woman.  ‘This is insane! You can’t make that kind of a choice!  You—’

‘Shut up.’

The voice went silent, even as the clash of will collided with the rational part of him.  They warred in the strangest kind of lightspeed battle: that part of him that revolted against the taking of an innocent life versus the innate knowledge—the understanding—that he’d asked for it when he’d said that one damning word: yes . . .

“If you’re discovered, we won’t be able to get to you fast enough to save you, to pull you out of there . . .”

Somehow, though, his mind seemed to snap away from his body as he reached out, grabbing the girl who hadn’t made a sound—not even a gasp.  Without hesitation, he grasped her head, gave it a violent twist.  She crumpled to the floor, her eyes still wide open, but vacant and empty and dull.

“Do I pass?” he demanded, pivoting on his heel to level his blanked gaze on Sabatini.

The overmaster stared at him for a long heartbeat before slowly, slowly, breaking into a wide smile as the sound of the enforcers, exchanging money, registered in Diego’s mind—and was dismissed just as quickly.  “The second rule is that you—your ilk—are not to fuck the breeding stock.  They aren’t here for pleasure.  They’re here to make money.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw as Franco slipped over, disappeared through the doorway off to the side of the room.

The overmaster was still staring at him, though, his strange smile growing a little more menacing, a little . . . darker.  “Quick!” he called, without taking his eyes off of Diego.  “Fetch our new enforcer some wine!”

Blinking away the remnants of that memory, knowing what had come after, he ground his teeth together and glanced around once more before ducking into the small alcove on the north side of the island.

He was a little early, he supposed.  The agent he was to meet wasn’t there yet. Slipping back into the deepest shadows in the back of the alcove, he dragged a hand over his face.

He hadn’t thought about that night in a long, long time, and yes, he was pretty sure that it was the last time his youkai-voice had spoken to him.  Then again, maybe not . . . No, maybe not . . .

Still . . .

But he couldn’t push aside that one moment, that horrible visage . . . The hanyou slave girl’s eyes . . .

They were green.


The flash of pale blue light drew Caipora’s attention.  To anyone else, it would likely have appeared to be a shooting star—a meteor.  It zipped into the darkened alcove, and he watched in silence as the youkai’s body solidified.  A solemn face—one that he’d known a lifetime ago—stared at him for a long moment.  Then he nodded once.  “You look good.”

“That’s a lie.”

He shrugged, but he didn’t try to deny it, the strands of his long, black hair, catching the stingy light.  Even in the semi-dark, his bright amber eyes seemed to glow, and he looked like he wanted to say something, but in the end, he sighed instead.  “Here,” he said stepping toward him as he dug a small bottle out of his jacket.  “Six months’ worth . . .”

“Thanks,” he muttered, taking the bottle, shoving it into his pocket.  “Learned a new trick, did you?  Blue?”

The man smiled, but even in the dusky dark, he could see the underlying concern.  “Seemed like a better choice . . . How . . .? How are you?  Really?”

He didn’t try to smile.  He rather thought that he just didn’t know how to do that anymore.  “I’m right as rain,” he said without batting an eye to the contrary.

He sighed.  “But you’re . . . safe . . .?”

“I’m holding my own.”

That answer didn’t seem to please him, either, and he opened his mouth to say something.

Caipora nodded slowly.  “I have a message.  You’ll deliver it for me, won’t you?” he asked, cutting him off before he could say whatever was on his mind. It didn’t matter, anyway.  Caipora already knew what it was he wanted to say . . .

He nodded and took the memory card, the scroll.  Again, he looked like he wanted to say something, but he grimaced instead.  “Be careful,” he admonished, his voice a little gruff, a little tight.

Caipora nodded.  The agent stared at him for another minute before turning on his heel, stowing the missive and card into the inner pocket of his jacket, his body disintegrating before the movement was even complete.

A moment later, and he was gone, and Caipora was alone again.

Digging the bottle out of his pocket, he shook out one tiny pill and swallowed it.  Technically, he still had a few more days, maybe a week, before he had to take another one, but it wouldn’t hurt him to take it now.  These pills . . . He didn’t dare bring this into the house.  Besides, one of them lasted almost a month, so he hid the bottle under a hollow he’d carved out of a nearby boulder.  Once the rock was put back in place, no one would ever find them.

The journey back to the Virgin House didn’t take long.  Even so, he didn’t really stop, didn’t really breathe, until he was safely back in his room once more.  Everything was exactly as he’d left it, and he yanked off the jacket, tossed it toward the sofa near the vacant fireplace on the way to unlock his door.  The slaves would arrive in the next couple hours to draw his bath, to ready his clothes for the day.

He was too restless to lie down, to try to sleep.  It invariably happened on nights like tonight.  Seeing someone from his past unsettled him so much more than he ever wanted to admit.  If he could talk them into delivering once a year, he would.  They wouldn’t agree to that, though, given that it was enough for them, to reassure themselves that he was all right, that he was still in one piece.

But . . .

But he wasn’t all right, and he knew that, too.  The only way he was able to function was to put his mind on auto-pilot, and it was working.  Trouble was, he wasn’t entirely sure that was a good thing . . .

Slipping back over to the balcony doors, he opened them wide, stepped outside.  The fresh air helped—a little bit.

‘You’re . . . You’re killing yourself, you know.  The parts of you that are decent, good . . .’

He frowned.  ‘Those parts of me are already dead.  They died a long time ago.’

‘Green Eyes . . . That wasn’t your fault.  You really didn’t have a choice . . . Even if it wasn’t a set-up, you couldn’t have risked it.  To father a child here of all places?  A child that would have ended up, being sold to the highest bidder, and if that child had looked like you . . .?  And . . . And what happened after that?  You know that wasn’t your fault, either—there was nothing you could have done . . .’

‘I already know all of this,’ he snapped, opening and closing his fist around nothing but air.  ‘I knew it then; I know it now.  Go back to being silent.  I . . . I don’t need you . . . and I don’t want you here.’

His youkai sighed.  ‘But you know I’m a part of you . . .’

He scowled at the moon.  ‘No . . . You . . . You’re a part of him . . . and he’s . . . long dead.’

Caipora let out a deep breath, hating the memories that still lingered, just below the surface—things that he never wanted to think about again, and maybe that was the real price of the things he’d done.

The thing was, he wasn’t entirely sure when that part of him had truly died.  It was easy to think that it was that night—the first night he’d killed anyone, and that he’d done it with a vicious cold that he hadn’t realized before that he even possessed . . . or maybe it was what had come to pass after that . . . or . . .

And yet, he had a feeling that his true death hadn’t happened until almost six months later, in the night—the blackest night . . . That one moment when everything had gone so very, very wrong . . .

“Where are you going?”

Glancing over his shoulder at Diego, Franco masked the hint of guilt behind a smile full of bravado.  “I didn’t see you there,” he said, glancing right and left as he slowly shuffled over to him.  “Don’t suppose you’d pretend you didn’t see me . . .?”

Arching a dark brown eyebrow, Diego crossed his arms over his chest.  Somehow, in the weeks following his initiation, he’d become friends with Franco, even if he did, at times, want to thump him a good one when he did things that could only be considered stupid.  But he owed him, and, even though they never spoke of it, Diego knew instinctively that the hell he’d endured that night would have just gone on and on if Franco hadn’t intervened when he had . . .

He sighed.  “It depends.  Where are you going?  You’re not going where I think you are, are you?”

Franco grimaced but didn’t deny it.  “Just . . . pretend you didn’t see me.  That’s all.”

Diego opened his mouth to argue.  Franco quickly shook his head.  “I’d cover for you if you wanted me to . . .” He glanced around again, made sure there was no one else in earshot.  “You know that they talk about you, right?  The things those women want to do to you?  I’d be jealous, you know, if . . .”

He snorted.  “Go to bed,” he growled, stomping off to his room and slamming the door hard while Franco’s laughter sounded behind him.

It just figured.  Leave it to him to do something as potentially foolish and entirely stupid as sneaking out to the women’s quarters, just to see one of the women who was completely off-limits.  One of these times, he was going to get caught, and if he tried to do what he’d hinted before—tried to get her off the island, to set her free, to run away . . .?

“Impossible,” Diego muttered, flopping onto his bed, closing his eyes . . .

And when the pounding on his door roused him from a dead slumber a few hours later, Diego rubbed his sleep-grainy eyes as he opened the door, only to find Sabatini himself standing there . . .  “What do you want?” he growled as the clang of warning bells in his head started to toll.

The overmaster narrowed his eyes.  “I have a job for you, enforcer.  Come.”

Letting out a deep breath as he reached over to snag a shirt off the chair beside the door, he followed the overmaster out of the room and down the corridor.  In his mind, he figured that maybe some slave had been stupid enough to try to escape.  It seemed like some of the women went a little crazy when they were breeding, thinking that they could escape for the sake of their unborn children . . .

But Sabatini led the way down the hall and through the great room—the room where he had been forced to kill.  He said nothing as he waved a hand at the slaves, standing on either side of the great doors that led to the portico beyond.

Stepping outside into the torch-lit night, a low groan echoed in his ears as his eyes flared wide, as his gaze lit upon the body of his friend, shackled to the punishment table that was already soaked in his blood.  Ten feet away, the slave girl that he’d sneaked out to see was hanging by her shackled hands, a foot off the ground, bound by a thick rope that was suspended from the rafters of the portico.

It was something out of a nightmare, a tableau that was almost gothic in deviation.  As he stepped closer, he had to bite down on his cheek to keep from retreating in revulsion.

Franco’s face was beaten beyond recognition: swollen and bloodied and bruised and misshapen.  He managed to open his eyes, tried to lift his head, but whether he actually realized that he was there, Diego didn’t know.  There was a jagged cut traversing Franco’s chest, but it wasn’t deep enough to kill him—just deep enough to bleed a hell of a lot.  Stretched out on the table, bound in place by sutra-enforced shackles around his wrists and ankles, he groaned again, his head falling against the stone table with an unsettling thump.  An unpleasant flash of memory surged through Diego’s brain—a memory that he shook off as quickly as it had come: being chained to that table, laid open and bare, bleeding and . . .

Sabatini stepped past Diego, slapped Franco’s cheek hard.  Franco tried to bite back the groan, but he couldn’t quite manage it.  “You have broken the sacred law of this house,” Sabatini said calmly, evenly, leaning in so that Franco could better hear him.  “However, as overmaster, it is within my discretion, what your punishment should be.  Now, normally, I’d just kill you, wouldn’t I?  But . . .” Trailing off, he smiled at Diego in such a way that it sent a shiver up his spine.  “But Diego, here . . . You’re his friend, aren’t you?  And I’m not as heartless as all that.  So, I will give you a choice—for Diego’s sake.  Are you listening, Franco?” he asked, his tone almost a purr as he slapped Franco hard once more.

“S-Sir . . .?” Franco managed, his voice thick, as though something in his throat was broken.

“I will let you live,” he said.  “All you have to do is survive until daylight.  Oh, and she will die if you choose to live . . . or you can . . . sacrifice yourself for her . . . Do you love her?  Is she your mate?”

The girl whimpered.  Sabatini strode over to her in two steps, punched her hard, low in her gut.  The scent of her blood bloomed in his nostrils, and Diego —Caipora—watched in veiled horror as a gush of blood poured from the girl’s crotch.  Satisfied with his handiwork, he turned back to the table once more.  “So, Franco, what will it be?  Who will live?  You?  Or her?”

Franco uttered a harsh sob—an ugly sound—a bubble of blood rising over his cracked lips, only to pop and rain down on his broken face.

“Make your choice, or I’ll make it for you,” Sabatini growled, grabbing Franco by a handful of hair and shaking him before letting go, slamming his head against the table once more.  A terrible crack echoed in the portico, and for a moment, Diego thought that maybe the overmaster had managed to kill Franco.  Tightening his fists, absently ignoring the sting as his claws pierced the palms of his hands, Diego ground his teeth together, struggling to remain impassive.

“Her!” Franco half-sobbed, half-screamed.  “Let her live!”

“Franco!  No!” she sobbed.

Sabatini strode over, slapped her hard with the back of his hand—hard enough to snap her head to the side—hard enough to send her small body, waving, teetering, almost spinning . . . “Shut up, you stupid cunt!  If you dare speak out of turn again, I’ll break your fucking neck.”

Sabatini jerked his head at Diego.  Pulling a ridiculously ornate dagger from his pocket, he handed it to Diego and stepped back.  “So, you do really love her . . . Isn’t that sweet . . .?”

Just why did he sound so . . . so happy . . .?

“We’ll start with the hands,” Sabatini said.  “Cut them off.”

And it was an order that he dare not defy.  With one deft stroke, Diego severed Franco’s right hand.  The man’s shrieks were loud enough to send a gaggle of birds from the nearby trees.  Before he could hesitate, before he could think about what he was doing, Diego stepped around the table and lopped off his left hand, too.

“You . . . You said you would kill me!” Franco blubbered.  “Kill me, damn you!  Kill me!”

Sabatini chuckled, gliding over to sit in an overstuffed wicker chair, content to observe—and to command.  “Cut him open.”

“Wh—What?” Diego blurted before he could stop himself.

Sabatini chuckled again.  “I want you to cut him open.  Split him open, and let his bowels drag the ground.”

Diego stared down at his friend’s chest, at the already stunted breaths that wracked his body. The logical part of his brain revolted—the decent part of him that screamed at him, told him that enough was enough. But even as the thought occurred to him, he dismissed it just as fast.  Stopping now would accomplish nothing in the end—nothing but ensure his own death, too . . . His brain seemed to short circuit itself as a sudden and complete blank in his emotions broke over him.  His hand was oddly steady as he lifted the dagger, as he cut into Franco’s stomach, deep enough to open him up, not nearly deep enough to kill him.  Even the sounds of Franco’s anguish were dulled, muted.  He was still screaming when Diego reached down, gave his intestines a vicious yank, let them fall out of his hands as they unfurled over the side of the table and onto the ground.

Sabatini scratched his chin thoughtfully, his gaze alight with a crazy kind of glow.  “Cut off his cock and balls,” he said.

Diego heard the demand, his mind rebelling, even as he reached down, grabbed Franco’s cock and balls, and lopped them off.

He’d thought that Franco’s screams couldn’t get any worse.  He was wrong.  Shrieking so long and so loudly that his face started to mottle blue, it was just a matter of time before he passed out, which was just as well.  The blood pouring from his body was going to kill him, anyway.  Maybe it was best if he passed out, drifted away . . .

And then, Sabatini stood up, strode over, grabbed a rack out of a nearby cabinet, grabbed a plastic wrapped blood transfusion kit.  He hooked Franco up to the IV before grabbing a pint of blood off a nearby table that Diego hadn’t noticed before.

‘He . . . He means to keep him alive longer . . .?  But why . . .?’

Then he grabbed a torch, took his time, searing all of the wounds—cauterizing them in such a crude way.  Franco was unconscious for most of it—until Sabatini poured a bag of rock salt into the gaping chest wound . . .

Blubbering, crying, sobbing, begging, pleading . . . It was all Diego could do to keep himself from plunging the dagger deep into Franco’s chest; to end his suffering, but if he did that—if he acted against the overmaster . . . Somehow, he stood still—silent and impassive.

“And you . . . He wants you to live,” Sabatini said to the slave girl who had no name, just a number branded on the bottom of her foot.  She whimpered softly, struggling not to make a sound and failing.  Sabatini grasped her chin, shook her roughly.  “Do you want to live?  Hmm?”

Quickly, she nodded, her eyes wide, terrified.

It was the answer that Sabatini wanted, and he smiled.  “Bring me her lover’s dick and balls,” he commanded.

Curiously again, Diego complied with an efficiency of movement that no hesitation.

“Feed it to her.”

‘Do . . . What . . .?’

Grasping the girl’s cheeks and squeezing hard until she opened her mouth as she balked and tried pathetically to struggle, Diego shoved Franco’s severed penis between her lips.

“Bite it.  Chew it.  Swallow it, or you die,” Sabatini hissed in her ear.

“L-Leave . . . her . . . alone . . .” Franco managed.  “For the . . . love of God . . . Diego . . .”

The girl choked and sobbed and tried to do what Sabatini ordered her to do.  Then she retched, vomited.  Sabatini barely stepped back in time to avoid it, and he punched her in the face, her nose cracking with a horrendous snap as the bone around it gave way.

“You filthy, disgusting whore!” Sabatini spat.  “Fuck her,” he demanded, turning on his heel and stomping away as Franco’s sobbing grew louder.  The girl was mercifully unconscious.  “Fuck her hard; fuck her as her lover there watches.”

“I—”

“ Will you disobey me?” Sabatini growled, flashing over, grabbing Diego by the front of the shirt, yanking him down till he was nose to nose with him.  “You’ll do it.  You’ll do it now—or you’ll die with him,” he said, yanking his head toward Franco’s prone body.

“No!” Franco screamed.  “Diego, you bastard!  I saved you!  I saved you, and you—”

“Do it!” Sabatini hissed, dealing Diego a rough shove.  He stumbled back a couple steps, his boot coming down hard on Franco’s squelching entrails.  Franco unleashed an ungodly screech.

A haze of black ringed his vision as he stepped toward the girl, who had regained consciousness in the moments that had passed.  Moaning, crying, bleeding, she wouldn’t even open her eyes as he yanked his pants open and shoved them down, gritting his teeth as he grabbed her legs and lifted them, pulling them open without any resistance at all.  Sabatini’s nasty chuckle echoed in his ears when he realized that Diego had no issue at all in getting a boner.  The sight of the blood dripping from her pussy, the overwhelming stench of it that filled the air, both hers and Franco’s . . .

He yanked her toward him, burying himself deep inside her as she screamed in pain.  Franco babbled behind him—cursing him, berating him, condemning him to a million deaths—as he held onto her legs, fucked her hard, biting down on the inside of his cheek as her blood flowed over him, covering him in the sticky blackness.

And as vile as it was, the curses, the swears, he grunted, claws digging into the back of her knees as his orgasm shot out of him, deep into her.  As the scent of his come reached Franco, the chameleon-youkai broke down in tears, praying in Spanish for death to come take him, babbling his apologies to the girl that Diego kept fucking.

She kept screaming, over and over again, the sounds growing rough, hoarse.  Sabatini had apparently heard enough.  He stalked over, wrenched her mouth open, cut off her tongue in a flash of his claws.  Then he laughed as Diego gritted his teeth, swallowed the bile that rose high in his throat as the overmaster walked casually over to Franco to stuff his beloved’s tongue into his mouth.

“Don’t stop,” Sabatini insisted, taking up his seat once more.

Diego did as he was instructed, hating himself just a little more with every murky stroke.

He lost count of his orgasms.  He had no idea what time it was, either.  The sun was coming up over the ocean when he came one last time, as the already weak and thready strum of her heart stopped.  Stumbling back as he let go of her, breathing coming in harsh little gasps, he turned to face Sabatini, covered in her blood—covered in his come.  “She’s dead,” he said in a monotone.

Sabatini nodded slowly, his eyes glowing with a demonic sort of light.  “Good.  Kill him.  Kill him and leave their bodies.  I want them left to be examples of what happens when you break my laws.”