The Gilded Cage
I don't own Creed or anything in the Marvel Universe. This is not a continuation of the Cat series, but a stand alone piece. I thought getting him addicted to Everquest would get him the heck out of my head, I thought wrong. When Victor Creed claims something as his own, he doesn't give up easily.
Chapter 1
He sat there watching. His phone vibrated in his pocket. Damn, he didn't want any interruptions. He pulled it out and looked at the display. It was Arden, his current assistant. He would have to teach that boy some manners.
"What do you want, Arden?"
"I am finished with the remodel of the house, sir. Everything is as you specified."
"Did you have to call to tell me that?"
"Yes sir, per your instructions." That was right, he had told him to call and let him know when the project was done. He would let him live, this time.
"Fine, is the other project complete?"
"It is in the works, sir. Several of the designers are balking; however, I am certain enough persuasion will change their minds."
"You are authorized to use whatever persuasion you think is necessary I want this project finished by the end of the week." He snarled into the phone. He still didn't know why he was doing this. What was it that was compelling him to do this? "Make sure all my suits are cleaned and pressed, I want everything perfect."
"Yes sir, Mr. Creed. Is there anything else you need for the project?" Arden asked.
"You made sure you bought the Egyptian cotton sheets, not the Indian, 500 thread count?"
"Yes sir."
"The furnishings for the apartment are all original, no replicas?"
"Yes sir."
"The bathroom remodel is complete, no delays with the tub?"
"Yes sir, they complained about putting that tub in a room other than the master, but it was installed yesterday and functions perfectly."
"What about the door?"
"Solid steel, with steel frame bolted into the steel frame of the house. It locks from the outside, with no handle on the inside."
"Good. Wait, one more thing, I want fresh flowers in the rooms, every day, nothing heavy scented, and no wild flowers. Also, make sure the bath supplies are fresh daily, again light scent, or unscented. And move the art, the Renoir, the Picasso, the Rembrandt and the Ruben. Put the Ruben in the bedroom, over the fireplace; Renoir in the dining room, the Rembrandt in the hallway, and the Picasso in the library."
"Is there anything else, sir?"
"Yes, make sure the books in the library are all originals, move some from my private library if you have to. Set up a dummy terminal, with basic office software but no internet connection, with keystroke trackers so I can see what is typed. Stock the desk with heavy stationary, envelopes, and a good fountain pen, with ink. Put the same stationary and pen in my personal study."
"Do you want any other entertainment packages on the dummy terminal, sir?"
"No. I want as little technology as possible in the apartment."
"And the exercise room, sir?"
"I want music access only, no television, no computer, and only the elliptical bike and treadmill."
"Very good, sir, it should be ready by the end of the week at the latest."
"I want it ready in forty-eight hours."
"Yes sir."
Arden was a good assistant. He could trust him to get the job done. Hiring a butler had been a good idea. They were hard to find, but made the best and most loyal assistants. Now he just had to finish this job, and then he could start his project. He allowed himself a feral grin, his fangs showing to the night sky. Anyone who knew him would laugh at this project of his, but he didn't care. This needed to be done. He didn't know why, he didn't know why he cared, but he would do it.
The mark left the bar, and started back toward his run down apartment building. He followed, bloodlust rising. This would be a quick, easy kill; he didn't want any delays in getting started. He slipped into the window of the apartment, and set up his preparations, the plastic under the front door, to wrap the body in, the plastic sheeting on the walls to catch the spray, he didn't want anyone to know this job was done yet. He sat, waiting in the mark's favorite chair, when the door opened. He grinned at the frightened man, his eyes slipping past the mark to the door across the hall. Soon.
"Who are you?" The mark asked. He didn't even speak, just stood up, crossed the small room and closed the door quietly.
"What do you want? If it's the money, I don't have it. I can get it, I just need more time." The man was sweating bullets; he just stood there, eyes dilated in fear.
"Time's up." He whispered, reaching out and digging his claws into his throat. Not a sound, except the spray of the blood. He let it cover him, licking it off his face. He wished he had more time, time to enjoy the blood, but he had to move quickly to start his project.
He wrapped up the body in the plastic; pulled down the plastic from the walls, and slipped the whole package over his shoulder and down the fire escape to the sedan he had parked in the alley. He slipped the body in the trunk, making sure the blood stayed inside the plastic. He hated doing his own clean up, but he didn't want anyone to know the mark was missing yet. It would make the project harder to start. Arden would take care of making sure the clients knew the mark was dead. The mark was secondary, now. The project was taking all of his thoughts.
He looked down at the blood on his chest and pants. No help for it, he had to do this now, it was his only shot. He reached into the glove box of the car and pulled out a clear vial of liquid and a syringe. He slipped back up the fire escape, back into the mark's apartment, and then out and across the hallway. The building was quiet, a few sounds coming from inside some of the apartments, but no sign he had been detected. He quickly picked the lock, slipping into the dingy apartment.
There was nothing beautiful about this place; the furniture was worn, grey, no real color, no pictures, no sign that anyone lived her at all. The kitchen was bare, only a small card table and two chairs under a window to another fire escape. He picked up the pocketbook laying on the table, and slipped it into his pocket. He opened the door to the bedroom quietly. There, moonlight highlighting the hair on the pillow, was the project. He quickly slipped next to the bed, filling the syringe as he moved; just enough to keep her asleep for the drive, but not enough to kill her. He didn't want her hurt in any way.
The prick of the needle startled her a second, and then the drug worked in her system. She didn't even open her eyes. He lifted her gently out of the bed, and over his shoulder. He slipped out the door, closing and locking it behind him, leaving no trace that he had been there. He climbed down the escape from the mark's apartment and slipped her into the backseat, draping a blanket over her, laying her head on a pillow he had just for this purpose. He smiled as the light from the street corner caught her face. How had something so beautiful existed in someplace so ugly? Never again, she would never be surrounded by ugliness again.
He slipped into the driver's seat, the smell of blood in the car was strong, but his mind was focused on making it home. It was a two day drive, straight through. Arden would have her apartment ready in the house by the time he arrived. He didn't even think about the body in the trunk. Arden would take care of that too.
He looked back, every now and then, to make sure she was sleeping, was still breathing. He didn't stop, even to eat, he wanted to get her home. Finally, forty hours after leaving the city, he pulled into the garage of his palatial home. The door slid down, silently behind him, and he parked the car. Arden would clean it, replace the stolen plates with his own, and no one would know he had been in Chicago at all.
He opened the back door and lifted her limp form in his arms. He carried her into the kitchen, Arden was standing by the stove, Elaine his wife, was at the sink washing dishes. They just looked at him.
"There is some trash in the trunk that needs dealt with, Arden. Is the project ready?"
"Yes, sir, everything should be ready to your specifications."
"Good. Elaine, I want you to make sure these rags are disposed of. From this moment on, only the best will touch her skin. Am I clear?"
"Yes, sir" they said in unison. He carried her out of the kitchen and up the main staircase of the house. To his left, the steel door was open; he carried her through it, and into the bedroom of the apartment. He lay her down on the Italian oak bed, the silk canopy moving slightly from the breeze of his passage. Elaine was behind him.
"Sir, I will have to cut the garments off, and bathe her, you will want the blood removed." She said, she had a pair of sheers from the kitchen.
"If you leave a mark on her…" he growled.
"Sir, I will be extremely gentle. You might consider changing and cleaning up yourself. The Armani is clean and ready." He nodded as she placed the edge of the sheers against the sleeve of the blood soaked T shirt she was wearing. Elaine started to cut the garment away, and he turned and left the room. He needed to clean up, to be ready when she woke.
"Sir" Arden was standing at the steel door. "How long will the lady be a guest? I will need to plan meals accordingly."
"Until I let her go, plan on indefinitely." He growled. Arden just nodded, and turned away from him as he passed by. For a clean up man, he was squeamish about blood. He walked into the right hand corridor, and slipped into his own bedroom. The computer on the desk blinked at him. He would have to check his messages, but first he wanted to clean up. He ran the shower hot, and stepped in, clothing and all. These rags would go in the trash, he ripped them off. Work clothes were never reused. No matter how much bleach was used, you couldn't get the smell of blood out of them. He grabbed his shampoo and washed the long mane of tawny hair. He wanted to be clean, well groomed when she met him. He was shaving when Arden cleared his throat at the bathroom door.
"What is it?"
"I contacted the clients; the money is wired to the account. You have five new messages in your inbox, and the voicemail on the business phone is full. Do you want me to clear the messages and forward you the most important, or would you like to listen to them, sir?"
"Clear the messages, I am not taking any jobs for at least a month, if any of them are from Erik or Raven, forward those, the rest, you can call back and let them know I am on vacation. I will check my email myself." He leaned down and rinsed the shaving cream off his face. "I want the cameras on my desktop by the time I am dressed, I want the steel plates down in the apartment windows, her day starts when she wakes up, you will fix her breakfast and have it ready after her bath. I will arrange my schedule to match hers."
He walked to the closet. The Armani suit was hanging on the outside of the door. He ignored it for now. That would be for dinner. He slipped into a dress shirt and tailored pair of slacks, the Italian leather loafers over fine cotton dress socks. He debated a tie, and decided against it. This was his home, he wanted to relax. Ties were for dinner.
Arden left the room shortly before he slipped his feet into the loafers. On the screen of his computer were the six camera shots of the private apartment. Bedroom, with her sleeping on the bed, covered in the best sheets money could buy, bathroom door open. Dining room, place setting for one, sideboard set, silver chafing dishes ready. Exercise room, equipment ready for use. Library, comfortable chairs and sofa, books lining the walls, and the terminal quietly glowing with a screensaver of the wonders of the world on the desk. Music room, a grand piano on one side of the room just waiting for fingers to pluck out a tune; with an assortment of instruments available for use hanging on the wall, and a hidden sound system if she just wanted to listen; and the Parlor, Queen Anne furniture through out, different projects available to keep her occupied.
He just watched her sleep. She should be waking soon, an hour or so. It would give him time to check email, respond to any important voicemail and make a few phone calls of his own. He was taking his first vacation in years, something many of his clients were not going to like. A few of them deserved a personal explanation, and would get it.
The emails were quickly taken care of. Nothing there was even tempting to take so he turned them all down, without explanation. He returned two voicemail messages, one to a regular client, declining, politely the million dollar offer, and explaining that he needed to take a month off. They were quite pleased to accept that, and even offer to wait the month so that they could have him make the hit. He liked good clients. The other voicemail was Erik. That one took some finessing, but finally he convinced him that he needed the break.
He called his bank, confirming the transfer to the business account, and setting up another account, for the household, that Arden or Elaine could draw on if his guest needed anything. He called his attorney, to clear up a few details in his business matters. He looked over and saw the pocketbook on his desk. Arden must have found it and placed it there. He popped the snap, and began to go through it.
A checkbook, balance under one hundred dollars, her drivers license, Annabelle Jenkins, a couple of credit cards, but no photos, nothing personal. Such a waste, how could something so perfect live with nothing in her life. He remembered the first time he saw her, coming out of that drab building. Her hair had been blowing in the wind, and she had looked up, sunlight bathing her face. She looked like a Botticelli, perfect, graceful, and out of place. He knew then she was a jewel in the wrong setting, something he could fix, and set out to do just that. He didn't think he had ever been this obsessed, not with a woman.
His obsession with the Runt didn't count. This was different. He wanted to protect her, to keep her from everything ugly in the world, to surround her only with the best, only with beauty. He wanted her to be happy here. Anything she wanted all she would have to do is ask. He would be at her command; the only thing he would never do is let her go. He watched the screen. She was beginning to stir.