Hello, my Wicked Ones.

This chapter has a MASSIVE violence warning. It contains torture and references to child abuse. PLEASE proceed with caution.

Thank you to my BOMB beta, Fran S. Sunflower and to my lovely pre-reader, PearlyFox, who also handles the French translation.

Last week...

"What?" I bark.

Rose comes in, also showered and cleaned up, though she didn't have a trace of blood on her. "Here is what we got from the Judge's house," she says, slipping the file onto my desk. I take it, not yet opening it.

"Did you talk to Turner?" I demand.

Rose nods. "He's already on it. The coroner's report will reflect a suicide."

I let out a tight breath. "Good." Rose hesitates, and I look up at her. "What?"

"There is a man on the Judge's list," she says slowly. I look at her closely. I've known Rose for two years now. She came to us broken, angry, and bloodthirsty, like many of the women who have since joined. She has been phenomenally reliable since. "I would like to take him."

I look down at the file. There are so many people on this list; I'm going to have to assign teams to sort through it. I tap the file once before picking it up and holding it out to her. Rose frowns slightly, accepting the folder. "Run this," I tell her. "Assign the teams you need. Then, deliver the punishments you find fitting." It's the closest I'll get to telling her I trust her, and she seems to know because she swallows and nods slowly.

"I'll take care of it," she says confidently. I know she will.

VI

La Poire d'Angoisse

Edward

l'Homme en bon santé ne torture pas les autres. Généralement, les torture deviennent des martyrs.

Operations inside La Cathédrale are more thorough than I could have possibly dreamed. I've seen the bare surface of what goes on here, but it's already more than anyone on the force could have imagined.

Isabelle is a machine; cold, precise, and highly efficient. She runs the mechanisms of this operation seamlessly. Everyone has a role, has a place, and they all fall into line unquestioningly.

I've been inside La Cathédrale for three days now, and aside from the drug deal I went on with Jasper my first night, nothing has been asked of me. To my surprise, after successfully completing the run with Jasper and his team, I was offered a room on the grounds. Not everyone who works for Isabelle lives in the compound, but there are apartments set up in the South Square for those who choose to.

The room I've been given is small but clean. It looks like a refurbished monk's cell, and I wonder if that's what, in fact, it might be. There is a communal space for cooking and lounging, and I'm told I have access to the Ring anytime I need it.

Isabelle's ghost organization is like joining some sort of highly organized cult. People shed past lives at the door, take a new name and a new identity to do her bidding.

What's more, she's done a phenomenal job at keeping it all low profile. After going with Jasper on his run, I realized that many small groups the police are aware of could actually be traced back to Isabelle. I need to know just how big this operation of hers truly is. It's become an itch I can't quite scratch.

I've seen plenty of illegal things, but nothing worth anything yet. I need to be patient, play smart. It takes all my strength to fight my natural curiosity and explore La Cathédrale, to uncover what secrets may lie in those ancient stone walls.

The courtyard that spans between the South Square and the Cathedral is empty as I emerge from my room. It's early, just past four in the morning, but I can't sleep. My plan is to work out in the Ring for a while before hunting down Jasper. I need something to do.

My footsteps are near-silent across the cobblestone courtyard, and I work on lightening my step, trying to push myself to be even quieter. It's a game I've played with myself since I was a child, to see how quiet, how invisible, I could become.

I'm nearly across the courtyard when movement out of the corner of my eye catches my attention. I freeze, my head whipping to the right to take in the petite girl sitting on a stone bench. Her feet are folded up under her, despite the thick boots she's wearing. Her skinny legs are clad in black denim, one frayed hole in her left knee that looks like it's been torn from use, not fashion. She's wearing a black leather jacket, and her short black fingernails are tapping against a tablet in her lap.

When she feels eyes on her, she pauses, looking up. Her hair is dark, mid-length, and tucked into the collar of her jacket. She looks young, way too fucking young to be hanging out in the center of one of the biggest crime rings in the city, possibly the state.

Her blue eyes are trained on me, and I watch her, waiting for her reaction.

Finally, she smiles. "You're the new kid, right?"

I snort. "I think I'm quite a bit older than you," I say dryly. Something about her puts me at ease. She's less guarded than anyone I've met here so far.

She grins, and I find it doesn't annoy me. She turns to tap on her tablet, then glances up at me. "Edward Masen, born June 20, 1989, to Elizabeth and Edward Masen Sr. Only child, oh look," she pauses, glancing up at me. "You were on the track team in high school."

I try not to show how surprised I am. She's good. Too fucking good. She's got every early detail of my undercover identity.

When I don't respond, she nods and looks back at the tablet. "Some trouble in school got kicked off track for fighting. Arrests for shoplifting and oh, look, more fights," she looks up at me again, her eyes narrowing. "Short temper?"

I snort. "Just a fat head."

Her lips twitch. "Drugs, bar fights, public intoxication, a concealed weapon charge… my, my Mr. Masen, that's quite a rap sheet."

I watch her, my mind racing, trying to make sure I'm keeping up with her accusations. "I've never been arrested for public intoxication."

She grins, and I know I've passed some sort of test.

"You seem to know a lot."

She shrugs. "That's what I do."

I wonder how old she is. She's tiny, and that makes her long younger, as do her large round eyes.

"What do I call you?" I know better than to ask for names here; even if people told me outright, I know it's likely a lie.

She grins. "Why, don't you know? I'm Alice who fell into Wonderland."

I eye her. She's clever, I can see that, and something tells me she's much tougher than she looks. "I don't know about that," I say finally. Her head tilts to the side. "Something tells me you're the white rabbit."

Her eyes sparkle with her amusement, and I can see her lips twitch wider. "Luring people to chaos? Yeah, I like that." I smirk. "Now that you've landed in Wonderland, Mr. Masen, what are you going to do?"

My body stays still, despite the anxious energy I'm dying to expel. "Something mad, I suppose."

Her smile is wide, and for a moment, I wonder if I've misjudged her. Perhaps she's the Cheshire cat. "Wise decision," she says, shifting her tablet on her lap. "We're all mad here."

I smile just a little. She's cryptic, but I've enjoyed this conversation. She's brought me a small moment of normality that I hadn't realized I needed. "I'll see you later, Bunny."

I turn to head toward the Ring. "See you around, Mad Hatter!"

I glance back at her, shooting her an unguarded smile. Her grin is impish, almost childish, as I head back toward the main building.

I feel lighter when I head down to the Ring. I'm still guarded, but I didn't realize how badly I'd needed conversation. It had been cryptic as hell and no less threatening than most of my conversations, but it also hadn't been tense.

Felix is in the Ring when I get down there, and he gives me a nod of respect. We've both been trying to take it easier in the Ring, not wanting the injuries we sustained in our fight to become anything serious. But whenever we're both down there, Felix is open, friendly even. I've earned his respect, and he's earned mine.

We work out together, practicing a few drills and swapping techniques. He's still a fast fucker, and we talk about the move I'd made to get out from under him. The move that had saved my life, really.

It's a good workout, and the endorphins hit me as I'm sweating, making me feel even better. The mood I'm in can almost be called good by the time I'm done in the ring.

"Masen!"

My easiness evaporates when I see Jasper watching me from the shadows, just beyond the workout arena. I mop up my sweat and head toward him, forcing myself to put on the cocky exterior of Edward Masen.

Jasper is dressed in another dark suit today, though he somehow still manages to look casual in it. I stop in front of him, offering him a cocky smile. "Sir?" My tone is irritating to my ears, and I would never fucking dare talk to a superior that way, but Edward Masen is sometimes a shit, and I need to keep up with him.

Jasper smirks. "I hope you're ready to work," he says, eyes narrowing slightly as he looks over me. "We've got a run tonight."

I have to stop myself from looking relieved. "I'm always ready."

"Ten o'clock by the South Gate. Don't be late." I nod once, and he smirks at me before turning around and heading out of the Ring. "Oh, and Masen." I look up at him as he turns back to me. "I hope it's clear that this isn't some Girl Scout fundraising campaign. Come fully loaded."

I nod to him, and he turns to leave. I suck in a deep breath, relieved. Finally, I'm going to get another chance to get out there.

…

After showering, changing, and eating, I have nearly the whole day to kill, so I head toward the main compound. I should be resting for whatever is happening tonight, but, in reality, I can run ops on almost no sleep and be fine, and I want these daylight hours to explore.

A lot of people around the compound are nocturnal. It's not surprising, as most of their activity would happen at night, so the compound is nearly silent at midmorning.

There are only a few places I can go without drawing unwanted attention to myself, so I stick to those areas, trying to gather whatever details I can about La Cathédrale.

It takes me almost no time to pace the same rooms twice, and I don't want to be caught lingering anywhere specific, so having nowhere else to go, I head to the heart of La Cathédrale.

The sanctuary is old, massive, and perfectly restored. I haven't yet spent much time inside, simply because it seemed to be the least important room in the compound.

The heavy oak doors creak open with a slight whisper as I pull one back enough to slip inside.

As soon as the door shuts behind me, it's like I've gone back in time. Though I'd expect the stone walls of the sanctuary to be dark with age, they're light, polished lovingly, devotionally.

The stained glass windows above cast rainbows into the room that glitter against the highly polished wooden pews.

The air is heavy with the scent of stone dust and beeswax, and no matter how silent I am, my feet scrape against the stone floor, sending a soft echo through the vaulted ceilings.

On the dais in the front of the sanctuary is an altar with a few lit candles, and I head toward it, curious. I'm not religious; no one in my family ever was. The ceremony of these candles is lost on me, and I spend the walk up toward them wondering what they're for.

The scent of beeswax grows stronger when I reach the altar, and I look over the space, curious.

There are at least one hundred candles up here, but only a handful are lit.

I ponder the randomness of the candles when a soft voice meets my ears. I look up to my right, instantly curious at the murmured words I can now hear. I can't make out anything being said, and I take a silent step to my right.

Two more steps and I stop abruptly, finding Isabelle perched on her knees on the stone floor before a statue of a woman. She looks somewhat familiar, but for the life of me, I can't place her.

Isabelle hasn't seen me yet, and I hesitate. It seems unwise to sneak up on her, especially when she's on her knees. Is she praying?

The vulnerability of this moment catches me off guard. I don't know if I want to see her like this.

Her head is bowed, back perfectly straight as she murmurs to the statue's feet. Her stance is reverent, and it's like a punch to the gut.

Seeing her like this, exposed and with her guard down, is like a punch to the gut. Because I realize no matter how terrifying she is, she's just a woman, maybe even younger than me. A woman with unknown power, but a woman, nonetheless. She is not a demon; she's human.

I want to leave, want to flee the cathedral before she sees me before she knows I've seen her, like this.

I cannot bring myself to move. Now that she's not holding my life in her hands, it's easier to recognize how tempting she is. Not just in appearance, though she is certainly beautiful. Isabelle represents everything I've worked to fight against in my career. She's it, the head of the serpent, and it would be all too easy to pick up this small woman and take her into custody.

The things this woman must know…

Her voice shifts slightly, and I catch an errant word. She's praying… in French?

The more I learn about this woman, the more confused I become.

The sound of the door opening breaks me out of my thoughts, and I look up in time to see someone coming in. Panicked, I move quickly, climbing up the dais and hiding behind a large vase, praying no one saw me.

I hold my breath as I listen to the newcomer coming into the cathedral.

"Isabelle."

I glance around the edge of the vase to see a blonde woman I've not yet met, though I've seen around. Isabelle breaks out of her prayer and gets to her feet. She's graceful, despite the stiffness she must be feeling and the restriction of both her tight skirt and her sky-high heels.

The blonde is closer to her now and says something that has Isabelle nodding.

"I'll be there shortly."

The blonde nods, understanding she's been dismissed, and heads back out of the sanctuary. Isabelle watches her go, her spine stiff. When the door shuts again behind her, Isabelle turns back to the statue.

"Protégez-la, Saint Isabelle."

I don't know what it is, she says, but she crosses herself and takes a deep breath before turning on her heel and stalking out of the cathedral. By the time she hits those doors, she is all business once more.

I sit behind the vase for a while longer, trying to puzzle together the mystery that is Isabelle.

-V-

I thought I was going to go on another drug run with Jasper. The last one was too small to be that important in the grand scheme of things, and I'm desperate to get more activity to report.

I arrive at the South Gate twenty minutes early, and I'm surprised when the girl, Alice, shows up a few minutes later.

"We meet again, Mad Hatter," she says, a smile on her lips. Her hands are shoved into the pockets of her leather jacket, and she's got a messenger bag slung across her body.

"Bunny," I acknowledge. She grins. "You coming with?"

She smirks. "Gotta have someone to keep you all out of trouble, right?"

I'm not sure what that means, what her role is exactly, but at that moment, Jasper appears. He looks at Bunny and gives her a slight nod before he turns to me.

"You ready?" Like I'd fucking be here if I weren't. When I don't respond verbally, he nods. "Let's go."

Jasper drives, and Bunny sits up front, leaving me in the back seat of the SUV. I wonder where we are going, but I don't dare ask. Even though Jasper is much less threatening than Isabelle, he's still deadly.

Jasper drives us to a suburban neighborhood, and I recognize it almost instantly. I grew up four blocks down.

I swallow past the dryness in my throat as Jasper parks in an alley behind a row of houses. "This one," he says, pointing to a chain-link gate. "Alice?"

She nods, pulling a laptop out of her bag. "Yup. That's the one. Mark Gelson, forty-one, single. No security system, but it looks like he owns a shotgun," she pauses, glancing back at me. "So don't get shot."

I frown. "What exactly am I doing?"

Jasper turns to me and grins. "You're going to go in there, rip that son of a bitch out of bed, and bring him back here to the truck. I'd prefer him bound and gagged. Consciousness is up to you."

I stare at him, stunned. I'm going to kidnap someone?

I hesitate too long because Jasper's eyes start to narrow. "Is there a problem?"

I clear my throat, forcing myself to get my shit together. "No. Do I need to leave no trace, or can I just barrel in?"

Jasper looks pleased with my question. "We do often try to be as subtle as possible, but if you need to barrel then…" He lets his voice trail off, and I can fucking hear his challenge. I nod, throwing the back door of the SUV open. I climb out and hear the soft whirr of Jasper's window as it rolls down. "Here," he says, handing me a pair of leather gloves and some rope. "Since you didn't come prepared."

I pull my own pair of leather gloves out of my pocket and put them on as he watches, looking amused. When they're on, I shake my head at the tape. I'll make do with something in the house. "Anything else?" I grunt. Jasper looks so fucking amused. He grins and shakes his head. I nod once and turn, heading toward the back gate.

It's unlocked, and easy enough to slip in without making too much noise. Once I'm through the gate, I'm out of sight of Jasper. The gate leads me on a path through the overgrown backyard. Weeds break through the crumbling concrete path, and I stop when I see there's a door to the disconnected garage. It's unlocked, and I slip inside, surprised and happy when I find duct tape. It's faster than rope, anyway.

I grab it and head to the house.

I'm not sure what this man has done, what sort of money he must owe to Isabelle, but whatever it is, it must be bad.

I try to reassure myself that he's probably scum, probably has a record, and that's why he's being hauled in. He'll get interrogated, at worst, roughed up a bit, and then I'll be able to return him home and make sure someone is here to check on his injuries in the morning.

Mark Gelson will be fine.

I have a lock picking kit I almost always keep in my pocket, and when I get to his back door, I slip it out. It's a simple lock, and there's not even a deadbolt or chain, making my entry into his house much too easy.

Inside is disgusting. Dishes and trash are piled up, and there is a massive pile of beer cans and tequila bottles piled up in the kitchen. It smells like stale cigarettes and bust, and I hold my breath as I move further into the house.

It's a single story, and it looks like Gelson lives here alone, though there is evidence that a child was once here as well.

I don't have to go far to find Gelson. He's passed out in a recliner; beer still clutched in one hand as the TV blares in front of him. He's a big guy; it'll be easier to get him to the truck if he's not dead weight, but I want him to be quiet, and he doesn't seem like a man that would go quietly.

I consider my options as he snores in the recliner.

Fuck.

I reach for my gun, and position myself behind him. I bring the butt down, hitting him just in the right spot on his head. His snoring stops abruptly, and he slumps further into his chair.

I work quickly, binding his arms and legs and securing tape over his mouth. When he's secure, I squat in front of him, hoisting him over my shoulder. I'm strong, but he's a big man and dead weight, and I struggle to secure him on my shoulder. It occurs to me, and not for the first time tonight, that this is all part of a test. It's what keeps pushing me forward.

Somehow, I get Gelson out of his house, across the yard, and through the gate. The SUV's trunk is open, and I flop him down in the back before climbing in with him and shutting the door. I glance up at Jasper and Bunny up front. They're both watchin me with wide, surprised eyes.

"Are we going to hang out here all night?" I demand.

Jasper snorts and starts up the truck, pulling out of the alley before I can say anything else. Bunny is still looking at me, surprise clear on her face. I shoot her a small, stiff smile before I turn to focus on Gelson. I keep my gun in my hands in case he wakes up and I need to threaten him into submission.

-V-

When we get back to the compound, three men are waiting to help me carry Gelson. They whisk him inside while Jasper pulls me aside. I look at him, surprised. I don't expect him to say anything kind or positive to me, and I can't imagine why he wants to talk to me.

"I want you to come with me," he says, motioning with his head toward the compound. I nod and follow when he turns. He leads me to a door that has always been locked whenever I try to enter it. It's unlocked tonight, and he pulls it open to a flight of stairs. We descend under the compound, the sound of our boots heavy on the concrete stairs.

"This isn't my idea," Jasper says after a minute. He glances back at me as he hits a landing, and I frown at him. "Isabelle wants you in there," he pauses, considering his words. "I don't trust you, but I like you. I want you to live through this night." He says it so casually, I wonder what could possibly be waiting for me at the end of the hallway.

I look at him. His blue eyes are usually amused, but they are serious now, which puts me on edge. "I don't plan to die," I tell him finally.

He shrugs.

"That may be up to you," he concedes. "Just stay sharp, pay attention, and whatever you do, don't flinch."

With the warning, he turns and opens the vaulted door before us.

I realize almost immediately where we are, and my stomach rolls. I had no idea there were prison cells under the great cathedral.

Jasper moves past the empty cells without any apparent cares in the world. I follow, nervous about where this might lead.

We approach a metal door, and Jasper stops to look at me. He doesn't say anything, but his look tells me what I need to know. Brace yourself.

I nod to him once, and he pulls the door open.

Inside, Mark Gelson is being chained up from a rig on the ceiling. Isabelle stands before him; her head tilted slightly as she eyes the man. She looks up when she hears the door open, and for a brief moment, our eyes meet. I know instantly she has no idea I was in the cathedral earlier, and my relief is immediate but fleeting.

Isabelle turns back to Gelson, who is slowly coming too, his awareness dawning as his eyes fill with panic, and he tugs on the chains above his head. Every time he pulls, the chains seem to grow tighter until he's strung up so tight, he's on his toes.

Beside me, Jasper lets out a low breath but shows no outward signs that he's uncomfortable.

My gaze shifts to Isabelle. She's dressed in all black, and for the first time, I see her closer to her true height as she's in boots rather than heels. She's so small, but even her tiny size cannot diminish how threatening she is.

The blonde woman from earlier stands behind her, her eyes narrowed as she glares at Gelson. She doesn't command the authority Isabelle does, but I can see she's just as dangerous.

Isabelle motions for the room to clear. Jasper stands still, as does the blonde. I stay rooted as well, following Jasper's lead.

Isabelle turns her focus on Gelson.

"Mark Gelson," she says, her voice cool and deadly. It doesn't reverberate around the room as I expect it to, and I realize the walls are padded, soundproofed.

Shit.

Gelson stares at Isabelle, his eyes wide, terrified. "Mark Gelson was accused of five counts of statutory rape when I dismissed his case. He is a preferential offender and has abducted at least five children that we know of. I was paid seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars to dismiss his case." Isabelle speaks as if she's reciting something, and Gelson's eyes widen. My gaze travels to the man, and my disgust triples, though I know no matter how bad he is, he doesn't deserve this. He deserves the law, and the families he's hurt deserve justice. "That was directly from the suicide confession of Sandra Morales," she tells him, her voice turning arctic. "You have escaped their law, but now," Isabelle pauses, taking a step toward him. "Now, you are under my law. I am your judge, jury…" she holds up a knife, slicing short, shallow cuts across his forearms. He winces, trying to get away from her, but he's trussed up too tightly, and all it does is force him higher as his bindings cinch. "And executioner."

Isabelle turns from the man, and I watch her move to the wall behind her. I hadn't noticed when I came in, but it's covered in wicked-looking devices. Some I recognize, most I don't. She tosses her knife down onto a tray, and turns to the wall, trying to select the right implement. She looks like a surgeon, selecting the right tool for an operation.

I want to look at Jasper or even the blonde woman, but I don't dare take my eyes off her.

She reaches up to the wall, pulling an implement from a hook, and turns back to Gelson. "Do you know what this is?" She holds up a curved, bulbous device that I vaguely recognize as medieval. She rolls it between her hands. "This is called a pear of anguish," she says lightly. Her casual tone is deceptive; she is a cobra, waiting to strike. "It's medieval, and scholars still debate whether it was ever truly used as a device of torture," she pauses, looking up at Gelson. "But I have found it to be quite effective."

Gelson looks like he's going to pass out, and I have to take careful, even breaths as I watch her work. I'm horrified at the prospect of what she will do to him, but as horrific as it is, I can't look away. It feels disgusting to describe her as masterful, but at this moment, she is.

She steps toward Gelson and reaches up, ripping the tape from his mouth. He screams, and she slaps him so he shuts up. He's got tears and snot sliding down his face, and when his mouth is free, he starts blubbering. "P-please," he cries. "L-let me go-o." He can barely get through a single word without whimpering.

"Who paid the judge for you?" Isabelle's tone is cold, unforgiving and Gelson sobs.

"Aro Passon," he sobs. Isabelle's spine stiffens, and even I find myself leaning forward, intrigued. Aro Passon? What does he have to do with anything? Beside me, Jasper shifts on his feet and the blonde woman across the room glances between Gelson and Isabelle

"Why?" Isabelle demands.

"It's a d-deal we made," he sobs. "I t-take kid-ds for him, and h-he lets me k-keep the ones t-that are m-my t-type."

I'm sick to my stomach at this revelation, and Isabelle hisses.

She steps back, pulling a thin black remote from her pocket. I wonder what she's about to do when she clicks it, and Gelson lets out a terrible scream, his whole body convulsing. I can hear the snap and whine of electricity as she shocks him, again and again.

She stops, eyes cold as she stares at him. He's sobbing now, but it seems to only further anger her. She tosses the pear of anguish down on her tray before turning back to Gelson. "Jasper," she snaps. Jasper glances at me and motions for me to follow. We approach Gelson, and I realize as we get closer that he's pissed himself.

I do my best to ignore him and follow Jasper's silent directions.

Gelson's restraints are built into an intricate system on the ceiling, and Jasper and I manipulate the gears until he's lowered slightly. I wonder if this will be it, if he'll be taken home, but then Jasper grabs a wooden bench and shoves Gelson over it.

I follow Jasper's movements and bind Gelson to the bench, so his back is exposed, his ass facing Isabelle.

I know what's coming, and I start shutting myself off to deal with it.

Isabelle does, in fact, know how to use the pear of anguish. Once Gelson is in position, she slices his pants from him, cutting him in the process.

Even muted by the sound walls, I will never forget the sound of his screams as she shoved the pear of anguish inside him, bringing her booted foot up to shove it all the way in. I won't forget the stench as he shits himself while she turned the screw, spreading the pear wider, nor the look on his face as he passed out from the pain, only to be brought back to consciousness when Isabelle electrocuted him again.

I disassociate as she works, but I can't escape completely, and the wretched details of Mark Gelson's torture leak into me, staining my soul.

Isabelle is merciless, twisting the pear further, pausing to filet skin off his back in between turns of the screw. The sounds he makes are inhuman, but she does not flinch, does not slow down.

Gone is the vulnerable woman praying to a saint in the Cathedral this afternoon.

She is savage, wild, horrifying vengeance, and she has come for her pound of flesh.

Whew, okay, did we all make it? This story is so much darker than anything I've written before. It has been brutal, but also a phenomenal challenge to write.

If you are looking for a little bit of fluffy humor to lighten your mood, check out my other story Lockdown if you haven't already. Spoiler alert, some major zest is about to drop over there!

Translations:

1. La Poire d'Angoisse - The Pear of Anguish (French)

2. l'Homme en bon santé ne torture pas les autres. Généralement, les torture deviennent des martyrs. - The healthy man does not torture others – generally, it is the tortured who turn into torturers. (French)

3. Protégez-la, Saint Isabelle - Protect her, Saint Isabelle. (French)