Chapter 25

When they resumed their corporeal forms, Sheppard was still on his knees before Sarayah, his arm throbbing as the cells realigned. She thankfully released him, walking away as she examined the room.

'So this is your father's home. It's very beautiful. I see your family does have money after all.'

Sheppard stayed down, peering around and trying to ignore the creeping sense of horror inching its way up his spine. This wasn't his dad's house, but he recognised it instantly; the beautiful antique furniture were just as he remembered them, even though it had been twenty-two years since the last time he'd set foot in this room. But no...it wasn't exactly as he'd last seen it. The sofas were different; they were a lighter shade than the one he'd stood before on his last visit, when his father had forced him to offer a reluctant apology to the man who had almost robbed him of his childhood innocence. The sight of the pompous older man drinking in his disingenuous words and every minute detail of that room was drilled into his memory no matter how hard he tried to forget about it. So this wasn't that exact time...but when was it?

'So, where's your father, John?'

Sheppard didn't say anything. He wanted to bolt for the door and get the hell out of there, but he knew she wouldn't allow that until she was satisfied he'd suffered. All he could do was hope Laurel wasn't home so he could avoid meeting him.

Sarayah wandered casually around the walls, admiring the various classical paintings hanging there, many of them depicting the male form. 'He certainly has an eye for beauty, pretty one. No wonder he couldn't resist your charms.'

Much as his relationship with his father was shattered beyond repair, Sheppard couldn't continue to allow her to besmirch his character. 'This isn't my dad's house. He didn't try to...hurt me.'

Her head snapped around in his direction, her confusion plain to see. 'But I heard it from your own lips. You were begging him to stop as I lashed you for information. You were delirious, but I know what I heard.'

The painful memory of the beating he'd taken from his father's belt overwhelmed his discomfort at returning to Senator Laurel's home. It had been the only time his father had ever struck him, and he had never found the strength to forgive him for it. Not that it was the pain that mattered, it was the betrayal, the fact his father had sided with a paedophile rather than offering him support when he'd most needed it. It had left him with a sense of isolation he'd never quite shaken, not even Dave had been willing to listen to his protests of innocence.

'Your ears were working fine, but your interpretation was off,' he told her, finally getting to his feet. 'So since you screwed up your own plan, can we get out of here now?'

Sarayah narrowed her eyes, heading his way. 'After all the horrible places I've taken you to recently I would have thought you would be happy to spend time in a house like this.'

'Well, it's a nice idea, but since I'm likely to get prosecuted for breaking and entering, I'd prefer not to be here when the owner gets back.'

A very slight smile curled the corners of Sarayah's mouth. 'You seem to be in a hurry to leave. Are you sure there isn't more to this discomfort than a fear of imprisonment? Perhaps this is the home of the real culprit.'

She slammed her palm against his forehead, and he stumbled backwards, falling onto one of the sofas with Sarayah landing on top of him. She raided his mind, digging into memories deeply hidden and raking through until she found what she wanted and dragged it out into the light. 'Senator Laurel?' she hissed. 'A politician?' She stroked his damp hair back from his forehead almost affectionately. 'A trusted statesman took advantage of you...no wonder you have a problem with authority figures.'

The sound of glass clinking on glass caught their attention through the slightly open door. From where he was laid, Sheppard could see the shadow being cast by someone moving in a room across the hallway. It was Laurel's office, and even though the sun was starting to set outside now, he was clearly still working at whatever the old pervert did these days. He'd heard the man had retired from the senate, but he had his finger in so many pies he doubtless had plenty to keep him busy. Hopefully busy enough not to be harassing any young boys any more. A twinge of guilt bit at him. He should have stood up to his father and reported the creep. Who knew how many more boys the lousy bastard had touched up since then? Unless this was some point in the past and Laurel was still working for the senate...but how far in the past? He could have changed those sofas a year after his apology...a month...a day...

'Seems we have company. Let's go and announce ourselves,' Sarayah suggested, catching him by the shirtfront and dragging his reluctant carcass toward the door. He dug his heels in and refused to budge but it was a useless act, because she simply disintegrated them both and reassembled him in the other room before he knew what was happening and had a chance to influence their trip.

Laurel had his back to them, pouring himself a whiskey from a decanter on the bureau behind his huge mahogany desk. Laurel had never done anything by halves. The desk and its proportions spoke volumes about his ego and inflated sense of self importance. As did the silk smoking jacket he wore over his everyday clothing. The stench of Camel cigarettes clung to everything, and brought with it a flash of memory, Laurel's clammy hands pulling at his school clothes and reaching up inside his shirt to touch his body before he could break away. A cold sweat of panic broke out on Sheppard's brow as he watched the old man's shaky hand replace the stopper on the decanter, turning now toward them with his glass of whiskey in hand.

Laurel froze as his eyes met them, the glass raised halfway to his tight, dry lips. 'Who the hell are you people?' he demanded, his voice cracked and weaker than Sheppard recalled.

He was old, Sheppard realised with huge relief. But there was more than that. Something was wrong with him, and now mastering his initial panic, Sheppard scanned the room, taking in various items of medical paraphernalia dotted about including an oxygen bottle and mask, and a syringe of medication sitting filled but thus far unused on the desk. The rattling as he breathed said all Sheppard needed to hear to figure out the man was sick – very sick.

After a second or two of strained silence, Sarayah piped up, 'Won't you answer the man, John?'

Laurel squinted at them, then set down his glass, fumbling about on his desktop until he found a set of glasses hidden beneath a pile of paperwork. He stared long and hard at Sheppard, then realisation slowly dawned on him.

'John Sheppard? Is that really you? Your daddy told me you were out on the front line in Afghanistan.' The old man's eyes drifted over him, taking in his battered appearance. 'Did those Al Qaeda types do this to you?'

Sheppard didn't answer, couldn't if he'd wanted to. In his imagination, way back when his hideous experience had still been fresh and raw, he'd gone over exactly what he would say to Laurel if they ever met face to face and alone time and again, but now, looking at the frail pathetic creature before him, he couldn't think of a single thing to say to him. He slid his gaze toward Sarayah. 'Are we done yet?'

Sarayah broke into a broad smile. 'Oh, I don't think so, do you, John? We only just got here.'

'Who's this woman, John? She your girlfriend?' Laurel screwed his eyes up tighter, as if bringing Sarayah into sharper focus. 'Thought you married Philip's daughter, Nancy.'

'He did,' Sarayah interrupted, 'but she's dead now. I killed her.'

His eyebrows twitching up, Laurel broke out into a fit of coughing so severe he had to reach for the oxygen mask from his tank just to get through it. 'That's some sense of humour you have, missy,' he wheezed as he brought the attack under control, his gaze moving between them. As if sensing something amiss, he finally shifted it to Sheppard and left it there. 'She is joking, isn't she?'

In truth, Sheppard didn't know. He was still clinging to the slim hope his brief dream had given him. He shook his head at Laurel, still unable to find the enthusiasm to speak to him.

'All right, young lady. I don't know what kind of a prank you two are pulling here, but there are laws against breaking into a man's house and harassing him. You get your asses the hell out of here right now, or so help me I'll have the two of you carted away quicker than you can say "Not guilty".'

He picked up his cell phone, but before he could even thumb in the first number both Sarayah and it were gone.

'It's very rude to make phone calls while you have company, wouldn't you say, John?' she purred as she reappeared beside the old man.

'What the he...how'd you do that?' Laurel demanded.

Sarayah's only response was to slap her hand to his forehead and raid his mind for a version of the memory Sheppard was unable to supply.

The old man crumpled to the floor, but she kept her hand in contact with him the whole time, even as Sheppard felt his protective streak rear its head and force him to intervene. Pervert or not, the man was clearly sick and she was killing him.

By the time he'd knocked her hand away and helped the frail man into his big leather office chair, Sarayah was already more than pleased with her work.

'Oh, Senator Laurel. You have been a very naughty boy, haven't you?' she smirked, perching on the edge of his desk while Sheppard slipped the oxygen mask over his gaping, gasping mouth.

'Give the man a break, Sarayah. Can't you see he's sick?'

'Oh, I've seen just how sick he is, John,' she assured him. 'I don't believe you understand quite how lucky you were to get out of that attack as easily as you did. If your daddy hadn't come home and interrupted things, he wouldn't have stopped, would you, Senator?'

Sheppard snatched his hands away from the old man. Sarayah could well be lying to freak him out, but he suspected she wasn't. He'd always felt he'd had a lucky escape, that Laurel had planned to take full advantage of their alone time. He gazed down at the man, his lip curling involuntarily, then stalked away, his wrists now rubbed so raw from lifting Laurel while still in his tight restraints that they were bleeding. He headed over to the window, staring out across the darkening gardens that lay beyond it to try to find some calm.

A hand snaked up to his shoulder. 'You should see what I saw inside his sordid little mind,' she whispered, the odour of beer still heavy on her breath. 'The things he wanted to do to you...you have no idea how frustrated you left him.'

'Oh, I have some idea...I've seen plenty enough of your sordid little mind to know how he felt.'

'You would compare me to that creature?' she growled, her grip on his shoulder beginning to hurt now. 'You provoked me to act against you. He...he took advantage of a defenceless child.'

'You killed your newborn baby; I think that pretty much trumps anything he could've done, don't you?'

She spun him, swinging a left that connected hard with his jaw and knocked him to his knees. Without a word, she stalked away, back toward where Laurel's laboured breathing signalled just how scared the guy was now. She ripped the oxygen mask from his face. 'Do you have a knife?'

'Wh...what for?' he stammered,

'To cut his restraints,' she told him, dipping her head in Sheppard's direction.

'Kitchen,' the man panted. 'There's a whole block of them.'

'I'll be right back. Don't you two go anywhere,' she warned, evaporating before their eyes.

Laurel immediately started rifling through his desk drawers, pulling out a revolver.

'Put that thing away. It won't do any good,' Sheppard hissed from across the room.

'What the hell is she? A ghost?' Laurel demanded, checking how many rounds were in the barrel.

'As good as,' Sheppard replied. 'The gun won't work. You'll just give her ideas.'

Laurel held onto the weapon a moment or two longer, then tossed it back into his drawer, reaching instead for a packet of cigarettes and pulling one free.

Sheppard shook his head. 'Seriously? You're not sick enough already?'

This time, Laurel didn't take Sheppard's advice, picking up a gold lighter from his desk top and lighting up. He took a long draw before responding this time. 'Believe me, kid. I'm so sick it really doesn't matter anymore.'

Sheppard watched him drag on the cigarette again, hating the way it made that awful smell even stronger in the room, stirring his memories again. But this was Laurel's house; he could hardly insist he put it out. 'So what is it? Lung cancer?' he asked, pushing up to his feet and staggering to a chair in front of the desk

'Yep...advanced. Ain't a thing anyone can do about it.' Sheppard just nodded, the older man fixing him with a hard stare. 'So what's the story with that...thing out there?'

'You don't have the clearance required for that explanation,' Sheppard huffed, wincing as he moved his arms and the restraints bit in deeper. 'Suffice to say, you should be real nice to her.'

'She saw into my mind. What she said...it was true.'

Sheppard averted his gaze now. This was really not a conversation he either wanted or needed to be part of right now. Just being in the room and remaining civil was taxing his patience – he didn't need to hear the gory details of Laurel's intentions towards his boyhood self.

'But I never tried it again...not on anyone. Almost getting caught in the act was too much of a risk for a man in my position. I couldn't take that chance again. I changed my ways after that day.'

Now Sheppard's eyes snapped back onto him, his sense of indignation fired by the old man's confession. 'So you stopped because you were scared of losing your status, not because you realised what you did to me was wrong?'

Laurel held his gaze without wavering. 'God made me this way. I don't have a choice.'

'I doubt God had anything to do with making you,' Sheppard muttered, staring back out of the window again...the window he now realised was slightly open, letting in a refreshing breeze that blew the smoke away from him a little. 'You got some scissors there, Laurel?'

'Sure,' Laurel pulled out a small set of paper scissors as Sheppard swayed his way over to the desk. There was no way they were going to cut through the plastic zip tie.

'I was thinking of something a little bigger.'

Laurel set his cigarette down in the ashtray next to him and bent down to his bottom drawer, pulling out a decent sized penknife. 'This do you?'

'Thought your knives were in the kitchen,' Sheppard grunted, extending his arms toward the man.

'I said that to get rid of her long enough to get to my gun.' The old man stood and pushed the blade in between his hands and the plastic strips, making Sheppard wince as it scraped against his raw flesh. 'You know, I've been meaning to write to you, John.'

Laurel's free hand caught hold of his ravaged wrist, leaving Sheppard battling the urge to shake him off. 'Really? Well, if I'm honest, I'm glad you didn't bother.'

Laurel still hadn't cut the tie. Was he really going to use that as leverage to unburden himself here...now...?

'I'm sorry if what I did impacted on your life, John. I know you and your daddy...well, things aren't good between the two of you. I've written a letter to Patrick...It's with my solicitors. It'll be sent to him when I die and it explains everything. Perhaps it'll bring some resolution to your relationship.'

'After you die, huh? That's real big of you.'

'You've got to understand...if this ever got out –'

'Save your breath, Laurel. If you're looking for forgiveness, you're barking up the wrong tree. I'm not here to salve your conscience before you go meet your maker. Now cut the damn ties already!'

Though he barely had the strength, Laurel did as he asked, letting go of his wrist and forcing up through the plastic tie with an effort that left him breathless again. The restraints had stuck to the blood on his shredded skin, but they shook loose as Sheppard backed up and headed for the window. 'Now I suggest you stay put and talk real nice to the crazy lady when she gets back here. If you don't upset her, she'll come after me and you might get to live long enough to at least finish that packet of cancer sticks you're so fond of.'

'You're not gonna just leave me here with her?' Laurel called after him.

'No, he's not.'

Just as he'd forced up the sash widow he felt the sudden pressure of a handless arm wrap around his chest and a blade press to his throat.

'Let's move away from the window, shall we?' Sarayah suggested.

He really didn't want to comply any more. He needed out of that room...facing Laurel on a good day would be hard enough, but having them both there was too much to handle.

'And if I don't?' he challenged.

He was seriously contemplating pushing forward onto that blade to do the job for her, but, as if sensing that, she pulled it away. 'I'll kill Laurel,' she told Sheppard. 'And don't try to kid me that you're strong enough to walk away and let that happen, even after what he did to you.'

His heart sinking, Sheppard had to admit to himself that he couldn't just walk away. Even if she'd said she would let him go, his conscience would never have allowed him to see it through. Laurel was not the man he'd once been. He was sick and helpless. Sheppard slowly turned around, finding both Sarayah and the knife she bore covered in blood.

'What the...?'

'The young lady in Mr Laurel's kitchen was a little resistant to the idea of me taking this,' she said, twitching the blade so the blood glistening in the light from the ornamental glass light fitting hanging above her. 'She took quite some persuasion.'

So Laurel had sent Sarayah to the kitchen knowing he had staff there? The open window behind him seemed awfully tempting now.

'I forgot she was there, John, I swear,' Laurel called to him. 'Sarah was putting in overtime to help me out. She's usually home by now...it slipped my mind!'

'Convenient,' Sheppard grunted, unable to hide his disgust.

'Well, I see you managed to get your restraints off anyway,' Sarayah said, her eyes drifting down to his freed wrists.

'I realised I had some scissors here,' Laurel quickly covered, holding up the tiny paper scissors and snipping the air with them.

She didn't look too convinced. 'Pity you didn't try that sooner, Mr Laurel. It could have saved that poor young woman's life.'

Sheppard glared at the older man, watching him sink into his seat. Laurel reached for his oxygen mask and took a few deep breaths.

Spotting the smouldering cigarette on his desk, Sarayah approached it, tucking the knife into the back of her belt and picking it up. 'What's this?' she asked Sheppard, holding it up for him to see.

'It's a cigarette. You put it in your mouth and suck on it.'

She frowned, eyeing it dubiously. 'Does it taste good?'

He shrugged, though he knew it never tasted good to the uninitiated. 'You should ask him. He's the expert.'

She glanced Laurel's way, but didn't ask, choosing to follow Sheppard's instructions and sample it for herself. Apparently, the inhaled smoke didn't sit too well with her, and she was soon sputtering fit to cough up a lung.

'That's disgusting, why would you bother?' she demanded of Laurel.

'It relaxes me,' he choked from behind his mask.

Sarayah stared at the glowing embers of tobacco, and a worrying smile crept onto her face. 'You knew I wouldn't enjoy that, didn't you?' she asked, strolling toward Sheppard.

He clamped his mouth shut and refused to answer for fear of incriminating himself.

'Well let's see how you like this.' She grasped his arm and stubbed out the cigarette on the damaged skin of his left wrist, making his legs buckle and bringing him to his knees again.

'You should stay down there...it suits you,' she smirked. She dragged the cigarette down the side of his face, the hot tobacco hurting but doing little lasting damage since the contact was just fleeting. He seriously hoped she didn't find out those things came in packets. That could give her hours of entertainment.

'Stop that. You're hurting him,' he heard Laurel shout, surprisingly jumping to his defence.

Sarayah rolled her eyes. 'Yes...and that would be the idea...' she drawled.

She drew on the cigarette again, this time less vigorously, pulling it back out to study it as the lit end glowed orange again, blowing the smoke in his face.

'Interesting,' she mused, popping it back in her mouth to free her hand to punch Sheppard.

He didn't know where exactly her strength came from, but she was able to floor him every time. He thudded against Laurel's polished floorboards, groaning as he felt her sit in his back to pin him to the floor and pull down the collar of his shirt.

'You really shouldn't keep trying to escape, John,' she told him, sucking on the cigarette then stubbing it into the back of his neck. He groaned, biting down on his lip to stop himself vocalising his distress any louder than that. 'Now I have to punish you...again.'

A second application, more or less in the same spot, left him crying out and trying to throw her off, with his usual lack of success.

'You're not like the John Sheppard I knew in Pegasus. He could take his punishment like a man.'

'It was my idea,' Laurel suddenly blurted out. 'I cut his restraints and told him to go get help.'

Sheppard could just about still turn his head Laurel's way, seeing something resembling genuine compassion in the old man's wizened features. Was he really trying to help him? That wasn't the impression of Laurel he'd been trying to repress in his head all these years.

Sarayah sat back on him, her interest piqued. 'What's this, Mr Laurel, an uncharacteristic display of self-sacrifice? John does seem to have that effect on people.'

'Except you!' Sheppard grunted into the floor boards, receiving another burn in return, this time on his back. 'Son-of-a-bitch!'

'Now now, John. There's no call for that language. That's another burn for you.' He heard her draw on the cigarette before applying it to his back again, this time selecting one of his worst lacerations from the Al Qaeda fiasco. But he knew better than to react, instead pressing his forehead hard against the floorboards, the discomfort from that counteracting the agony she was inflicting.

'That's much better,' she praised, shoving her makeshift weapon into her mouth and stroking his hair as he panted through the stinging. 'Much better. Now, I took the liberty of having a little look around while I was collecting the knife,' she uttered through her clenched teeth, as she leaned over him to talk. 'It's a very beautiful house you have here, Mr Laurel. Very beautiful. Very clean. Your bathroom facilities are particularly impressive. Shall we go take a look, John?'

He grumbled 'No,' into the floorboards, but she swept him up anyway, collecting Laurel on the way and depositing all three of them in a grandiose and spacious bathroom. The beige marble floor tiles brought relief to his hot face still flushed from the torture, but he was less than happy that she'd chosen to reassemble still sitting astride him.

She took her own sweet time getting off him, then stood aside and finished the cigarette as he struggled up from his prone position. 'Lovely, isn't it?' she asked Sheppard, her eyes drilling into him.

He wasn't exactly in the mood to discuss interior design, but yeah, it was a breath-taking room, no doubt paid for by a career's worth of underhand dealings. The shower stall alone was half the size of his bathroom at home, and a leather sofa adorned one corner well away from the wash facilities. Who had a sofa in their bathroom?

'Now just stay here both of you,' Sarayah ordered, prodding Sheppard's chest as she said it.

She swirled away, but returned only seconds later with the backpack she'd been carting across the world. She immediately pulled out a roll of duct tape, pulling a length of it out with her teeth, then pushing Laurel over to the sofa to tape his wrists and ankles together. 'You just sit back and enjoy,' she told him, patting him on the head like a well behaved dog.

'Now we can get properly cleaned up,' she drawled, pushing Sheppard back a pace with her hand as she leaned into the substantial shower unit and turned the water on. She stood back herself now, arms folded and expression expectant. 'Well...get in then.'

He looked at the shower, now building up a good steam, then at her, then at Laurel looking pale and exhausted on the sofa. 'I...don't think so.'

Apparently tired of doing battle over everything, Sarayah simply broke apart and swept him along with her, dumping him fully dressed in the main shower flow before exiting herself.

As the water soaked through to his skin, flattening his hair and stinging his eyes, she peered in at him through the increasingly foggy curved glass screen surrounding him. 'I'd take those boots off if I were you, John. The water will ruin them if you don't.'

Murmuring several expletives under his breath, he began to untie them, slinging them out around the glass to land with a thud at her feet.

'And now the top...it's filthy after all the fighting, and blood leaves such terrible stains. Let's get you into something smarter.'

He glared at her, feeling like a circus spectacle as she and the old man with the malfunctioning lungs watched on. At least Laurel had the decency to look away. He could tell the old man had twisted around to face the wall on the opposite side of the room.

Sarayah rummaged in the backpack, pulling out a fresh, white T-shirt. 'Come on, John. Just think how good it's going to feel to get into these clean clothes.'

He fumed silently at her through the steam, not budging.

'I could help,' she offered.

'You just stay right where you are.'

Of course, she didn't listen, materialising in there with him, her hand reaching out toward him as he backed himself up to the cold tile wall behind him. But instead of pulling at his clothing, she let her hand slip right into his torso, her fingers gripping something that might well have been his large intestines the way she made them squirm around inside him. His breath caught, his body instantly chilling at the invasive touch despite the torrent of hot water and the warm tingle in the region of her contact.

'Is that enough motivation or should I dig a little deeper?' she challenged, the glint in her eye telling him she meant business. Oh, Sarayah was back in command, all right. And if anything, she was stronger now than she had been before. In dragging the murky events that had moulded her persona into the light, he'd clearly created a monster far worse than that he'd already faced.

'Stop...Please!' he croaked, tears streaking down his face as he held his screams in.

'Well, since you have such impeccable manners...'

She pulled her hand out and caught him as he stumbled, pushing him back against the wall again. 'Now be a good boy and Sarayah will be kind to you. You remember the deal, don't you?'

Oh God...they were back to that. It felt like his breakthrough, and the punishment he'd taken to get it, had all been for nothing. Now the tears merging with the shower water were tears of frustration. How much more of this would he have to take before he was free of this woman? Admitting defeat, he began dragging at the cloying fabric of his fleece, now practically glued to his skin, tugging and wrenching until it pulled free and he threw it to the floor of the shower stall in disgust. It made a satisfyingly loud splat as it hit her feet, eloquently saying what he didn't dare put into words.

Sarayah flashed him an angry look, then picked the item up and threw it out and onto the bathroom floor.

Outside the stall, Sheppard heard Laurel's disturbed cry. 'For God's sake woman. Let the man wash in peace.'

'Jealous you're not in here, too?' she quipped, her eyes never leaving Sheppard's as he watched her warily from his place against the back wall. 'There's room for all three of us.'

'Don't be so sick!' Laurel spat back.

Sarayah laughed out loud at that, but her eyes remained devoid of humour. 'Coming from you that's particularly insulting,' she told him. 'What's the matter, Mr Laurel? Is John too old for you now? What if I could travel back in time to take you back to when he was a boy? Would you feel so reluctant then if I ensure you won't be disturbed?'

For a moment, Sheppard stood frozen rigid with fear. She'd travelled back in time once to get to him here and prevent him from travelling to Atlantis, but he'd hoped the fact they'd come to Laurel's home in the present day meant she couldn't do it again. Had he been wrong...could she actually see that threat through?

The pause that followed before Laurel responded did little to alleviate his fears. 'Don't be ridiculous. That's not possible,' the man croaked.

'Meaning you'd agree to it if it was?' Sheppard yelled back, his anger making him forget his promise to do as he was told.

Sarayah pressed a finger to his lips. 'Hush, John. Don't be scared...do I seem the type to allow harm to come to a child?' And the image of her dead baby flashed into his mind as she said it.

He didn't want to betray his fear to her, but his body let him down, trembling uncontrollably at the thought of Laurel having a second shot at him that she could manipulate in his favour.

She leaned against him now, standing on tiptoe to whisper in her ear, 'Take off the rest of those clothes and I'll give you my word it won't happen.'

He closed his eyes, tilting his head back away from her, the only part of him free from contact. She was feeding more images to him now...they'd shared a shower once before and she wanted to repeat the experience because it hadn't ended how she'd wanted it to. They'd had someone watching them, someone who wouldn't have allowed it to go too far. They had no such chaperone this time, just a sick old man who could only sit and listen while catching glimpses of activity through the steamed up shower panels. The overwhelming sense of her desire to conquer him shook him to the core, and she knew it. He could see it in her face when he finally looked at her and said, 'You go back outside and I'll take them off.'

She hesitated, and he half-expected the pain to kick in as she worked her persuasive methods on him again, but to his surprise she carried out his request, disappearing from view.

He waited a second, hardly daring to believe she'd granted him his privacy, then dragged off most of his clothes and threw them out into the bathroom. The final garment, his underwear, remained in place. She would part him from those over his dead body...quite literally.

The water hitting his chafed wrists and fresh burns set them stinging, but it still felt good. He'd been chilled through to the bone when they'd taken their impromptu trip to Greenland, and he hadn't managed to get properly warm since...if you didn't count the cigarette burns.

A hand suddenly appeared right through the glass, bearing the shower gel he'd left in his bathroom at home. He flinched, the sight so unnatural he could help but jump away from it.

'Use this,' he heard Sarayah's muffled voice say through the glass. 'I like the way it smells.'

His heart began hammering at a new and frighteningly rapid rate. Why did she need him to smell good? Why did she want him clean at all? He suddenly felt very sick.

When he didn't take the bottle from her, the rest of Sarayah followed through the glass. 'Is there a problem, John?'

'Why are you doing this?' he demanded.

Her eyes drifted down his body while he self-consciously covered certain areas his boxers were clinging a little too tightly to. 'You didn't take off all your clothes, John.'

'Answer the damn question!' he yelled, completely losing his cool.

She arched an eyebrow, her bemusement plain to see. 'Use your imagination. You know why if you think about it. Now get clean.'

He still refused to take the shower gel. He would play no part in making this experience fit into her grubby little fantasies. 'Go to hell!'

He witnessed the shudder pass through her, saw her form become almost transparent as if she were departing, before becoming solid again.

'Stop saying that!' she screeched. But her order just inflamed his sense of rebellion. If she was going to insist on this, he was going down fighting.

'What. Go to hell?' Same reaction, a shudder followed by semi- translucence. It looked hard work for her to stay with him, but she soon became solid again.

'All right, John. It's your choice. I'm more than happy to do this the hard way.'

She disappeared.

Sheppard tried to bolt, but she was only just outside the shower stall and knocked him straight back in there as he tried to depart. Cracking his head on the back wall left him stunned, but not so much that he didn't feel the warm tingle of her energy form and the bite of the zip ties being manipulated into place when she rolled him and bound his wrists behind his back. Crap! So much for going down fighting.

Then she crammed something into his mouth, stopping the only form of retaliation he had left as he gagged on the face cloth and she tied it in place to keep it there with yet another tie. It scratched at the corners of his mouth, not that it stopped him screaming his protests anyway.

She flipped him over and dragged him up one-handed, another display of that indomitable strength he'd come to loathe so much, then slammed him up against the back wall again, leaving stars dancing in his vision. Then she picked up the shower gel and squeezed it out onto him, taking great pleasure in his squirms and muffled complaints as she soaped him up and scrubbed him clean.

Images sparked in his mind; a little wooden room, cold, cold water, this same proximity, a painful scrubbing and an underlying sense of fear that she wouldn't stop at getting him clean. But that other presence, the one dowsing them both in water, had ensured his safety. Alishia...a good woman, one who had taken over the running of Medulsa. Sarayah hated her...hated the fact she had got in their way.

This time the process was different, the washing less violent, but no less invasive. He felt light headed, the flow of water over his face and the face cloth filling his mouth making it hard to get enough oxygen. She spun him and pushed him against the wall, soapy hands sliding over his back, washing his injuries and making them throb afresh. But the touches were disturbingly delicate, her contact more like a lover's caresses than a torturer's punishment. Her feelings began to invade his thoughts, her desire so real he struggled to separate it from his own emotions. Whether it was the lack of air, or the gentleness of this cleansing after so much pain he didn't know, but his body began to respond and the fight left him. He leaned into the wall, his forehead pressed against the cool tiles, and stopped trying to shake her off. The strokes of her fingertips changed to soft kisses, working their way up his spine as far as she could reach. Her right arm encircled him, clutching him against her body, the increase in surface contact feeding the feverish build of their combined emotions. He felt fear, anger, repulsion and craving mount in equal proportions, finding it impossible to disentangle his own mind from hers. He'd been so certain he didn't want this, now...he wasn't so sure.

She turned him back toward her, pulling the knife from the back of her belt and cutting away the zip tie around his face. It dug into the corners of his mouth as she severed it, cutting his skin, but as the face cloth fell away she gently licked away the blood, leaving him weak at the knees and desperate for more. She smothered his mouth, crushing herself against him as the water coursed over them. He was losing control...losing himself...she was winning...she was beating him...

Then, as suddenly as those feeling had risen, they were snatched away. She stepped back, breaking the contact and severing the link, leaving him feeling used and violated and vulnerably exposed in front of her.

'Someone needs a shave,' she told him. 'Out now.'

She caught hold of his arm and threw him out onto the tiled floor, his knees crunching down on the marble with a sickening thud. But he was numb to the pain, still horrified by the control she'd exerted over him. She really could take him any time.

'Where are your razors, Laurel?' she demanded, stepping past Sheppard and barely acknowledging his distress.

'My razors?'

Sheppard raised his eyes to Laurel's, something in his expression clearly touching the old man.

'You are a sick creature, young lady,' he rasped, seemingly struggling for breath. 'I won't do a thing to help you harass this man any further.'

'I'm not harassing him, I'm preparing him. The harassment comes later,' she retorted, giving him a backhand before searching for them herself.

She rifled through various cupboards, sending the discarded and unwanted contents spilling onto the floor in a tirade of shattering glass and overwhelming scents. But she did find something in there she liked the look of.

She pulled out a box filled with six tiny bottles, medicinal in appearance. 'This is something for your illness, yes?' she asked, holding the carton up in front of Laurel.

'I'm not telling you anything,' he growled.

Without compunction, she backhanded him again, snapping his head to the side and drawing a trickle of blood. 'Tell me what it is.'

Laurel looked at Sheppard again, clearly in pain and now even more out of breath.

'It's morphine,' Sheppard told her, answering for him and taking away the weight of responsibility the man obviously felt. 'It deadens the pain of his illness. And he shaves with that.' He dipped his head to the electric razor she'd failed to recognise and had tossed aside near her feet.

She set down the medication and picked up the electric shaver, examining it. She eventually figured out how to switch it on, then squatted before him applying it to his face and neck with intense concentration. He kept his eyes averted from her the whole time, embarrassment at their earlier clinch burning hot and fresh in his memory. He could still feel her touches, the effect of them now very different and setting his skin crawling.

After five minutes of studious application, Sarayah sat back and admired her work. 'Not bad.' She leaned in a planted a kiss on Sheppard's cheek. 'Not bad at all. I think I'll keep this, Mr Laurel.' She stood up, opening the box of morphine she'd set down to use the shaver. 'Oh, and I'll be borrowing one of these too.' She pulled out a vial of morphine and a fresh syringe and held them out to the older man. 'Fill this with enough to make him compliant, but not to knock him out.'

'I told you, I'm having nothing to do with –'

She struck him again, then shoved the offending hand, still bearing the syringe and vial right into his face.

This time he took them from her with trembling hands, his breath rasping loudly as he tried to quell his panic. 'I'm sorry, John.'

Sheppard didn't say anything, just hoped he got the measure wrong and managed to leave him unconscious. When it was done, Sarayah took them from him and set it down on the sink. Then she cut away the restraints from Sheppard's wrists, smirking with pleasure at the obvious pain the act caused him. 'Get dressed,' she ordered, pointing to the fresh clothes she'd set out on a chair for him while he'd first been in the shower.

Glad for the opportunity to cover up against her prying eyes, he quickly snatched them up, heading to a towel bale and drying off, shielding himself from view while removing his sopping underwear and sliding into the fresh dry ones. Though his situation remained dire, at some level being clean and dry for the first time in days did give him a boost.

'Now, through to the other room, boys. I'd prefer a little privacy while I get ready.' Sarayah swept them all into the next room, a magnificent bedroom with a huge, luxurious bed. Everywhere was adorned with fine mahogany furniture of elaborate design; wardrobes, bureaus, nightstands, Queen Anne style chairs upholstered in gold velvet, and the bed itself, swathed in gold fabric, its sweeping headboard gilded with gold leaf and with four barley twist posts at each corner reaching up to almost touch the ceiling.

Setting two of the chairs back to back, she forced the men down on one each and, collecting a rope from the pack in the bathroom, used her energies to tie them both together.

She rounded them, standing in front of Sheppard to gloat some more. 'You look a little anxious, John. Don't worry, I'll be ready to join you soon.'

'Great...can't wait,' he muttered into his chest, refusing to look at her.

She caught his chin and lifted his head to face her. 'You seem on edge...I know just what you need.'

She disappeared, back moments later with Laurel's bottle of expensive whiskey in her hand. 'This should put some fire in your belly.'

She unscrewed the lid with her teeth, taking a slug herself before trying to press the bottle to his lips. 'Come on, John. Open up those pretty lips and partake in a little courage booster.'

He kept his lips firmly pressed together, knowing if he even tried to answer she would take advantage of the opportunity to pour the liquid in. She already planned to drug him; he didn't need alcohol sloshing around in his system along with it.

'No?' She tilted her head, her eyes glinting with cruelty. She knelt before him, setting the bottle down, and with no warning she plunged her dissolving hand right through him, through both chairs, and out the other side into Laurel's ailing body. 'Mr Laurel would really like you to take a drink, John, wouldn't you, Mr Laurel?'

A strangled scream was Laurel's only response.

'All right!' Sheppard seethed, the uncomfortable heat in his own stomach making him squirm. 'I'll take the damn drink if it's so important to you!'

She snapped her hand back and grabbed up the bottle, sitting in his lap and drizzling the liquid into his mouth too quickly for him to cope with. Though he drank it down, certain he could use the courage she thought it would bring with it, the constant pouring caused it to over flow and run down his neck, making his skin and shirt wet and dirty again. Eventually he choked on the fierce liquid, the amount he'd swallowed already burning a trail all the way down to his stomach. He was going to regret that in the morning, but then he reconsidered that thought. If he made it to the next sunrise, a hangover was likely to be the least of his regrets.

Sarayah set to licking the excess whiskey from his neck in the unsettlingly gentle way she sometimes touched him, and he did battle with his body's natural responses, absolutely forbidding himself to get aroused by her again. To make sure he didn't, he imagined it was Mrs Watson his 6th grade teacher sitting on him, knowing no matter what little mind trick Sarayah pulled on him, as long as he kept that dried up old hag's image in mind he'd most likely hold any unwanted responses at bay.

Apparently satisfied that he'd drunk enough, Sarayah took another swig herself before climbing off him, leaving his clothes stuck to him with a mixture of water from her body and alcohol. 'Enjoy your moment of rest. You're going to need plenty of energy for later.' She looked back over her shoulder at the satin-draped bed, then back at him with a lascivious grin, just in case he'd missed the insinuation.

He wanted to yell, 'Go to hell!' again, but his mouth still hurt from the last time she'd stopped him saying that, rubbed raw at the corners and stinging from his top up of courage. That didn't stop him from thinking it.

For a second she looked unstable, but she shook it off, using the fluctuation to step forward, leaving the water that had just been soaking her to fall in a puddle on the highly polished wooden floorboards behind her. That was new. He had a horrible feeling she was getting a lot better at all this stuff with practice. She tossed the bottle aside now and leaned over him, bringing her face in close and wrapping her handless arm around the back of his neck, stroking her fingers back through his hair. He jerked his head away as best he could, but her other arm pretty much fixed him in place.

'What's wrong, John? You wanted this, remember?'

Yeah he remembered saying that. Just his luck that one had come back to bite him on the ass.

He glared back at her, watching her expression crumple into mock indignation. 'Unless you were lying to me. Were you lying to me, pretty one?'

Her insistence on using those words drove home her intentions for him. He'd seen what those men had done to her, and at some level she equated their act with his own future impact on her life. He didn't answer...he didn't need to, she already knew it had been a trick.

'Well, I'm going to head back into that bathroom and get ready for our evening together. Oh, and you'd better please me, John, because if you don't I'm going to kill you...and there are myriad long and painful ways I can think of to do that. I'll have fun whichever option you choose, but I guarantee only one of them has any chance of providing you with pleasure.'

'That'd be death, right?' he quipped.

Her gaze turned hard. Her hand slipped down to his jaw and her fingers sank through the flesh, pulling open his mouth until she could force her tongue halfway down his throat in a reaching kiss. It was as agonising as it was invasive, and all he could do was sit there until it was over. She sucked long and hard on his tongue until it hurt, then eventually pulled back with a satisfied smile. 'That's right...if you're lucky. Now don't you go anywhere, will you?'

She evaporated back to the bathroom, the door still ajar from their earlier passage through it. Sheppard couldn't see anything because his back was to it, but he could hear her, humming happily as she preened.

He was about to be eaten for breakfast, quite possibly literally, and she was singing some kind of Medulsan ditty, leaving him tied up with a terminally ill paedophile he'd spent most of his life wanting to beat the crap out of. This was beginning to rank up there in the top ten worst days of his life...someone up there really had it in for him.

A/N: Well...I said it before, but I think it bears saying again. Uh, oh! I hope you enjoyed the update. More tomorrow! :)