Raine: The Lords of Satyr (4 page)

The six men studied her speculatively.

Salerno tapped his chin with a long finger. “Or what if the subject were to mate with both a man and a woman, all under the strict surveillance of a theater full of medical men? And what if, in the course of such an experiment, La Maschera were to become both father and mother, all in the course of a single night?”

The Sicilian’s eyes lit. “Now that would be something to draw crowds!”

“I’ll never agree to such a thing,” said Jordan. “You know I wouldn’t. I’m no animal in heat to be caged and mated. And I would never indiscriminately bring children into this world. If I were ever so fortunate as to bear offspring, I would want to parent them for all the years afterward. If I were a wife—”

“What man would take you as a wife if it turns out that you cannot bear his children?” one of the Venetians countered.

“A man that loves me,” she replied heatedly, though even she didn’t believe her own claim.

Salerno raised his hands up and down as though patting out a fire. “Calm down. It’s not possible to experiment tonight anyway. To ensure accurate results, any woman you mated would have to be quarantined for nine months prior to copulation. And for as many months afterward, it would be someone’s task to ensure she remained celibate. That’s the only way to validate that any offspring she bore had resulted from your seed.”

“But what of my suggestion? The subject could still be given the ultimate test of femininity—one that would determine if it’s capable of motherhood,” the Sicilian insisted. From the bulge in his trousers, Jordan garnered the distinct impression he was willing to take on the job.

“My family wouldn’t be pleased by such a result,” she said, eyeing Salerno pointedly.

She sensed the bishop paying close attention. “Is there no medical inspection that could satisfactorily determine gender?” he inquired. “Some evaluation of femaleness other than the ability to bear children?”

Salerno shrugged. “A woman is what she is because of the uterus. This dictum has been relied upon by the medical establishment since first decreed by Jan Baptist van Helmont, the Flemish physician in the seventeenth century. However, the factual presence of such an organ can only be determined by an invasive physical search.”

“One that could be performed tonight?” the bishop prodded.

The spectacled Englishman spoke up, shaking his head. “Gentlemen! You’re not contemplating—? No! It’s too dangerous.”

“What would you have to do exactly?” Jordan asked, feeling reckless with the desire to strengthen her claim to femininity.

“Don’t agree to this,” the Englishman warned her.

“Bah!” Salerno said, waving away the other man’s plea for caution. “The subject is here to be explored of its own free will. What I suggest is a routine procedure I’ve done several times before. A well-informed hand such as mine, lubricated and inserted into its rectum, would quickly detect the shape, size, and location of a uterus if one exists. Any discomfort would be minimal.”

“Minimal!” scoffed the spectacled man.

Paling at the description of what was involved, Jordan beckoned Salerno closer.

“A private moment, gentlemen!” he told the others. They grudgingly turned away as he leaned in to listen to her.

“If you dare perform such a search,” Jordan whispered, “regardless of what you find, I swear to you I will put an end to these annual demonstrations.”

“What will your mother have to say on that?” he asked mildly, unconcerned at her threat. She’d made it many times before.

“I don’t care,” said Jordan firmly. But they both knew she was lying. Her mother was beautiful, sought after, and self-centered. Jewels, society, and gaiety were the substance of her life. Sudden poverty would not agree with her. If Jordan were exposed not to be a verifiable male, her cousin would inherit. She wouldn’t see her own mother cast into the streets, and Salerno knew it.

His beady bird eyes bored into hers. “Don’t make threats on which you cannot follow through. I believe I’ll perform the search tonight, with or without your agreement. However, I’ll offer to strike a different bargain with you in exchange for your cooperation: one birthday.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you make this easy, I’ll not come for you next year on your birthday.”

Her heart skipped a beat. He was offering two years of freedom. It was almost worth it. Almost, but—

Without giving her a chance to decide either way, Salerno straightened and craftily rubbed his hands together.

“The search is on! First, I’ll need my clyster apparatus to cleanse the creature’s rectum. Where’s my medical bag?” He rummaged around, found the bag, and pulled a metal syringe from it. As long as her forearm, it had a thick needle on one end and a pump handle on the other. It was the French type of syringe that worked with a piston.

He gestured to the Sicilian. “You. Go for warm water. Quickly.”

“Warm? Where am I to procure warm water in this neighborhood at this hour?” the man inquired.

“You’re right,” said Salerno. “Fetch two pitchers of whatever you find. We’ll make do.”

The Sicilian made his way through the curtains, hurrying off on his errand.

The Englishman’s glasses slid to the bridge of his nose and he pinched the skin between his brows as though he were getting a headache. “Gentlemen! I must insist that the danger of potential injury prohibits such an experiment. There are severe health risks, as you know.”

“What risks?” asked Jordan, with increasing concern.

He eyed her anxiously. “If done improperly, an examination such as they’re proposing can result in serious injuries. Torn bowels, infections, bruising, incontinence, sterility.” He counted them off on his fingers.

“Nonsense. A rectal examination done with proper care by a medical practitioner carries a low risk of injury,” said Salerno.

“I won’t be a party to this!” said the other man, ripping off his glasses to emphasize his protest.

“Then hustle yourself off,” Salerno told him diffidently. “We’ve determined our course. And the subject isn’t protesting.”

“Your subject is hardly in a position to get its way! You’ve obviously got some sort of hold over it.”

“Your imagination runs away with you,” said Salerno. “For its cooperation, La Maschera is paid in a coin you wouldn’t understand.” He looked her way. “Aren’t you?”

Jordan averted her eyes, hating him.

Shooting them all a disgusted look, the Englishman donned his glasses, coat, and hat in that order. The door at the back of the stage let in a bluster of rain, then banged shut as he deserted them.

His colleagues scarcely noticed. But Jordan knew her only ally had gone.

Salerno dug through his bag and pulled out a stoppered bottle containing bits of black root. Selecting one at random, he extended it to Jordan. “Chew this while I prepare myself.”

“What is it?” asked the bishop, intercepting and studying the root before passing it to her.

But Jordan knew the substance well and popped it in her mouth. Salerno had dosed her with it to calm her when she’d been younger and given to screaming fits during examinations.

“It’s an herb that will relax the subject’s muscles,” said Salerno.

Jordan chewed, watching as he began filing the nails of his right hand with the rasp of a particularly evil-looking file.

“Once stuck my hand inside a woman,” one of the drunkards ruminated. “In her cunt though, not her ass. Did it on a bet with my brother. Devil of a time getting my knuckles inside her as I recall. Once inside I made a fist though—in spite of her caterwauling—and won the wager.”

“Was there any injury?” Jordan couldn’t help asking.

“My hand was a little stiff and bruised the next day. Nothing serious.”

Jordan rolled her eyes at his stupidity. “No, I meant was there any injury to the woman.”

The man scratched his chin and looked perplexed. “Dunno. Never saw her again after that night. Whore, you know.”

He turned to Salerno, holding out one of his hands for inspection. “My hands are smaller than yours. And I’m a man of experience. Maybe I should have a go at it.”

Salerno shook his head. “You won’t know what you’re searching for. The shape of the organ is specific and requires a knowledge of internal anatomy.”

“Well at least tell me this. What’s your secret for getting the knuckles in?” the drunkard inquired with an air of seriousness.

“Adequate lubrication is the ticket to the whole endeavor. I start in with two fingers straight,” said Salerno, holding up his index and second fingers to demonstrate.

“As you add more fingers,” he went on, “crowd them together so the index and small fingers slide under the middle two.”

“Yes, yes, but the knuckles?” the drunkard prompted.

Salerno nodded, pleased as always to have a fascinated audience. “They’re the widest part of the hand, so one always encounters resistance during either vaginal or rectal insertion, though more so with the latter, naturally. As I push inside, I tuck my thumb under my fingers, forming a sort of wedge shape. Here, it’s best to heed any complaint from the male patient. However, in my opinion females are more prone to hysteria so one should insist upon proceeding regardless. Once the knuckles slip past the outer ring of muscles, one must press on gradually and with utmost care.”

Jordan’s anxiety escalated as he proceeded to illustrate the best manner in which to infiltrate her anus. As a crack of thunder came from outside the theater, a twin bolt of anger shot through her. Suddenly, she wanted to rage at all these men. To slap their satisfied faces and punch their paunchy bellies.

She’d reached her limit of enforced obedience. She’d rather die than return for this sort of treatment next year or even two years from now. No matter how her mother begged, this would be the last birthday she’d allow herself to be subjugated in this way. If Salerno exposed the true facts of her gender and they lost everything, so be it. She would find work. Or perhaps she could convince her mother to marry one of the many swains who doted on her.

The Sicilian returned then with two pitchers of water. Her eyelids slitted as she measured the distance to the door. He blocked it now, but she would watch for an opportunity to cut the evening short.

With a final flourish of his nail file, Salerno flexed his fingers and pronounced himself ready. After filling the syringe from the pitchers, he went to stand at the back of the stage, near the wall.

“Come over here so you don’t soil the table,” he told her, motioning her forward with one hand. “Cleansing with a clyster can be a nasty business.”

Pretending to be woozier than she was, Jordan slowly gathered herself and half-rolled off the table. Stumbling, she made her way toward the rear of the stage where Salerno waited.

He eyed her critically as she approached. “Is that my cloak?” Aghast when he determined it was, he thrust his equipment into the bishop’s hands. “Take it off before it becomes soiled beyond redemption.” He yanked the garment from her. Shaking out its folds, he carefully draped it over the back of the chair the artist had left positioned by the door.

When he returned, he neglected to reclaim his device from the bishop. “On your knees now,” he told her. “In a squat. That’s right.”

His hands pressed her shoulders downward and Jordan sank to her knees. A bucket was set on the floor, just behind her between her ankles.

“Lean forward.” She didn’t budge.

“The root has taken effect,” he told the bishop over her head. “You’ll have to wield the syringe.” Salerno came and stood in front of her, holding his hands under her armpits. She had no choice but to bury her nose in his crotch.

Within his trousers, his prick dangled, soft against her cheekbone. Working with her never excited him physically. She wondered if anything ever did.

Hands fumbled behind her, spreading the cheeks of her bottom. The bishop’s robes puddled over her feet as he bent closer. Cold metal prodded her anus.

Perhaps she should pretend to faint. Or to vomit. She had to do something that would offer a distraction in order to escape.

The sound of someone clearing his throat just outside the theater curtain came to her like a gift from heaven. The remaining men turned their attention away from her and toward the interruption.

“Don’t do anything until I return,” Salerno muttered to the bishop. Leaving her on all fours with the bishop positioned behind her, he went to the curtain.

“You think I’m stupid?” the bishop whispered to her when he’d left them. “You think I don’t know?”

Jordan froze, looking back at him over a shoulder. “What the hell are you talking about?”

His eyes turned something less than lucid and his features took on a demented twist. “I saw how you made him want you. I saw. You put the idea in my head to share him between us, witch. You would take him from me if I let you.”

“Who are you talking about? Never mind. Whoever he is, keep him. I don’t want him,” Jordan assured him.

Blood suffused the bishop’s face. “You lie—”

Without warning he knelt over her and caught a hand under her midsection. His other hand worked behind her. The point of the syringe poked, then found its way into her rectum. She heard the squeak of metal and a squishing sound as he awkwardly tried to work the brass and tin piston with the use of only one hand and arm.

She tried to wriggle free of the discomfort, knowing that in seconds she would feel the cold chill of water flushing her bowels into the waiting bucket.

The voice at the curtain rose. “I bring a message for the bishop,” it announced. “Regarding the matter we discussed earlier. I come to inform him that his companion has just departed in a group of others.”

The clyster left her and hit the floor with a clatter. The bishop hurried off, forgetting her and his crazy threats. With a twitch of the curtain, he stepped outside it to speak with the interloper. There was a brief conversation to which Salerno and the others listened unabashedly.

This was her chance.

Jordan stumbled upright and managed to stuff her bare feet into her sturdy buckled man’s shoes, which had been set by the door. Salerno’s cloak, lying across the chair back, brushed her arm. She snatched it up to cover her nakedness. All this seemed to occur in slow motion, but when she glanced behind her, no one had moved and she knew only seconds had passed.