12. Tálstrom
I rage against my restraints, biting down on leather and metal. My fangs cut into my own skin, blood matting my fur, but it makes no difference. My gums are sliced open down to the bone from the sharp edges of my shackles, but the coppery taste on my tongue only fuels my fury.
Our bonds burn like they’ve been doused in napalm. The one Simon calls O’Hare had jabbed us with something as his minions chained us down, the poison tearing and gnawing away at the barrier protecting our ties to our blood bonds. It’s only through years of practice as well as our fierce resolve that they remain hidden away, closed off and safe. For now.
The madman is determined to sink his claws into the threads connecting us to our blood bonds, and to control them through pain and agony. I am just as determined to see him fail, and then shred his body until his entrails spill out.
No matter what he pumps into us, we will not allow anything to seep through to our bond mates until we are free and clear of this living nightmare, and all of O’Hare’s toxins purged from our body.
Even if it means we’re alone.
Simon is furious and frantic, stuck in the darkness and unable to come forward to set us free. Whatever was in the darts they stuck in me, it’s keeping him down and unaware of what’s going on around us. It’s probably for the best, though. He’s not strong enough to shoulder witnessing what the flesh bags are doing to those under our protection, not firsthand at least. It would send him tumbling back into the darkness. Despite our fractured past and all the agonies we’ve endured because of the loss of our bonds, I don’t want him suffering there anymore. We’ve come a long way to this point, and I happen to like our partnership now.
Our little chick is hanging by his hands on a wall, his back facing outward. All I can see is the white of his bones, the bloody striations of his muscles, and in some places the hint of a pulsing organ. His skin has been cut in two large patches from his back and are pinned to his arms with metal needles, splaying them like a mockery of his bird’s wings. I can’t see his face, and he’s so silent that I’d worry he was dead if I couldn’t see his body move with each shuddering breath.
Our other little brother screamed himself hoarse. Screams to leave his mate alone, cursing the meat sticks to the depths of Hell for their sins, and wordless shrieks of agony as they puncture and mutilate his testicles. He somehow prevented them from harvesting an ejaculation, and the petty parasites in turn are taking out their frustrations in what they deem an appropriate retaliation.
The head monster strolls over to where I’m pinned, smug satisfaction stinking up the room, overpowering the scent of blood and pain. He crouches down in front of me, his arrogance blinding him to his own vulnerability.
“Well, now, I think that’s enough of your tantrum, don’t you? You’re only hurting your friends here. If you hadn’t fought when we came to collect you this morning, we would have conducted our research in a more humane manner. However, it seems you need to learn your place here, and understand that if you misbehave, if you injure, impair, or terminate any of the hardworking guards or other personnel here at Vieux Sang, there will be consequences. Consider this session as your consequence.”
The stupid human is so full of his own hubris he hasn’t noticed the change in me. While Simon is still locked away inside me, I’m burning through the poison polluting my bloodstream. That means that for a split second my paws become human hands again, and the blood slicking my forelegs enables me to slip them free. I’m still collared and tethered to the wall by a heavy chain, but it doesn’t prevent me from lunging forward, lashing out with splayed claws and shredding through the delicate flesh covering the face of the one they call O’Hare.
His high, pained cry is music to my ears, and I growl and lick my fangs in delicious anticipation of his blood coating my tongue. He falls back, blood streaming from the savage rends in his flesh, the most grotesque wound being the now-empty socket where his eye once sat. I glance down to see the oozing orb staring up at me from the tip of a claw, and I flick it to the floor before I deliberately set my paw atop the eyeball and press my full weight on the fragile organ. It bursts stickily beneath my pad, and I grimace at the thought of having to clean the fluids from my fur.
Oh well, consequences and all that nonsense. What was that saying that Cyril favored so much?
Ah yes.
Fuck around and find out.