The first thing Marisol became aware of was her murderous headache. She reached for the emergency Tylenol she kept in her bedside drawer just on the off chance she ever went a step past buzzed to “hammered”. But something pressed against her throat, and she couldn’t roll over. Feeling gingerly around her neck, her fingers encountered cold metal.
A collar? How much fun did I have last night? But trying to coax her sluggish thoughts into recalling last evening brought up something else instead. The Sideshow, Maris, the Demon.
Her eyes flew open, and she immediately wished she’d kept them shut. Looming over her was the Demon, his otherwise-attractive features disfigured by a leering grin, and the fact that he was upside-down, from her perspective. Beyond him, further above her, was the unmistakeable wooden frame of a guillotine. The blade, along with the sides of the frame, were darkened with what was likely dried blood...in fact, the edge of the blade glistened darkly, as if some was still fresh.
She couldn’t really raise her head, the collar over her neck must’ve been bolted to the table. But a similar chill suggested the reason she couldn’t move her legs was that her ankles were similarly shackled down. A deep fear was rising from her churning stomach up into her chest, and she knew if it reached her mouth she’d start screaming or babbling incoherently. Her streak of stubborn independence managed to assert itself just a hair more quickly.
“Well. I can’t say I’m not a fan of bondage, but ordinarily I’d insist on being bought a drink first, getting to know the person a little…” she breezed, drawing on all her acting experience to maintain her composure. The Demon raised an eyebrow and considered this, his hand resting lightly on the release for the guillotine’s blade.
“Ah, but you knew what I was when you entered my domain...is that not informed consent, as they say? You put yourself at my mercy the moment you stepped through the door. Not that I’m much for mercy, lest you get your hopes up.”
“I don’t think a court would agree with you, but I guess it’s not very likely this is going to end up involving the legal system, one way or another?” The Demon shook his head, smiling.
“No, we are quite outside their...jurisdiction, here.” He tapped the release with his finger, making it wobble a bit, and Marisol’s heart stopped for a moment. “Would you like me to describe what I plan for you, or would you prefer it to be a surprise?” he asked, his voice oozing false courtesy. The assistant wasn’t eager to suffer prolonged torture, but if she was alive, then the Magician and the rest could rescue her...
“Seems pretty obvious you’re going to cut my head off with Mr. Sharpy up there. I have to say...a guillotine...really? It’s awfully trite. I sort of expected something more creative from an actual Demon and everything, more horrible and drawn-out, like...stretching on the r-” Her mocking tone shifted instantly into a scream as the Demon, far from being baited, laughed and simply flipped the release, sending the huge blade hurtling down towards her neck.
She instinctively raised an arm to try to block the blade, but knew it was futile. Dope, now you’ll lose a hand as well as a head, came an insane thought, and then all thought stopped as her world became searing pain, her scream rising in pitch and volume. The scream and the pain alike went on and on, and it wasn’t until she’d taken her third breath to continue screaming that any thought at all managed to penetrate the fog of agony.
Breath? Do I have phantom lung syndrome? But I’m still screaming, the air is coming from somewhere… And she could feel the dirt of the floor against her cheek where her head had fallen, against her hand, severed mid-forearm, she could see the tilted view of the candle-lit tent. Her screams gradually shortened and stumbled their way towards actual words.
“AAAAAAH! AAAH! AH! AH! AH! Fuck! Oh my god!“ She heard the Demon laughing, actually literally slapping his knee...who does that?...and then her view tilted sickeningly as he lifted her head by the hair, swinging it from side to side.
“Trite? Oh, no, my sweet thing, classic.” He lifted her head further, holding her so she was inches from his face. “And don’t worry your pretty little head about things being over too quickly, no, no...a bit of my own blood on the blade, you see, no easy death for you...you are going to regret nosing into my business for at least a day or two before you beg me to end it.” Marisol returned to plain screaming again, her thoughts drowned in panic, and he covered her mouth with his own. He tasted like ash and spoiled meat, and his tongue roamed roughly, as if somehow savouring her now-muffled cries along with her flesh.
---
Marisol’s tracker ping arrived when the Magician had predicted. What surprised everyone was the location. If Santa Cruz had been their back yard, then the sideshow had popped up in their bedroom this time- Fisherman’s Wharf.
Maris sat in the chair in the green room, letting Robyn apply some final touches to her makeup. At the Magician’s insistence, her disguise involved more than a simple hair-color change- in this case going back to her natural blonde. Robyn had applied prosthetics to give her a roman nose, flare her nostrils, and augment her cheekbones. She scarcely recognized herself in the mirror. Laurel was giving Amanda a similar treatment.
Laurel had already applied Robyn’s makeup. Subtle prosthetics had given her more baby fat around her face. Combined with the pigtails, she looked like she was seventeen or eighteen now, innocent and cute as a button. It was uncanny- and, along with her scandalously short skirt, just the sort of thing to distract the demon.
Even Rana had gotten the treatment- having spent the most time around the demon, hers was the most dramatic. The Egyptian priestess now looked thirty pounds heavier, and Asian. Her eyes twinkled with amusement as she looked at herself in the mirror.
Maris spotted Miles stepping behind her in the reflection.
“Wow, that’s amazing,” he said, looking at her.
“Yes, it’s good makeup.”
“No- I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever seen your natural hair color.”
They both grinned. “The assistants must be rubbing off on you, Miles- I haven’t heard you crack a joke in days… But yes, I’m going natural; assuming the demon’s alert, then even the slight chance that he could detect an imprinted effect would spoil our chances.”
Miles just looked around at the preparations for a bit.
“Miles- what do you think about our chances?”
He shrugged. “I think they’re poor, Maris. But it’s not really my opinion that matters, is it?”
The Magician stepped into the doorway. “Good- looks like everyone’s nearly ready. I won’t bother with a pep talk, and we all remember what to do, right? Amy, you especially don’t take any risks. Get your friend and leave. The rest of us will worry about finding Marisol and any others.”
Amy nodded, causing Laurel to tsk and move her face back in place. “Sorry Lu-”
“Shh!” Laurel brushed Amy’s face with setting powder. “There. Okay, talk naturally, it will all move with your skin.”
Amy made a few expressions in the mirror, and laughed. “It does! Oh- laugh lines, even!” She looked twenty years older than her actual age. Her eyes widened. “I can even see my cheeks flush!”
Robyn tapped Maris on the shoulder. “You’re done, too,” she whispered. Maris looked in the mirror and crinkled her new nose, then touched it with her finger. Robyn smiled, “If he ever manages to make the formula more durable, it’s going to revolutionize prosthetics.”
“Maris.” She turned to see the Magician offering her his hand. She took it, and he clasped hers warmly, looking straight into her eyes. “You’re going to be all right, going back in there?” She could tell he was reading her.
“Yes, Bo- uh, sir.” After all the time she’d spent with his assistants, “Boss” had almost slipped out automatically.
He chuckled. “If Miles here ever makes the mistake of letting you go, I’d love to have you work for me.” He turned to Miles, clapped him on the back, and shook his hand as well.
“Miles, friend. I’m off- gotta look the part of a sweaty tourist. Good luck, and see you there.”
“Break a leg, everyone!” he called out as he strode down the hallway.
Maris watched him go. “You know Miles, he makes me think we’re really going to pull this off.”
“He makes me believe we’ll pull it off too, despite my numerous reservations.”
She looked at the Sorcerer. “He and you-”
Miles just nodded. “I know. I finally figured it out two days ago.”
“I thought so. I noticed the change in how you interacted with him.”
Miles shrugged. “What else could I do? Even without magic, he’s as much a sorcerer as I am.”
---
Marisol had lived a nightmare for...she wasn’t even sure how long. Hours, surely, but it felt like days...only the fact that there’d been no sign of the Magician and the others yet gave her the impression that it hadn’t actually been that long. That and the Demon’s threat, that she’d be begging for death after only a day or two.
She hadn’t, yet. Though she had, once or twice, caught herself thinking death wouldn’t be so bad.
He’d started slow, in between his shows. Covering her in tiny cuts and lapping at them, his caustic tongue making the otherwise almost meaningless incisions burn like a torch. Burning her clothes away, the synthetic material melting and sticking to her skin painfully before crisping and flaking away, taking bits of flesh with it. Nor did it seem to matter that her head remained severed, clamped onto a small table next to her hand and wrist, positioned nearby so she could see everything that was done to her. The pain around her neck had never really stopped, but it had faded...and she could somehow still feel every new indignity her captor performed on her body, still struggle, still breathe, still scream.
But at the same time, she could feel herself dying. Whatever he’d done with his blood on the guillotine blade, it was a temporary thing...even if he hadn’t continued to torture her, Marisol knew she wouldn’t survive long. But throughout, she clung stubbornly to a single belief...that either the Magician would come for her, or that she would die with her sanity, her deepest self, her...soul, she supposed...still intact.
It had been a battle. He’d tried most of his collection of torture devices on her, both historical and fantastical. Despite her personal predilections, there was nothing erotic about it. But he must’ve realized somehow, because he’d made a point of starting over and trying everything a second time, only adding endless combinations of sexual accompaniment, from teasing through outright violation. It had been impossible to keep silent, but Marisol kept even the tiniest hint of pleasure out of her reactions, roundly cursing him, mocking him when she had the strength.
Even now, when every inch of her pulsed with pain, alternating waves spreading and contracting over her like some infernal anti-orgasm, she was grimly satisfied. She’d always had a positive self-image, but she’d never really hadn’t known how strong she was. Now she did, for all the good it would do her. From the irregular beats of pain, she could tell her pulse was slower and uneven. Her breath was ragged, her gasps were moist coughs as often as actual inhalations. She wasn’t sure what she looked like now...she made a point of averting her eyes from her body as best she could, even as he’d moved her head closer and closer. But even with only her peripheral vision, she could tell there was a lot of blood, and many of her limbs lay at awkward angles, or with extra bends where bones had shattered.
The Demon bent forward to meet her gaze at eye-level. She’d been warned against Mesmerism, and wanted to close her eyes, but he’d cut her eyelids off, very slowly, early on in her ordeal, so instead she just stared defiantly. He’d never tried to dominate her will that way anyway, she supposed since she was already so thoroughly under his control physically. She would’ve flipped him the bird with her severed hand, but he’d broken all the bones in it long ago, and twitching it would only produce pointless agony.
She twitched it anyway, biting her lip to stifle a scream, and the Demon sniffed, shaking his head, though his glower made her think he suspected what she’d intended, and the assistant’s heart sang a little even as it laboured.
“I’ve got to give another show, and you’ll probably be dead before I finish and get back to you,” he remarked, conversationally. She felt a wave of sadness that she hadn’t held out long enough for a rescue, but didn’t want to give the Demon even that satisfaction, and instead pushed her sadness down under a perverse sense of contrariness, that he hadn’t broken the part of her that most mattered.
“I…win…” Marisol managed to get out in a whispered cough, flecks of blood joining many others on her lips and chin. He looked actually angry for a moment, and reached for her face, his fingers claw-like...then seemed to reconsider, and dropped his arm.
“I admit, I would’ve liked to completely tear your soul apart without cheating. Point of pride and all that. But that won’t save you anymore. Just because I didn’t reach the goal I’d set myself does not mean that you will not lose badly.” He ran his hands over her body...though not her head and severed hand...and where his repulsive touch passed, there was blessed, glorious relief. Unwillingly, she looked, and saw he was healing her, restoring most of her to at least superficial health. She had to bite her tongue not to thank him, but she couldn’t stop her new unblemished skin from shivering, partly from cold, partly from dread at what he might mean.
He turned back to her and his eyes locked on hers, his superficially attractive face twisted with such evil and hatred that Marisol wondered how anyone could ever miss it. But then her thoughts grew fuzzy, in a foreign and alarming way, and she realized what he’d done at the same moment it no longer mattered.
“In a chamber below the this room lies T’ntkul Vahr, Taster of Suffering, who serves me, willingly bound in exchange for what rare delights I deign to share. His attentions are not so gentle as mine, and you will doubtless expire under them before you would have ‘naturally’.” This ought to have frightened her...on some level it did, but that wasn’t important. He said it was going to happen, with his eyes so large and full of detail and expression, and so it was right that it happen.
“Every drop of your blood that slakes his thirst, every ounce of your flesh that is savoured by his thousand tongues...will fill you with lust. Each swallow, each bite, each tear, will envelop you with filthy pleasure, carnal sensation you cannot resist. And you will not resist, you will shed your last breaths in unholy lust, for you want to be devoured in the most impure sexual way, not of your own accord, but because I will it.” Marisol felt the oily growl of his words slither into her mind, and knew they were now as true as anything she’d ever known about herself.
“Even after, there will be no release, for this little Realm carved out of the flesh of Creation itself is completely mine. Your soul will go to no ‘reward’...not that you could’ve expected anything but the Pit anyway, naughty girl...but instead will remain here with countless others so taken, and serve only as fuel to sustain it longer, that more exhibits might be displayed, for ages without end.” He blinked, and the fuzziness left her thoughts, replaced with a growing horror, as she was suddenly allowed to consciously grasp what he’d said, even as part of her denied it was possible, denied it had happened, just denied, the very concept of rejection made a tangible thing.
“No,” she whispered, and in that moment...so pure was her intent, so strong her will...that had she been Revealed, had she used a language far, far, older and more powerful than English, reality itself might have listened, and bent accordingly.
But she wasn’t, and it didn’t.
The Demon smiled, then left, though he kept his expression of deep dissatisfaction hidden until he was well out of her view.
To be continued...