VII



Buffy finally reached Quinn. Well, reached might not be accurate. She listened to a voicemail message left the day following her hasty retreat from Concentrico. From the combination of Quinn’s stuffy-nosed mumbling and thick accent, it took several times of replaying the message before finally getting the gist. Much to Buffy’s relief, it was basically a “wicked bug” keeping Quinn bedbound and out of commission.

Well, in all honesty, her relief might’ve been a bit premature. She was still dealing with another, far more difficult dilemma.

She hadn’t returned to Concentrico in two days. She tried convincing herself the choice was due to not speaking to Quinn directly. Well, that was a bald-faced lie, one for which she could be teased with a playground taunt involving one’s pants bursting into flames.

The truth was extremely complicated, yet plainly simple…William.

It was strange; although their time together had been brief, he’d managed to burrow deep down inside her and made himself quite at home. So much so, it was almost pointless trying to force him out.

It might be pointless, but without a doubt, it was an absolute necessity.

Forcing him out was the exact reason Buffy was standing in the center of the living room, coupling steady measured breaths with flowing, graceful movements of memorized Tai Chi forms, all in an attempt to harness control over these William-centric thoughts.

Unaware of how much time had passed, it wasn’t until her cell phone’s third shrill ring that her concentration broke, and by the fourth, she answered with a breathy “Hello?”

“Hey, lady! Did ya get my earlier message?” Quinn’s chipper tone triggered Buffy’s smile. True, the voice message had relieved most of Buffy’s uneasiness, but talking to Quinn in person was a far better emotional balm.

“Quinn! Finally, I was about to send out the cavalry.” Buffy tried to keep her tone equally light, even though not twenty-four hours earlier she’d briefly considered contacting Agent Mulcahy regarding Quinn’s disappearance.

“I’m really touched you care. But no worries, you know how we women are—nothing keeps us down.” Even with her continued cheerfulness, Quinn’s underlying gratitude was indisputable.

“Well, I have to admit, you sound pretty good for someone who’s been down and bedbound for days.” Buffy moved to stand by the window. She watched a few brave souls bustling through the wintery streets, making their way to destinations unknown under the waning sun.

“Yeah, I’m much better now, thanks. But enough about me. I was at Concentrico last night, and you were a no show. What happened?”

Buffy heard a faint rustling over the line, sounding as if Quinn was shifting positions before the humming of background music got louder. Without any explanation, Buffy understood the intent of using the singer’s sultry crooning to drown out their conversation to anyone attempting to listen in.

Following her lead, Buffy headed to the bathroom. Shutting the door behind her, she turned on the tub’s tap; the sound of rushing water, striking porcelain added an additional safeguard.

“Well, about that. Before I went back, I really wanted to pick your brain about the clientele.” Namely William, Buffy silently added, as she sat down on the closed toilet lid. Inadvertently, the mere thought of him caused her mind to wander.

his deft tongue laving her nipple, teasing the sensitive flesh, until it was hard and demanding before he moved to the other nipple, giving it the same attention. Her arms straining in his tight hold—

“—Earth to Buffy, ya still with me?” Quinn’s nasally jibe was like someone snapping a wet towel to her backside, immediately jolting her from her sinful thoughts.

“Huh? Yeah, yeah, I’m still with you. The phone cut out or something, what did you say again?”

“What I said was that I heard there is an exclusive gathering tonight. Invite only.” Quinn’s tone fluidly shifted into a seasoned detective’s candor.

“I’m assuming Sebastian made the list.” Buffy needed to know the players, regardless of him being Quinn’s Achilles’ heel and a definite sore spot between them.

“Yeah, he did. So that means I’m in. Now, all we have to do is get you an invite.” Quinn’s mirthless snicker briefly filled the line.

“So what’s the plan?”

“I’m heading in around nine-ish. Give me about an hour. By that time, I’m sure you’ll be good to go. Oh, just a little heads-up. I have no clue what happens during these little parties, so just be prepared for anything.”

Buffy knew exactly what anything meant. For the past two days with only her rampant thoughts to keep her company, this was one of the many issues she’d considered and dissected until every angle was exhausted. Only then, had she made a definite decision.

It was obvious, Concentrico catered to their clienteles’ sexual demands and desires. Inevitably, the only way she was getting any dirt was by hands-on digging. Be that as it may, she would be the one holding the shovel and deciding how deep down she went, what she exposed, and to whom.

“Not a problem, Quinn.”

“Good. This might be the break that’s been years in the making.”

Then with the lowering of the music, Quinn slipped back into her no-nonsense approach, returning to her earlier casualness. “So what are you planning on wearing?”

Taking Quinn’s lead, Buffy shut off the water while their conversation continued for another ten minutes or so, discussing shoes, outfits, and the like. When the call finally ended, Buffy felt confident that tonight the tide was turning, and things were going to start happening.

With a renewed conviction, Buffy undressed, restarted the water, and released the lever for the shower. With a hum of bliss, she stepped under the hot spray; any residual uncertainty sluiced off her skin and swirled down the drain.

A few hours later, dressed to impress and wearing a sanguine smile as a most coveted accessory, she slid into the back of a taxi heading to Concentrico.


~*~


Buffy felt an unsettling sense of familiarity when she entered and passed through the first room, heading toward the table her and Quinn had previously shared. Thankfully, Quinn was alone. Even so, it surprisingly took several moments for Quinn’s attention to shift from her martini and to acknowledge Buffy’s presence.

“Buffy, I’m glad you’re here.”

Quinn’s unusual flat tone made normally cheerful words sound forced and unnatural. In spite of this, Buffy never commented, chalking up the impassiveness to a typical post-illness mind-fogginess settling in after a long day.

“So I was thinking, tonight we can—” Buffy’s attempt to lay out her carefully thought-out plan was cut short by Quinn’s interrupting.

“After our drinks, we need to get ready.”

Almost as if on cue, a glass of burgundy was set down on the table in front of Buffy and, just as suddenly, the waitress was gone.

“Get ready?” Buffy’s gaze darted in confusion between the unordered drink and the increasingly puzzling Quinn.

“Yes, anonymity is paramount.”

Unable to hold back her growing frustration from the ongoing aloofness and cryptic words, Buffy’s patience snapped.

“Seriously? What the hell are you talking about, Quinn? Whose anonymity? All I see here that’s paramount is our learning who the other players are—” Buffy’s irritated, rushed whispering ended abruptly when she noticed out of the corner of her eye Sebastian approaching.

Without a word, he slipped in behind Quinn. Now towering above her, his hand eagerly skimmed over the flesh peeking above her plunging bodice before settling and cupping the side of her throat possessively.

As before, Quinn’s rapture and Buffy’s repugnance were instantaneous. While Quinn’s eyes fluttered and her crimson stained lips spread into a dreamy smile, Buffy forced her features to remain affable, not wanting to show her ever-growing disgust. Then adding insult to injury, Sebastian’s interest appeared solely fixed on Buffy, in spite of the woman in total rapture within his grasp.

“It is a pleasure to see you again, Buffy. Will you be joining us this evening?”

The seductive purr of his voice, clearly meant to tantalize and incite, only triggered waves of loathing and uneasiness. She was having a serious case of déjà vu, recalling their last interaction and how out of control she felt. Not this time. She was the one in control. All she had to do was what she did best and take the control back.

Everyone had weaknesses. Sebastian Gallo was no exception.

It was simple really: use her knowledge of him to her advantage. He was well-known as an insatiable collector of the finest things life had to offer: real estate, fast cars, and even faster women. Yet for him, it wasn’t the object itself that mattered; they were all interchangeable. Where his desire lay was by what means he attained said object.

For him it was the thrill of the chase, manipulating and controlling everything and everyone in his path until he possessed what he wanted. Afterward, he savored his spoils and then, like boys and their no-longer new toys, he moved on to the next conquest. There were many men who envied his conviction and power and just as many women who vied for his attention.

Buffy wasn’t like many women.

For her, these were weaknesses that were easily exploited. All she had to do now was bait the trap. Swallowing back the bile creeping up her throat, she plastered on a mega-watt smile and raised her glass in a toast.

“Of course, I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Cheers.”
Buffy sipped her wine, hoping the full-bodied flavor washed away the acidic burn left behind as she waited for confirmation he was biting.

She hadn’t waited long; his wolfish grin and lustful leer spoke volumes of him gobbling up the enticement of adding her to his collection. Thankfully, once Sebastian believed he’d secured another well-deserved prize, he released Quinn and with a promise of “Soon” directed entirely at Buffy, he slipped away like a shadow retreating from the sun.

It took over ten minutes of downing the rest of her wine and deep steady breaths to collect herself before she was ready to deal with Quinn. While Buffy eyed her dazed and confused counterpart, she had an asinine notion: if she believed in such absurd things as fairytales and fables, she could’ve sworn Quinn looked almost bewitched. However, just as quickly as this thought emerged, she dismissed it.

After a few more minutes of waiting and it still appeared that Quinn wasn’t snapping out of her thousand-mile-stare, Buffy decided she had no other choice but to invade her personal space and move the process along.

“Quinn! Focus!” Buffy grabbed her upper arms none too gently and gave her a firm shake. Quinn's head swayed on her slender neck, eyes remaining open but unseeing.

Buffy felt her irritation fading and being replaced with alarm. Something was truly wrong. Maybe Sebastian slipped some sort of drug in Quinn’s drink. If this was the case, based on the last time she witnessed them together, it wasn’t the first time.

Knowing she had to act quickly, Buffy wrapped her arm securely around Quinn’s waist. On contact, she felt the sweltering heat of Quinn’s skin radiating through the clinging, damp fabric of her dress. She was burning up.

“Okay, it’s time to go. Do you hear me, Quinn? I’m going to get you outta here.” Buffy tried remaining calm, despite the frenzy of butterflies taking flight in her gut.

Then the unexpected happened. On shaky arms, Quinn pushed herself upright and away from Buffy.

“It’s time.”

Quinn’s focus and voice were still eerily distant, and with remarkable strength she slipped from Buffy’s grasp. She resembled a puppet on a string, appearing to move with a will not of her own when she stood and rounded the table. Then with stiff, purposeful strides, she headed straight for the closest door and exited.

This all seemed so surreal, but Buffy knew this wasn’t the time to ponder, it was time for action. She snatched her clutch from the table and followed.

Making quick work of the short distance, she now stood before the seemingly ordinary black door. Instinctually, she threw up a sturdy mental dam to hold back the memories that were threatening to rush forward of her previous foray through a black-door. Finally, when all distractions were firmly secured and with a renewed determination, she yanked open the door and stepped through.

VIII



Stretched out before her was a lengthy, dimly lit hallway. The steady tempo of echoing footfalls drew her attention ahead as she watched Quinn hurrying around a sharp corner. Knowing it was useless to call out, Buffy gave chase. Regardless of how fast she went, she always seemed steps behind. Doubling her efforts, she quickly took the corner only to witness Quinn turning down the next hallway. Ever determined, Buffy maintained a brisk pace.

Buffy felt her frustration mounting with each glimpse of Quinn disappearing around another bend in this seemingly endless maze. Reaching the end of her tether, Buffy slowed her steps. True, it wasn’t in her nature to leave anyone behind, but this was verging on insanity. Actually, she passed sane several turns back.

In spite of Quinn’s earlier behavior, she was obviously fine now and Buffy had had about enough of playing cat and mouse. It was time to regroup; head back to the table and wait for Quinn’s return. That or maybe she’d explore Concentrico on her own, not letting tonight be a total bust.

As Buffy turned back, she heard someone calling her name. Quinn. In spite of her decision moments earlier, without hesitation she rushed toward the voice. When Buffy took the corner she fully expected another empty hallway; she did not expect to find the breathtaking circular room in its place.

Almost immediately, Buffy found herself drawn in by the welcoming earth-tone palette of rich browns and reds, elaborate Persian carpets, and soft lighting from the wrought-iron sconces. This room felt like a serene oasis within the center of the labyrinth of hallways of desultory turns and the harsh colors of black and white.

“Welcome.”

A rich honeyed voice startled Buffy and instinctually, she spun to face the owner. Standing at the entrance was a minimally dressed woman in a sheer black sheath dress that left very little to the imagination, bare feet, and adding to her mystery, she wore a simple white Columbina half-mask.

So many questions ran through Buffy’s mind, yet she said nothing. For the first time in her life, she was speechless.

“Please.”

The woman swept out one arm, directing Buffy’s attention to the center of the room – or more specifically, to the ornate dressing table laden with every womanly amenity imaginable. In spite of Buffy’s instant hesitation and suspicion, something deeper urged her to follow this woman’s silent directive and take a seat on the padded vanity bench.

Then without warning, two other women in outfits similar to the first woman emerged from the shadows. Buffy was thrown by their dramatic entrance but more so by their appearance. In addition to the sheer black sheath dresses, both women wore simple oval masks consisting of only wide eyeholes and a crude nose, leaving the rest of their featureless faces shrouded in black.

Acting as one, they moved off to each side of Buffy and started studying her with stilted bird-like movements. When they were done with their bizarre scrutiny, they methodically set to work twisting her free-flowing hair into a chignon and darkening her makeup.

With a final sweep of iridescent powder along Buffy’s throat, the black-masked attendants gently guided her to stand. Then in unison, they gave way to the white-masked woman who stepped forward bearing a floor-length black silk gown across her outstretched arms.

Buffy was briefly caught up in the moment before she felt one of the black-masked women lowering the zipper of her dress. Reflexively, Buffy jerked away and shouted “No!” causing the woman to shrink back and scurry away.

“Sorry. I mean, don’t get me wrong. All you’ve done so far is nothing short of amazing. It’s just, I can handle this part alone. Buffy awkwardly grasped the loose halves of her dress behind her back.

Appearing to act as the voice for the other two women now cowering behind her, the white-masked woman stepped forward and thrust out her dress laden arms.

“We must.”

As she spoke those two words, Buffy instinctively understood they were absolutely true.

It was simple; none of them really had a choice. Each needed to do what must be done. These women had obviously accepted their roles; now Buffy had to accept hers—entirely. With a deep, steadying breath, Buffy released her dress and lowered her hands to her sides.

Without another word between them, each woman played her part. It wasn’t long before Buffy was completely disrobed and presented with the dress at her feet. Then with their aid, she stepped into the pool of fabric and the black-masked attendants lifted the dress into place.

The dress was far more exquisite than she’d imagined. The silk enticingly hugged every curve, fitting almost as a second skin. The bateau neckline skimming her collarbone and the minimal capped sleeves equally accentuated her slender neck and counterbalanced the plunging back, resting on the curvature of her spine. Next, she was helped into two-inch stilettos and was presented the final touch—a mask.

Unlike the attendants’ ghostly or shadowy façades, Buffy’s mask was a stunning golden sun complete with nine rays jutting out along the edge. Ceremoniously, the three women placed and fitted the mask, covering Buffy’s face from the bridge of her nose to hairline and secured it behind her head with two black velvet ribbons. After a few last minute adjustments, the two black-masked women retreated, almost appearing to melt into the background as the white-masked woman returned to the entrance.

“Enjoy.” With another flourishing sweep of the woman’s arm, Buffy knew it was time. At last she was ready for whatever lay ahead. Or so she hoped.

When she exited, she expected to reenter the maze of hallways, but oddly enough, she wasn’t entirely surprised to be entering another room. However, unlike the welcoming retreat of the previous room, this black marbled room seemed cold and barren save for the small gathering of individuals.

Showtime.

Confidently, Buffy approached and intermingled among the men and women who were encircling a couple standing in front of a scarlet divan.

Buffy’s attention was immediately drawn to the couple’s dissimilar but equally elaborate full-masks: the woman’s, which was held in place by black satin ribbons, had delicate features accentuated by an intricate swirling black and white pattern. The man’s was a sinister-looking, long-beaked black leather mask, fastened to his head with thick straps and buckles.

They stood with his front flush against her back, which gave his hands reign to roam freely. The woman writhed under his exploring touch, and soon by joint efforts, her black silk dress weightlessly slid down her body and pooled at her feet. The man, remaining in control, positioned the woman on the divan, spreading her out for everyone to see. As he slowly undressed, she eagerly fondled her breasts before delving between her splayed thighs.

Just as all the others, Buffy found herself becoming lost in this sinful display. It was only when the man joined the woman, did Buffy remember her true purpose there and began intently scanning the panoply of uniquely masked patrons. When not one façade hinted to anyone’s true identity, it wasn’t long before her attention returned to the couple

Shockingly, the woman was now on all fours while the man was kneeling and taking her from behind with fierce thrusts. He had one bruising grip anchored on her hip while his other hand was fisted in her hair roughly arching her neck.

While maintaining this brutal tempo, he skillfully changed their positions by wrapping his arm tightly around her waist, sitting back on his haunches and hauling her onto his lap. With her in place, his left hand viciously grabbed her breast then moved upward and grasped her throat.

Everything about his actions was eerily familiar. Why this was, remained just out of reach; it felt like there was something keeping her mind from making the connection. Maybe she was going about this the wrong way by trying to take in everything at once. It was time for a different approach.

Buffy looked past the act itself and started noting the smallest details: the stark contrast between the woman’s black hair and pale skin, the man’s dark hair cinched at the base of his neck with a black leather hair tie and the ring on his hand wrapped around her throat.

She gathered every detail, shifting and turning each piece trying to get them to fit together. Then all at once they clicked into place and everything was crystal clear.

Sebastian

Buffy’s relief from figuring this out was short-lived when she realized regrettably who the woman was: Quinn.

Buffy was well aware of their illicit relationship, yet seeing it in the flesh was something else entirely. She knew it was seemingly pointless, but her mind flooded with questions.

Was this what Quinn was reduced to, nothing more than an object for a sadistic man’s pleasure? And even worse still, would this be her same fate?

Never

Until the bitter end, Buffy was staying in control of herself and the situation. Visibly, Quinn had given up control and in turn she’d chosen her path, ruts and all.

Buffy was lost in her own thoughts until she had an uneasy feeling of being watched. Scanning the crowd, she noticed everyone was still focused on Sebastian and Quinn. Unsure where this sensation came from, Buffy’s focus returned to the center and encountered Sebastian’s unnerving gaze.

As earlier, in spite of holding an enraptured Quinn, all his attention was on her. His eyes resembled blazing gas-lights within the holes of his mask while they pinned her down and burned straight through her. Then taking control, Sebastian’s hand released Quinn’s throat and reached out for Buffy.

“I hope your plans were to share your friend with me, my sweet…
It is a pleasure to see you again, Buffy. Will you be joining us this evening?"

Sebastian’s words echoed in her mind and shook her to the very core. Buffy knew there were dozens of ways to play this, but ultimately she had to do what needed to be done.

It was time to pay the devil his due.

With a steady breath, Buffy tried to step forward, only to be stopped by a clearly masculine presence at her back. She watched Sebastian’s eyes flashing in anger as he steadily, silently commanded Buffy to take his hand. Then upping the ante, the man behind her wrapped his arm around her waist, splaying his hand across her abdomen possessively. Buffy could tell neither man was backing down. This conflict lasted several intense moments until appearing to yield, Sebastian’s hand dropped and returned to Quinn’s throat as his thrusts intensified.

Buffy watched him taking his rage out on Quinn in an increasingly sadistic display. Buffy felt a white-hot anger burning in her belly, demanding her to stop this once and for all, her cover be damned. However, before she reacted, the slightest pressure of the man’s fingertips making small circles on her stomach instantly calmed and grounded her with familiarity.

William

Her mind raised dozens of questions, but none of them mattered. All she wanted was to thank him for saving her from Sebastian and more importantly, from what she would’ve done, all in the name of duty. Buffy placed her opposite hand over his and gently squeezed. William interlaced their fingers and with a gentle tug, pulled her around and away from the group.

When they reached a small alcove on the other side of the room, he released her hand and they now faced one another. For the first time, Buffy was able to get a good look at him. William looked stunning dressed head to toe in black, from his tailored trousers, fitted silk shirt, to his full-mask with strikingly prominent features, just like William himself. In spite of all the pleasurable distractions his presence offered, Buffy focused on the only visible part of his true face, his expressive eyes.

“William.”

He returned the greeting with a slow blink and nod.

“So I guess it’s safe to say you weren’t just trying to impress me before when you said you’d show me all Concentrico has to offer?”

He slowly shook his head, and she thought she heard a soft chuckle.

“Good. I’m ready for you to show me everything…

Tonight was strange to say the least. Never mind the endless hallways, playing dress up and voyeur to her sister detective, her conviction had faltered more than she cared to admit and she had questioned herself. However, despite all the confusion, one thing was now remarkably clear: by any means necessary she and she alone was seizing control of this situation, starting with—

…William.”





Author’s Notes:



Venetian masks have a long history. The first documentation mentioning the wearing of carnival masks was in 1268. At first it was for religious purposes, but soon it became a regular occurrence. There were restrictions: mask could only be worn during festivals from St. Steven’s Day on December 26 to midnight on Shrove Tuesday, which is the day before Ash Wednesday. Many wore these masks to hide their identities not only during the festivals but also during other times when people participated in activities that required secrecy: like voting and attending political forums. But for the most part, masks were worn by those participating in morally and socially frowned upon activities: gambling and promiscuity. When the Austrians took over Venice in 1798, they forbid the wearing of masks. It wasn’t until the 1980’s when masks started making a comeback.

This site gives you the history of the uses of masks and what some of the masks mean: http://booksasportablepiecesofthought.blogspot.com/2012/02/masquerade-venetian-carnival-and-masks.html

Columbina mask: this is the mask the white-masked woman wore http://cdn-5.create.net/siteimages/5/0/3/50308/426133/f_381746.jpg

Moretta masks (mute maid servant): these were the masks the black-masked women wore http://cdn-16.create.net/siteimages/16/2/7/162799/1580264/f_1141646.jpg

Pictures of different masks: http://www.google.com/search?q=pictures+of+venetian+masks&hl=en&sa=X&rls=com.microsoft:en-us:IE-Address&rlz=1I7ADFA_enUS489&prmd=imvns&tbm=isch&tbo=
u&source=univ&ei=2JUuUK3HPOuw0AHft4HICg&ved=0CD0QsAQ&biw=
853&bih=499

Buffy’s mask: http://www.displaycostume.com/store/files/images/large/hees_sun.jpg

Sebastian’s mask: This is called The Plague Doctor. “The striking design has a macabre history originating from 17th century French physician Charles de Lorme who adopted the mask together with other sanitary precautions while treating plague victims.” Picture here: http://www.google.com/imgres?q=pic+of+plague+doctor+masks&start=97&hl=en&sa=
X&rls=com.microsoft:en-us:IE-address&rlz=1I7ADFA_enUS489&biw=853&bih=499&tbm=
isch&prmd=imvns&tbnid=N20g1lxYNVt_uM:&imgrefurl=http://
tombanwell.blogspot.com/
2011/11/naming-contest-for-plague-doctor-mask.html&docid=VPiIkoi3O9luBM&imgurl=http://
4.bp.blogspot.com/-lHCGjLaSk38/Tq7gbcraN3I/AAAAAAAABfo/V7dQr87U_4U/s1600/
riveted-plague-doctor-bk.jpg&w=1211&h=1080&ei=x5guUKajC4OW7AHS7oDQDw&zoom=1

William’s mask was the one from the banner at the beginning of this chapter. I tried, no can do. Check out EF or email me for it. Sorry

IX


Any means necessary.

When decisions are made with this type of finality, they always came at a price. Buffy paid her pound of flesh by severing ties with and walking away from the clearly lead-astray Quinn. It was the only way.

Buffy then bid William “Goodbye,” removed her mask and exited the room. As with her last two exits and entrances, she bypassed the maze of hallways and effortlessly entered the first room, made her way out of Concentrico, and headed back to the apartment.

The following day passed between bouts of dream-riddled sleep and muddled periods of wake. She remembered very little except William’s recurring presence. His eyes, voice, and possessive touch all made numerous appearances in each state of consciousness.

It was not until a full day later, on Wednesday, that she finally got her bearings back and was actually productive.

Buffy decided to take a run since the forecast called for an unseasonably warm day, a brisk forty degrees that felt like a spring day after months of below freezing temperatures. For the first time in a week she felt a sense of calm and clarity with each exerted breath of crisp morning air. Eating away miles and miles of pavement, she felt the conjoining of Elizabeth and Buffy’s synergies. Now feeling as one, she returned to her apartment.

After a leisurely shower, she stepped out refreshed and prepared for her day of tackling a lengthy list of errands.

Her first stop was the local butcher. While waiting in line, she felt totally out of her element. Her petite figure clad in jeans and a crème cable-knit sweater vastly differed from the handful of plump old women dressed in all black outfits consisting of long, wool winter coats, ankle-length dresses, gloves, and scarves.

Oddly, the distinct differences between them were even more so when Buffy ordered a half-pound of chicken breast. Almost instantly, she heard the murmurs of disapproval. While she waited at the counter, she tentatively glanced back. The once kindly-looking grandmothers now resembled a clearly irritated murder of crows, squawking and eyeing her with contempt as they each rubbed a necklace of black beads with a suspended gold cross while repeatedly touching their ash-smeared foreheads, then their mid chest, left shoulders then right, in that order.

Not waiting around for the fallout, as soon as she had the white-wrapped package, Buffy paid, and with her eyes forward, she skirted around the flock and left. Once outside, she debated whether to head back to her apartment, but her rumbling stomach urged her on to the next stop, a bakery, a must when in the North End. When she entered, the heavenly smell of freshly baked bread made her stomach protest even louder. She was grateful when the line moved quickly, and with a twine-tied white box in hand she made her way to the greengrocers to finish off her shopping.

Later, laden with two bags of groceries, she headed to a local small café, ordered a cappuccino and almond biscotti, and sat at a window-side bistro table. To a bystander she appeared to be people watching, which in essence was true. What an onlooker would not know was that she was surveying the neighborhood and taking mental notes about the locals who were out and about taking advantage of the nice weather.

When she was satisfied with her mini stakeout, Buffy returned to her apartment. She filled the rest of the day with reading, eating, and some light TV watching. She made sure to keep busy; knowing if she stopped moving her thoughts would stray to William. For the most part, it worked, but there were times during these mundane activities when thoughts of him entered her mind.

Buffy chose to end her night early in preparation for future nights at Concentrico. Sleep had not come easily, but eventually she succumbed.

She was standing in the middle of a dark room, nude. She was only alone but a moment before solid arms wrapped around her and held her firmly against the clearly masculine, equally naked body behind her. Every square inch of their connection pleasantly tingled.

Boldly, he started exploring her with a mixture of teasing and caressing touches before she was on her back, legs splayed. Then in a maddening, leisurely journey, his hands drifted from her ankles to mid-thighs. Her eyes fell closed as she gave herself over to the sensation and it wasn’t long until a feathery caress running along her cleft, shoved her headfirst into the spiraling fall of her climax.

Buffy awoke with a silent pleasured cry trapped in her throat and her cunt damp and twitching. With measured breaths, she tried slowing her racing heart. Never before had she had such an intense orgasm. Sure, she had had them in the past. If memory served her, even one or two of them were real doozies. Yet truth be told, they were rare, and never were they solo affairs.

When she finally pieced together some semblance of control, she slid from bed and on shaky legs made her way to the bathroom. Using only the faint bedroom light as her guide, she stripped away her pajamas and dampened panties then slipped under the shower’s relaxing spray. Buffy attempted to ignore her body’s lingering demand, yet in spite of all attempts, her body won out. In the end, she only found peace after steadily riding two plunging fingers to another release.

Once settled, Buffy finished showering, dried off, and after a half-hour of indecisively going through her closet, she finally decided on a simple, yet sexy, jade wrap dress. Returning to the bathroom, she styled her hair into soft waves then tried her hand at duplicating the previous evening’s makeup. When done, she noted the time: four p.m. With plenty of time to spare, she polished off the delicacies in the bakery box and washed them down with two cups of dark Italian roast. With a full belly and body vibrating from the potent combination of pure sugar, caffeine, and adrenaline, she finished getting ready.

Then finally, it was time.


~*~


Buffy made her way back to Concentrico, gave Rick a cursory nod and entered the alleyway. Not long after, she entered the first room and William immediately greeted her. Minus the haunting mask, he was dressed almost identically to several nights prior, yet he was, if it was possible, ever more enticing. It had to be his almost devilishly unrealistic good looks.

“Good evening, Buffy. Care to join me for a drink?”

Or maybe it was his deep, hypnotic voice.

When he placed his hand on her mid-back to guide her to the bar, she decided it was his touch, gentle yet commanding. Even after his hand was gone and the silence stretched between them, Buffy decided it was everything about him that she found alluring—the entire well-shaped William package.

“Excuse me?” Buffy watched his lips move but completely missed what he said. With a teasing grin, William dipped his head, forcing her focus to move from his mouth to his eyes.

“What is your pleasure tonight, wine or something much harder?” With each word, his timbre lowered until the last sounded like a rumbled purr.

His blatant innuendo was not lost on her nor had her usual bodily response to him slowed. Feeling suddenly bold, she gave him a saucy smile of her own.

“Surprise me.”

Rising to her clear challenge, William responded by raising two fingers into the air, silently signaling for the bartender. Neither of them looked away from one another as two shot glasses brimming with a clear liquid were set down. William was the first to lift his glass and raised it in toast. Buffy mirrored his actions, and in tandem they downed the entire contents in one go. The anise-flavored liquid burned a steady path down her throat, and spread throughout her gut on landing. Her body instantly reacted with watery eyes and her throat constricting between coughs.

“Another?”

Noting his obvious lack of reaction, coupled with his clearly smug tone and the need to keep up, Buffy nodded in spite of her body’s clear protesting. The second went down a lot smoother, with far less bodily opposition. By the third, she was feeling the pleasant effects, complete with tingling lips and the release of her seldom-used sexual bravery.

“So is beer pong and limbo next on the agenda, or are we going to indulge in some adult fun?” Even though her question lacked finesse, going by William’s pleased expression, subtlety clearly wasn’t necessary.

William slid from his seat and took her hand to help her to standing. Ever the gentleman, he placed his hand firmly on her back while guiding her to a black door. Maybe it was the shots of liquid courage, but at this moment, she only felt a potent rush of excitement, with none of her previous apprehension.

“Lead the way, Buffy.”

Once more, they entered into a dimly lit landing and stairwell. She carefully descended, knowing full well William followed. Then without any encouragement needed, Buffy boldly approached the next door and turned the knob.





Author’s Note:



The saying Pound of flesh is from Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice, 1596.

X


Instead of finding a room, Buffy was met with an endless wall of dark-colored fabric. Looking for an opening, she spied a soft light spilling from a gap in the material and reached out to move the section aside.

Without a word, William reached around her and used his hand to prevent her from going any further. His close proximity, from his chest brushing against her back, to his mouth grazing the shell of her ear, nearly caused her to come undone.

“So eager, but good things will come...”

William’s insinuations made her heart pound and knees grow weak. Before she knew what was happening, he was standing in front of her, commanding her gaze with his own before lowering to one knee. During his descent, his hand sensually skimmed her leg from calf to ankle. As he lifted her foot and slid off her shoe, Buffy sought the solidity of the closed door behind her to keep upright.

His expression, a mixture of confidence and enticement, added to her pleasure as his thumbs slid over her arch in equal parts pressure and gentleness. A heady moan rose from deep in her throat, savoring his attentions.

He made another sweeping pass then lowered her foot to the floor and set to work divesting her of the remaining shoe. Soon she was barefoot; her panties were damp, and her mind was reeling.

“Lead the way, Buffy.”

William’s voice snapped her back to attention. He was standing behind her once again, his mouth at her ear. Unsure how this happened, she gave herself a quick mental shake, then following his directive, pulled back the fabric and stepped inside.

Buffy was met by the soothing, steady pulse of a chalice drum, violin, clarinet, and kanun, and soft light spilling from three intricate silver chandeliers highlighting rich crimson walls and endless stretches of elaborately detailed rugs.

Absorbing the atmosphere of the room, her attention was drawn to the overstuffed red and gold floor pillows littering the floor and set in a horseshoe pattern, interspersed with dozens of smaller pillows in all sizes and jeweled shades with a sizable shin-high, tile-inlayed table placed in the center.

“Exquisite, is it not?”

“Yes.” Though her focus was now centered on her surroundings, William’s closeness still caused Buffy to tremble.

“Shall we get more comfortable?”

Buffy lead the way to the floor cushions, sat, and tucked her legs underneath herself. When comfortable, she turned toward William, who appeared completely relaxed with his upper body propped up by several pillows and his legs crossed at the ankles.

With the heady combination of liquid courage and mounting desire, Buffy’s gaze ran appreciatively over him, lingering on the more impressive areas.

“Hungry?” William’s silky voice urged her attention to shift back to his face.

“Ravenous.”

For the first time, Buffy felt an overwhelming rush from wielding her sexuality as a weapon of control. She was nearly bursting with anticipation to further brandish this type of power. William, appearing to be drawn in by her brazenness, shifted and leaned forward till he was merely inches away.

“Well then, let’s eat.”

At that moment, three women entered. Each was clad in a simple iridescent length of fabric wrapped around her body and an opaque veil. Two carried trays laden with food while the third held a pitcher of a milky liquid.

Gracefully, each lowered her wares on the table and exited. Buffy eyed the mouthwatering feast, and without hesitation, she slid from the cushion onto the floor and started sampling. Every mouthful made her taste buds sing and her throat rumble in delight.

It wasn’t until the third round of licking her fingers clean that Buffy realized she was eating alone. She turned and noticed William, who was now lying on his side with his head propped on his hand, watching her closely.

“Um, are you going to join me before I scarf down this whole thing?” Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment from the full-out stuffing of her face but more so, from his rapt interest.

“No, I’m quite content watching you enjoy yourself. Please, continue.”

William’s focus shifted from her eyes to her mouth, causing her blush to intensify and spread. She felt her earlier high from having taken control waning and changing into another type of desire, this time from being on exhibition.

Capitalizing on his undivided attention to her mouth, Buffy grabbed a section of ripe casaba melon and slowly took a bite. The juice spilled, dotting her lower lip and chin with stickiness.

Before she could wipe it away, William was there to catch the trickle with the pointed tip of his tongue. He followed the thin trail of juice, drew her bottom lip into his mouth, and suckled before letting go.

Buffy instantly reacted; her mind was awhirl, lashes fluttering and body humming in pure lust. When she was finally able to gather some semblance of control, he had moved and resumed his lax position.

“Mm…you taste simply divine.”

His words rolled over her, leaving her suddenly speechless and her throat desert dry. With a slightly shaky hand, Buffy poured a generous amount from the pitcher and drank deep.

It took several gulps before her mind caught up with the familiar anise-flavored burning. After forcing down the final mouthful, she gasped, eyeing the glass then William.

“Wh—whoa. Wh—what is this?” Buffy croaked, her voice catching on the fiery trail left behind.

“Lion’s milk.”

Buffy swallowed hard from William’s answer. He must’ve noticed her uneasiness and added for her benefit, “It’s raki diluted with chilled water.”

Before she could question him further, the swell of music drew her attention away.

Four women dressed in exquisitely beaded amber bedlehs with matching veils entered. They took position in the center of the room, then in sync, began graceful and elaborate sequences of shimmies, thrusts, agile footwork, and undulating arm motions while keeping pace with the rising hypnotic tempo.

Buffy was mesmerized as she watched them twirling and leaping, maintaining an exhilarating and dizzying pace. She felt herself craving that type of freedom—just letting go and giving in.

“Go. Join them.” William’s encouragement was all she needed to accept the hands now reaching out for her.

In a whirl of movements, Buffy was in the center of the four women. As the chalice drum held a steady beat, one by one the women peeled away, leaving her standing in the center clad in a crimson hip scarf fringed in gold coins and a crimson veil.

Slightly hesitant, Buffy tested the waters by swaying her hips and rolling her shoulders. Gaining confidence, she raised her arms above her head as the other instruments accompanied the drumbeat.

It wasn’t long before she gave herself over to the music completely. Faster and faster she moved, her body resembling a wild flame and the music as if the air needed to sustain it.

The room rushed by in colorful blurs and distorted shapes. She leapt toward the musicians, and just as she was about to turn away, she noticed something really strange. The kanun player’s hands now appeared deformed with blackish, scaly skin and razor-sharp nails.

Thrown off kilter, Buffy tried slowing down to get a better look, but before she could, she was swept up and ushered away by the other women, her line of sight cut off by four writhing dancers. After several failed attempts, Buffy returned to dancing, patiently waiting for an opportunity to get another glimpse.

As the music reached its crescendo, Buffy gave herself over to the music once more. When the final note rang out, she collapsed on the cushions. Trying to catch her breath, she looked over at the applauding William.

“Brava.”

“That—was—amazing!” Buffy panted out between gasps.

“Correction, you’re amazing.”

Almost immediately, Buffy found herself distracted by his lusty stare and voice. These diversions held her complete attention until off to the right, something caught her eye, and she was able to break away.

She watched the dancers and musicians silently filing out and took this opportunity to get a better look at the kanun player’s hands. Unlike their appearance earlier, they were like any other pair of hands: eight fingers, two thumbs, and not a scale or lethal-looking nail in sight.

Even though she tried to convince herself that what she thought she saw was beyond all levels of crazy, she still had that feeling: the same lead-ball-sitting-deep-in-her-gut sensation, the same one she heavily relied on and had saved her ass many times. Something wasn’t quite right, and she was going to find out what.

“So does this mean the night’s over?”

William snorted, his lips spreading into a wolfish grin.

“Hardly.”






Author’s Notes:

Kanun: is a zither/a harp-like instrument http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kanun_(instrument)

Bedleh: “In Arabic, this literally means "suit". It refers to the cabaret-style beaded bra/belt/skirt/body stocking costume that a belly dancer wears for a performance.” http://www.shira.net/glossary.htm

XI



“I’m leaving you in the capable hands of your natir.”

William gestured toward a slender, dark-haired woman clad in a leather choke collar and not much else; before he exited the same way he and Buffy had entered.

Buffy waited for the bristling indignation she typically felt when a man took this type of arrogant, domineering tone with her. Instead, all she felt was the deep thrum of excitement. She had to confess, though not very freely, William taking control turned her on. Yet she’d never admit this to him or moreover, let this become a regular occurrence.

She knew her role was clear, even though what was in store for her was not. Taking a deep, steadying breath and holding her head high, she walked across the room and entered through an archway, knowing full well the other woman would follow subserviently.

Resembling an underground cave, the newest room was carved completely out of exquisite white marble. The soothing ambiance, a combination of soft lighting, the distinct sound of running water, and sultry wafting steam, calmed Buffy considerably, enough so that she disrobed with steady hands and a surprising level of confidence.

Fully exposed, Buffy sat at one of the nine elaborate marble wash basins lining the walls. Once situated, she closed her eyes as the other woman used a copper bathing bowl to douse her with soothing tepid water.

She was then guided to lie on a warm stone tablet in the center of the room, where several rounds of hot water were poured over her, preparing her skin for the thorough exfoliating that followed. No crevice went untouched, even the spaces between her fingers and toes were scrubbed meticulously.

On slightly shaky and tingling legs, Buffy was escorted to an adjoining room and silently directed to lay supine on another stone tablet. She was lathered from head to toe, and a soft moist cloth was used to clear all the sweet-smelling soap away.

Once clean, the distinct scent of almonds tickled Buffy’s nose only moments before oil covered hands lifted one of her feet and began kneading her arch, causing her to moan appreciatively.

With skilled precision, the natir continued the massage upward, loosening years’ worth of kinks and knots in the path of her skilled fingers. Expert hands framed the span of Buffy’s abdomen, gliding up her sides before coming together and passing over her sternum, then separating at the top of her breasts, skimming over the expanse of her upper chest. Amidst each sweeping pass, Buffy felt herself being further and further lulled, becoming a boneless bundle of pure bliss.

“Do you like how she’s touching you?”

William’s sultry voice filled her ear, and surprisingly, even with her eyes closed, Buffy wasn’t at all startled. Over the past few hours he’d become her own personal devil at her left shoulder, whispering artfully.

“Yes.” Buffy’s sighed response floated on a lengthy exhale.

“Yet no matter her skillfulness, her touch will never match your own. Only you know what your body craves, what it lusts for.”

Commanding and forbidden, his words touched her like a lover’s hands, palming her breasts and stroking between her thighs. She writhed under these ghostly caresses as William boldly pressed on.

“Show me.”

On this demand, the natir’s hands fell away and Buffy instinctually replaced them with her own. Cupping, kneading, fondling, each touch drove and fueled her mounting desire.

Buffy’s world consisted only of pleasure. Hungrily, she strove for that blissful zenith, until a slight warm breeze carrying the pungent smell of smoke captured and heightened her senses to include William. He was seated several feet away, resembling a paşa openly admiring his concubine, casually toking from a considerable-sized copper and glass hookah.

She watched him exhale a long, steady stream of smoke through flared nostrils. The bluish haze encircled his head in a mock halo before thinning out and dispersing into the warm air. He appeared almost uninterested, if not for the smallest tic in his jaw and his rapt attention conveying otherwise. The tight rein he held on his control had silently issued a challenge, one Buffy was prepared to accept.

Releasing a small cry of pleasure, Buffy relinquished one breast and steadily trailed her hand downward, seeking the neatly trimmed dewy thatch of hair between her splayed thighs. Circling, dipping, stroking, her fingers explored eagerly.

Her head spun from the heady combination of smoke, William’s burning stare, and her own fervent touches, but she still…needed…more. Seeming to sense this, William gruffly commanded—

“Come.”

On cue, Buffy felt the mind-bending rush. Her juddered gasps punctuated each surge that coated her fingers, drenching her cleft and the stone below.



~*~



As the early morning light seeped past the slats of the closed blinds, Buffy sat at the breakfast bar with her head in her hands and an untouched cup of dark Italian roast cooling on the counter.

She was nursing a hangover of epic proportions. From the moment she awoke, she was immediately greeted by the relentless buzzing behind her eyes, and she possessed, no matter how many times she brushed or gargled, an ever-present thick and furry tongue.

It wasn’t as though she needed these annoying little reminders of last night. It wasn’t as though she could ever forget.

Right now, she was the poster child for every cautionary tale of drinking and indulging with a guy one barely knew, with the bonus bludgeoning guilt one typically felt the morning after.

Although William never touched her beyond a chaste hand resting on her back or the removal of her shoes, he had affected her far more deeply than anyone had ever before. With carefully chosen words and intense gazes, he challenged her to push past the point of caring and self-control, to a place where nothing mattered, and she just was.

Take for instance last night: after she climaxed, she must’ve either blacked out or dozed off, because the next thing she remembered was the natir washing her again from head to toe with tepid water, wrapping her in fresh towels, then escorting her to a much cooler room where her clothes and a large pitcher of ice water were waiting.

Alone and sporting a major perma-grin, Buffy towel-dried her hair, dressed, and exited the room. She then followed a dimly lit hallway leading directly outside to a taxi idling at the curb. Sliding into the backseat, and without a word or payment made to the driver, she was dropped off at the apartment in the North End.

Strangely, at the time, she neither questioned nor was bothered by anything that happened. Not in the very least.



~*~



Buffy dragged her thumping mind back to the here and now. Tapping out three aspirins into her palm, she used the now stone-cold coffee to force them down. Sliding slowly off the stool, she tightened the sash on her robe and dragged herself back to the bedroom. The debate between taking a shower and napping lasted only one round before Buffy dropped onto the unmade bed and closed her eyes.

In spite of the guilt eating away at her like worms gutting an apple, she left the purging of her own personal demons for another time and decided instead, to use this little transgression to her advantage. Buffy knew now what she was up against, and as in the old adage: Better the devil you know…

Burrowing deeper under the covers, Buffy pushed the rambling thoughts and guilt away. None of it mattered right now. What she needed now was to sleep and regroup, because tonight, she had a case to solve.

XII




Buffy’s sole objectives when entering Concentrico’s main room were clear: maintaining control over the situation, and above all else, herself. This plan was rock-solid up until she noticed William was nowhere to be seen. Then like a row of tumbling dominos, his absence dredged up a string of long dormant personal feelings that ultimately changed an agent’s determination to a woman’s disappointment.

Casting another searching glance around the room and once again coming up empty, Buffy decided to wait for William at the bar. While on route, she was unexpectedly stopped by a portly man dressed in extravagant clothing of an age long past.

“Mademoiselle Buffy.”

He gave a cursory bow and presented her with a scroll tied with a blue ribbon. Buffy briefly eyed the man, who had returned to the stooped position, prior to untying and unrolling the vellum, exposing the elegant script within.

“Your presence is desired—W”

Four simple words, a melding of dominance and confession, elicited a thrill. Buffy reread them several times before remembering the man who appeared to be patiently waiting for her response. With a simple “Yes,” he stood to full height, turned, and with almost militant precision, marched across the room with Buffy in tow, all of her earlier convictions long forgotten.


~*~


When they arrived at a customary black door, the man moved off to the side, placed his hand on the knob, and on her nod, he opened the door.

Without sparing him a second glance, Buffy entered and was immediately greeted by two young brunettes dressed in simple muslin. Each curtsied and then escorted Buffy through a grandiose room with lavishly tapestried walls, a large golden and crystal chandelier, to a gilded dressing table where she was offered a seat.

Over the next hour, they altered her modern appearance into the embodiment of an era when women wore upswept and powdered hair, smears of drastic cheek rouge staining white face powder, faux beauty marks, and the pièce de résistance, extravagant gowns, complete with a form-fitting bodice, décolletage neckline, panniers, and the customary sans under things. However, unlike true court attire, the front hem of her pale blue dress stopped mid-thigh, showcasing her thigh-high, white tights secured with a matching blue bow.

With her transformation complete, Buffy left the room and, to her delight, was greeted by the ever handsome William, dressed in black breeches, a white frilly collared shirt under a black vest and waist coat, and low-heeled leather boots.

In a flourished display, he bowed and, following his lead, she held out her hand, which he took in his. He placed a lingering kiss to her knuckles while regarding her through thick lashes. In spite of this chaste facade, she noticed his eyes twinkling with what she would describe as a potent fusion of pure mischief and desire.

“Lead the way, Mademoiselle Buffy.” William took his place by her side, resting her hand just below the crook of his elbow then led her down the hallway to a set of mahogany doors.

Majestic, was the best word to describe feeling the satin train dragging behind her as they made their way. At the entrance stood two identically dressed porters, who opened the doors, releasing a surge of jovial music and raucous laughter.

Men and women dressed in similar finery surrounded a lengthy banquet table heavily laden with every mouth-watering French delicacy imaginable. William escorted Buffy around the table to the only two remaining chairs. He assisted her into her seat before taken his place to her left.

The room was alive, everyone relishing in all that was offered and spread out before them, including one another. A man several seats down lapped clotted crème from a woman’s ample cleavage. At the end of the table, a woman sat on a man’s lap hand-feeding him a roasted leg of duck that he tore into with gusto between sessions of heavy kissing and petting.

As the feasting on food, drink, and flesh continued around her, Buffy’s couldn’t help her focus dwelling on the man across from her. His head was lolled back resting against his chair, and his eyes were closed. He appeared to be sleeping, or so she thought up until his face contorted as if in pain before relaxing. It wasn’t long before the reason climbed out from under the table, delicately wiping the corners of her mouth with a laced handkerchief.

“Champagne?”

Buffy lifted her glass, and William poured generously. She drained half then lowered her glass in order to pluck a caramel-glazed crème puff from an impressive tower of pastries. After a single taste, she needed to share her delicious find with William.

Ever eager, he wrapped his hand around her wrist and devoured the rest in one bite. Then one by one, he cleared the smears of caramel and crème from each of her finger-tips. Buffy felt every swirl of his tongue between her thighs.

“Please forgive me for not telling you how delectable you look this evening.”

William circled his thumb over her pulse point while leaning forward, his hot breath now fanning across her throat. Not trusting her own voice, Buffy slowly nodded her forgiveness.

“Simply delicious you are, sweet Buffy.”

William trailed his free hand up her leg and stilling at the top of her thigh-high, he teased the bare skin just above the hem.

Buffy was reeling. The sensations of his touch, his words, sent her mind awhirl. The parting of her thighs was the only invitation he needed to continue.

“My mouth is watering from the thought of my fingers dripping with your sweetness.”

Buffy slid forward, seeking his hand trailing closer to her exposed center. On contact, her world fell away, succumbing to his touch. He started off gradually, teasing and coaxing out her pleasure. One finger soon became two as William released her wrist and brought her closer, his lips brushing the sensitive spot just below her ear.

“So hungry, so gluttonous aren’t you?”

Buffy’s only response was grabbing his wrist and riding his fingers steadily. Time stretched like warm caramel, as she sought her release. Then unexpectedly, movement on the table grabbed her attention. Through half-lidded eyes she watched dozens of plump, black worms squirming and writhing over and burrowing into the food.

Fighting against the swell of desire dragging her under, Buffy blinked quickly trying to focus and make sense of what she was seeing. In horror, she watched across the way, a woman’s smile grow and distort to inhuman proportions, before a large worm wriggled from one of her nostrils, slid across her upper lip and into her now gaping maw filled with razor-sharp fangs.

Buffy shut her eyes tight and started trembling from the jumble of conflicting feelings of confusion, insatiability, and a hint of fear.

“Don’t fight it, sweetling. Just. Let. Go.”

On his demand, William’s pace quickened, adding a third finger and riding his thumb firmly against her clit. In spite of what she saw and felt, Buffy was unable to deny him and let go with a silent cry, christening his fingers while her fingernails dug into his wrist, leaving behind crescent-shaped marks.

Her hips slowed, each sway slowly bringing her down from the ultimate high. When she finally stilled, William broke their intimate connection, and she immediately felt empty, bereft. With a shaky breath, she opened her eyes to witness him bringing his fingers to his mouth.

“Mm…simply divine.”

Unable to hold back a moment longer, Buffy roughly grabbed him by the lapels and captured his lips, teeth and tongues colliding. Their battle for dominance didn’t end until her conscience got the best of her and she pulled away.

“Soon, sweetling. Soon I will taste you straight from the source.”

After his parting promise, the rest of the evening passed by with endless glasses of champagne, her keeping a wary eye out for anything else unusual, and the complete avoidance of all food. In spite of her hyperawareness, neither a freaky grin nor wriggly worm made another appearance, leading Buffy to seriously question her eyesight and even more so, her sanity.

At sunrise, Buffy made her way out of the taxi and back to the apartment. Exhausted both physically and mentally, she left a trail of clothing from the front door to her bed. Although her mind had continually raced most of the evening, only one word followed her as sleep dragged her under—Soon.

XIII



Insistent knocking woke Buffy from a continual loop of erotic dreams. She untangled herself from the sheets, stood, and after stuffing her arms into the sleeves of her bathrobe, pulled out her Glock, which had been concealed under the mattress. En route to the door, Buffy instinctually released the gun’s trigger safety.

“Who’s there?”

Receiving no answer, Buffy unbolted the locks and cautiously opened the door, using the wooden barrier to shield the majority of her body and tucking the gun in the tightly tied sash of her robe.

Empty. The hallway was totally empty, all except for a large gift box on her doorstep. Staying on her guard, Buffy looked left then right before dropping her gaze to the package at her feet. Against every warning bell common to a seasoned detective sounding in her head, she brought the box inside, relocked the door, and returned to her bedroom.

Buffy placed the package on her bed, stepped back, and started pacing, debating her next move. Finally, letting curiosity get the better of her, she opened the lid. Lying atop a mass of black was a stark white stationery card inscribed with a single word.

Tonight

With anticipation, Buffy moved aside the tissue paper, revealing a striking crimson draped silk-dress, a pair of peep-toe sling-back stilettos, and risqué black lingerie.

Following hours of pampering and adding only a coquettish smile to her gifted ensemble, Buffy entered one of Concentrico’s many rooms.

The room, resembling a small theater, had a raised wooden stage surrounded by circular crimson walls, as well as gilded woodwork, paper lanterns, and three dozen plush seats. Buffy wasn’t alone long, before she felt the familiar tingling of his presence dancing along her spine.

“William.”

On a breathy sigh, she tilted her head to the right, baring her throat. He brushed her hair aside, rested both hands on her hips, then trailed lingering kisses from her bare shoulder to the sensitive spot just below her ear.

“Sweetling, would it be greedy of me to want you all to myself tonight?” William nibbled on her earlobe, giving it a playful tug.

“Mmm, but we are in a theater for a reason, and I don’t think it’s for a teenage grope session in the dark.” Despite her words, she reached back, cupping the back of his neck, urging him to continue spoke otherwise.

“Pity.”

William’s disarming pouting intensified her desire. Never leaving his hold, Buffy turned and placed both hands on his chest, her lips inches from his.

“Maybe if you’re a really good boy, there might be a later.”

With a saucy smile, she pulled away and, adding an extra enticing sway of her hips, headed toward a set of seats near the stage.

While the other patrons steadily filled the remaining seats, William settled in beside her. Once everyone was in place, and the house lights dimmed as a spot-light centered on an extravagantly dressed man standing by the stage.

The man, or benshi, introduced himself then began narrating the journey of Kin, a once mighty Samurai.

With a flourishing sweep of the benshi’s arm, the spot light moved and fell on the curtains where the actor portraying Kin exited and, with his katana drawn, started stalking along the wooden pathway leading to the stage.

In true kabuki tradition, Kin was dressed in a brightly colored and patterned costume, and his face was painted white with accents of vibrant red bands and heavy black brows.

When Kin reached center-stage, another actor representing a demon, dressed in an equally decorative costume except for having instead a green painted face, red horns and golden eyes, sprang out from a trap door and immediately attacked.

In a flurry of exaggerated but graceful movements, they battled until the demon lay at Kin’s feet. While standing over his enemy, Kin noticed gold and jewels, not blood, spilling from the demon’s wounds. Before collecting the treasure, two more demons attacked. The battle continued until they too were dead, and Kin amassed a small pile of riches.

Buffy watched, mesmerized by the eternal struggle between good and evil passing in what felt like only moments but also seemed endless.

In the final scene, Kin led two fellow Samurai toward nine demons guarding a cave filled with unimaginable wealth and riches. The battle was brutal and, in the end, the Samurai were victorious—or so they thought. As Kin’s brethren rushed ahead, he attacked and slew them both. Triumphant over the fallen, both demons and men, Kin stood at the mouth of the cave admiring his riches.

At that moment the room unexpectedly plunged into darkness, and what only could be described as a loud rumbling echoed throughout the theater. When the mysterious noise ended, the single spot-light returned and focused on mid-stage where Kin was now trapped under a moss-covered boulder, only mere inches from the treasure.

“Trapped for all eternity, the once mighty warrior, Kin, was ultimately defeated by his worst enemy—himself. Here ends our story.” The benshi bowed and the stage went dark.

With the raising of the house lights, Buffy and William stood with the others, their clapping adding to the thunderous ovation. Gradually, the applause died down, and the patrons filed out of the theater, chatting excitedly.

“That was just…amazing. I mean, amazing doesn’t cover it, but my brain isn’t coming up with anything besides…” Buffy gestured, her hands moving far quicker than her mind.

“Amazing?” Buffy hadn’t realized William was several steps back until she heard his teasing reply.

Buffy turned, approached him and dragged him into a kiss that instantly became fervent, greedy. When she pulled away, each was panting.

“Hungry?” On Buffy’s nod, William continued, “Let’s get you fed. We have far more amazing activities to attend.”


~*~


Adhering to tradition, Buffy and William took off their shoes before he slid open a translucent panel revealing a Washitsu, a traditional Japanese room. They joined several other patrons from the kabuki who surrounded a low table on which a nude woman lay.

Buffy had heard of nyotaimori, but considered it sexist and, quite honestly, unsanitary. But the beauty of the sensuous placement of each jeweled colored piece of sushi resting upon lush green banana leaves on the woman’s body combined with the kiss she and William shared that left her wanting far more, had quickly changed her beliefs to the contrary.

Nimbly wielding a pair of black lacquer chopsticks, William grasped and lifted a morsel off the woman’s sternum, offering it to Buffy. She opened her mouth, and the moment the tantalizing combination of flavors hit her tongue, a deep rumbling of delight sounded from her throat.

As she slowly chewed and swallowed, she noticed him watching intently, before taking a piece and washing it down with a shot of sake. Not to be outdone, Buffy followed with a shot of her own. The couple continued alternating between sushi and sake until they had their fill.

“Ready for more, sweetling?” William helped her to stand and guided her to a set of translucent panels.

Spread out before them were three adjoining shoins, rooms far larger and ornate than the previous, each in the brilliant color of gold with suspended ceilings and elaborate wood carvings.

In the center of the first room stood more patrons of the kabuki, absorbedly watching a man expertly binding a naked woman with a length of thin rope.

At war with herself, Buffy felt the steady clashing of indignation and exhilaration. Seeming to sense her inner conflict, William became her personal benshi.

In a deep, hypnotic timbre, he narrated how the bakushi or Kinbaku master tightened the ropes according to the woman’s instructions and how each knot, especially the ones pressing hard against her clit and the valley between her breasts, only heightened her pleasure.

Further exploring the rooms one by one, William described how each man and woman’s elaborate bindings, harnesses, and partial suspensions were all used to stimulate and excite both participant and observer.

Buffy felt her desire intensifying and growing to dizzying proportions, and when they reached a woman who was gagged, blindfolded, and bound from head to toe in a karada or rope dress, she’d reached her breaking point.

Brazenly, Buffy grabbed William by the hand and guided him toward a small hallway off to the left. She felt his body tensing in silent questioning, but after four words of reassurance, he followed her far more than willingly.

“I’m leading the way.”

XIV



Inside paneled walls of opaque fabric and wood, Buffy and William came together in a fervent tangle of limbs and mouths. They were equally matched until he took control by pinning her arms down by her sides.

Greedily, he feasted on her throat, and when he stilled, worrying the spot over her racing pulse, she wriggled in his firm grasp, desperate to touch him again.

“William.” With the whisper of his name, he released her but didn’t move away.

“What do you need, sweetling?”

“I…I need—” Her mind was reeling. Words were difficult to grasp.

“I know what you need.”

Feeling trapped under his piercing gaze, feeling every bit the prey being sized up by its predator, Buffy remained stock-still, while William leisurely circled her.

Finally, stopping behind her, he gathered and secured her hair with two chopsticks. Tiny puffs of warm breath on her exposed nape caused her to shudder and her eyes to close. Buffy then felt a strip of silk settling over her eyes before it was tightened behind her head.

“Remove your dress.”

Blindfolded, and with slightly trembling hands, she removed her dress. Clad only in stilettos, a black garter belt, thigh-highs, and a thong, she waited.

Then there was nothing. Only a long stretch of silence filled the passing moments. In her rising uneasiness, Buffy attempted shielding herself until William’s command stilled her.

“Don’t.”

Reflexively, Buffy froze. Only her mind moved, racing trying to figure out where and, more importantly, what he was doing. Judging by his voice, he was now in front of her but no longer nearby. What he was doing remained a mystery.

“William, what—”

Her words caught in her throat by the faintest brush from her navel up through the valley between her breasts. Her body arched into his touch, needing more.

William’s exploring caresses teased and enticed yet never ventured where she truly wanted. It was maddening. Unable to stand another moment, she blindly reached out for him. He easily evaded her seeking hands.

“Ah, ah. No touching, or I’ll have to ensure you don’t.”

His cryptic warning, meant to chastise, only intensified her need. To refrain from reaching out again, she fisted her hands and lowered them to her sides.

It felt like forever before he touched her again and even longer before he guided her to the platform bed in the center of the room. Shaking with minimal restraint, she laid spread out against the silk sheets.

“The picture of pure avidity, you are.”

Following the direction his voice, Buffy craned her neck over her left shoulder. A moment later, she felt his hand gliding from her ankle and stilling on her inner thigh. Heeding his warning, she fought against the desire to clench her thighs together to trap his now retreating hand.

“Spread your legs.”

Wantonly bending to his will, this new position drew her thong taut to press hard against her clit. Gasping, her hands gripped the sheets while she dug her stilettos into the mattress to keep herself grounded.

“Mm…so responsive.”

His rousing comment, coupled with the cinched silk, nearly had her coming undone. She held this pose, shaking with anticipation.

“Please.”

“Please, what? This?”

In an instant, she felt the end of the bed dipping under his weight and his shoulders brushing against her inner thighs. She cried out when he finally made contact, laving her folds framed by the fabric.

Every swipe of his gifted tongue, neither increasing in speed nor pressure, expertly held her on the edge. Desperately needing more, Buffy reached for him. With almost inhuman speed he moved, seizing both her hands while skillfully wrapping a thin rope around her wrists.

“You were warned.”

The combination of his reprimand and swift punishment made her shiver. Yet it wasn’t from fear but pure voracity.

With her wrists securely bound, he raised her arms above her head, and she felt him fastening the slack onto something solid. Following three brisk tugs, he appeared satisfied, then set to work on her feet.

Now fully bound and blindfolded, Buffy was completely at his mercy.

It felt like a lifetime before he touched her again. Yet this time it wasn’t his mouth or his hands, but what she believed was the frayed end of a rope.

The irony wasn’t lost on her.

She bit her lip, holding back her plea as he teased, dampening further between her splayed thighs.

Then without a word, he worked the length intricately around her upper body. Dual knots on her sternum kept the harness firmly in place while leaving her breasts fully exposed.

“Lovely.”

His brazen appreciation was followed by another rope trailing along her midriff heading lower, and Buffy reactively arched her hips.

“So willing.”

Then the rope was gone, and it was clear by the sound of footfalls that William was moving. Buffy was completely on display and vulnerable. She’d never felt so alive.

“I wonder, will I find every part of you this way?”

William ran his hands over her outer thighs, settling at her hips. She felt him untying the two ribbons holding the two halves of her thong together and slowly sliding away the silk covering her center.

“Ah, there it is. Many a man has fallen, wars fought, and worlds lost, all in the name of sanctum sanctorum.”

While resting his cheek against her inner thigh, William reverently stroked her cleft. With each passing, he dipped further inside, reaching straight into the very heart of her.

“You truly don’t know the power you possess between these heavenly thighs? Do you, sweet Buffy?”

Beyond words, her only response was an imploring whine. It took all her will to remain still, afraid if she moved, he would stop. When his tongue replaced his finger, Buffy was unable to hold back. Her hips rose to meet his mouth as her arms strained and her legs shook in their bindings.

Then abruptly, he stopped. The chilly air replaced his hot mouth, while he worked another length of rope around her, skillfully fitting her with a makeshift chastity belt. When he was done, he released her ankles and wrists, then removed her blindfold before helping her to sitting.

“As I, you must wait. Go, and tomorrow return to me, unfulfilled. Then and only then—”

Holding her chin firm, he met and held her gaze. His eyes, two stormy depths of insatiability, dragged her under.

“I will make you mine.”

The rest of their time together was spent in silence. William carefully dressed her before escorting her to the exit. With his parting, “Till tomorrow,” she walked into the early morning light to a waiting taxi.



Author's Note:

sanctum sanctorum: "The Latin word sanctum is the neuter form of the adjective "holy," and sanctorum its genitive plural. Thus the term sanctum sanctorum literally means "the holy [place/thing] of the holy [places/things]," replicating in Latin the Hebrew construction for the superlative, with the intended meaning "the most holy [place/thing]."" http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sanctum_sanctorum

XV



Standing nude before her bathroom mirror, Buffy studied the intricate lattice of bindings and strategically placed knots. In spite of her glaring reflection, she still doubted what she saw. Too many times as of late, she’d fallen victim to shadows and illusions that lead her to mistrust her eyesight and even more so, her sanity.

However, touch had shown her the truth. Intense sensations worked their way deep inside her body. Bit by bit they tore down carefully constructed walls of numbness, exposing raw nerves and making her feel truly alive.

Just as now, the ropes biting and burning into her skin were her tethers to reality.

Stepping under the spray of scalding water, Buffy lathered up her body, lingering in certain areas longer than others. All too soon, washing became the furthest thing from her mind as her soapy hands cupped and fondled her sensitive breasts before eagerly delving between her thighs. She’d been on the edge for far too long, and she now intended to find some much-needed release. Well, that was until William’s warning replayed in her mind.

“…return to me, unfulfilled”

His voice sounded so clear, down to the seductive yet firm undertone. It was almost as if he was there, not miles away. Instantly, in spite of her body’s vehement protest, her hands dropped away.

Then she realized the ridiculousness of it all. How would he actually know if she remained unfulfilled?

Without another thought on the matter, her hands returned to task. She rubbed the knot pressing hard against her clit while spearing herself on three fingers. Her long-overdue release came fast and furious with a force that nearly brought her to her knees.

Now with the edge taken off, she was able to think clearly and decided not to tempt the fates any further. She quickly rinsed and dried off, never letting the water, her hands, or the towel linger in one place too long.

Buffy slid on her bathrobe, leaving the sash untied. She needed the warmth the terrycloth provided but not the pleasurable pressure the weight placed on her bindings.

As the evening quickly approached, Buffy ate a light meal, fixed her hair and makeup, and carefully chose her outfit, a black shift-dress. The silk flowed smoothly over her curves and added a new layer to the already potent myriad of tactile sensations.

With a final look in the mirror, Buffy stopped dead in her tracks. For the first time in a long while, she really looked at herself.

Tonight she was standing at a crossroads. Beyond this point, there was no going back.

One path brought her to a line she’d never thought she would ever cross—using her body and not her mind to solve a case. Yet in all honesty, was that what she was truly doing?

Without overly analyzing her motives, she knew the answer. Undeniably, she wanted William, more than she ever wanted any other man. He had opened up a whole new world of passion and desire, tapping into her long dormant, baser needs, and only leaving her wanting more.

Then there was the other path, one she’d traveled alone many times—suppressing and ignoring every one of her needs for the greater good. Staying strong and untouchable, to ever remain in control.

In there lay the crux of her dilemma: Would Buffy, the woman, sleeping with William destroy everything Elizabeth, the FBI agent, put her heart and soul into? Was it worth the risk?

Before she could dissect and answer her own questions, William’s promise filled and echoed in her mind.

“I will make you mine.”

Her body instantly reacted, and she shifted impatiently, causing the bindings running along her inner thighs and framing her cleft to rub deliciously against her skin. Her choice was clear. With a growing wanton smile, Buffy headed off to Concentrico.


~*~


Every bump and rut littering Boston’s streets disturbed her bindings and intensified the satisfying burn they created. Finally, yet not soon enough for her liking, the taxi pulled up to her destination. Buffy handed the driver a wad of cash and stepped out onto the snowy sidewalk.

Rick nodded his greeting and allowed her to pass. Each step closer heightened her anticipation of seeing William, and he didn’t disappoint. When she entered the main door, he was there.

In an instant, he was upon her, his hands and mouth exploring her eagerly. Then just as quickly as he approached, he pulled away. Before she could question his retreat, he spun her around and roughly pushed her up against the wall, pinning her wrists down by her sides. With his front flush against her back and his erection nudging her ass, he lowered his mouth to her ear.

“Someone has been a very—naughty—girl.”

XVI


Barefoot and hands bound behind her, Buffy lead the way down a dimly torch-lit hallway with William closely following. She couldn’t quite wrap her head around the idea that he knew what she had done. Yet he did, and this was her atonement.

They passed room after room of men and women, some in pairs and others in threesomes or more, committing acts of sin.

A man blindfolded lay across a woman’s lap with his pants around his ankles. Steadily, she brutally spanked him with a wooden paddle, all the while angrily scolding him. The man grunted with each blow to his backside and begged for more, his words distorted through jagged fangs.

A women wearing leashed scold’s bridle was on all fours, while a man with lethal-looking claws held her lead. He paraded her around the room, harshly tugging on her chain when she stopped or faltered.

A naked woman was suspended by her arms from the ceiling, surrounded by two leather-clad men. One trailed a leather tawse from her neck to her mons as the other, stood behind her, his hands exploring her body. Together, the tawse struck her breasts as a hand roughly wrapped around her throat. Her strangled cry only further fueled the men’s actions.

In spite of temptation, Buffy focused only on what she knew was real—the burning muscles in her shoulders and arms, her biting binds, and the dampness between her legs. Everything else she ignored until the man who held the woman’s throat looked up.

Sebastian

The unfathomable emptiness of his completely black eyes shattered her focus, and the world came rushing in—overlapping pleasured and pained cries, the mingled tangy scents of sweat and sex, and the flames reflecting off the smooth, ebony marble walls and floor creating an eerie illusion of movement within the stone.

“I haven’t permitted you to stop.” Buffy hadn’t noticed she had, until William gripped her upper arms, his warning loud in her ear.

“I—”

“Or speak.” With almost inhuman speed, William was facing her. His hold on her chin was firm, warranting her undivided attention and obedience. Buffy lowered her eyes.

“Good girl.” William returned to his earlier position.

Before continuing down the hallway, Buffy cast a quick sideways glance toward Sebastian, or more precisely, where he once had been. He was now gone, as were the woman and other man.

In their place, was another man with cloven hands and feet, wearing a pony-harness. He relentlessly bucked, trying to dislodge the woman astride his back while she cruelly struck him with a riding crop.

Buffy closed her eyes tightly, and with a steadying breath, she opened them and focused on the floor beneath her feet.

Reaching the end of the hallway, she entered the last room and only stopped on William’s command. One moment she was standing alone; the next he had a fist full of her hair and was baring her neck.

“Your disobedience angers me, Buffy."

Then he struck. His blunt teeth latched onto the juncture between her shoulder and neck, while roughly cupping one breast. She succumbed, letting herself be dragged under by the pleasurable pain. When William finally released his hold, he replaced the rope at her wrists with his hands before guiding her to a crude marble tablet in the center of the room.

William forcibly grabbed the back of Buffy’s neck before pressing her against the cold stone. He released her wrists but kept her neck pinned, while he hiked up her dress and kicked out her stance.

“And this slight will not go unpunished.”

Buffy felt the head of his cock nudging her entrance, but never entering. They remained at this sexual impasse, the fine line between acceptance and refusal, until she pushed back slightly, drawing him inside.

At her silent consent, William anchored both his hands on her hips, and in one fluid motion, thrust home. He quickly set a fierce pace, one that had Buffy crying out and seeking purchase.

Clutching the edges of the table, Buffy bucked her hips back, taking him in further than any other man had ever reached. Soon, she was on the verge of her release, until a sharp sting to her bottom stilled her. Startled, she looked over her shoulder and noticed William readying for another strike that landed only moments after.

“Such a—naughty—naughty—girl.” William punctuated his words with powerful thrusts and spanks.

The dizzying melding of pleasure and pain twisted her insides with promises of her sweet release. William must’ve sensed this, immediately withdrawing and leaving her empty and unfulfilled.

“In your punishment, I will find my pleasure.”

With both hands, William gripped the rope wrapped around her waists and yanked her back, spearing her on his cock. She nearly burst from this brutal plunge and the binding’s knot riding tightly against her clit.

Yet William had far more wicked plans than granting her any reprieve as over and over, he held her just at the edge, allowing her no release.

Angered from his prolonged torment, the next time William withdrew, Buffy gained purchase, turned, and roughly shoved him to the floor.

Using his confusion to her advantage, Buffy straddled him and impaled herself, taking what she’d long been denied. Her pace was wild and erratic as she bucked and writhed, her release being all that mattered.

With a piercing wail, Buffy slowed her hips. Despite finally feeling blissfully drained and sated, the sting of anger remained. She took a moment to savor his thickness still hard inside her, before slowly standing and straightening out her dress.

“Who’s being punished now?” Buffy eyed his straining erection, then left the room.

Revenge had never tasted so bittersweet.




Author’s Notes:

A scold’s bridle “sometimes called "the branks", as well as "brank's bridle" was a punishment device used primarily on women, as a form of torture and public humiliation. It was an iron muzzle in an iron framework that enclosed the head. The bridle-bit (or curb-plate) was about 2 inches long and 1 inch broad, projected into the mouth and pressed down on top of the tongue. The "curb-plate" was frequently studded with spikes, so that if the tongue moved, it inflicted pain and made speaking impossible…The bridle sometimes had a ring and chain attached to it so her husband could parade her around town and the town's people could scold her and treat her with contempt.” http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scold's_bridle

A tawse “is an implement used for corporal punishment. (It) consists of a strip of leather, with one end split into a number of tails. The thickness of the leather and the number of tails is variable.” http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tawse

XVII




“Strip.”

Still riding high from taking charge the previous evening, Buffy intently watched William slowly shed his crimson silk shirt, black leather pants, and heavy boots. The dim torchlights accentuated his features. He was simply mesmerizing.

Comfortable in his nakedness, William approached her, his purpose clear. Yet this time, Buffy wasn’t letting him get the best of her, not again. Not anymore. She was staying in control of herself and more so of him.

Maintaining this control explained not only her boldness but also her masculine attire: a double-breasted, black pin-striped suit; crisp white dress shirt; and her hair firmly tucked away under a fedora. The only hint of femininity was her four-inch stilettos, smoky makeup, and crimson lips.

“Lie down.” Buffy gestured with a tilt of her chin to the divan behind him.

Fluidly, he lounged across the cushions, the plush ebony a stark contrast against his sinewy paleness.

Shoulders back and adopting a confident swagger, Buffy straightened her blood-red silk tie and moved to stand over him.

“Show me how you touch yourself when you’re thinking of me.”

William seductively trailed a hand down his chest to the thatch of wiry hair. Encircling his erection, he set a steady, tantalizing pace. His deep groans and his back arching up into each stroke only added to the allure of her forgetting her plan completely and aiding him with her hands and mouth.

“Stop.”

Obediently, he stilled mid-stroke. Buffy lowered to a crouch, her mouth at his ear.

“I’m flattered I affect you this much, William, I truly am. Yet, I’m not ready to see this end. Now, raise your arms above your head.”

Buffy stood and moved to the head of the divan. William’s arms bowed back, almost painfully so, when she locked his wrists in manacles threaded through a metal ring attached to the stone floor. When done, she bound his ankles in the same manner.

“So pretty–”

As the torchlight grew, Buffy trailed her fingers from his ankle and up his thigh. Purposefully bypassing his straining cock, she continued upward and circled each nipple before cupping his chin and tilting his face in her direction.

“I could just leave you here, unfulfilled. Or I could take pity on you, giving you what you clearly want.”

“It’s what we both want, heathen.” William arched his hips, his voice heavy with wickedness and a hint of insolence.

“Shut your mouth, or this heathen will have to shut it for you.”

Buffy gave his cheek a playful double-slap and headed toward a stone table littered with a considerable selection of ‘toys.’

“Mm…decisions, decisions.”

Finally choosing several to her liking, she returned. Again, she stripped him of another means of his control over her, his eyes. With the blindfold secured, Buffy pulled a leather cock ring and lube from her pocket before shedding her jacket and pants.

“You really do make a pretty picture. But there is still something missing.”

William reactively lifted his hips as Buffy cupped him and thoroughly applied the lube. When done, she gently fitted him with the device. His cock, though impressive before, now jutted proudly from his body.

Buffy grabbed a lit candle and straddled his lap, fitting him snuggly in her cleft but not allowing him to enter her.

Watching his jaw clench and his arms tense in their chains gave her a thrill, one she’d never experienced before–being in total and complete control of another.

“It’d be a shame to mar such perfection–” Buffy tipped the candle pillar over his chest, dripping hot wax. “–but that doesn’t mean I won’t.”

Buffy ground herself against him in time with creating nine splatters randomly across his chest. With each passing of her hips, the torches’ flames burned brighter.

“That’s it,” William groaned through clenched teeth, raising his hips in time.

“Shut–up.” Buffy roughly slapped her palm across his mouth, squeezing her inner thighs to still him.

Releasing his mouth, Buffy blew out the candle and dropped it off to the side. Leaning forward, she fisted his hair and pulled him into a fierce kiss.

“I’m going to fuck you now.”

Shifting slightly, she effortlessly took him in to the hilt. She started her pace off slowly, needing to accustom her body to his size. Soon, she was gaining momentum, setting a brutal rhythm. The torches’ flames scaled the walls, rising higher and higher.

“You love it, don’t you? Taking me like a man?” William grunted as his chains rattled.

“Yes.” Eyes closed, she lost herself to the feeling of him, forgetting her earlier dominant role.

“Love taking me like the filthy heretic you are?” William bucked, driving ever deeper.

“Yes!” With her climax, Buffy scored her nails down his chest drawing blood. Slowing her pace, she rode out her release before dropping into a spent, panting heap.

“Please. Take pity.”

William’s whispered plea broke through the strident sounds of her racing heartbeat and breath. Regaining some strength, Buffy opened her eyes and slid from his lap. She released him from his leather confine, and with three pumps of her hand, he came with a shout in hard, violent spurts.

While William came down from his high, Buffy redressed, except for removing her tie and using it to clear away his spendings. Needing his undivided attention, she pulled away his blindfold.

“William, don’t mistake my pity for weakness, and know that this comes with a price.”

She slid his flaccid cock into a chrome cock cage, set the guide pins, and closed it with a pad lock, then pocketed the key.

“When I decide to extend my generosity, then and only then, will you be released.”

Buffy pulled him into a fierce parting kiss before unlocking his wrists and ankles. With a wink and a tip of her hat, she turned and left.

XVIII



Three days later Buffy stood overlooking a cavernous, desert-like room. How a place like this existed inside Concentrico she didn’t know. Nor cared. Right now her focus was on reaching William, and deep down she knew the downhill, rutted path under her feet led the way.

The path took her past longhaired hoofed men, whipping those trying to escape crimson latex bindings. Into a copse of thorny bushes and trees where flagellants used barbed branches to mortify the flesh while clawed, winged women feasted on the tattered remains. Past the fancifully dressed being chased and mauled by growling vicious dogs.

Buffy ignored the ever-increasingly disturbing sights and sounds, finally reaching the end. Stretched out before her were miles and miles of fire-littered sands with dozens of sparsely clad men and women lying, sitting, or wandering in groups. Among them was William, squatting in front of one of the many fires. Without a word, he stood and approached. As he lowered his mouth toward hers, Buffy closed her eyes.

“No more games.”

Eyes open wide, Buffy wrested the hand wrapped tightly around her throat. William squeezed tighter, stilling her, and with his free hand snatched the chain holding the key to his cock cage from around her neck.

“Release me.”

Obediently, Buffy took the key and freed him.

“You must atone for your sins. On—your—knees.”

Kneeling, she lowered her head and eyes.

“Such a contradiction you are. Head bowed in supplication while your greedy cunt drips in want.”

Buffy watched William’s pants pool around his ankles before he cast them off to the side.

“Open that sinful mouth of yours.”

Buffy raised her head and did as she was told, taking him in as much as possible. When she felt the tip brushing the back of her throat, she began working him with long strokes.

“So eager to repent.” William fisted her hair and started thrusting.

Buffy reached between her thighs to tend to her own growing need, only to be stopped by the pain of his tightening grip.

“No. Your pleasure is only mine to give.”

William roughly pulled Buffy to standing and spun her around. Without haste, he rucked up her leather skirt, bent her over, and entered her. From the start, he set a frantic pace, bringing her to climax over and over. She lost count how many times.

“Oh—god.” Buffy slammed back in time with his thrusts.

Slowing his hips and returning his hand to her hair, William wrenched back her head and trailed something jagged along her cheek.

“Such a nasty blasphemer. Beg for my forgiveness.”

Buffy saw the switch a moment before it landed on her exposed backside. She cried out with each blow.

“You see?” William stilled completely. His cock slipped from her as he released her hair. Looping and tightening the branch around her throat, he gave it a brisk tug forcing her attention on the gathering audience.

“They’re here to bear witness to your sins—”

“No.” Buffy’s whispered protest died on her lips.

“—and watch me fit your neck with a lovely purse.”

“No!”

Buffy gathered all her strength. In one fluid motion, she grabbed William’s wrist, stepped and leaned forward. With a drop of her shoulder, she threw him to the sands. Now, standing over him, her chest rose and fell in ragged breaths.

“Ah, there she is.” William unexpectedly kicked out his leg and swept Buffy’s own right out from under her. She landed hard, the air rushing fast from her lungs.

In an instant he was on her. They wrestled for dominance until William gained the upper hand and grabbed her wrists tightly. While he pinned her arms above her head, she struggled wildly to break free.

“Mm…have to say, violence becomes you.”

A wicked grin marked his victory as he brutally entered her again. With each thrust, Buffy felt a white-hot rage building. One like never before. One fueled by the need to be the bringer of pain. Without warning, Buffy wrapped her legs tightly around William’s midsection and rolled them.

“No! You beg for my mercy!”

Eyes wild and unfocused, Buffy pressed her forearm against his throat. Sliding forward, she placed her knees on his biceps and used all her weight to effectively pin him. William bucked, trying to dislodge her as his face reddening from lack of air.

She held firm, watching his eyes roll to white while he struggled less and less. He was on the verge of passing out. Not letting him get off that easily, Buffy released him. Standing and straightening her skirt, she picked up the branch he’d used on her. She tested its weight with a flick of her wrist. Pleased and smiling wickedly, she turned back to William.

He lay on his side facing away from her, gulping mouthfuls of air. Buffy towered over him, and with a rough shove of his shoulder, he landed face down in a boneless heap.

Then the whipping began.

Each lash, his skin swelled and split, weeping blood. William tried escaping her brutality, but this and his cries of ‘mercy’ only fueled her rage.

Nothing seemed to quell this overwhelming need to cause him more and more pain. Not even when right before her eyes, William’s features began to change. Transfigure.

First he wore a face of a stranger. Then like the pages of a book caught in a gust of wind, his face morphed with each brutal blow.

Melissa Hartley. Jessica Ramirez. Detective Esposito. Quinn.

“Please.”

Mid strike, this plea stayed her hand while the image of Quinn wavered and altered. Into her sister.

Dawn lay beaten and bloody at her feet. Stunned and shaken, Buffy’s eyes darted between Dawn and the switch. When her mind finally caught up, she dropped the branch and staggered back. Falling to her knees, she emptied her stomach onto the sand.

When the retching ended, she dared a glance. Facing away from her, Dawn’s broken body was completely still—as the dead. Half crawling, half running, Buffy rushed over to Dawn just stopping short of her torn and bloodied back.

“Dawn?”

With a voice as gravelly as the sand cutting into her knees, Buffy’s hand hovered over Dawn, afraid to make contact.

Was she real?

Buffy didn’t know. It had been some time since she had trusted herself to make such a call.

Unsure, Buffy watched for the smallest of movements. She needed to know seeing Dawn wasn’t just a trick of the eye or more so, her mind. Then Dawn moved. First it was the slow rise and fall of her chest. Then the tremble of a slim shoulder followed by the sound of hiccupped breaths.

Buffy’s heart broke all over again. Dawn was alive. She was alive, and Buffy had hurt her and made her cry.

Or so she thought.

In almost an owl-like manner, Dawn’s head turned until her chin touched her spine. With black fathomless eyes set on her, Buffy realized Dawn wasn’t crying. She was laughing.

Laughing

It was only when her apartment’s shower had run cold and her throat was raw from sobbing could Buffy drown out this evil, inhuman sound.

XIX



Reflections never lie. Exposing every flaw. Every imperfection. Under the bright bathroom lights, Buffy stared at the shell of who she once was.

Days had passed, nine to be exact, since she had set foot in Concentrico.

The first few were a blur. With her mind heavy and murky as the ocean depths, the line between sleep and wake ebbed, giving way to endless, hellish nightmares and memories. When the tide finally shifted and her mind cleared, then the questions came. Ruthlessly circling like sharks with a potential meal.

Who could she trust?

Not herself, apparently. In the past she’d relied heavily on intuition, almost more so than a partner or her Glock. Then intuition turned its metaphorical back on her. Leaving her ass hanging in the breeze and her doubting her sanity.

From the moment she entered the world of Concentrico, she excused away all she couldn’t explain. Then excuses became reluctant acceptances of what she saw, no matter how far-fetched. Things were what they were, and clearly, she was certifiable.

Yet the alternative of not being crazy was far scarier—fairytale monsters and the things that go bump in the night were actually real.

Buffy shed her sweat-soaked clothes and stepped under the shower’s hot spray. She hadn’t been in here since that night of haunting black eyes and a soul-shattering laughter.

Believing in the boogieman and what lurked under your bed explained the unexplainable. Explained that thing wearing her sister’s face.

She knew now that it wasn’t Dawn. And more importantly, this wasn’t her. She’d never hide or admit defeat. She was a survivor. A warrior. No matter in what ‘world’ she stood.

Buffy bowed her head, sighing while the hot water and suds flowed from nape to heels. Feeling her tension fading, she thought back to earlier when the outside world came calling and righted the wrongs in her mind.


~*~

Buffy stared at the ceiling. Or was it the wall? Didn’t matter. When the stiffness in her joints demanded she change position, she’d stare at the other.

A faraway tinny sound was just on the outskirts of her mind. Muffled and seemingly unimportant, only its persistence had her finally moving. At first she moved slow and unhurried. By the time she found the source vibrating across the kitchen counter, she had speed and a purpose. She only hesitated a moment before picking up her cell phone and answering with a weak, “Hello?”

“Summers?”

It was a man. That much she knew. His voice was strong and sure and familiar. But how he was, she didn’t know.

“Summers? Ya there?” His voice worked its way into her mind. Pushing and pulling until the flood gates opened and in rushed the outside world.

“Mulcahy?” His name was thick on her tongue. It felt wrong, like it didn’t belong.

“I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for the last week and half for frig sakes. What the fuck is going on?” Before she could find the words to answer, he told her why he called.

Quinn was dead. Murdered.

Buffy clutched the phone like a lifeline while sliding to the floor. Her stomach clenched and roiled as Mulcahy spared no details of where they found Quinn and how her death almost mirrored the other victims. Almost. All except for one distinct difference—Quinn was bound and gagged with thorny branches.

Unable to hold back, Buffy christened the floor with bile.

Mulcahy waited while Buffy collected herself before he spoke again. For the majority of the conversation, she remained quiet, just taking everything in. The only time she’d actually spoken beyond a grunt or a ‘yeah’ was to tell Mulcahy, in no uncertain terms and despite his clear ‘hell no’ position, she was remaining on the case.
When the call ended, Buffy headed to the shower with a renewed sense of purpose and determination. Find Quinn’s killer and solve this damn case.


*~*


Buffy felt like a new woman, or at least a cleaner one, after a long shower. Now dressed in workout gear, she stood in her living room, a sharpie in one hand and hand-made flash cards in another. On the first card she wrote Concentrico then placed it on the floor.

When the first light of the new day cast the room in a soft glow, Buffy eyed her handiwork. Throughout the night the questions hadn’t stopped. Actually, there were far more now since she’d allowed herself to admit monsters were real. This was clearly far beyond her expertise, but she had some ideas where she could find the answers. All accept one. There was still one piece of this puzzle she hadn’t a clue how to make fit. Eyeing the card in hand, she reread the name…

William

XX



Buffy spent the better part of three days at the Boston Public Library. By day’s end, her head was spinning. Page upon page, book upon book, told of man’s fear and reverence of the supernatural. She grabbed another book from the seemingly never ending ‘need to read’ pile. Its cover was a simple all-black background with curvy white lettering: Among Us by Gil Cicerone.

His name struck a pang of déjà vu. Turning the book over, Buffy took a good look at the worn black and white photo of the author. Even after all this time, she recognized him instantly. He was the demonologist from her sister’s trial.

She remembered the day Virgil (Gil) Cicerone took the stand: skinny and disheveled, his beady eyes darted around the court room while he rambled on and on. A ball of nervous energy, having a million things to say but only a moment to say them. What she mostly remembered was thinking, “This guy is fucking nuts”.

As luck would have it, the same man she’d written off ten years ago was possibly the only one who held the answers she so desperately needed. She was ready to listen. Hopefully it wasn’t too late.


~*~


Without much effort, she found him on the Internet. He was still living in southern California. Barstow to be exact. No surprise, he lived near a ghost town.

Settling in one of the library’s nooks with her cell, Buffy dialed the number she’d found. It rang and rang until a woman pleasantly said they were sorry they missed the call and asked to please leave their name and number after the beep. Mid debate if she’d do just that, the same voice now live and hurried, cut in, “Hello! Hello, I’m here. Don’t hang up.”

“Hi, yes, could I please speak with Mr. Gil Cicerone?” Buffy shifted easily into federal agent-mode.

“Look, I don’t know how you people keep getting this number, but he’s retired and wants to be left alone. Got it? So don’t call here again or I’ll call the cops—”

Not wanting to lose her possibly only chance, Buffy kept her voice level yet firm, “Mrs. Cicerone, I’m an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigations and I need to speak with Mr. Cicerone regarding an ongoing investigation.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. It’s just, well, even after all this time my dad still gets these wackos calling him. Sometimes they get really pushy, so I have to shut it down from the get-go.” Mrs. Cicerone’s voice instantly softened, sounding more like her recording.

“I completely understand, Mrs. Cicerone.”

“It’s actually Wilson. Kristy Wilson, I’m married. Well, divorced, but I never changed my name back.”

“Kristy, my name is Agent Elizabeth Summers. I actually know your father from—”

“I remember who you are. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Buffy braced herself, knowing she needed to keep focused. She couldn’t afford to let her emotions get the better of her. “Thank you, Kristy. Do you think it possible for me to speak with your father?”

“I was telling the truth when I said he was retired.”

“I know you were, but I only need a moment of his time. Even a few minutes will help in this investigation.”

“He can’t help you, Agent Summers.”

“Kristy, I really can’t stress the importance of speaking with him.”

“You don’t understand. It’s not that my dad won’t speak to you, it’s that he can’t.”


~*~


Buffy caught the first available flight out of Logan. Once she reached LA, she rented a car and headed north. The whole nine-plus hour trip she mulled over her conversation with Kristy Wilson.

“After the trial, my dad threw himself into work. I mean, yeah, he was all about the research before, but this was different. A week or two would go by and I wouldn’t hear from him. But like a bad penny he always turned back up. Well, until he didn’t.

“After a month, I started getting nervous. He wouldn’t answer his phone. I went by his house, and it looked like he hadn’t been there for weeks. Nobody knew where he was. It was like he fell off the face of the Earth. Not a word, nothing, for months.

“Then I got a call from some psych hospital in LA telling me that they just saw my missing persons report and my dad had been there for weeks as a John Doe. I rushed over, expecting him to apologize for making me worry. He’d give me some cockamamie story, saying this was all a big misunderstanding. Sure, I knew he’d be a little worse for wear but still him, ya know? But he wasn’t. I didn’t even recognize him. And what was worse, he didn’t recognize me.”

Gil was found in a downtown LA club screaming and attacking people claiming they were “demons” and that they couldn’t have his soul.

He was diagnosed with late-onset schizophrenia, and when he was no longer a threat to himself or anyone else, the hospital released him to Kristy’s custody. On his doctor’s recommendation, she and her kids moved into Gil’s home. They’d been there for almost ten years, and he hadn’t shown much improvement.

Buffy checked the directions again and took her next left. The identical Monopoly-styled ranches lining one side of the street faced an endless stretch of desert, saltbushes, and twisted Joshua trees on the other.

She continued to the last house. Parking on the street, she rechecked the number, stepped out of the car, and headed to the front door. It opened before she had a chance to knock.

“Agent Summers?” A middle-aged woman, a spitting image of Gil, smiled and stepped aside letting her enter.

“Do you need to see my badge?”

Kristy waved away Buffy reaching for her back pocket and gestured for her to sit. The décor was a mishmash of yard sale finds and floral patterns. Smiling family photos shared wall space with dogs playing poker. Outdated, but it felt homey.

“If I came at a bad time—” Buffy gestured to the baby monitor holstered on Kristy’s hip. A low murmuring came from the speaker.

“Oh, no. No baby. My kids are older, the youngest ten. This is actually for dad duty. We leave his door shut. It’s what he wants, saying it’s safer for all of us. But I still need to know what’s going on in there.

“Like I said before, Agent Summers, I don’t know how much you’re going to get. Most of the time it’s like he’s in his own little world. Talking but not making a lick of sense. But then there are times, not many mind you, when we have normal conversations.” Getting teary-eyed, Kristy fiddled with a wad of tissues.

“I assure you, your father’s well-being is my first priority.”

“Good, that’s all I needed to know.” Kristy tucked the tissues into the cuff of her sleeve, stood, and headed toward the hallway. Buffy followed.

XXI


“We have a visitor, Dad.” Kristy leaned back against the open door to let Buffy in.

The room was empty except for a scattering of art supplies, an unmade bed, and a commode in need of emptying. Her stomach flip-flopped from the stench of stale cigarettes, piss, and sweat. Movement from the opposite side of the room caught her attention. It was Gil. Fisting a black marker, he scribbled feverishly on the wallpaper blotting out clusters of forget-me-nots. He didn’t acknowledge either of them.

“Just talk. You can go near him, but whatever you do, don’t touch him. He gets really upset.” Kristy sent a sad smile in the direction of her dad before closing the door behind her.

Walking slowly around the room, Buffy took in Gil’s meticulous artwork. Nude men and women surrounded and decorated the bedroom door. A life-sized lion, wolf, and leopard each fiercely guarded a wall. “Invictus”[i] was scrawled in the empty spaces in between. She tried wrapping her head around the enormity of it all.

“I’ve been waiting for you.” Gil stopped, cocking his head to the left before resuming his work.

“Have you?” Though stunned, Buffy kept calm. Wanting to avoid interruption, she turned down the volume on the baby monitor perched on the window sill.

“Of course. That’s my job. But you’ve started without me, haven’t you?” Gil scribbled faster, never taking his eyes off the wall.

“Yes, I have,” She agreed, not knowing why or to what exactly.

“Tsk, tsk.” Gil shook his head.

“What are you drawing, Gil?” Buffy stepped closer yet kept some distance.

“You have so much farther to go.”

“To where?” She took another step closer. He was shaking.

“The true face of evil.” His hand stopped and dropped loosely by his side.

“Is that what you saw in LA?”

Gil wouldn’t respond, tears sliding down his stubbled cheek. He resumed drawing in slow, steady sweeps. Stuffing her hands into her pockets, Buffy moved even closer in order to get a better look.

Varying in size, every person was drawn with painstaking detail. One in particular grabbed her attention. He was by far larger and placed away from the others. His features were distinct and eerily familiar. Impossible.

“Gil, do you know William F. Allen?” Her voice pitched, catching in her throat. All her earlier confidence was gone.

For the first time Gil looked at her, snickering. “Do you?”

“Who is he? What does he have to do with this? What is this?” Letting her panic take hold, Buffy roughly grabbed Gil.

He wrenched his arm free. Eyes wide and terrified, he hit the wall hard and slid into corner. Cowering and rocking, he covered his ears with ink-stained hands. Then he started screaming over and over:

“I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul!”

“What the hell is going on in here?” Kristy rushed into the room, heading straight for her dad. Her face twisted in anger. “I don’t give a fuck who you are or why you’re here, just get the hell outta my house! Now!”

Buffy tried to apologize, but Kristy wanted no part of it. She was kneeling in front of her dad, murmuring consoling words. They weren’t working. Buffy could still hear Gil’s gut-wrenching screams up until she slammed her car door shut and drove away.




________________________________________
[i]“Invictus” by poet William Ernest Henley (1849–1903)

“Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.”

XXII



“Hi.” Buffy lovingly ran her hand over cool granite.

“Sorry I haven’t been here in a long time. There’s no excuse but know I thought of you, both of you, every day.” She toyed with the purple cellophane wrapped pot of white lilies, untying and retying the yellow ribbon. “I hope you guys like the flowers. The grounds keeper said there’re different every week. You know, to keep it interesting. It’s not much—

“I’m so confused, there’s just so much going on right now. I wish you both were here to tell me what to do.” Sitting down, Buffy ignored the dead grass biting into her.

“I don’t know what’s real anymore. I saw things. Horrible things. Things that shouldn’t even exist. And the only person who might help is crazy. Like crazy, crazy.” Buffy reached up and snatched a slender leaf, then started pulling it apart. “I’m trying to fight something I have no clue how to fight. What’s worse, I almost lost myself. It was bad, really bad for a while. I acted in ways, ways that…I don’t know why and I didn’t even care how wrong it was.” Mindlessly she plucked and shredded another leaf.

“Don’t worry. I’m not acting that way. Not anymore. My head’s clear. Well, clearer.” Her finger traced and retraced her mother and sister’s names. “I know. I know you both love me and that I’m strong. I just don’t feel very strong right now.” Buffy sat quietly, letting the rest of the pseudo conversation play out in her mind.

“You’re both right. I know what to do. I just have to do it. Thank you.” Buffy stood up, brushing the leaves away. Kissing two finger tips, she pressed them to their gravestone.

“I love you both so very much. Good bye.” Buffy made her way back to the car, and with a parting glance, left.


~*~


Buffy was fading fast. The adrenaline she’d been running on for the past forty-eight hours nearly drained. Her body screamed for sleep. Yet her mind still raced, playing over and over her glimpse into the mind of a mad man.

His drawings. His words. Intricate riddles saying so much but telling her so little. It was all there. She just had to follow the scattering of bread crumbs. Wherever they might lead.

Now, strapped in at thirty thousand feet, she needed something to pass the time. She pulled Gil’s book from her carry-on.

Flipping through the pages, a dozen or so photos titled: Gateways to Hell caught her eye. Gil had a cameo in each one: wrapped in a parka standing in front Hekla, a snow covered volcano in Iceland; Zen-posed in the center of a rocky landscape littered with statues and dozens of pinwheels at Mount Osore, Japan; decked out in full tourist-wear of black socks and sandals, floppy sunhat, and a smear of zinc oxide down the bridge of his nose, at the mouth of the Cave of the Sibyl in Naples, Italy. It was the last picture that stopped Buffy dead in her tracks. A massive doorway, far grandeur than his lunatic rendition drawn on a bedroom door: Rodin’s The Gates of Hell.

Regardless of religion or culture, all over the world man had shared the same belief: the Gates of Hell was where one could literally go to hell or, even worse, demons could get out. Of all the places, LA wasn’t one of them. Yet something happened there. Something that drove Gil insane. Something possibly involving William.

Gil knew William that was clear. It was how, that wasn’t. There were hundreds of possibilities and what ifs. She could spend all her time trying to figuring this out or take it at face value. There was a far bigger question that needed answering: whether William was involved with the murders. This was something else entirely. Either way, William knew far more than he was letting on and she was getting to the bottom of this. That was for damn sure.

With a final look at a smiling, sane Gil, Buffy started reading. All too soon, she was battling off sleep, losing terribly. Exhaustion finally won. She fell asleep to the little girl next to her excitedly talking to her mother about egg hunts, baskets full of candy, and chocolate bunnies.


~*~


Following much needed rest and refueling, Buffy returned to the library. Surfing the Internet, she found nothing more of note on the Gates of Hell, and unsure how the lion, leopard, and wolf fit into all of this, she typed in “Inviticus”. Meaning unconquered, each line of William Ernest Henley’s poem touched her deeply:

“Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.”

The last two lines was Gil’s mantra. He claimed when the police found him in LA that demons were trying to take his soul. Did Gil see actual demons in LA? Was this an undiscovered gate to hell? More importantly, did LA have anything to do with the murders in Boston, and what’s William’s part in all of this?

Buffy decided the answers to these questions and the dozen or so she’d yet to ask were not going to be found in the library. It was decided. There was only one place to go. After a quick call to Mulcahy about LA, she was heading to Concentrico to see William. To end this once and for all.

XXIII



Buffy looked out over the barren, mountainous landscape. Concentrico was quiet. Eerily so. Yet she wasn’t alone. Someone, something was out there. Watching. Waiting.

Walking the ledge, ten tunnels fanned out from the base stretching as far as the eye could see. No stairs. No paths. No way down but in a bone-crushing fall. Making another pass around, she felt the ground shake. She ran and braced herself against the side of the mountain as a section of ground ruptured and split, giving way to a rising elevator.

DING. The doors opened. Buffy repositioned the Glock tucked in her waistband at her back and entered the elevator, eyeing the human-faced demon manning the controls. Tawny fur, reptilian scales, and a long scorpion-like tail poked out from around the traditional bellhops’ gold trimmed red jacket and classic hat.

“Going down?”

Its raspy gurgle made her skin crawl. On her nod, the doors closed. She ignored the demon humming along with “The Girl from Ipanema” while recalling her earlier conversation with Mulcahy:

“It took calling in some big time favors, but I got what you’re looking for. From eighty-six to o-five, LA had a handful of murders near identical to ours. The boys in blue never put two and two together, chalking these up to bad drug deals, gangs, and a john taking things too fucking far. That was until they arrested a pair of sibling freak show cult leaders…”

“This is where you get off.” The demon flashed a knowing, jagged smile. The doors opened.

Buffy took a deep breath and stepped out. She headed in the only direction she could, down a torch-lit tunnel. Up ahead, several gangly blue-skinned demons were flanked by two lines of men and women walking in opposite directions. Sheep-like they followed. Never breaking stride or position.

“Get in line!”

A demon cracked its whip at Buffy’s feet. Though surprised, she didn’t move. The next strike came on the heels of the first. Frayed leather wrapped around her wrist, and with a tug, she fell to knees. Hard. Biting back a scream and the pain, she stayed down to give the impression of surrender. It worked. The demon stepped closer, and she felt the length slacken. With a twist her wrist, she grabbed the whip and pulled with all her might. The demon fell, landing face-first on the stone floor. Growling and snarling, the other demons charged. Buffy shook off the whip and stood, bracing herself for a fight she knew she couldn’t win. One that never came. In an instant, the room shifted. Both demons and people disappeared, leaving her alone.

“The way you move, pure poetry.”

Buffy looked around several times to find William. She couldn’t see him but knew he was there. She felt him.

“Fighting. Fucking. No matter. Anyone who watches is seduced. I know I am.”

Movie-like clips flashed across the walls of them together. At the French feast. The Japanese shoins. On the sands. She turned away, still hearing flesh meeting flesh in both pleasure and pain.

“No, don’t look away.” She felt his fingers brush across her cheek. Buffy tried batting away his hand, meeting only air.

“Quit playing games!” Turning in a circle, her anger mounted.

“Games? That’s all you’ve ever done, play a part. Ever deceptive. Ever fraudulent.” The last word rumbled in her ear. She spun to catch him. Again, she came up empty.

“Come out and face me!” She took a defensive stance, her fists at the ready.

“What? No pretty words or promises, Buffy? Pity. Well, if you want me…”

The pictures and sounds were gone. He was gone. She was alone. Looking behind her, the elevator doors were still open. This was a way out. Buffy turned and headed in the opposite direction.

She walked and walked, for how long she didn’t know. Time seemed to have no meaning or bearing here. She questioned if she was going the right way. Mid-debate, whether to turn back or not, out of nowhere a set of doors materialized in front of her.

Spanning the length and height of the tunnel, arched wrought iron doors stood proudly in the center of intricate metal art that appeared to be moving. Dozens of miniature nude bodies twisted and recoiled, silently crying out as winged demons tore at them with fangs and claws. Buffy wanted to help but she knew it was too late. Needing to get inside, she went to the doors. No doorknobs. No give as she tried to pry them open. Nothing. Then, as written in fire by an unseen hand, line by line flared across the arch.



Through me you pass into the city of woe:

Through me you pass into eternal pain:

Through me among the people lost for aye,



Justice the founder of my fabric mov’d:

To rear me was the task of power divine,

Supremest wisdom, and primeval love.



Before me things create were none, save things

Eternal, and eternal I endure.

All hope abandon ye who enter here[i]




On the last word she read out loud, the doors opened. Stretched out ahead of her darkness and the unknown. She knew what she had to do. Without a second thought, she walked inside and never looked back.








[i] Divine Comedy, Cary’s Translation, Complete

Aeterna Publishing 2010

Canto III, page 9

XXIV




“Who are you?” Jaw tightened in determination, she rushed William standing in the center of the room.

“What? No kiss? No teary reunion?” Shrugging his shoulders, he stepped around her. “Straight to business then. Now, what part to play? Elizabeth, the hard-nosed detective? Or Buffy, the treacherous harlot? One fights crime with a gun. The other her cunt. Decisions. Decisions.” William circled her, unabashed in his nudity.

She shivered, his proximity and voice hypnotic. Tapping into her inner strength and ever determined of not backing down or giving in, she lifted her chin in defiance. This was it. The razor’s edge between the gnawing need to know and the crushing weight of the knowledge. She welcomed the burden.

Taking her cue, William stepped back. “What a shame. Elizabeth it is.” He was now partially clothed. The leather pants that had materialized thankfully lessened the temptation.

“Fine, you know who I am. Who. Are. You?” Tone clipped and brusque, Elizabeth held his gaze, unrelenting.

“How ‘bout a little tell before show, shall we?” Resembling a skilled orator, William started walking the room, never breaking eye contact.

“Marking the beginning of time was our Maker. Supreme Being who created all that has ever been, is, and will be. He created legions of powerful beings of heaven and hell, and all that walked or crawled in between. Yet this wasn’t enough. Our Maker wanted more. One made in His own image. And after eons, the once powerful were forced into the shadows. Forgotten. All to make way for our Maker’s ultimate creation. Man.

“As to our Maker’s design, man devoutly worshipped Him. Yet man was fragile. Ephemeral. It was in man’s frailty his worship wavered and waned. It was from man’s frailty our Maker chose to create another race, a stronger race. To carry on where man could not.

“Commanded by our Maker, we descended from the heavens and lay with the daughters of men. Strong and fierce, our sons thrived and ruled all. Over man and beast. When our Maker saw this, instead of rejoicing, he saw only transgression. He feared too much power and control was lost. In the end we were punished for this sin. Our sons were killed and we cast out and bound to this Earth. Imprisoned for all eternity.” William stopped in front of her within arm’s reach.

She felt a heaviness settle in her chest. “When you say ‘we’…”

William changed. Sweeping black wings arched high over his head and spanned beyond the breadth of his shoulders, the feathered ends touching the ground at his feet. Fangs descended and claws elongated, razor sharp. A spiral circular pattern appeared branded in the center of his chest.

“Brethren of the Fallen Angels.”

A mixture of fear and awe, it was hard to look away or speak. William moved closer, and almost tenderly, tried running the back of his clawed hand across her cheek. Elizabeth evaded his touch, her hands up in defense.

“All in due time, Elizabeth.” With a roll of his shoulders, his human façade slid back into place. Casually moving across the room toward a table, William turned to her holding up a carafe. “Drink?”

Still stunned, she responded with a slight head shake. While he poured, she took this opportunity to look around the room: a perfect circle of stone, no doors or windows. The walls of wrought iron gates held back blazing fires. Yet all she felt was cold. Bone deep.

“Know you're burning with questions. Go ahead. I’ll let you have your fun. For now.” Sprawled out in a chair, William sipped his drink.

Not knowing where to start, Elizabeth asked what first came to mind, “So William F. Allen? Either that’s ingenious or incredibly narcissistic, not sure which one.”

“A little bit of both. Just couldn’t help myself. Man never sees what’s right in front of him. In spite of how intelligent he claims to be. Even you.” With a smirk, William raised his glass in toast. The bright green spirit swirled around the sides.

Spurred by his outright arrogance, her confidence returned in full force. She went straight for the throat. “Did you kill those women?”

“No fucking around, eh?” William stood and refilled his drink. “So, do you want the long or short answer?” Downing the spirit in one long swallow, he left the glass and moved closer to her.

“The one that answers my question.” Elizabeth folded her arms across her chest, eyes narrowing.

“Fine. No. I didn’t kill those women.” Heaving a sigh, William slid back into his seat and inspected his fingernails. Ever the picture of boredom.

“So you’re saying you weren’t involved in these deaths?” Stepping closer, she felt her anger rising. No matter of how much she hated his games, if it meant getting what she wanted, fine. She’d play.

“Never said I wasn’t involved. What I said was that I didn’t kill them. Questions, Elizabeth. If you want the answers you seek, ask the right ones.” Tone belittling, William shifted and crossed his legs at the ankles.

Chest tightening and barely suppressing her anger, she rephrased her question, “What was your part in these deaths?”

“No more and no less than the others.” William smirked, clearly enjoying this cat-and-mouse.

Unable to hold back a moment longer, Elizabeth clenched her fists by her sides and unleashed. “All you do is talk in circles and riddles. Can’t you give me a straight answer? Stop playing. This isn’t a fucking game!”

“Ooh, I love it. Such strength. Such fire. Gets me hard, it does.” Vulgarly cupping himself, William lasciviously licked his lips.

Elizabeth closed her eyes, welcoming the anger. The anger kept her strong against his allure. She wouldn’t feed into him. She couldn’t. She needed to gain the upper hand. That was the only way she’d find out the truth. A slow breath in and out, she ignored the nagging tightening in her chest and opened her eyes.

“How did these women get here? You said it yourself, you’re stuck. Can’t leave.” Elizabeth watched him smile. He was either impressed or still toying with her. She couldn’t tell which one.

“Every woman was here of their own volition. Their own free will.” Fingers interlacing, he cradled the back of his head and leaned back.

“None of these women chose to die. Quinn, didn’t choose to die.” Elizabeth quaked with pure anger, her already unsteady resolve faltering. Again.

“One way or another, yes, yes they did. Each and every last one. It was always their choice. Same for Quinn. Same for you.” Tone harsh, William stood and looked down at her, eyes blazing.

“I’m leading the way.” Elizabeth shook her head, trying to chase away her own words coming back to haunt her. Resigned, she backed away. She felt so opened and exposed. Yet trapped and buried at the same time.

She felt so…fallen.

“But why did they have to die?” She hated how pitiful she sounded. How so very small she felt.

“Simple, they weren’t strong enough. Their weakness was their undoing. Nothing more. Nothing less.” William sniffed and settled back in his seat.

Feeling cornered and altering now between anger and despair, Elizabeth wanted nothing more than to scream and lash out. Cause him pain. The same pain smothering her. The same pain undoubtedly these women had felt. But she knew deep down, there was still more. So much more. The only way to find out was to keep him talking. Let him be his own undoing.

“Strong enough for what exactly?” Her chest tightened, squeezing to the point of pain. It was getting harder to breath. Even harder to hold on.

“When we were cast out, this”—William swept his arm out, gesturing all around them—“became our eternity. Our prison of sin and stone. Yet in everything, if one looks long and hard enough, there’s always an escape. A cosmic loophole, if you will.”

William stood and sidled closer. So close. Elizabeth felt his warm breath on her face, his chest brush against hers. All her anger, all her pain instantly lifted and melted away. Desperately she wanted to give in to him. Surrender.

“A prophesy foretold of a daughter of man. One strong enough to survive the trials. One strong enough to break the curse of barrenness and bestow the privilege to bear our sons to the daughters of man. Once more, our sons will thrive and reign. But they will not stop with man and beast. No. This time they will wage war against the heavens and our jailer. And with their victory, we will finally be freed.”

Crushed under the weight of his words, the heaviness enveloped her. Her lungs burned. It hurt to speak. “So tell me. How many more have to die before you find her?”

“No other, Elizabeth. Our wait is finally over.” Tenderly, almost reverently, William placed a hand on her stomach.