The cell measured eight feet by ten feet, Maureen guessed. She was a shade over five-two and couldn't quite lie the length of her prison twice. It worked out to five paces plus turning space, anyway, with the shackles on her legs. Call it five hundred lengths to the mile. She did ten miles one day, five thousand lengths, and blistered both her feet with the constant turning.
Then they took her boots away, "to prevent an infection." The bastards had taken her clothes away, too, "for cleaning." That seemed like weeks ago.
So she ruled eighty square feet, more or less. She shared it with one iron bunk hanging from iron chains set into the stone wall, one iron-sheathed door with a peephole just about big enough to put her hand through, and one electric light high overhead that must be powered by the solar panels she'd glimpsed when they carried her in. She also owned one stinking hole in the floor that she only used when she was about to burst because it required squatting in full view of the peephole, and they never gave her any toilet paper.
Stone paving covered the floor, ninety-seven random-sized rectangles, and the prime number bothered her. She thought she'd prefer a smoother number, maybe ninety-six. Eight times twelve, or four times twenty-four, so many ways to factor it: ninety-six would be a satisfying number. Either that, or the sixty-four squares of a chess board.
In some perverse way, all this macho rapist shit was better than living with the endless fears of paranoia. Dougal and Padric were real, here and now. She could kill the slimeballs, if she could just figure out a way. They weren't Buddy Johnson, always giving her the finger from behind the protection of her nightmares, always lurking in the shadows and vanishing when she tried to pin him down.
She smiled grimly to herself and settled deeper into the dissociation that was the only good thing insanity had ever done for her. All these things were happening to that other woman, over there. The dissociation helped Maureen hide within her head, helped her wait and study and scheme.
Meanwhile, numbers and mental chess games comforted her. They kept an elemental purity that didn't change with the whims of her jailers.
She had saved the counting of each wall for next week. She could spend a day on each one, counting and recounting the patterns of dressed stone masonry that looked like any classic dungeon complete with the rusty iron staples and hanging chains that should have held a shackled skeleton, forgotten. She hadn't even tried gouging out the mortar with her own irons: that would be a waste of time and energy. Maybe she'd save that for next week, too.
She wondered if weeks held any meaning. They had taken her watch right at the first, and there wasn't a window to give her hints to day or night. The light dimmed on an unknown schedule but never went completely dark. Sometimes she felt as if her life had been twisted onto one of those endless loops she'd made in geometry class in high school.
All her meals were identical, and their timing didn't seem to have any relationship to the light. No clue there. All Padric ever gave her was small fragments of brown bread and hard yellow cheese and a cup of murky, flat-tasting water--about what she'd eat for a light snack at home. She didn't need that hole in the floor much; nothing was left over when her gut got done with the crumbs.
The cold iron ate at her wrists and ankles, gnawing red sores when she paced. Dougal worried about them, during his infrequent visits--asked her not to hurt herself, not to scar herself. He healed them with a touch, whenever she held still enough for him to touch her. Padric was her real jailer, and he only sneered at her. Whatever fear her curse had laid on him was now dead and buried. He'd seen how weak she was, unable to back up her words with action.
She shivered. She took the coarse wool blanket off her bunk and wrapped it around her shoulders, huddling her warmth to herself. The fabric scratched her bare skin, itchy and crawling with her own filth. The stone cell was far too cold for a bra and panties, but Padric refused to give her back her jeans and shirt. He told her she could wear a dress like a proper woman or wear nothing at all like the whore she was.
Dougal and Padric played good-cop, bad-cop. She'd read enough stories to know the routine. One cop beats the poor slob senseless with a rubber hose, the other one comes in and screams bloody murder at his partner and gives the suspect a cup of coffee or a shot of booze from a smuggled pocket flask and wants to be a friend. Repeat and vary, as needed.
Guess who got the alleged perpetrator's confession? Next prisoner, they swapped roles.
Of course, what Dougal wanted was her ass. She'd see him in hell, first. If only they'd let her sleep . . .
The lock snapped behind her, and Padric filled the doorway, snarling. "Blanket stays on bed! You know rules!"
He pointed toward the corner of the cell, the one with the hole in the floor. Bath time again, with a bucket of water that always felt like it came from the bottom end of a glacier. As usual, he carried some harsh soap, a scrap of towel, and a brush fit for scrubbing elephants. She was supposed to strip and wash, wash all over, while he watched.
It was calculated humiliation, just like shitting and pissing in full view, like an animal. She wondered what would happen when her period started. At least that would give her a measure of time men couldn't steal.
Padric could talk better than his ape-man impersonation. She'd overheard him, once. The whole fucking thing was an act, Dr. Frankenstein's Igor.
She turned toward the corner, her shoulders slumped in submission, and then spun back using her chains as a flail. One link caught him across the cheek, and she saw a glint of blood before his fist smashed into her breast, setting it on fire. She staggered back against the wall, whimpering. Another fist in her gut drove the breath from her body and then a third blow caught her just as she started to gasp. The stone floor jolted her knees.
He hit her with precise, scientific blows on nerves and muscles, using a sadistic sense of what hurt worst for a woman. He's an expert, her mind stuttered through the pain, a fucking virtuoso. Bastard must have trained under the Nazis or the KGB.
Everything seemed calculated just short of permanent injury. Most of it wouldn't even leave bruises on the surface. Just deep, like on her kidneys, her liver, and her ovaries. She screamed, hoping there was somebody within hearing that wasn't part of the conspiracy.
Thoughts vanished into the roar of pain.
* * *
She woke cold and naked and wet. Her underclothes lay in a stinking puddle, soiled. So that was what they meant, about getting the shit beaten out of you. She never knew it was literal. She hurt all over, not just the beating but raw skin that told her Padric had scrubbed her while she was unconscious. The idea of sleep pulled her so hard she closed her eyes again and ignored the pain, ignored the thoughts of what else he might have done. They weren't important enough.
Sleep. Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep, the innocent sleep, sleep that knits up the raveled sleave of care, the death of each day's life, sore labor's bath, balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, chief nourisher in life's feast . . . . She drowsed with memories of Drama Club and the sense that if she didn't move, nothing would hurt. Where was good old Macduff when you really needed him, someone to kill this fake Scots Thane of Cawdor?
"Wake up, you filthy bitch!"
Ice-water slapped her again and soaked at her until she realized the cold flowed up from the puddle beneath her. She lay on the stone paving, and some of the pain was bruised skin caught between protruding bones and the floor. She'd never had much padding, and here she was losing weight. That was a hell of an idea for a diet. Next bestseller, The Torquemada Diet, guaranteed to slim you down or the Inquisition would know the reason why.
"Get up and get dressed. The Master wants to see you."
Maureen peeled one eye open and sorted out the blurry shadows into Padric leaning over her with a towel. "Go 'way. Le' me sleep."
The towel cracked like a whip, and her ass caught fire. She rolled, groggily, and another snap lit pain in her right breast. She kept rolling until she cowered under the iron bunk, whimpering and shivering and curled into a ball with her butt pressed against the cold stone wall.
"Get up and get dressed, I said! The Master invites you to dinner."
"Fuck you," she muttered, but her mouth betrayed her by watering at the thought of food.
"Eat with him or starve. Your choice."
"Gimme back my clothes."
Something green landed above her, and she focused on it. He'd pulled the thin mattress off the bunk to see her through the metal springs and strapping. Velvet. It was a velvet dress, green with golden trim. Damn thing would go well with her hair and skin.
Not too good with bruises, though. Levi's and her white blouse would set those off better. She reached around the edge, tugged the dress down, and threw it into the filthy puddle in the corner. The cold gnawed at her: velvet was warm.
She glared out at Padric from her hole, baring her teeth. Something warmed, deep in her belly, at the sight of a ragged scab and bruise across his left cheek. At least she'd given him that much back.
"Then you go to him naked," he growled. "Save time when he beds you."
He reached under the bunk and grabbed her wrist, jerking until she banged her head on the iron frame. By the time the stars cleared, her butt was dragging across the stone flooring of the corridor outside. The rough edges and surface sandpapered skin off her ass.
Something roared and then formed words. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Maureen shook pain out of her eyes and found Dougal looming over her. Something cracked like a rifle shot, and her arms dropped to the floor. Another crack and she saw the short whip flash across Padric's face. A savage joy boiled up in her belly as the whip sounded again and again, driving Padric down into a cowering huddle.
"How dare you treat my lady like this?"
"She refused to come, Master," Padric whimpered.
"Of course she refused to come, you idiot! Are you too stupid to see she's naked?"
Padric kept his head covered and muttered to the floor. Dougal hit him again, the whip drawing a line of blood across the protecting forearms.
"Speak up, fool!"
"She refused the dress you sent her," Padric spat. "She threw it in her own filth."
"Then . . . get . . . her . . . the . . . clothes . . . she . . . wants!" Dougal punctuated each word with a blow of the whip.
Padric scuttled away down the corridor like a frightened crab. "She demands those man-things she wore when she came here."
"Then bring them before I take every inch of skin off your miserable carcass!"
Dougal reached down as if to soothe her, and Maureen twisted away from him, huddling against the wall. She didn't even try to cover her breasts and crotch: modesty was the least of her problems, right now. Besides, she had the perverse idea that if he raped her, she'd win at least a moral victory. She wouldn't have surrendered.
Padric scuttled back, cringing, blood oozing from whip-cuts across his face and arms. He carried her jeans, her shirt, and clean underwear draped over one arm. His other hand held a dry towel.
Dougal flicked his whip again, pointing. "And get those stupid chains off her, you idiot! All we need is the iron rings, to control her Power until she learns how to do that for herself. She's the Lady of this castle now! Act like it!"
Locks clicked and the chains rattled to the floor. Maureen snatched up her clothing and turned her back to the men, mopping herself dry and regaining some poise along with her pants. It was amazing how helpless nakedness made her feel. She'd always wondered why people thought it was sexy.
Padric followed like a humbled ghost as Dougal led her down the hall. He opened the door and waved her into a large room, dark like a cavern and lit with candles. It felt warm and smelled like heaven: a bakery with charbroiled steaks and flowers. She lost the petty details when her eyes locked on a long table.
Standing roast of beef. Potatoes. Steaming rolls. Sweet peas. Her stomach wrenched, and she nearly drooled down her shirt at the thought of food, hot food, good food, endless quantities of food. Wine, red wine sparkled in crystal goblets.
She grabbed the wine and gulped it, eyes closed in bliss. God, she'd needed a drink. She didn't even care if they'd drugged it. The fire of the wine sent golden warmth through her body and splashed a rosy glow over the room. It ironed the kinks out of her bones and made the bruises seem less urgent. It even made Dougal look good for an instant.
He smiled and refilled her glass. Wine. Would booze, by any other name, smell half as sweet?
A plate materialized in front of her, a slab of roast and potatoes swimming with butter, and her hunger took control of her body. She didn't eat, she inhaled. In mere seconds, her plate gleamed as if she'd licked it clean of every scrap and drop of red meat-juice. Maybe she had. She couldn't remember. All she knew was that she'd only stopped when her stomach couldn't take another swallow without puking.
She had a knife in her hand, a sharp knife only slightly greasy from the roast as if she'd even licked that in her frenzy. Where was Padric? He was out of range in the shadows. She turned to Dougal, across the table, and her head swam for an instant. Wine. Several glasses of wine, starting on an empty stomach.
He smiled at her, politely, and nodded as if he often dined with starving tigresses. She measured the distance across the table and put down her knife. Whatever happened next, she'd at least had one decent meal, and she had her own clothes back. Now, if they'd just let her sleep . . . .
"Maureen, you must become my wife."
"Why don't you just rape me, you bastard? Don't you have the balls?"
He studied her quietly, as if he was measuring her hatred and weighing how much to let her know. "You must become truly the Lady of this castle. I want you to bear my children. Unless you come to my bed willingly, you could cast out any seed I plant in you. This is the Summer Country. You wouldn't need a doctor or an abortion. A woman of your blood has such power and more."
Abortion.
The word sent shivers down her spine, waking memories of the grisly pictures Father Donovan used to carry when he led his parishioners on the picket line down at Planned Parenthood. Mom had always dragged her daughters along, forcing them to study the horrors while they knelt on the gritty pavement and prayed for the souls of dead babies. Those were such lovely images for a child of five to worship.
Amazing how deep the programming went. Maureen hadn't been to Mass in years, but the word "abortion" and the memories still made her sick. What did that bearded patriarch on the Sistine Chapel ceiling have to say about the child of rape? Don't punish the child for the sin of its father? Bullshit!
"What makes you think I wouldn't lie to you, spread my legs, and then strangle you in your bed?"
He smiled again. It wasn't a friendly smile this time. "I'd know. This is my magic, if you will, the magic by which I train hawks and hounds and dragons. If you said 'yes' today, you'd be lying. I wouldn't trust you. The day will come when you'll mean it. I'll know."
She stared into her wine. The alcohol and lack of sleep combined to tangle her brain. Dangerous. Good-cop, bad-cop. He'd whipped Padric after ordering him to beat her. When she gave in to Dougal, he'd probably kill Padric just to make her happy. Torture her jailer to death, gouge out those leering eyes that had feasted on every inch and opening of her body and rip the nails from his filthy brutal probing fingers, and she'd be watching every minute to cheer him on. Padric was nothing more than a tool to Dougal.
The wine, the dinner, they were nothing more than tools to him. He'd starved her to set it up. He knew she needed the booze. He knew she was an alcoholic, a binge drinker. The whole scene gave new meaning to AA's "hitting bottom," didn't it?
When she gave in to him. Not if.
A growl formed, deep in her throat. "God damn you straight to Hell!"
The wine flew across the table, glass and all, splashing his face and chest and arms. He only smiled as Padric pinned her arms and lifted her bodily from her chair. The grip on her arms was an iron clamp as hard and fiery as the bracelets that shorted out her rage.
Words took too much energy. She spat catfight noises and kicked the empty air. Padric just carried her back and dumped her in her cell.
* * *
Something shook her shoulder again, and she burrowed deeper under the pillow. The luxury of smooth clean sheets and a warm comforter were nothing compared to the simple joy of sleep. She'd just gotten to sleep. Deprive a person of sleep long enough and she goes crazy, she muttered to herself. Even just interrupting dreams will do it. And you weren't sane to start with.
The rude hand shook her again and pulled the pillow off her head. Bright light flooded through her eyelids.
"Fuck off," she muttered.
"Maureen, wake up. You've got to help me."
It was a man's voice. There was a man in her bedroom, and she remembered she was sleeping in her underwear--some frilly transparent stuff more suited for a honeymoon or a whorehouse than for comfort. She clutched the bedclothes around her and forced one eye open.
She faced a stone wall. She was still in that damned nightmare dungeon cell. Her head pounded with the revenge of the wine, her gut boiled in an uproar over her rampage through the dinner table, and that goddamn hand on her bare shoulder had to be Padric or Dougal.
She spun around with her hand in a claw, trying to rake his eyes out or at least smack him with the iron bracelet. Dougal caught her wrist, effortlessly. His face was inches from hers, and for an instant she thought he was going to kiss her. She bared her teeth, ready to bite.
"Maureen, you've got to help me."
"Why don't you just go off in a corner and fuck yourself?"
He shook his head. "This isn't for me. Your sister followed you here, and she's in terrible danger."
"Fucking liar! How the hell would she get here? Did that slimy shithead kidnap her, too?"
"I don't know how she did it, but she's out in my forest. I didn't bring her here. You've got to help me find her before something eats her."
Padric stood behind him, looking worried through the bruised welts of the whipping. Hide and seek. Find-the-sister. She tossed the comforter to one side and swung her legs out of her bunk, sneering at the fact that she gave both men a full-beaver shot of her crotch through those stupid panties. Dream on, you rapist bastards.
Her jeans slipped on over her vanishing hips, much too easily. She ignored the urgency of her bladder and tugged at the zipper. The damned thing jammed, just like usual. Did anybody here sell Calvin Kleins?
"There's just one thing," Dougal said, blocking her reach for her blouse. "I can't let you leave the keep without agreeing to be my wife."
Maureen screamed and threw herself at him, teeth and claws and toenails. One flailing hand connected, first the iron wristlet and then her fingers raking across his cheek. She felt his skin ball up under her fingernails, and she growled like an enraged jaguar tasting blood.
An arm clamped around her neck, lifting her off her feet to kick helplessly. Her vision blurred and turned into a dark tunnel. Her body went limp. She dove into darkness until the arm relaxed and let just enough blood through to her brain to keep a thread of consciousness.
"Stupid woman," a snake's voice hissed in her ear. "People you care about are in great danger. Your sister is lost and hunted by my animals. Fiona has captured Brian and holds his soul in her deadly little hands. The land is eating David, plants rooting in his flesh and sucking his life out through his sightless eyes. Only you can save them."
"You put them in danger." She could barely whisper, couldn't find enough breath to rain curses down on his head. "Only cowards take hostages."
"You can command this castle. You can be mother to mages and witches powerful beyond your dreams. You can be powerful beyond your dreams. What is so bad about sleeping with a man, about bearing children? Motherhood is the true birth of a woman."
The arm relaxed a shade further, and she could see again. She spat at the face in front of her and ground her teeth when she missed. Too far. At least she could see blood trickling from three parallel scratches across his cheek.
"I'd sooner fuck a warthog."
Dougal shook his head in disbelief. "What kind of a woman won't even help save her own sister? Padric, take all these silly luxuries away. The bitch doesn't deserve them."
This time they chained her to the wall, standing, so she couldn't sleep. They wouldn't even let her use the hole first, so she had to soak her pants and hang there, stinking, wet and shivering again, with her arms tearing out of her shoulder sockets.
Jo. Brian. David. Some sixth sense about lies said that Dougal had been telling the truth. That bastard had drawn them into this cesspool and dangled them like swords over her head. He gave her such lovely choices: "Fuck me or Jo dies. Bear my children or David will be eaten alive by some damned plant. Bury your own mind in the darkness of my will or lock Brian away from light forever."
Maureen wept. She wasn't sure whether they were tears of rage or grief or pain, or just her eyes rubbed raw by lack of sleep, but she wept until her cheeks burned from the salt.