The inside of my clothes felt fur lined, yet the edges of my shoes were ice cold. I wanted to kick them off, because I thought I was getting a cramp in my toes from the chill. Sadly, I had no intention of walking thru the ketchup drenched carpet in my stocking feet--- so I kept them on.
This was some party. I took another long drink. Since I'm actually seldom this far gone, I wasn't sure that my party opinion mattered to anyone, even myself.
Whatever the composition of Dustdevil, it was taking my mind on a pleasant safari. Or maybe it was just enough that when added to the three bottles of Dahnash whiskey I was addled in a major way. Nine thumbfulls of Dustdevil so far. No bad feelings, no bad news, just a nice comfy sense of good vibes.
And way too many layers of clothes. But one thing I don't do, even when staging a wake, is make myself a target. Any kind of target. The clothes stayed on. I was pretty sure that the heat and the impression I was clad in fur was some side effect of the drug.
Like the ketchup on the floor I didn't remember anyone spilling. The red haired man walked out of the dim back hallway. Even though he seemed solid, I ignored him. He was dressed entirely in white, and totally out of keeping with the surroundings. He certainly didn't belong with any of the men I had come here with. They were all sleeping off the rest of the evening slumped at the table or on the floor.
In fact, a quick look around told me that the club was just about empty except for me and my slumbering escorts. How sad. They hadn't even lasted six hours.
"Good evening." Now he was speaking, I ignored him some more. That he could speak made no difference to me. The fourth bottle of whiskey emptied into my glass. I shook it once. Done. My other hand found the small tin box of Dustdevil on the table. In the background, the musicians closed up their instruments in carry cases. Hmmmm. I had lost track of time. It was closer to dawn than I realized.
"Listen. I know you must be pretty plowed, but I want to talk to you. Anyone that can party as hard as you can is someone I want to cultivate as a friend."
"Go away."
"Ms. Dea, I ---"
"How do you know me?" I squinted up at him.
"I checked your Gold Card when you came in this evening. I'm one of the owners."
Oh. I just nodded. I didn't remember too much of the early part of the evening right now. I was sure I would later.
"I knew Magister Nitsvj. I'm sorry to hear about his ---"
"Shut up and go away!" I growled. "Or I will hurt you."
He just grinned. "This is my club, Ms. Dea. Or may I call you Beatrice? I live here. You may leave but I may not."
Even in the state I was in, that didn't sound quite right. I took another look at him. Young. Good looking. Nice smile. Hair the same color as mine, pulled back tight into a wooden clip at the back. Not wild and hard to tame like mine. Long, straight, heavy and gleaming.
"You may not.?" I husked. So he had gotten me in conversation. Big deal.
"That's right." He held out his hand, "I'm Dunking MacLown of the clan MacLown. I'm here for your head." He chuckled.
Shaking hands. Abominable habit. I still am surprised in cultures where there are no magician's of the mind how many people will insist on touching strangers as a sign of peaceful intent.
My head? He said my head?
Someone threw a switch and the lights went out. Dunking's suit of white glowed in the darkness. He sat near me, his hand outstretched, offering up his vulnerability. I could see the table and floor between us, and anything near to him. His suit grew brighter, the circle of light around us more defined.
Thickheaded, but belatedly wary, I decided to take the offensive with Mr. MacLown. I reached out and grabbed his hand and his mind at the same time.
Suddenly, his face changed. Glamour fell away. He wore whiteface and painted eyebrows. His lower lip was scarlet, the upper one gleamed like copper. His mind refused my grip, slithered away, seemed to be only tenuously attached to the man I was gripping. I couldn't manage to pin it down. I felt clumsy. Too much crap in my system probably. I had managed to pitch myself into a deep well of liquor and chemicals. Bad time to start a fight.
"I agree!" he laughed and pulled back, leaving me holding his hand. It had popped off with a small tearing sound. The presence of his thoughts vanished completely when all I had was a hand. No path to his brain. My stomach twinged. The hand was still warm and leaking blood now on the table linens. I stared at it. Mistake. He swiftly picked up his chair with his left hand and brought it down on my head.
"There can be only fun." He said.
I hit the floor with a soft splash of ketchup. Gone. Out. Dark.
* * *
Pink light. Head throbbing. Cold. Hot. Hurting wrists. Gagged. Smell of leather. I twisted my head a bit looking around. I was fastened to a hard surface. Except the surface was poised vertically. Wrists, ankles, and neck were bound with thick restraints. Probably leather, so I tried to snap them. All I got was trembling muscles for my trouble. Something was seriously wrong if I couldn't break leather straps.
"Ladies and Gentlemen and sentients of all ages. Direct your attention to the Spinning Wheel of Agony, where my lovely assistant, Ms. Beatrice Dea, will risk her angelic countenance in our next spine-tingling exhibition of skill."
The damn surface I was anchored to started to slowly spin. I hoped this was a very bad dream.
A whisper sound-- then a black knife blade buried itself into the wood next to my head. The vibration, the suddenness, I tensed and a small, unworthy sound tried to escape my mouth gag. Several inches of my hair spun down and away. Curls sliced off when caught by the blade.
A whisper sound-- another blade pounded into the surface near my right knee. I couldn't help it, I twitched. I tugged. I put my full strength to the straps holding me. Nothing.
No spells. No strength. No chance. With the spotlight on me, I couldn't even see the attacker or audience. I could hear the dozens of restrained gasps with each strike of a blade. I knew I was surrounded by people, out there in the dark. What kind of people would pay for this---.
The mechanism of the disk gently creaked as it spun around and around. Another blade slammed into the surface and pinned my blouse tightly down near my ribs. I struggled, without realizing that I might be spoiling someone's aim. This didn't feel like a dream or a nightmare. Sweat soaked my back. It was too hard to get air. I remembered the man in whiteface clubbing my head.
My throbbing head seemed the least of my worries at the moment. I felt like a fool. An idiot. Mourning the passing of a dear friend and lover, only to have myself ---- what? Kidnapped? I was scared. Sweating. The surface and I slowly spun. A blade whacked the wood between my legs, punched right through the material of my skirt. I felt the steel knife tremble against my flesh for a moment. If I were a man, I'd be howling at the top of my lungs. Instead I threw up behind the gag and made that noun a verb.
A blade thudded home on the other side of my head. Hair strands parted company with me. I tried to use the reflexive moment to thrust my whole body off of the surface. Leverage and adrenaline. I heard the leather straps groan. That was all. The fear was only slowly driving the drink and drugs from my system. But I couldn't summon enough strength or anger. Sweat flicked off of my nose. At least the fellow could really throw.
Maybe---
A whisper sound-- another blade snapped into the wood, severing half of my middle finger. Yelling behind my covered mouth, I felt the blood flow, the shock try to choke my brain. The crowd groaned. I cursed.
Another blade punched through my skirt, near to my knees. My finger was bleeding so freely, I could see the dark stains drawn across the surface by the spinning.
Panic started to do a dance on my synapses. My legs and arms were trembling like twigs in the wind. My sweat smelled acrid. I needed out of here NOW!
The next knife thudded next to my ear so loudly it was like a sharp slap.
Somehow, I thought of something. It was the only idea I had, and it might fail miserably, but it would also hold off the gibbering noise in the back of my throat a little longer.
I was moving. Slowly. Spinning in a lazy circle that must be eight feet across. It would have to be enough. I couldn't see much of what was around me, so I used myself as the landscape I would travel.
Another blade smacked the wood.
I slitted my eyes, made the light upon me a fuzzy thing.
I wanted something to change. Anything would do. I sped my mind through a dozen permutations and tried them all. Tighter clothes. Yes. If this was an act and I was an entertainer I would have tighter clothes. More skin showing.
I willed it. Netted tights. Black. No skirt. No blouse. Glitter. Very tight. Too tight to catch a blade. I imagined it, fixed it in my mind. Smelled it. Felt it constrict my legs and stomach.
Someone stopped the spinning disk. The motion was gone. No chance to Shadowshift now. I gasped my disappointment.
And realized that I wasn't gagged. Someone was unfastening the straps. Applause was rocking me from all around. Such a huge wash of sound that I should never have missed it.
I was helped down from the disk. I crushed my hands together behind my back to stop the bleeding, severed finger. The thrower bowed to the crowd. They applauded with more enthusiasm.
He nudged me. I was wearing some corseted outfit with sparklers sewn into it, high heels, netted tights on my wobbly legs.
I bowed. I had escaped. And the crowd went wild.
END