James Axler – Cold Asylum

The victim wore a long gown of white linen, fringed with yellowing lace. It was stripped off him and he was quickly placed on the table and tied there, his ribs strained with the effort of each frightened breath.

Michael felt the sickness rising.

There was a cut in the vid, jagged white lines, then the picture resumed. During the period of blackness, the youth had been brutally beaten. Bruises discolored his cheeks, and blood seeped from his mouth. He was crying.

The two sec men seemed to have vanished, but the third hooded and gloved figure was there, leaning over the stained table, hands pinching and slapping.

Michael tried to speak, but his throat was dry. Below, he was conscious of the woman making slurping noises that reminded him of a pig feeding in a trough. He knew he was going to be sick very soon, but he was afraid of Marie’s anger.

Another cut, the vid camera repositioned so it concentrated on the youth’s lower torso. One glove had been removed and the light from the fire sparkled on a ring on one finger, but it was too out of focus to see clearly. The hand was holding a knife, its blade less than three inches long, with a hilt of mother of pearl, inset with beads of lapis lazuli.

Gloved fingers touched the spot at the apex of the thighs and the knife moved nearer.

The hand. Ring. Human eye, set in silver.

Then blood splattered the lens.

Mouth, laughing in dreadful close-up.

Michael punched out, catching the woman across the cheek, vomiting his entire meal into her upturned face.

“Sick fucking bitch!” he screamed, his voice cracking in his horror, horror of what she was and horror of what he’d done with her.

Barely pausing to snatch his clothes, the weeping teenager raced from the bedroom, Marie’s voice following him down the corridor outside.

“You’re dead, prick! Dead with all the other outland fuckers. All dead!”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

At least the woman had kept her word about the guards. The long, labrynthine passages were deserted as the distraught Michael ran along them, losing his way twice before finally, on the ragged edge of insanity, finding the door that carried the golden numerals. A six and an eight.

There was a key in the lock, and he turned it, throwing himself into the darkened room.

Both Ryan and Krysty snatched at the handblasters tucked beneath their pillows as the door burst open and a dark figure came in, throwing itself on the bed, sobbing as though its heart had been broken.

“Michael?” Ryan said, easing off the trigger of the SIG-Sauer. “You nearly got your head blown off. What’s wrong?”

“I’ll close the door.” Krysty moved quickly, glancing out into the corridor. “Nobody there. No sec men. But the key’s here. I’ll bring it and lock it from the inside.”

By the time she’d made their room secure and turned on one of the wall lights, Ryan was hugging the teenager, arms locked tight around the trembling body.

Krysty sat by them, stroking Michael’s head, laying one hand flat on his temples, trying to send healing signals, using the techniques that her mother Sonja had taught her back in Harmony ville.

“It’ll be all right,” she whispered. “Try and calm down. Steady your breathing and clear your mind.”

“Tell us, Michael,” Ryan urged, more aware of the realities and dangers of the situation. Something appalling had obviously happened to the young man. And whatever that was could spell disaster for all of them. It was vital they learned as quickly as possible what had gone down between Michael and the mistress of the ville. And then be able to judge what the repercussions might be.

“Give him time,” Krysty said.

“Time we don’t have, lover.” He held the youth at arm’s length. “Speak to me.”

“Can’t.”

Michael was barely dressed, looking as though he’d just pulled on his clothes while running for his life. Krysty noticed scratches and bites around his neck and across his cheek, silently pointing them out to Ryan.

“You were with Marie Mandeville?” He shook him hard, trying to break through the wall of shock.