When Magnus woke the second time, the headache was worse than the first. She kept from throwing up by sheer strength of will. She could tell through her closed eyelids that it was still bright outside. Was it the same day, then? She concluded she'd woken up the first time early in the morning. She rapidly ran through her self-appraisal checklist. No new injuries, beside the compounded potential concussion. Thankfully her body was resistant to heat, and she didn't sweat a lot. The sticky, dirty feeling she felt all over her skin was bad enough without sweat dripping down.
She was on her knees once again, but this time she was bound to something in front of her. She opened her eyes a fraction, waiting for her vision to stop swimming, before a post came into view. Made of some sort of thin jungle tree, it was about 6 feet high and firmly rooted into the ground. Magnus shifted her head to the side and saw that she was in the exact center of the compound. Had this been here when she'd woken before but she hadn't seen it because it was behind her? Or had they erected it for her benefit? Either way, it was here now. Her hands were tied to a metal ring on the opposite side of the pole, at about chest height if she were standing. In her current position, her arms were being pulled up awkwardly, and she cringed when she tried to roll her shoulders. She contemplated feigning unconsciousness for a while longer to develop a plan, but with all the activity around her, she was sure someone would notice that she was awake. If they didn't, and continued to think Magnus unconscious, she would only be hit again when they decided to wake her up. She'd rather keep her head as clear as she could and think of a plan on the go.
She heard the screaming again. It didn't sound normal, but she couldn't figure out why.
She took a deep breath, and then tensed her arms, pulling herself up against the pole to stand on her feet. A surprised voice shouted out, and she saw the flap of the largest tent being thrown back, and the leader emerge, stalking purposely towards her. He stopped a few feet away. She stood just to the side of the pole, facing him. While she once again waited for him to speak first, she observed him further. He hadn't bandaged his broken nose at all. Her keenly trained eye could tell he had simply popped it back into its proper place, or so he hoped. She wanted to roll her eyes at the show of bravado. Then again, maybe it wasn't bravado at all. This was the kind of man who ignored pain, or thought of it as simply "weakness". It would be inconvenient and time consuming to set and bandage it properly, an unnecessary waste of supplies. The blood from his upper lip and chin had, however, been wiped off, and Magnus hoped that the cloth he'd used had been dirty. The thought went against all her usual medical morals, but she hadn't been practicing much in the way of medicine the last few years. She preferred to keep her schedule full with missions while deferring any medical work to whatever doctor she could find at the time. They were usually inept, and often made the abnormals worse rather than better. Yet another problem she couldn't seem to fix.
"I'm afraid we got off on the wrong foot before, my hechicera," said the man, an edge of tension to his voice. He opened his arms, palms up, in a gesture of apology as he bowed his head slightly.
"My name is Santos Gallrepa. Perhaps you have heard of me?"
Magnus refused to show any sign of recognition, though her heart sped up a fraction at hearing his name. He was the secret right hand man to Pablo Escobar, the most powerful drug lord in all Columbia, and member of the Columbian Congress. An average citizen wouldn't know Santos' name, but Magnus followed Escobar's exploits closely. He often tested his new products on abnormals, having a private hold of them in several of his mansions. She also knew for a fact that he had on at least five different occasions forced abnormals into carrying out assassinations, three of which had ended in the abnormals' deaths as well. Magnus had been trying to subtly gain information about the location and movements of his slaves. Now here she was, right in the middle of one of his operations. Were there abnormals in this camp? What were they doing here? Did Santos know who she was? It would be both good and bad if he did. At least he'd realize she wasn't a "witch" or "faerie," but then he would most certainly want to bring her, his prize, to Escobar.
Santos' look of expectation fell into disappointment at her apparent lack of recognition.
"May I have the pleasure of knowing your name?" he asked.
Maybe he didn't know who she was after all. Or was he just playing with her, baiting her, getting her to admit her own identity and confirm his suspicions?
She stayed silent.
"I am already growing tired of this game," he warned her, his voice low. "You will tell me what you did to Mauno and show me how to reverse it, or you will give me your powers so I may do it myself," he continued, walking forwards until he was standing barely a foot in front of her. He was several inches taller than her and presented an imposing figure. The stench of cigarettes, sweat, and general lack of hygiene made her stomach curl. Who the hell was Mauno? She made sure to stand fully erect so that her neck wasn't craning to look up at him. She raised her eyebrow.
"Or what?" she challenged. He grinned down at her, seeming to enjoy the game despite his verbal protests. Santos was a man who liked to get down to business, and he was pleased to see she was ready to jump along with him. He snapped his fingers, and a man nearby slipped into a tent to fetch something. He reappeared a moment later with a thick bullwhip. He ran up to Santos, who took it into his hand delicately, as if it were a precious, breakable relic.
"This belonged to a man named Fabio Restrepo. You must have heard of him? My friend Pablo had a difference of opinion with him some years ago. He asked me to help him out with this problem. Before I killed him, I took this from a glass case in his home and… reacquainted it, with its master." As he spoke, Santos stroked the strong, intricate wooden handle of his favourite weapon of persuasion, letting the long, braided leather uncoil and fall to the ground. She briefly wondered why he preferred a single whip, rather than the more common weapon of torture and interrogation, the cat-o-nine-tails.
Santos noted her look of speculation.
"You wonder why I choose this weapon, yes?" he said. Magnus could tell his gruff, military exterior hid a very sharp mind. "I like to see my work. Weapons with multiple ends cause such a mess. With this, I can paint a picture, one stroke at a time." As he spoke, his voice became soft, as if he were talking about an act he would perform with a lover. "I can hear the individual snap, watch as your skin opens up in just one, beautiful line. With other things, this would be over much too quickly. I need you to tell me what you did to Mauno, so if we must, we can take it slow."
Magnus had been hurt badly before, one could even say tortured, but never whipped. At least not with anything worse than a riding crop in the bedroom. She was disturbingly excited at the rush she knew she would get from this; the pain, the adrenaline, flowing through her veins, confirming that she was still alive.
"If you know of any spells to dull pain, I suggest you speak them now."
Santos stepped forward, crossing out of her line of vision to stand directly behind her. He grabbed the neckline of her shirt and with a quick, powerful pull, ripped a portion of it all the way down her back, baring her skin to him. He dropped the cloth to the ground and moved to stand several steps behind her. He waited a few moments, giving her the time he thought adequate to lay her incantations. She took the time to breathe deeply, steadying her heart rate, steeling herself for what was about to happen.
Magnus heard the crack of the whip before she felt anything. It echoed through the clearing, and she recalled the fact that experienced whip crackers could get their whip to travel faster than the speed of sound, thus the "boom" noise that was heard. She mused over this for just a moment before a rush of fire hit her back at full force, ripping across her nerves, making her bite straight through her lip in an effort not to scream. She could feel a thick line open up on her back, as though a zipper had been pulled, her skin peeling open to reveal its bloody secrets. The sides of her shirt that had caught some of the blow had been torn as if they were tissue paper – barely even there.
Through the ringing in her head, she heard Santos walk up to her. He reached out and stuck his thick fingers into the deep, gaping wound on her back. She gritted her teeth and groaned at the feel of his calloused fingers roughly caressing her inner flesh. He leaned in until he was almost pressed against her, brushing his stubbly cheek against hers. When he spoke, his hot, rancid breath washed over her.
"We don't have to do this, you know," he whispered, digging his fingers in. She could only imagine what dirt and grime he was spreading into her.
"What did you do to Mauno?" he asked.
"I have no idea who that is," she replied, bitingly. A bit of blood from her lip was spat out along with her words.
"Do not lie to me, bruja. You took him and did something to him. He was a very promising young man. I want him back."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," she repeated.
He scraped his nails against her and she grimaced. Sweat finally started to bead on her forehead, and she felt a drop trickle down the side of her face.
"Then just tell me the secrets of your power," he said, changing tactics. "I will fix the boy myself."
He truly believed she was one of the faeries, some kind of sorceress.
"I have no powers."
He laughed, twisting his fingers. "Come now, do you think me so stupid? I have heard your brothers and sisters in this place. I know you have been watching us, planning your rituals. My men saw you with their own eyes performing your black magic. I am only thankful they rescued Mauno before you were able to complete your sorcery."
Magnus frowned. His men had obviously seen something happening to this Mauno boy. Had it been the faeries? Could they be responsible for the screaming she kept hearing from one of the tents? She didn't want to believe that the graceful, misunderstood people of legend could be dark and sinister after all. If they were, why did they live in hiding? Why not use their powers over the human mind and body to gain control and take over?
"I have no powers," she said again.
He growled, pulling his face away from hers and his fingers out of her back. He stalked backwards, raising his whip and cracking it down upon her before he'd even stopped walking away. She couldn't help a small moan escape her as beads of sweat popped out across her forehead.
"What are you?" he cried.
Another crack, and blood was dripping steadily down her back.
"Tell me of your powers!"
Two more lashes, and a louder cry escaped. Historically, people could die from only 20 strokes, Magnus thought fleetingly.
"I need to know your secrets!" His voice was quivering with rage. He wanted her to break, to hear her scream, before she gave an example of her power. He wanted her to use her magic to escape her restraints. Enough men were watching the proceedings that if she did get free, they could shoot her down before she did any damage.
Another three lashes, and she had wrapped her arms around the pole, hugging it desperately in an attempt to stay standing as her knees shook. Behind her, Santos nodded to one of his men. Magnus tried to follow his movements as he approached her but found herself unable to focus, her vision blurry. When had tears appeared? She saw him raise something black and bulky. The man, Moises, brought the butt of his AK-47 straight down onto her kneecap, shattering it. She finally screamed, and dropped to the ground, her shoulders wrenching as she was stretched too far. A final lash connected with her back, and she screamed again. Unbeknownst to the soldiers, Magnus, or Santos, several pairs of eyes were watching the scene, hidden among the trees, flinching with every crack of the whip but staying still.
Santos, grinning with eyes alight, walked up and knelt beside Magnus, brushing her sweaty bangs away from her face.
"Give me your powers," he crooned. "I'm sure I can use them to heal you, yes?"
He needed them, her powers, to get rid of the hijo de puta, Escobar. The man was a criminal genius, yes, but nothing compared to what Santos could be. His very name meant Holy, Saint. God had gifted him this life so that he could rise up and bring a new age to the people of Columbia. He needed, no, he deserved, the powers of the bruja. He was sick of acting as a lackey to lesser men than he.
Magnus knew there was no point in denying she was a faerie. It would accomplish nothing. Her chest heaved in the effort to control her breathing, ignore the sweat dripping down her back into the myriad of open gashes, stinging and burning. She tried to form words in her agony-addled brain, but it was difficult. Maybe he wanted her to ask him to stop, to beg. He had no idea that she welcomed the pain, embraced it. She hadn't felt anything like this in years, decades. His anger towards her, his hate, was raw and unbridled. He was nothing like the sniveling, falsely genuine idiots that she worked with on a daily basis.
Magnus finally forced her mouth to form words, though tears still streamed down her face.
"We can't give our powers to weak, pathetic humans," she said, her low voice full of venom.
He was silent, gazing at her back, which was torn to shreds. He'd done a good job on her, perhaps his best. He liked the way she screamed.
He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by one of his men, sweeping the flap of a tent aside and calling to him urgently.
"Sir, I've got something on the radio! It's Escobar!"
Santos cursed under his breath. The high of interrogation was running strong through his veins and he hated to leave right as he was starting to make headway. But he knew this couldn't wait. They were only able to pick up on Escobar's transmissions every few days, and they were absolutely essential in the scheduling and planning of his bands' movements. It was a dangerous game of cat and mouse, and he feared that a confrontation was rapidly approaching. His face contorted into a mask of anger and contemplation as he thought, and he felt a spike of pain from his nose. He didn't let it show, but vented his heightened anger in a hiss.
He cursed again, wielding his whip one final time, channeling his rage into an impact so hard Magnus barely had time to scream before passing out.
To be continued…
A/N: Any and all feedback outrageously welcomed, as usual I try to reply to each one… I'm SO sorry if I've ever somehow skipped past anyone! Seems I've taken to posting a new chapter every Friday… Fyi ;) Though next week I've a feeling I'll be posting THURSDAY instead :O So watch out! :D MSam
