7. Riley
RILEY
Ihave no idea how much time I’ve spent down here. I’ve never felt so completely untethered as I do now. Throughout my life, I’ve been lost many times, and not just in unfamiliar lands. But I’ve never come as close to losing my grasp on reality as I am now.
There is no natural source of light or heat. The cold is the moist, penetrating kind that seeps through your flesh into the marrow of your bones. Every inch of me is aching. All I can think of is the caress of sun rays on my skin—more inaccessible to me now than the western half of the continent.
I’m drowning in the darkness, even more oppressive and suffocating than the cave walls around me and the bars of my cell. There are moments when I’m not sure whether my eyes are open or closed. I’ve banged my head countless times on the protruding rock, pacing around like a caged animal.
Panic rushes through my ears. But even my unceasing dread fails to drown out the little noises coming from deeper within the cave: not only the trickle of water but also small, scurrying disturbances of the gravel that I think are caused by rats.
Once, I heard something that might have been a snake slithering.
There must be spiders everywhere, too, crawling noiselessly about, crawling over me during the rare moments when I manage to sleep.
The Necromancer has become my only source of light, warmth, food—my only source of comfort.
And I despise him for it, even as I’m relieved that it’s only ever him who comes down here, and not any of his men.
At least, he seems too disgusted with me to rape me—he hasn’t touched me in any charged way since the first day.
He hasn’t hit me either—I almost wish that he would.
Because he brings me only nourishment and respite, I catch myself looking forward to his visits.
It’d be less confusing if he brought me pain, too.
He comes and goes at irregular intervals; sometimes it feels like entire days have passed since his last visit, and sometimes only hours. I think he does this on purpose, to confuse me.
Sometimes he doesn’t say a word to me the whole time; other times he’s taunting me, and occasionally he’s in the mood to talk some more about his creations. My own mood is even more volatile than his these days.
I’ve argued with him, and I’ve pleaded, and I’ve ignored his presence. But mostly I find myself catering to his wishes regarding our conversation. I tell myself this is out of fear for Corrado and not because I get so lonely down here that I welcome any company, including his.
During my many solitary hours, I unravel.
I cry, I struggle to breathe, I sit motionless until I can’t stand the cold anymore.
I hardly ever have anything resembling coherent thoughts.
Mostly, I can’t focus on anything, my mind jumping from one thing to another like a neurotic grasshopper on speed.
From one emotion to another. From impotent anger to profound despair to fickle hope. Over and over, on repeat.
ARON
It’s busy at Luka’s tonight, noisy and suffocatingly hot.
I pull the skull mask away from my face, wiping the sweat off.
The air is heavy with the sour reek of beer and the tang of minced meat sausages.
One motherfucker of a headache is starting to throb in my temples.
The loud, drunk voices are grating against my nerves.
If the fucking patrolmen don’t show up right now, I’ll make fucking minced meat sausages out of them once they do.
Not that any of the alternatives I’ve planned for them are more pleasant.
I was supposed to be back at the caves by now.
I was going to spend my evening in the traitor’s cell.
She’s been getting chattier lately, more comfortable with me.
I’ve seen this before: prisoners getting so bored and lonely that they start enjoying their jailor’s company.
Whenever that happens, I become as unpredictable as can be, going from almost friendly to silently hostile to vocally bullying.
But no matter what, I haven’t managed to get enough of a rise out of her to punish her again.
I may have overdone it with the kneeling.
But how the fuck was I to know she’d learn so fast?
Not that it hasn’t been fun. She’s a challenge. I like a challenge.
I’m pissed off. I’ve been looking forward to my fix of adrenaline—the thrill of a raid. But instead, I just want it done quickly. I want to go play with my new toy.
The mosaic-glass door creaks. I yank my mask down just as a large, round, apron-donned gut comes into view, followed shortly by the rest of Luka, the pub owner.
“Well?” I bark at him.
“Not here yet.” Frightful eyes fixed on me, Luka shakes his head, his walrus moustache twitching.
The top of his bald, sweat-sheened head barely reaches up to my shoulders.
“You said around seven, always around seven. It’s now almost ten,” I snarl.
“T-they were supposed to be here. Every day they come around seven. I don’t know,” he stammers. “I don’t want any trouble.”
I only yawn in response. His gulp is audible even over the music and laughter coming from the front of the pub.
“I just don’t want any trouble,” he repeats, more desperately.
He’s going to put me to fucking sleep.
“Go,” I tell him. “Let us know the minute they get here.”
“Y-yes.” Poor fucker bows as he exits, and I chuckle noiselessly.
Attila shakes his head.
“What are you giving him a hard time for?” he asks. “He’s helping us.”
I only shrug. “He’s helping himself. He was too loudly anti-Continuum. If they fully seize the Rifterland, his life is over,” I point out. “We were supposed to be done by now, for fuck’s sake. I’m so fucking bored I could cry.”
Attila narrows his eyes at me, gleaming green in the slit of his skull balaclava. “You just want to go back to your little photographer whore.”
One of the ten men behind us snickers, and I whip around, glaring. Fury soars through me, but I rein it in.
“I just want to get some fucking action already,” I mutter.
“Bullshit. She must have one sweet cunt.”
“Fuck off.”
No idea what Attila would say if he knew I haven’t touched Riley’s sweet cunt since the day I captured her. Fucked if I know why.
Not like I haven’t pictured it—who wouldn’t?
I have imagined storming in, fear pooling in her eyes as I’d approach her, her lips parting, that soft, frightened crease on her brow.
She wouldn’t scream. I know her enough to know she wouldn’t scream.
I’d fist the hair at the back of her head, tilting her face up.
I’d bite her plump pink lip hard enough to draw blood, and I would smear the red all over her mouth.
Then I’d grab her and slam her into the wall, bruising her back.
Her thighs wrapped around me, my hand would be under her ass, and my fingers would slowly inch their way to her entrance.
That’s when the fear would melt away, liquefying, her sapphire eyes darkening.
And that’s the moment that never fails to send all the blood in my body south.
That moment when her terror would turn to ecstasy.
That moment when I would corrupt her with pleasure and depravity, like releasing a caged beast into the wilderness.
That moment when I would make her forget everything, including her own name. Make her forget that I was her enemy.
I snap out of it before anyone notices my tenting trousers. Just in time, too.
The door creaks again, announcing Luka’s arrival for the second time.
“They’re here,” he whispers excitedly. “Grabbing a couple of pints at the bar.”
The raging hard-on I got from picturing Riley’s orgasming face serves only to ramp up the aggression sizzling in every cell of my body.
Wanting to hurt someone is not that different from wanting to fuck someone.
Sex and violence are really just mirror reflections of each other: you’re doing something to someone to make them react in pain or pleasure with varying intensity.
High intensity, if you’re me. Only high intensity.
I nod to Attila and our men, and they all perk up. We have been stuck in this dusty, unused salon for hours. All itching for action.
No way in hell are we doing this on the down low. I burst through the door, followed closely by the others, our guns already drawn.
A woman screams. A pimpled busboy drops a tray of glasses. All voices die down, and whatever banned folk music Luka has playing becomes discernible.
I spot them immediately, perched on the high stools by the bar like a pair of hens. They’re fucking bold to come here in their mustard yellow uniforms. I’m strangely disappointed that no one’s decided to kick their middle-aged asses out of here. Those fuckers are getting far too comfortable.
Their faces are polar opposites of each other—one is ruddy and round, the other ashen and long.
But they’re wearing the same expression of paralysed indecision—shoot and almost inevitably be shot, or let themselves be meekly captured, knowing what I’ll do to them?
They both decide to reach for their guns, it’s what I would’ve done, but their split-second hesitation was a split-second too long.
Attila shoots the ruddy one in the shoulder, and he topples to the ground just as I hit the zombie-like one in the hand, blowing it clean off. He goes down too, landing on top of his partner.
They’re both groaning. But other voices are rising too; women crying, men swearing, panicking. One girl faints. The stink of ammonia fuses with the smell of blood hanging in the air—someone has pissed their pants.
Fuck’s sake. Given what’s been happening, chances are that most people here will have seen someone shot before. Most must have seen people die of horrific injuries, not to mention radiation poisoning. They should be used to this by now. No need to make a fuss.
Attila and I take the patrolmen’s weapons away.
“Grab them and let’s go out the back,” I bark. “We’ll patch them up later.”
I’m met with a few nods. My men hoist the two sacks of shit up and march towards the staff exit, skilfully avoiding the round glass-strewn tables.
“We were never here,” I remind Luka before following them, horrified looks burning a hole into my back.