Sunny - Mona Lisa Darkening

Her eyes narrowed down into slits. "I can force your obedience."

My fingers found a pressure point, dug into it, and the attendant dropped the stone blade with a cry, her hand spasming. I caught the blade before it hit the floor.

"You're certainly welcome to try," I said, giving a few quick slashes in the air to test the weight and balance — easy blurring movements that had the attendants backing away in fear.

"Not quite the usual blade I'm used to," I said, "but I could work with it."

"You waste time!" the maistresse cried. And made it sound like the worst crime.

"No, actually you do," I said, my voice hard. "Where?"

She hissed out a breath. "Your legs, under your arms, the curls between your thighs."

"Between my thighs? You've got to be kidding me."

"It is our custom here."

"Legs and armpits are fine. Not between my thighs."

"That is non-negotiable."

I considered the hard resolve on the maistresse's face and saw that she wasn't going to budge on this matter.

"Very well," I said. "My cooperation if you answer a question."

"Were we not so short on time, I would not need your cooperation," she said in a low, heated voice.

"But time is short."

"What is your question?" she snapped.

"How do I leave this realm?"

"You cannot," she said. "None of us can leave here."

Not the answer I'd been hoping to hear. "How long have you been in NetherHell?"

"Over eighty-five years."

"And Lord Gordane? How long has he been here?"

"The eldest here say that he has ruled for over a century. Others whisper two centuries.Their kind — gargoyles — exist far longer than we do." She made a gesture with her hand. "That is three questions I have answered — two more than you bargained for. Waste no more of my time. You will have plenty of your own time later to seek answers to your foolish questions. Lie back."

A deal was a deal. It wasn't her fault that her answers weren't to my liking. I'd keep asking, but there seemed to be a depressing consensus so far. No way out of this realm.

I handed the flat, polished stone razor back, and the attendant took it from me with wary caution.

"Be careful," I admonished, lying back. She was. Not a nick or a scratch on my legs or under the arms. But when the blade scraped firmly over my mound, I flinched; tensed a little when they parted my folds and carefully shaved off every single piece of hair down there. Then it was over. A light fragrant oil was rubbed all over me. My hair was combed out, dried and styled, and I was dressed in this tiny scrap of cloth that they called a dress. The bottom of the material skimmed the tops of my thighs, barely keeping me decent. It bared most of me — my neck, throat, the top of my chest, my arms and entire back, and lots and lots of leg. Only two thin straps held up the itty-bitty dress. The color, though, was a beautiful shimmery rose, and the fit was surprisingly good. The material clung snugly to what there was of my bosom. No bra or underwear underneath. Nothing to impair Gordane's hands from touching me anywhere he damned well wanted to. Or maybe undergarments just didn't exist here, for hareem women anyway.

It wasn't until powders had been dusted on my face and eyes, and stuff rubbed on my lips, that I was led to a full-length mirror and got the whole effect. I looked at the utterly feminine, delicate creature reflected back, and didn't recognize her as me.

An abundance of pure white skin was showcased by the tiny dress. The rest of me had been done along the same general theme. My black hair was pinned up in an elegant coil, revealing the delicate curve of my neck, the gentle slopes of my shoulders. Shadow deepened my eyes, made them larger, darker, more mysterious. Blush made my cheeks glow. My lips were painted red. I was an artwork that had been splashed with three essential colors — creamy white skin, dark hair and eyes, and rosy red cheeks, lips, and dress… and the purple-red bruises ringing my throat. The distinct imprint of each separate gargoyle finger could be seen on my neck; no attempt had been made to hide them. The primitive markings of violence were more eye-catching than any jewelry would have been. And bespoke somehow of ownership.

I looked soft, fragile. Delicately feminine.

"A remarkable transformation in such a short time, is it not?" said the maistresse, coming to stand behind me.

"A miracle. You made me something that I'm not. I didn't know I could look like this."

"Like a woman?" she asked, voice dry.

"Like a fragile, easily breakable one."

"All women, no matter how strong they perceive themselves to be, are fragile, easily breakable, even Queens. Perhaps especially Queens. Keep that at the forefront of your awareness; it will serve you well in your dealings here in this realm. Come," she said briskly. "It is time for you to go to him."

Our return trip garnered different, varying responses. The second group of women looked at me with more intense speculation than friendly smiles now. The first group was outright hostile. A honey-haired beauty rose to her feet, blocking my path. "He summoned her?" Anger sharpened her words. "It should have been me that he called."

"I would not have prepared her otherwise, Mathilde," said the maistresse.

"But she is not as beautiful as I. Nor any of the rest of us!" she wailed, looking like a little girl stomping her feet and crying — no fair! "You aren't half as lovely as any of us here," she said hatefully to me.

"I agree," My easy answer made her frown, but only for a moment before she continued her sulky tirade. "It's only because you were a Queen!" Mathilde said, making me suddenly aware that she was Monère, one of the few I sensed among them. None of them were Queens, as far as I could tell.

"He will sample you once for the novelty. Then cast you aside to be used by others. You are not beautiful enough to hold him."

"Why would I want to hold his interest? I would have expected you to shrink away from the horror of his touch instead of fight for it."

Surprise and confusion flickered across Mathilde's exquisite face, then finally understanding. She laughed, and the other women laughed with her. Irritating titters with a spiteful edge. "You think yourself smart, but how stupid you really are. You are not worthy of his touch."

"Again, why would I even want it?"

More laughter, as if what I had said was beyond funny.

"What's the joke here?" I asked, tired of the nonsense.

"The joke is that Lord Gordane's touch is what keeps all of our skins unblemished," said the maistresse. "He absorbs our defilement onto himself."

I remembered Pietrus touching Ghemin, the young gargoyle. The transfer of slurry darkness. I remembered also how monstrously ugly Gordane had looked the first time I saw him, his skin thick with layer upon layers of warty bumps.

"But I saw him touch the prisoners they captured. Saw him touch them and transfer all that ugliness onto their skin."

"That ugliness that you speak of is what he took from us yesterday. You saw the inhabitants outside when you entered the city, did you not?"

I nodded.

"It is the environment, the very air of NetherHell itself that layers the blemishes across our skin. Lord Gordane's touch cleanses us from that defiling growth. Without his touch, ugly growths will start to show on your skin in less than a week."

My vision shifted, readjusted itself. "So he's not really the cause of the unsightly blemishes. He's the cure for them. Is he the only cure?"

"Yes," said the maistresse .

A most depressing answer.

"What about other gargoyles?"

"He is the only one of their kind who roams the lower lands."