Rough Play (24 page)

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Authors: Christina Crooks

BOOK: Rough Play
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25
M
artin and Amethyst followed Ratty down into the old dungeon room.
It seethed with bodies. At any other time, Martin would’ve been delighted by the thick crowd.
“This room rocks!” Ratty waved his sword at a Renaissancegarbed beer wench in front of the tall iron maiden. The blond woman grinned at him, licked her lips, and thrust out her cleavage. Even with her costume, she looked impossibly modern and soft next to the metal coffin door hiding its dangerous spikes within. “You should let people play here every night, not just on Halloween.”
“The liability’s too high and the extra manpower’s too steep,” Martin replied, scanning the old dungeon pieces and peering behind piles of ancient bedsprings. He waved off the dungeon monitors who looked at him inquiringly. “It’s a madhouse tonight,” he muttered.
A half-naked man wearing only antlers, a loincloth, and moccasins stumbled past, laughing. Another man painted as a zombie paddled a woman costumed in a strange, gelatinous blob of see-through gray Martin couldn’t place until the man explained. “I’m tenderizing some brainzzz for dinner!”
“Eat me,” the woman begged. She wriggled artfully, but the manacles enclosing her wrists kept her pinned close to the old post.
“A really fun madhouse.” Ratty looked around with more purpose. “All right. Let’s try . . . over there.” He led them to the brick archway and the cabinet placed under it. He opened the cabinet. “That’s what I suspected.”
“What?” Martin itched to shove him aside. “What is it?”
“The cabinet is backless. You clear away these old hanging clothes, and, see? That’s a door.”
“How did you know that?” Martin gently pushed him aside.
Amethyst looked at the slender man with approval. “Good job. How
did
you know?”
Ratty preened. “I took one of those Riverport undertunnels tours once. The doorways were always under the brick arches.”
Suddenly a heavy blow landed on the wooden door. Then another.
They all looked at each other.
A piercing shriek of terror cut through the door as if it were made of silk rather than wood. The music played on, the bass continued thumping its beat into their bodies, and none of the club-goers paused in their play.
But Martin, Amethyst, and Ratty stood in a frozen tableau for a long moment. Had they really heard the bloodcurdling sound?
“Jesus,” Ratty finally said with reverence.
Breaking the paralysis, Martin shoved dresses aside to fling himself at the door, hitting it with his shoulder. It cracked under the blow, but held. He tore pieces off, splinters stabbing his fingers and lacerating his palms.
How had he not noticed this going on in his own club? Recriminations lacerated his spirit far more deeply than the pieces of wood did his flesh. How could he have been so blind? What was Charlotte enduring to sound like that? She had to be terrified out of her wits or in an extremity of pain or in mortal danger to scream that way.
Whatever was happening to her was his fault.
Panic and fury gave him near-superhuman strength.
He threw himself at the door again, helpless rage fighting through healthy and rotted wood alike to reach her.
26
K
artane saw the door buckling. The bright, colored lights from the Subspace dungeon spilled through the ever-widening cracks, cutting through the tunnel’s darkness as they tore through his dreams. The door was coming apart.
So were his plans.
He bared his teeth, desperate. His gaze dropped to the hands reaching through the door.
He had to do something.
“Talia.”
No answer.
“Talia!” He turned.
The slaves were standing loosely, comfortably, without the usual deference of crossed wrists before them. Rather than downcast eyes, theirs pinned him accusingly. Talia was the only one who approached him. “Master? Is it true your Home Stone was stolen?”
Deep unease skittered through him. They weren’t letting it go. “It wasn’t stolen. It’s been misplaced. I’m going to reclaim it.”
The women looked at each other.
Talia nodded her acceptance, crossing her wrists.
The others didn’t.
“Go. Back to your slave cribs, all of you.”
They didn’t. “I want to go home,” one of them whined.
Kartane lifted his hand from Charlotte to slap the other slave for insolence.
At that moment the door crumbled under the onslaught. Martin burst through it, his eyes blazing with wrath.
“Martin!” The tearful relief in Charlotte’s voice grated Kartane’s nerves.
Martin ran straight to Charlotte and Gail. Kartane’s muscles bunched in preparation for battle. If he could subdue Martin, he might salvage the situation.
“I think your game’s about played out, big fella.” Amethyst smiled sweetly at Kartane.
Amethyst! The one he’d hoped to make a favored slave. The one who made him feel anything but masterful. How dare she insult him before his slaves! Kartane snarled, his anger diverted from Martin. He lunged at her. How sweet it would be to break her slender neck.
He had her in a headlock, where she struggled, helpless in his grip. He grinned, a baring of teeth. Let the others take the warning that Kartane of Gor wasn’t to be trifled with. Let them realize a Gorean warrior feared nothing, least of all a woman.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw more people pushing through the destroyed door. A strange, tall man wearing a Halloween mask. And most oddly, another Gorean warrior. A slender man, but properly dressed. He shouted something, but the red haze of fury sealed Kartane’s ears to all but the sweet music of Amethyst’s strangled breaths.
The strange Gorean threw aside his sword, fumbled at his waist pouch. The slender man raised his hand to him and attacked!
The blow that crashed against his skull knocked Kartane to the ground. He tried to move, but the warrior kneed him in the chest, threatening him with another blow using the stone held in his hand.
“I lay my sword at your feet.” Kartane offered the symbolic words of surrender.
Instead of accepting his surrender, the man shrugged. “I don’t see a sword. I do see some abused women and an overgrown gamer who takes his Gorean shit way too seriously.” He hefted the flat gray rock over his head.
But before he could use it, the women shouted. “The master has a Home Stone!”
Amethyst looked, and started laughing. “Ratty! Where’d you get that?” She pointed to the stone.
He shrugged, then spoke for her ears only. “It came with the outfit.”
Kartane had to watch, with amazement and humiliation, as Talia and his slaves abased themselves before their new master, Ratty of Gor.
Ratty looked down at all their crossed wrists and bowed heads. “I could get used to this.”
“Don’t even think about it.” Amethyst folded her arms across her chest. Then, as Kartane watched, she uncrossed them . . . and crossed her wrists before her. “I prefer not to share.”
Kartane felt a sickening sense of loss, hearing that soft voice come out of Amethyst. Ratty had eyes for only Amethyst. After placing the stone back in its pouch, he claimed her, right in front of Kartane, with a long, firm kiss.
27
M
artin cradled Charlotte. She was stunned by the power of the relief and regret shining in his eyes. His large fingers touched her with fast, investigatory touches that would have set her aflame if she weren’t so distracted.
Her thoughts whirled and swirled, stirred by more emotions than she could name. She clung to him. “I’m so sorry I ran from you. Sorry for believing the worst of you. Thank you.” She lifted one hand his face, tracing his features, reverent. “Thank you for finding me. I’m fine. Gail, though. She needs a doctor. And clothes. And, Elizabeth . . .”
“Elizabeth!” the tall man called out, his voice muffled by his mask.
“Who’s that?” Charlotte asked Martin.
Martin gently nudged her aside, rose to his feet. “I intend to find out.”
“Elizabeth, where are you?” The man ripped off his mask. His tufted hair and wild gaze made him look different, but Charlotte recognized him. So did Martin.
So did Elizabeth. “Daddy!”
She struggled to her feet. By the time she’d managed it, Peter swept her off them. “Elizabeth! I knew it, I knew you were alive, I knew you were here, Elizabeth. Oh, thank God.”
“Daddy.” She snuggled into him, crying. He locked his arms around her, cradling her as gently as if she were made of porcelain. The weight of years seemed to come off him. Charlotte realized with surprise he wasn’t old at all. The lines on his dirty face were etched in a pattern of tiredness and grief, but they didn’t show the same elderly scarecrow who’d assaulted her outside of Subspace that night.
Peter murmured to his daughter, “Who did this to you? Was it Martin? Is he a white slaver?” Peter’s look when he turned to Martin could’ve drilled holes through steel.
“No, Daddy. It was him.” She indicated Kartane. “He kept me in a cell and hurt me. He hurt the others, too.”
Peter turned to Kartane. “Did he?”
Gail answered with a venomous look of her own aimed at Kartane. “Yes. He did.”
Amethyst explained. “He’s an extremist, for a Gorean. They’re all sexist and irrational, but he’s way beyond the pale. He likes breaking women’s spirits. Don’t you, sweetie?”
“I see.” Peter kissed Elizabeth on the top of her head. “Maybe you should leave. Go with this nice lady outside, and wait for me there.” He caught Amethyst’s eye, nodded to the broken door he came in.
Amethyst took the hint. “Let’s go, luv. Your daddy will be along shortly.”
“Okay.” Then Elizabeth surprised everyone by walking up to Kartane and spitting on his face. She cocked her head at him. “You didn’t break me. You never could, asshole.”
“Language,” Peter chided.
“Sorry, Daddy.”
Amethyst and Gail laughed, then helped Elizabeth through the broken door. Gail clung to her hand for a moment, then came back.
Ratty held the jagged edges away from the bruised girl, then followed both Amethyst and Elizabeth.
Gail glared at Kartane. “I’m staying.”
“So am I,” said another of the slave girls.
“And me.” The red silk-clad woman had her hands on her hips. She smiled at Kartane. It wasn’t a submissive smile.
Kartane looked up at Talia. “Talia? You, too? I demand that you assist me!”
She shook her head, but after a moment, a look of sadness crumpled her face. Her shoulders slumped, as if Kartane’s predicament stole her strength. “A weak master is a sad thing. But I cannot hurt you.” She turned her back on all of them, followed the others through the door.
Martin and Charlotte rose. He addressed Peter. “This”—he indicated Kartane’s undertunnel den—“is emphatically
not
part of Subspace. Subspace is only about consensual play. I want you to know I had nothing whatsoever to do with Kartane’s illegal activities here, and no knowledge of it.”
“Then you probably don’t want to know what’s about to happen here.” Peter didn’t take his eyes off Kartane, who rubbed his head where Ratty’s stone had landed. “You both probably should leave. Now.”
Martin nodded, but Charlotte balked. She spoke to Peter. “Promise you won’t kill him. He wasn’t always this way. I can’t allow . . . he doesn’t deserve to die, is all. I’m calling the cops, you know. They’ll lock you up if you kill him. Gail, you too.”
“Spoilsport.” Gail bared her teeth at Kartane, who shuddered.
“I wouldn’t dream of murdering him.” Peter looked a great deal less desperate and more purposeful now that he’d achieved his goal of finding his daughter. He looked powerful and almost handsome. “I won’t do anything to him that he hasn’t done to my daughter.”
Gail looked at Peter approvingly.
Kartane paled.
Charlotte nodded. She looked from Gail to Peter, then back again, suddenly distracted. “Oh.”
Of all times for it to happen. Of all the impossible times. Charlotte nearly laughed as the film in her mind rolled. The X-rated movies, finally playing for Gail.
Fit and frisky, a nude Peter embraced Gail. He didn’t use a condom, Charlotte noticed. Gail might actually get the baby she craved, as well as the partner.
“Gail,” she began, her voice choked up. “You won’t believe what I’ve just seen.”
But Gail still glared at Kartane.
Charlotte swallowed her emotions. Time enough to tell her later. If it proved necessary. “Just don’t kill anyone,” she repeated, talking to the air between them both. “Either of you. You’ll be glad you didn’t.” She edged toward the broken door. “Good-bye, Kartane. Don’t ever contact me again. Assuming they leave you in any condition to do so.”
“Charlotte, don’t go! Please!”
Martin propelled her firmly away when she wavered. She was grateful for his strength, as her own seemed to have temporarily deserted her. She had the shakes again.
“I just can’t believe it. He’d whipped Gail, hitting her and hurting all of them. Like he did to me when we were married. He was going to do it to me again.”
“Shh. It’ll be okay. You’re with me now, and you’re safe. Everything is as it’s supposed to be, now.” Martin spoke in a deep, reassuring voice. They climbed into the Blood Orange room, and it was as if they’d entered another dimension. The rust, dust, and wet rot of the undertunnels gave way to faint smoke and sweat scent that tickled her nostrils. The music throbbed underfoot, smoothing Charlotte’s pulse to a more regular beat in time to it.
It seemed impossible that she should feel better so quickly.
And yet she did. Not perfect, but better.
She clung to Martin, relishing his muscles, remembering his strength. Savoring his faith in her. Appreciating his patience. He’d led the rescue. Without him she’d be lost.
She gazed up at him, all her love and lust offered up to him, if he wanted it. “Almost everything’s as it’s supposed to be,” she finally corrected. “There’s one small thing still missing.”
He stopped. He raised his eyebrows, then gave her a speculative look. “I see. In that case, three things must occur. First, we call the police, get that mess in the undertunnels dealt with. But not yet. I believe the victims will benefit from the catharsis of some minor vengeance. I figure we can give them”—he indicated the shattered door and those on its other side—“an hour of time. Or, two hours? Will that be enough to do what they need to do?”
He was actually asking her? She nodded slowly, the weight of judgment making her limbs heavy even as the fairness of such rough justice caused an aesthetic and cathartic shiver of appreciation.
Of course Martin was asking her. She’d been a victim once. Of Kartane. “Yes. Two hours.”
“Second, you let me give you a luxurious bath in back.”
Her entire body clenched with pleasure at the thought, and she all but moaned. “Yes!” She snuggled more deeply against him, breathing him in. Her savior.
“Third. Third . . .” He held her away from him. He bestowed a look of such knowing sternness, her knees weakened and her insides fluttered. “Third, we conclude our own unfinished business, Charlotte. In the same room, where the walls are padded. I’m going to give you some new bruises inside and out, my sweet. I’m going to terrify you in the best possible way, and I promise you’ll remember every moment of it for the rest of your life.”
She looked into his dark eyes. She believed him.
She nodded, a formal agreement.
They both ignored the revelers swirling around them, the laughter and the violence both. He nodded, contemplative. “Be sure. Be sure I’m the one you want.”
“Are you kidding? I just need to know if you’re willing to do the dirty deed.”
He smiled his answer. It was a happy smile and a cruel smile, and her muscles twitched pleasurably and her nipples hardened at the sight of it.
“Very well, Charlotte. Let’s begin soon so I can hear you scream just for me.”

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