The Gray Hunter
Chapter Two
Tension
We have met the Gray Hunter, Count Rumple Von Stiltskin, who walks the Borderland killing shadowy predators. He has encountered a young hunter who has impressed him with her skills and, for reasons of his own, has taken her prisoner.
"Are you planning on taking me in there?"
He pulled them to a stop in front of the Church. He looked her over. "Yes. Are you going to tell me that you'll burst into flames if you go inside Holy Mother Church?" His eyes had narrowed and she had no doubt that he would force her into the auspices of the church regardless of her response.
She didn't answer immediately and for a moment she knew he wondering if she just might. Finally, she hung her head. "No," she replied. But Belle was curious. A church? Why would he take her to a church and not some sleazy hotel or back basement or other scummy hideout? This was unexpected.
What kind of creature had taken her prisoner?
Still holding her tightly, he pushed her along and they went widdershins around to the side of the Church. He shunted her in through a narrow door and then he shoved her along the narrow back corridors of the facility until they came to a small room. He pushed her inside and stepped in after her. Not taking his eyes off of her, he locked the door and put the key up high on the lintel out of her reach.
She stood in the middle of the room, next to a narrow cot.
"Do you plan to keep me here in this jail cell?" she asked him.
He gave her a tight smile. "This is actually my room. I don't require much," he told her. He sat down in the single chair next to the narrow wooden table, his odd dagger re-sheathed by his side. He looked her over, his sharp eyes taking in every detail – a black hood over-jacket which served to hide her in the shadows, a leather vest that gave her protection against the chill, a flowing brown leather skirt that allowed her maximum fluidity of movement. And he thought he spotted several glints that indicated weapons.
"Now, tell me who you are," he directed.
She smiled back at him. "You go to hell."
He sighed. "Got to do it the hard way, I see. Why do they always have to do it the hard way?" He stood and removed his belt, keeping it in his hand. She watched him warily, trying to keep him at a distance but finding maneuvering in the tiny room next to impossible.
He was on her in an instant faster than she could imagine anyone moving. He pushed her down to the little bed catching her hands and, using his belt, he fastened them together and then tied them to the iron bars of the cot's top railings. Her strength was nothing against his. She kicked out at him but he used his own body weight to still her movements. He then took a knife from his side and first cut off her black linen hooded jacket. He then began to cut her black, close-fitting leather vest open.
She sucked in her breath and closed her eyes when he cut the shoulder seams so that the garment was now falling off. He dragged the vest away from her body and dropped it on the floor. The vest clanged as it hit the stone floor and several throwing stars went rolling on the floor away from the ravaged garment.
He looked at her face and smiled. "A little artillery in the vest there, I take it."
She just glared at him and looked away.
He took off the short scalpel she had sheathed on one arm. After examining it and finding it suitable for his purpose, he then, methodically, using her own scalpel, began to cut away the rest of her clothing, first removing her black silken blouse. With that off, he removed the pistol she had in her waistband. He could now see that on the belt of the skirt was a curiously coiled flail. He removed it and examined it closely.
"Where did you get this, my pretty?" he asked.
She didn't respond immediately but finally, after taking a deep breath, she decided to answer, "If you must know, it came from my mother. It is one of the few things I have from her."
He gave her an odd look obviously not believing her, but then nodded and dropped it along with all the other weapons to the floor.
He then shifted his weight and pulled off her boots. He noted the razor that graced the toe of one the boots. Both boots were dropped on the floor.
He then removed the stiletto she had strapped to her calf and then carefully, still using her scalpel, ran the blade up the side seams of her long brown leather skirt, ripping it, ruining it. Once the skirt was removed, he took the dagger that had been sheathed on her thigh.
She was lying still at the moment, now clad only in her serviceable cotton panties and a little plain cotton wisp of a bra.
He shifted and stood up by the bed. She looked away from him staring at the wall.
Belle was holding her breath. What would he do next? She was anticipating rape and was praying to the Holy Mother for protection, for strength to endure.
But instead of mounting her, he shifted again on the bed, sitting up near her shoulders and reached his hands gently into her hair. It had been pulled back and buried deep within the burnished curls where she had bound her hair together, he pulled out a short but lethal-looking pin. This he carefully laid on the table.
He sat back on the bed, not touching her. He looked at her a long moment, his glance also taking in the pile of weapons he'd removed.
"Expecting trouble?" he asked her but didn't wait for an answer. "Now, my dear. We'll begin again. Who are you?" His voice was soft but there was an underlying cold menace to it.
She didn't respond keeping her head turned. He closed his eyes and muttered something . . . a prayer? and then laid a hand on the side of her face.
"Answer me," he commanded her.
She gasped and tried to turn away from him. He kept his hand on her face and she bit her lip trying not to call out. There were waves of pain searing through her. She wanted to scream, to beg him to stop.
"Your name, my sweet. That will stop the little discomfort I'm sending your way. What's your name?" He asked again, his voice still soft.
"Belle! My name is Belle!" she spit it out and when he took his hand away, she was panting, struggling to regain her composure, sure he had melted the skin on the side of her face.
"Your complete name, my dear." He was relentless and reached for her face again.
"Belle French!" she managed to gasp out before he touched her.
"Now see, that wasn't so hard, was it?" He voice was still so reasonable sounding. He stood and took off his own black leather jacket, hanging it on a hook behind the door. He was dressed in brown leather pants, the male counterpart to what she had been wearing, and a plain black t-shirt. He stopped to remove some of the weapons he kept on his own person, several guns, knives, a Taser and what may have been several small grenades or smoke bombs of some type.
He sat back down on the bed.
"Now Belle, my dear girl. Why were you out hunting night-fiends and red caps and such?"
When she didn't answer, he moved his hand toward her face again and she couldn't stop herself as she flinched back. "It's my job," she told him.
"Good girl," he praised her quick responding. Then he went back to his questioning, "Your job?" he wasn't sure he was understanding her. He trailed his fingertips down her arm. She couldn't stop herself from shuddering. "What do you mean?"
"It's what I do," she told him. "I'm part of a little group and we hunt monsters. That's it. That's all there is to it." She spoke in a rush, her eyes wide with fear and not a little anger.
"Why? Why would you hunt such things?" he was genuinely puzzled. "They can kill you, take your soul, turn you into a dark creature yourself."
"I don't know. It seemed like a good idea when we came up with it."
He sat back, clearly not believing her. He looked at her a while, folding his hands together and then seemed to make up his mind.
He stood up and went into the small black chest that was in one corner. When he turned his back, she twisted and pulled against the leather belt but wasn't able to free herself or even loosen the bonds. He knew well enough what she was doing and ignored her while he opened the black chest and pulled out several items, handcuffs and leg shackles.
He brought them over to her. "I'm not willing to let you go until the Father has had a chance to talk with you. It is too late to disturb him now. You will spend the night here."
He took one of her legs into his strong grip and fastened a shackle onto it.
"Oh, oh, oh, please, please, it hurts! It hurts! Take it off, please." She begged him her body writhing in pain. This was as bad, this was worse than the pain his hand had inflicted. She knew she was crying, humiliated that he had broken her spirit so quickly.
He watched her a moment and then removed the one shackle. Her ankle which had been encased by the iron shackle had turned, not only red but blistery red, some of the pustules oozing clear fluid, even blood.
"Interesting," he said to himself. So she was not a Dark Creature. She was something of the Light, an Ethereal that could not abide cold steel. A beautiful Ethereal for sure. But he had lived long enough, experienced enough to know that he could not trust a beautiful face, that beautiful faces could hide dark, treacherous hearts.
And she had not been truthful with him, at least, not entirely. He wasn't sure how he knew this, but he knew it.
And for another thing, he had recognized The Flail. He couldn't help but recognize it. There was only one like it. He had seen it many times before and knew most of those who had previously wielded it. He firmly doubted it had belonged to her mother. How had it come into her possession?
He knew well enough that there were many Light creatures who were enemies of the Darkness but who were also enemies of Mother Church, and therefore his enemies, as well. While he generally did not hunt such creatures, he was leery of letting one that had fallen into his clutches survive.
But then again, he had not been specifically charged with killing her.
He would have to take the matter up with Father Archie. If it was approved, he would then slit her throat, her very pretty throat.
He felt a twinge of regret. She was a thing of beauty. It would be such a waste to have to kill her but he was uncomfortable allowing her out on the streets. What was it such things were called – a loose cannon?
If the priest chose to release her, well then it would fall on the priest's shoulders what happened to her, what she might do.
He glanced at the clock. It was three o'clock, the Devil's Hour.
He walked back to the trunk and replaced the iron devices. He took out rope instead and used this to tie her feet to the bottom of the bed. He double checked his belt that was holding her hands to the railing.
"I don't want you getting free during the night and sticking a knife in me," he told her honestly.
"You're leaving me here?" she asked him.
"Not precisely," he told her. He then placed all the weapons, hers and his own into the black trunk, closing it after the last item was placed inside the odd chest. He turned off the light and removed his boots and pants, leaving himself in his tee-shirt and boxers. Then he crawled into bed with her, pulling her half-naked body close into his and pulling the sheet and thin blanket over them both.
An Uncomfortable Night
Belle went rigid as the man settled in next to her, his body hot and snug against her own, limb to limb, skin to skin. She had never been this close to a man, any man, certainly not a nearly naked man, certainly not when she was nearly naked herself. Still terrified that he would molest her, she lay absolutely still - but he did not make any further moves. His arm rested over her waist. The cot, narrow as it was, along with her bonds prevented her from moving too much. She debated but decided finally to turn onto her side, facing away from the man. She thought she might have heard him chuckle and he pulled her even closer to him so that her backside was nestled up against his front.
Belle didn't know how long she lay in his grasp, waiting, expecting, not knowing what he might do next. But it seemed he only wanted to sleep. Anxiously, she lay awake within his grasp, feeling the warmth, the heat, of his body and inhaling his pleasant scent – spicy, male, something rich and sensuous and . . . nice, intoxicating. Somehow, at some time, she dropped off.
Rumple was aware the moment that she went to sleep. Her breathing became regular and her body softened.
Damn, but she was beautiful. He had not allowed himself to linger long over her curves, her smooth flawless skin while he was undressing her, instead forcing himself to focus on ridding her of the many lethal weapons with which she had armed herself. Now, pulled up next to him, he could only be aware that she was silken to his touch and sweet to his nose and very, very feminine. He could not ignore that she was certainly a very desirable female.
He closed his own eyes and said a small prayer. He would rise above this temptation. He would not allow this daughter of Lilith to seduce him.
When Rumple awoke he was still snuggled in with the little temptress. Sometime during the night, his hand had traitorously shifted so that he was cupping one perfect little breast, one that he had freed from the restraints of the little cotton brassiere. And now his thumb was engaged in circling and sliding back and forth over what had become one hyper-stimulated nipple. In his sleep he had apparently amused himself with pinching and pulling on the nub so that now it was full and pouting, aching. He also realized that his natural morning state of half-arousal had shifted to a full and hard erection. He was enveloped in the scents of the little hunter's own arousal, roses and vanilla and seashell sweetness. Despite her helpless state, or perhaps because of it, she was shifting and wiggling, her enticing little ass pressing against his cock, urging him on, encouraging him to take what she was unwittingly offering.
Her allure was too much. He couldn't stop himself. He planted a gentle kiss on her neck, his tongue flicking out to taste the light sheen of sweat that lay on her skin.
Her entire body went rigid and she pulled away from him.
Now she was awake.
She turned so that she was now on her back. She was looking up at him, her intense blue eyes large with dilated pupils.
She was frightened.
Or was she aroused?
His hand was still on her breast. Locking eyes with her, he deliberately slid his hand down her body and went to the juncture between her legs, slipping in between the thighs she was trying to keep together. She was damp. She closed her eyes and made a tiny sound when he touched her.
He bit his lip and closed his own eyes, considering his next action. He so wanted to fuck her, to take her right there in his humble cot, bending her forward and driving himself into her, forcing her to respond, emptying himself into her moist heat
But that would be wrong.
Oh, not because it would have been rape, but because it would mean breaking one of his own vows. He was still officially on a hunt and he did not indulge when he was on a hunt. There had been such times in the past and the results had been near disastrous. He had promised himself to never repeat this mistake.
But she was surely the Devil's Beautiful Instrument, tempting him, enticing him. He steeled himself, telling himself that he was stronger, stronger than his base desires and he would rise above them. He opened his eyes and pulled away from her, sitting up. He left her in the bed while he relieved his bladder and redressed, this time in jeans and a clean t-shirt.
He returned to her, his body cooled and back to a relaxed state. He unfastened her feet and then her hands. She quickly re-set her bra to rights, then rubbed her wrists while watching him from the cot.
"Go ahead and take care of yourself," he nodded toward the small toilet facility.
While she was gone, he picked through his meager wardrobe, looking for something she could put on. She returned quickly enough to the main room, after having peed and washing her hands and then her face off. There was no mirror in the bathroom but she had used, as she could, the silver tone of the faucet to try to examine her face. She'd half-expected it to be blistered or reddened from whatever it was he'd done with his hand. She found it apparently unscathed both to her limited sight and to the touch of her fingers.
Now she was standing in the center of the room dressed, shivering, only in her panties and bra from the day before. He looked her over. Her dark hair was quite tousled with wispy curls and errant ringlets haloing her face. Her wrists were still welted with the pressure marks from his belt and that one ankle was still red and blistering.
He handed her one of his few t-shirts which she quickly pulled over her head and tugged down. He walked around her, shaking his head. His shirt was too short, too immodest, for her to wear without anything else, revealing too much of her shapely legs. He made a decision and handed her the single pair of sleep pants that he had, the ones he'd slept in the night before.
"Put these on. I'm going to take you to see Father Hopper," he told her. "It would not be proper for you to be seen wearing just my tee-shirt."
She complied well aware that the pants were still warm from the heat of his body.
"Come," he ordered her and she dutifully followed as he led her down the back corridors. She considered bolting but realized she wasn't sure where she was and had no ready way to contact her own people. The man finally stopped outside the door of the Priest's office.
"Father?" he lightly knocked on the door.
"Yes?" and the Father promptly opened the door. The young priest pulled back when he saw Belle behind the demon hunter.
"I need you to talk with her," the Hunter told him. "See if she is willing, is able to withstand the touch of holy objects. I have to know what she is."
Archie nodded, "Come in, Miss," he spoke kindly to Belle who walked through the door taking care not to touch her captor.
"Let me talk with her alone," Archie told the Hunter. "She doesn't look very dangerous."
"Don't underestimate her, Father," the Hunter warned him. "She is a very skilled fighter."
Archie nodded with understanding and closed the door behind himself. "My dear. Were you a guest here last night?" he asked concerned.
"I was a prisoner of that crazy-ass, pardon me Father, nutter that just dropped me off. He tied me to his bed, cut my clothes off . . . "
"Oh my," Archie was clearly distressed to hear this turn of events. "Did he . . . did he . . . hurt you?"
Belle showed Archie her ankle with its still oozing red sores. "And he did something with his hand on my face. It was very painful like my blood was on fire and my skin was melting. He made me tell him my name."
The good Father nodded and then, painfully, he persisted, "Did he . . . hurt you?"
Belle understood what he was asking. "No," she answered in a small voice.
"I will talk with him about his other actions. He is, I'm afraid, used to being a law unto himself. Now, let me see what you are so that, hopefully, I can arrange for you to be returned home, safe and sound."
"I'm one of Mother Rheul's novices," she felt comfortable telling the priest, for whatever reason he seemed infinitely more trustworthy than the crazy-ass nutter. "I just need to what? take a communion wafer into my mouth? drink some holy water? I just need to show that I can come into contact with something Church-holy and not disintegrate," Belle told him. "Then you'll get me something else to wear and allow me to go home?"
"Of course, I will."
"Then have at it," Belle told him and knelt where she stood.
Sent Home
"You told her she could go home?" Stiltskin was irritated. He knew the priest had made several phone calls. First, one to Rheul to get a description of her pretty novice and then one to the Mother Superior there at the Church, to get one of the sisters to send over a shift for the young woman to wear. Father Archie had then allowed Belle to call for a ride home. "I still wanted to talk with her. I don't know what she is . . ."
"She's a White Witch. I know her Order well. They are not our enemy." Archie hesitated, "Stiltskin, it is . . . perhaps . . . uh . . . not advisable for you to take young women off the streets and hold them against their will."
"I can, Father when it is necessary. I can. She was in the Borderland, hunting shadow creatures. She killed the nacht-teufel. I had to find out how dangerous she was, whether she was a threat," Stiltskin told him. The man turned to look at the priest, "My authority in such matters supersedes local law. It comes from God."
"Nevertheless, when you engage in such actions, the Church can only go so far in protecting you," Archie tried to talk some sense into the man. "She is a human being, well mostly. She had no problem with the communion wafer and held the crucifix to her forehead with no ill effects. She is not a demon. She may not be a true child of the Church, but she is not your enemy."
Stiltskin digested the priest's cautionary words. He sighed. "I struggle to understand," he admitted. "Now, hear my confession Father. I have much to confess." His enjoyment of stripping her clothes from her body, his body's response to her presence in his bed.
Oh yes, he had much to confess.
The Coven's Office
Belle had gone into the office of her coven's leader. It was very early in the morning but Rheul Gorim, her Mother Superior, was up and working. Belle wondered if the woman ever slept.
Belle loved the Mother Superior's office. It was a calming, pleasant room with a large window that looked out to a lovely garden. Belle and Mother Rheul sat in the two tapestried chairs that were set off to one side, away from the large carved wooden desk. The chairs were set on a large Persian rug that had been woven in shades of blue. There were portraits of previous Mother Superiors hung on the pale blue painted walls of the room. There were a few lush green plants set around the room and soft music played in the background.
Belle shared most of what had happened with her Mother Superior. She shared how the man had easily overpowered her, using an odd knife and brute strength. She shared that he had taken her back to the Church, had cut off her clothing, taken her weapons, extracted her name using an unknown, but effective form of torture and . . . and then, nothing, until the morning when he had insisted she talk with the young priest. There she had tolerated a communion wafer held to her tongue, had swallowed some Holy Water and held a blessed crucifix to her forehead. Assured that she was not a Creature of Darkness, the priest had then allowed her to call her own Mother House for a ride and had gotten her a shift from one of the nuns there at the Church to wear (instead of the t-shirt and what she had assumed were his only pair of sleep pants).
She did not tell the Mother Superior about the man crawling into bed with her, holding onto her all night, touching her . . . arousing her. She distinctly remembered his lips and tongue touching her right on the little sensitive spot where her neck and shoulder came together. He had licked her. And not just his body and his mouth, hell, even his warmly accented voice had seemed to be offering excitement, promising . . . promising.
She was so ashamed at her body's response. She knew she should be angry – and she was – but she had still felt – something else.
After her confession and description, especially of his odd knife and his deference to the priest, Rheul had more fodder for her suspicions. She couldn't be sure but she thought it likely that the man was one of the Gray Hunters and Rheul knew only a very little about them.
No one knew much about these rare creatures.
"I think, he's one of the Gray Hunters," Rheul began.
A.N. Thanks to all those generous reader who have elected to follow this story (it's very AU) and special thanks to all those who were gracious enough to leave a review: Erik'sTrueAngel, Guestie (Guest), Grace5231973, MyraValhallah, TheGoldenHawk, Wondermorena,celkin, and jewel415.
Because I struggle with descriptions and the visual side of things, I do have a pinterest account under Twyla Mercedes for this story under The Gray Hunter. Many of the images are for things that will be coming up later in this story.
NEXT: Belle struggles to recover from her encounter with the Hunter. She is given a new assignment.