Лорел Гамильтон - Obsidian Butterfly

Edward started to say something, but Simon said, "No, no talking from you or Shooter will slit your throat."

The medium guy must be Shooter. The name didn't suit him. He looked more like a Tom, Dick, or Harry.

They wouldn't let Edward talk, so it was my play, but we both knew where the game would end. Sudden death.

"Get them out of there, Riker."

"The children?" He gave a questioning lilt to his voice.

"Order them to leave the kids alone, now."

"And if I don't?"

I smiled. "Then the monster is going to come in here and gut you."

His eyes flinched. That bothered him. Good. "Knowing what is happening to them should speed up the spell of protection, I think."

"If you don't stop it, Riker, there won't be anything left to salvage."

"I don't know. I think the boy is enjoying himself, from the sound of things."

I'd been trying not to hear, but Peter's breath was coming faster and faster, frantic, but it wasn't the sound of pain. He screamed, "Don't, please don't."

I looked and I wished I hadn't. Some sights cut through your mind leaving a scar behind that never really heals. Watching Peter writhe caught between his first pleasure and the horror of it all, was one of those sights. I pride myself on never flinching. If someone is being tortured I don't look away. To look away only saves me pain, not them. If I can't save them the pain, then I watch as a kind of respect and as a punishment for myself, to remind me what happens to people when I fail them. But I failed Peter twice because I looked away just before a wordless scream tore form his mouth. It wasn't the sound of pain.

I turned away, and maybe I moved too fast for the head injury, or maybe it was something else, because the room swam in streamers of color. I tried to go to my knees, and the knife man jerked my arm, kept me on my feet. Fine, I threw up on him.

He jerked back, actually let go of my arm. I fell to my knees grateful to be low to the ground. Throwing up had brought a roaring headache. Riker's voice came through the next wave of nausea.

"Amanda, Russell, be so good as to leave the children alone. Our Ms. Blake is too squeamish to do her work while she fears for their safety."

I looked up at the monitors to make sure they actually left the rooms. Russell kissed Becca on the head, then left her huddled in the corner, crying for her mommy. Amanda blindfolded Peter while he begged her not to. She whispered something in his ear that caused him to curl into a ball. She left his pants down, picked up her shirt from the floor and walked out.

I huddled into my own version of a ball on the floor. I stayed on my knees while I tried to decide whether I was going to throw up again or not. Nausea like this is usually a sign of a concussion. The headache was another. But I think sheer nerves had pushed me over the edge. I used to throw up at crime scenes quite a bit. Apparently, there were still things I couldn't handle, like child abuse. Dear God, please give us some help here. Help us get them out of here safe.

There was a beeping, and Riker hit another button on his desk. "What is it?"

"We've got two dead down here. They were fucking butchered."

Riker went pale. "The monster."

"Knives, some kind of fucking big knife."

"You're sure of that?" Riker asked. "You are positive?"

"Yes, sir."

"It seems we have intruders." He looked at Simon. "What are you going to do about our company, Simon?"

"Kill them, sir."

"Then do it."

"Shooter, Rooster, stay with him and kill him as soon as Riker gives the word. Mickey, you're with me." He looked across at the two men by me. "You stay with her. Make sure no one else hits her. Harold, Newt, come with me."

Then they were gone, and we were down to two bad guys a piece, and Riker. It would never get better than this.

"Is there a bathroom?" I asked.

"Are you going to be ill again?"

"It's a thought."

"The two of you take her. And Deuce, if you can come up with something creative that won't leave a mark or physically harm Ms. Blake in any way, but will convince her that the children and Mr. Forrester are not the only ones that can be hurt, do so. Perhaps you can show her your namesake. You've got thirty minutes."

There aren't a lot of things you can do to a person that fulfilled Riker's requirements. The ones I could think of were mostly sexual. Usually, the talk of my impending rape upsets me, but all I could think of now was that I had thirty minutes with two men who might want to fuck me more than kill me. All I wanted to do was kill them. It made my options easier. But I said, "Is there a reason for torturing me, too, or is it just a hobby?"

He smiled, pleasant, confident. "I thought you would be worthy of my men, but I find you weak, Ms. Blake. Weakness should be punished. But it must be done carefully, so you can still do the spell, because I do want that."

"Isn't the line, these things must be done delicately or you injure the spell?"

Deuce laughed. Riker frowned at me. "It's from The Wizard of Oz," Deuce said. "The Wicked Witch of the West says it to Dorothy."

"Take her away, Deuce," he wrinkled his nose, "and clean yourself up, Blade. You're welcome to help in the punishment, but Deuce is in charge. I don't want her damaged."

Deuce grabbed my arm almost gently and helped me to my feet. The guy I'd thrown up on, Blade, followed us by a few steps. Evidently, he was taking no chances. At the door a man appeared. He was darkly Hispanic with longish hair, a shoulder holster, complete with 9 millimeter automatic. He looked like local hired muscle, but he wasn't. He vibrated with power. A shimmering energy flowed off of him. Psychic or maybe more.

"Ms. Blake, meet our resident expert on the supernatural, Alario. He was in charge of the protection spells on all my establishments. His art failed him recently at one of my shops, and my workers are dead. You will succeed where he has failed."

Alario watched me with cool dark eyes. His power flared over mine as Deuce led me past him. We recognized each other as powers, but there wasn't time for anything else, but there would be later. Which was what I was afraid of. Alario was the real deal, a practitioner of the arts. He'd figure out pretty quickly that I didn't know shit about spells of protection, at least not the kind Riker wanted.

Deuce led me down the white hall, with Blade: trailing us. We were out of time. I couldn't go back into that room and fake a spell. Olaf had failed to make his kills horrendous enough to fool the bad guys. The only good thing he'd done was divide their forces, and I had to take advantage of that while it lasted. Which meant that if at all possible only one person was coming back from the bathroom. Hopefully, it would be me.

IT WAS ONE of those bathrooms with a double sink separate from the rest of the bathroom. Deuce led me into the little bathroom area, complete with shower. I managed to do some dry heaving, but that was the best I could do, and even that made my head ache. It hurt so much I closed my eyes trying to keep my brains from leaking out through them. If it wasn't a concussion, it was a hell of an imitation.

Deuce wet a washcloth and gave it to me.

"Thanks." I put it over my face and tried to think. So far, Deuce hadn't touched me. Blade was trying to clean up in the sink area, but he'd want the shower soon.

"I loved the look on Blade's face when you puked on him. It was priceless."

I put the wash rag to the back of my neck. I was thinking furiously about what was in the purse and what options I had. But my voice was calm, point for me. "Blade? As in the comic book character?"

He nodded. "Yeah, the vampire killer. They both carry knives."

"And they're both African American," I said.