“Well, has she fainted again, Randolph?” the baron demanded, sniffing another pinch from the snuff box. His heart began to pound in his chest, and Henderson wisely tucked away the box for the present. When the jolt finally did kill him, it was going to be a dark day for the people of his ville. The details were all worked out. But that wasn’t today, not quite yet, anyhow.
Dressed in surgical garb and tight leather gloves, a man with slicked-back hair was curiously inspecting the person on the table, taking her pulse. He hauled off and brutally slapped the woman twice. She only gurgled like a happy infant and made sucking noises.
“How very unfortunate.” Randolph frowned in annoyance. Turning toward the baron, he bowed deeply, laying a crimson-stained hand on his chest. As it came away, there was a red outline of a palm on the white cloth. “Sir, I fear the prisoner has prematurely gone mad.”
“How is that possible?” Baron Henderson growled, staring hatefully at the cooing woman. “You promised me she would talk first!”
Taking a magnifying glass from a pocket of his gown, Randolph looked into her darting eyes. “I must have miscalculated the level of pain she could endure.” he answered, pursing his thin lips thoughtfully. “Norm females are designed for childbirth, and so can always withstand more pain than a mere man.”
“But not this particular woman.”
“So it would seem. And she was a virgin, too. Fascinating, actually.”
“This is twice you have failed me,” Henderson intoned menacingly, advancing upon the slim man. “There won’t be a third time.”
The sec men moved out of the way as Randolph stepped away from the baron and bowed again. “My deepest apologies, my lord.”
“We should have starved her,” a voice said from the doorway.
The baron turned to see his grandson walk into the chamber. Unlike the baron, and his father before, the man was wearing military fatigues, plain boots and had a functioning blaster at his side. Not a single item of clothing properly glorified the sole heir of Casanova ville.
“Starvation,” the baron repeated as if he were unfamiliar with the word.
The young man walked over to the prisoner and curled a lip in disgust. She had once been so very beautiful, a fit consort for any baron, but now not even the rats would eat her corpse.
“Everybody talks when they get hungry enough. Why bother with hooks and corkscrews?” William waved a callused hand at the gibbering woman on the table. “This was completely unnecessary.”
“By the blood of our fathers, you are too weak to be baron,” Henderson spit, rubbing a trail of mucus off his face with a crusty sleeve. “Death is part of life. Often the best part, and you’ll know that when you first kill somebody!”
Narrowing his eyes to slits, William stared at the old reprobate, limbs quivering from the jolt rotting his brain, wine and semen staining his clothes everywhere. And this mutie-fucker dared to lecture a soldier about life? What bitter irony that was.
“And you, dear grandfather, are too interested in fun,” he retorted hotly. “Slice her like a solstice turkey afterward if it gives you pleasure.”
A sudden rush of power flowed into the young man’s voice. “But first we get the bastard information, you ass!”
The sec men in the room recoiled at the words, and the baron stared aghast at his grandson. Then he broke into a gale of laughter. “I see there is some iron under all that pomp and parade after all. Good. Mebbe some of my blood is in you.”
More than enough, William thought privately. The stinking junkie and his pet torturer should both be burned alive for the good of the ville as soon as possible. Then he could take over and run the place as it should be, with military discipline and instant justice. The lost glory of the fatherland would return to America someday. He would see to it personally.
“Randolph!” he barked.
Tightening the neck straps on the prisoner, the interrogator turned to look at the young man. “Yes, sir?”
“Were you able to get anything from her about the odd activity in the woods north of here?”