Chapter 20 Marcus #2
The basement he leads us into is… interesting.
The air is cool, tinged with the scent of leather and lemon.
My gaze takes in the space, catching on every piece of equipment I’ve only ever read about.
Chains and cuffs gleam against concrete walls, a four-poster bed stands pride of place with restraints built into the headboard, and a wooden St. Andrew’s cross looms from the corner.
Whips. Paddles. Floggers—instruments I recognize from whispered stories, late-night research I’d never admit to, but never thought I’d see up close.
Don’t judge me, you know you’ve done it.
And gods help me, the place is spotless.
Every piece polished to a gleam, as if Belvedere actually dusts his collection of naughty toys like one would dust ancient artifacts.
“Seriously?” I mutter, my voice scraping against the silence. “You want us to tie it up here?”
“Leather can be sterilized,” Belvedere replies matter-of-factly, as if we’re talking about countertops instead of cuffs.
I shrug. It’s his playroom.
Minerva and Leonard drag the changeling over to the cross and deftly secure the leather cuffs.
No sooner has it been tied up than Esmerelda gets in its face, fierce as fire.
For a moment, I can’t tell if I’m turned on or terrified.
She pulls out a knife. “Start talking or I start carving you a new face. One you won’t be able to escape from. ”
The ropes and cuffs glow faintly where they touch its skin, but the changeling lounges against them like they’re silk sheets instead of restraints.
Its face flickers constantly. First to my scowl, then Leonard’s grin, then Minerva’s arched brow until it settles back into an androgynous mask that smiles too wide.
“So this is the plan? Tie me up in your… oh, my. What is this place? A sex dungeon?” It chuckles, shifting into a caricature of Belvedere, wagging its eyebrows. “Kinky. I like it. Who gets to play bad cop, who gets to play naughty cop?”
Esmerelda steps closer, her jaw tight. The changeling leans forward, voice turning mock-serious. “Ooh, don’t look at me like that. You’re giving me ideas.”
A low growl rips from my throat as I pace. The changeling instantly mirrors me, morphing into a perfect duplicate and mimicking the movements like a funhouse reflection. “Oh, look at me, I’m broody and dangerous. Grrr. I fight for justice and my jawline is sharper than my personality.”
Leonard swears under his breath. The changeling whirls on him, transforming mid-sentence into a grotesque puppet version of him, exaggerated nose and gangly limbs. “And I’m the comic relief! Everybody loves me until they don’t, right? Right?”
Minerva crosses her arms. The changeling pauses…
then takes her exact form with the same facial expressions.
“You all want answers. But guess what? I don’t feel like giving them.
Why? Because I can’t be bothered. And honestly”—it grins wickedly, shifting into a massive, purple, horned demon just like an emoticon for a split second, then back again—“what are you gonna do about it?”
It laughs, a high, taunting cackle, then sighs dramatically. “You’re fun toys, really. But you don’t scare me. Not even a little. I’ve danced in iron cages, worn wounds like tattoos, stolen faces prettier than yours. You’re out of your depth.”
Leonard steps up, his smile razor sharp. “Let’s play a different game. Tell us who ordered the attack on our families, or he’ll carve out your sight and leave you blind to whatever face you think you can wear.”
Its lips curl, taunting to the last. “Sightless, but still beautiful.”
I grab my dagger and press hard until the blade digs in, a bead of blood blooming bright against shifting skin. “Answer.”
Esmerelda steps in then, every ounce of fury harnessed, honed into command. Her voice is quiet but lethal. “You can wear a hundred faces, but you’ll never fool me. I’ll know if you’re lying. Who orchestrated the massacre?”
“Look, it’s been a couple of hours. Aren’t we getting bored yet?” the changeling asks.
The chair creaks as Serafina stands and makes her way across the room. She moves so smoothly, it looks like she’s floating. We all watch her with curiosity, but when she speaks, her voice is not her own. It is layered, ancient, like a thousand sirens all speaking at once.
“You think you know fear because you wear so many faces. But you do not know Hatakachafa. You do not know the Nameless One.”
Her eyes unfocused, her tone never rising, every word delivered like a slow punch.
The changeling stills, its grin faltering.
“You are in the presence of Hatakachafa’s vessel.
When my people were slaughtered, when the hunters came with their poisons and their machines, they infected us.
They turned our gift of healing into a curse.
My brothers, my sisters, my parents… their bodies became bombs of flesh and blood, swollen with virulent magic.
I went to the altar of my ancestors. I begged.
I pleaded. I offered everything. And Hatakachafa came.
The Wolf’s Companion. The Nameless Hunter.
He who taught the first wolf how to howl.
I begged for help for me and my family.”
The air shifts. It feels colder, heavier.
“I gave him my animal form. My blood, my bones, my freedom. And in return, he gave me his voice. His power. His wrath.”
She steps closer. The changeling writhes against its restraints, but her hand rises, steady and unhurried, until she grips its shifting face.
“Do you know the story?” she whispers, her words weaving into the room like smoke.
“He was handsome. Brave. Beloved. But he lost everything. His name, his love, his tribe. He wandered the dark, fought monsters, and when he returned, his Imma was dead. He knelt upon the hill of pines and howled until the sound broke his body.”
Her voice deepens, becomes something inhuman.
“And the wolf beside him carried his grief into every howl of its legacy. That is why the world knows sorrow when it hears a wolf’s cry. That is why Hatakachafa does not forgive those who steal loved ones away.”
The changeling’s skin flickers—male, female, beast, bird—too fast to track. For the first time, its bravado is gone.
Serafina leans in, Hatakachafa’s voice bleeding fully through her now, resonant, powerful and terrible.
“I am the vessel. So I will ask you, little trickster. What is your worst fear? Tell me. For my god wishes to know.”
The changeling lets out a strangled cry. Its body convulses, forms snapping wildly as though it can’t decide what it is anymore. The mocking grin is gone, raw terror in its place.
“I don’t know who paid me!” it blurts. “I don’t know their name. Only that it was a vampire! A vampire, do you hear me?”
Her hand lingers on its trembling face, eyes unblinking. Then, in a voice that could be hers or her god’s, she murmurs. “And you dared steal from a vessel of Hatakachafa. Pray your master can protect you, for the Nameless One hunts what is his.”
Serafina turns to me, her voice returning to its normal timbre. “What is the use of keeping them alive when they know nothing useful?”
“Good point,” I agree. “Let’s finish this.”
“Wait. Wait.” The changeling’s voice rings out in panic. “I have another meeting. I’m meeting my client for a…a…another job. Maybe we can work something out?”
Esmerelda and I exchange a look. “Let’s go chat in the other room.”