Jory Strong: Healer's Choice

Rebekka knew she should preserve her strength and energy, but she couldn’t bring herself to go passively into the house. She fought like a fish at the end of a line.

It was a hopeless battle, leaving her shoulders aching and her wrists raw and bloody. It was a struggle that ended with the rope draped over a staircase banister and tied there, forcing her hands to remain raised above her head.

“This will do as a starting point,” the man said, breathing heavily, not from physical exertion as a result of her fighting him, but from his excitement over it.

He dangled a key in front of her face. It was threaded onto a velvet ribbon.

“This opens the front door,” he said, demonstrating the truth of it by walking over and inserting the key into the lock, twisting it so she heard a telltale click.

He unlocked the door and removed the key, separated the ribbon strands so he could wear it around his neck.

“Your visitor will let himself into the house. He will disrobe if he so chooses, though I’ve found few potential members choose to do so, not when they’re so very aware of being captured on camera initially.”

Rebekka’s attention jerked to the ceiling. Cameras were mounted there, sickening her, reminding her of the maze and the gambling clubs that profited from those running in it.

Cold, evil laughter made her look at the masked figure once again. “Your face is so expressive. I can tell you’re thinking about Anton’s little venture. It might amuse you to know that for a while he served as the family priest for several of our members.

“In some ways this is similar to his sadly defunct operation. But in all the ways that count, it’s different. Only those among the crème of Oakland society are invited to run in our houses and join the elite who make up our membership. To be accepted they must do one thing, prove they really do enjoy the combination of murder and sex.”

He waved at the cameras. “If the prospect loses his nerve, this little film catching him in the act of rape buys his silence. It unfortunately doesn’t buy your freedom, or save your life, unless you’re able to capitalize on your visitor’s weakness and get the key—which by club rule must be worn around a guest’s neck—and leave the house. If you accomplish that, then you will be given money enough to start a new life elsewhere.

“You will be escorted to that new life by men in our employ. Any whisper of what took place here will end in a death meted out by a professional in such matters.

“If, despite the lack of nerve and initiative to end things with a kill, your guest manages to keep the key in his possession and prevent you from escaping, it merely buys you time to regain your strength so you’ll provide at least somewhat of a challenge to your next visitor.”

He touched the key. “Somehow I don’t think you’ll get a second run, not unless you’re willing to sacrifice your gift for your life. I suspect that’s why Allende offered you to me, because in some way, your talent for healing has become a problem to him. Would you care to satisfy my curiosity on the matter?”

When she didn’t answer, he shrugged and returned to the staircase. He climbed the few steps necessary to untie the rope serving as a leash.

“We’ll forgo a tour of the upstairs, I think. There are several rooms with beds and a few with assorted clutter to add excitement to the chase. There are even a couple of them with doors that close and lock from the inside, though you’ve got to reach them first.”

He paused to study the staircase. Cold chills went through Rebekka when he said, “A lot of very satisfying, dramatic scenes have concluded with a desperate attempt to get to the second floor. But now it’s time for a quick tour of the downstairs before getting you prepared for your visitor.”

He led her through the house, jerking the leash if she didn’t follow quickly enough to suit him. Living room, dining room, bathroom, except for the cameras, they appeared perfectly normal, like a house owned by a merchant, comfortable but not luxurious.

In the kitchen, skillets hung from the wall but the cabinets and pantries were bare. The drawers were empty, save for the long, sharp knife he extracted from one of them.

“In the usual situation you’d be allowed some time to prepare your defense. You’d simply be set free in the house and left with the knowledge that at some point there would be an ‘intruder’ if that was the particular fantasy being played out, or perhaps an angry husband returning home to deal with an unfaithful wife, or—”

With a laugh he interrupted himself. “My apologies for giving you needless things to consider. As the House Master and Director of Scenes for this particular dwelling, I tend toward enthusiasm when it comes to all the delightful possibilities. To be a bit more succinct, normally you’d be set free and left to your own devices. But since this is essentially an initiation into our club, we don’t want to make things too challenging for our prospective member. And yet at the same time, our rules do require you have a chance to save yourself.”

He flipped the knife into the air and caught it, repeating the action as he tugged her into the room at the end of the hallway. It was a bedroom.

Rebekka fought him again when he looped his end of the rope through a metal ring set into the wall next to the door. Her wrists began bleeding but she didn’t stop until her arms were once again forced into position above her head and the rope secured to a second loop several feet below and to the right of the first.

The man shook his head and tsked. “A waste of effort on your part, though I suppose it doesn’t really matter. As I said a moment ago, we want our candidate to succeed.”

He moved closer and touched the knife to her throat, making small, imaginary cuts there before slowly unbuttoning her shirt with his free hand. Instinctively she tried to drive him away with her knee. He backhanded her hard enough her ears rang and for a moment she was dizzy.

“You’re safe enough from me, unless you continue to be difficult,” he said, leaning in so the leather of his mask touched her cheek. “But persist and I promise you I will have you before the prospect gets his chance to. It’s not against our rules for the House Master to enjoy the fruits of his labor before a scene runs.”

She shuddered. Forced herself to remain passive as he used the knife to strip away her clothing and leave them in useless pieces on the floor at her feet.

He touched the tip of the blade to the tattoo, traced the black circle and the red P . “This is unexpected.” His voice was heavy with displeasure. “It makes me wonder if you’re a discarded whore instead of a gifted healer as Allende claimed. Tell me, did he lie?”

Rebekka hesitated, trying to work out which answer might be more to her advantage. He backhanded her again, hard enough to split her lip.

“The truth,” he said. “There’s time enough for me to make a few discreet inquires, and time after I do it to teach you a lesson, even if it’s a short-lived one.”

“I’m one of the gifted.”

“Good. See how easy that was?” He was breathing fast again, excited by hitting her while she was naked and defenseless.

She trembled, and his eyes seemed to glitter. The tip of the knife left the tattoo, snaking upward in a slow, sinuous journey that made her skin crawl.

It finally stopped at the leather cord attached to the amulet. “I’m tempted to leave this as decoration but I’m afraid it might be an unfair advantage since it’s obviously witch-crafted.”

He slid the knife underneath and cut, catching the amulet and tucking it into a pocket rather than letting it fall to the floor.