This section contains some explicit sex and implicit acts; censor yourself accordingly.

In the course of my torment and my degradation, it all came back to me in bits and pieces. The images and sensations were, at first, unfocused and disjointed. There was naught to do, however, but turn inward and pick at the fractured shards of memory upon the floor, lest I dwell upon the impossible burdens thrust upon me.

My own body made a stranger to me, I was enslaved and hobbled. I was forced to suffer as I never knew a man to suffer. Had I been branded and forced to work the fields of Avalon, at least this I might have conceived. It would have been an irony of biblical proportions. A slave owner made slave; my shame might have been well equal to the crime then.

But, I shall not dwell. I shall not dwell upon my fate.

Instead, I turn my eyes in silent prayer, through the slatted timbers and send a prayer to a distant god for my Pamela and our newborn child. I pray that they should never know my fate, nor hate me for abandoning them, nor realize the secret shades that move amongst we mere mortals.

But night falls and eventually prayers come to an end. I stand lonesome in the dark, abandoned by all but my tormentors. I have no hope, for my punishment shall be eternal. I have no voice to give confession or to recant my sins; should I die here as I am I will surely burn in Hell.

My fate, then, is to ever dwell in Hell, on this Earthly plane or another. I am both a plaything of the Devil now, and it should not matter if his hands are as hot as coals or cold as an empty grave.

It should not matter, but it did to Naomi.

And even a woman enslaved in a Hell of her own choosing has needs.

***

We stumbled from the stall with the colt to its neighbor and immediately fell upon the wooden floor. Our hands slid upon each other; hers under my garments with wild abandon and mine across her silky ebony skin.

Her breath was hot and moist, sour with the taste of fish. Her probing tongue painted my teeth with her taste even as her nails raked my back. Her aggression caught me off guard and I found myself quite pleased with the situation. She led and I could do nothing but follow.

She took me between her fingers again. There were no oils here to lubricate the flesh, but the gentleness was gone also. With several viciously rapid squeezes, she mashed my testicles together as I gasped for air. There was no pain, but the shock and the expectation threw me from myself for but a moment.

Nimble fingers kneaded tender flesh in the darkness and I found myself growing more and more still, just as I had in the bath. My movements were too clumsy and with my limbs out of the way, my dark conqueror began her attack in earnest.

I was mounted and pulled with a manic zeal. Then my fleshy sword was sheathed in her hot, silken flesh, and I surrendered myself to her. Her hands upon my mysteriously naked chest held me down as she fell upon me like the breaking tide; a steady rhythm of rising and falling as undeniable as the sea itself. My lungs were forced to match the crests of each wave of pleasure, until finally I felt my hips buck, begging for release.

Pleasure and pain mixed as never before as Naomi reached beneath her and put an end to my body's foolish greed. I saw stars in the darkness and my nails planed curls of shavings from the floor, but I was frozen on the cusp of release. I was ready to scream. I was ready to cry. I was ready to do whatever she wanted of me, for I could not stay limbo such as this no matter how delicious.

I do not recall the words I used to beg for a word from her, for some hint of what I might do to please her. It might just be that she understood my strangled cry for what it was. Yet, it might also be that she did not care for what I had to say. For all I know, I was but an unwitting actor in some theatre of sin within her mind with scripted lines and choreographed movements.

Before I knew what I was doing, my head was between her legs and my tongue tasting of fish once more. Black fingers gripped tightly my head by my hairs and guided me firmly where I needed to go. My hands gripped her knees as my nose raked her bristle patch at her urging.

She spoke words then, her native tongue no doubt for I could make no sense of them. I caught the words, "hot" and "warm," but not much else, until she began to chant yes, yes, yes. I was bewildered to be capable of bringing her such please, although I know I was but a tool.

And, to think, it was I who thought to use her.

Her hips shot up suddenly, nearly causing me to bite my tongue in twain. The taste of blood was on my lips but a second before she pressed her face once more into mine.

She appeared sated but for a moment. The blood seemed to have reawakened her hunger once more and she pulled me beneath her like the relentless sea.

My body was but a vessel upon the great sea of her desire. Her swells and squalls would have swamped any ship. Finally, with the roar of the ocean, my hull burst open and my cargo spilled out from within.

I fell to the ground, stupefied that I had been standing at all. To this day, I cannot recall when I had gotten off my backside or when Naomi had wandered away. She was gone and I felt incomplete with her.

I simply lay there for awhile as I pondered the simplest truth of them all:

I could buy her.

***

With these mad plans of somehow buying Naomi from Herne bouncing about my head, I made my way back to the main house. My knees were weak and my back burned from Naomi's spirited scratches, but I was now sure I could sleep without nightmare.

My only fear now was that I should not awaken at all. Should I be forced to meet St. Peter at the Gate, I would not be able to look him in the eye and repent. Regret would come in its own due time, I was sure of it.

I just did not know how right I was nor how that regret should manifest itself.

The carriage had not yet returned with the Hernes and it seemed in this wing, at least, there were no others in the manse. Secured against awkward questions, I was able to climb the steps to the wash room and let myself at cleaning myself of straw and dust. As tired as I was, I did not wish to sleep with the smells of that stall clinging to me.

I stared at the moonlit landscape about as I sprinkled rose water into my skin. To the east, one could see easily the ocean and the road to town. To the north and the west, one could acres of plowed land, waiting for seed to take root. Beyond that mountains.

To the south was Avalon, my host's home; quite nearly a palace. Though unused to such wealth, I can honestly say I had not coveted the holdings of Merlin Herne. Yet, having partaken what Naomi had to offer and standing at his giant baptismal beneath an unbelievable wealth of glass, I felt the stirrings of a great jealousy burning beneath my skin.

Sleep beckoned me like the sirens of myth and, having replaced my soiled clothes with my nightshirt once more, I could see no reason to resist further. There would be time enough in the morning to figure out how I might buy my dark temptress as if she were but a horse. Time enough in the morning to face facts, but I refused to think on that.

Yet, as I lumbered off to bed, I heard a crash and muffled angry words from the flight below. Had either of the Hernes returned since I entered the house, I should have seen their carriage riding up the moonlit road. I quickly glimpsed out my own bedroom window, which had an excellent view of the sideyard. Neither stable nor carriage house showed signs of having been stirred. Certainly, Mr. Herne's horsemen would not put his teamsters away hot and bothered.

Bandits, then.

I toss my rags away and arm myself with my wheelock horse pistol. I hesitate for a moment, considering arming myself with a sword instead. From the voices I had heard, there were more than one and should I be fortunate enough to take out one, the second is like as not to turn the tables upon me before I can reload.

Lord forbid that there should be a third.

But, I realized if I thought so cravenly I ought to simply lock myself in my room into the danger has passed, for I have no sword upon me. More to the point, I have already given into lust tonight, I shan't give into fear. Only one character flaw a day was I willing to accept.

I steeled myself and set about a stealthy descent. My German pistol was quite nearly a cubit in length. If needed, I could easily find use for it as a bludgeon. While I was not the muscled young man Herne's nephew was, I would give a good accounting of myself.

The stairs creaked once or twice, but the voices hardly seemed to take note. As I grew closer to the bottom landing the voices seemed to shift and soften slowly from argumentative to the stout, diplomatic bargaining of gentlemen who felt grossly put upon.

The voices seemed to be coming from Herne's drawing room, and, indeed, flickering lights suggested the informal office was brightly lit. The boldest bandits might light a candle or lantern, but a fire and several lit lamps of perfumed whale oil? That seemed unlikely.

Yes, I thought, very unlikely. I crept closer and I made out the voice of Merlin Herne. Ah, the master of the house has returned, although I could not understand at the time how he might have done so. I was sure I would have seen or heard him, but apparently not.

I was ready to relax, for surely the other voice was that of his nephew. At this late hour, their family bickering was not my concern nor of great import... unless, of course, something of a sinister and mysterious revelation had been dredged up from the broken body of the White Lady.

I eased closer to the door of the drawing room and came upon a neighboring door that was slightly ajar. Thoughts flittered through my head, not the least of which was the cover the door might provide to me should either of the Hernes step out into the hall.

It wasn't that I didn't trust them. Indeed, Merlin Herne's reputation was impeccable. But, those odd bones had left me unsettled on the truth of the matter and I could no longer accept the integrity of the whole enterprise on merely his say so. Contraband and tax evasion were serious enough crimes against the crown, but I suspect something more complex at play.

Of course, I had to admit to myself, as I slipped into the closet, I rather hoped that there was indeed something I could unearth and hold over Merlin Herne's head.

Blackmail might succeed in liberating the Negress from Herne's cold hands where my limited supply of gold and silver could not. I couldn't but help recall the look in Herne's eyes as Naomi poured his water ever so slowly. It would have to be a startling and disturbing bit of information to loosen his hold, I should think. And as a business partner, no matter how junior, I had a right to discover if there is anything unsavory about my partner's character.

Of course, Herne might never have bedded the chesty temptress and that is what Naomi meant by his cold hands.

I strained to listen to the voices and after several seconds of my spying thusly I began to hear the voices quite clearly. It was indeed Merlin Herne in there, but the second voice was not Jared.

"I tell you, Stag," the smooth strange voice said, "You cannot stand neutral forever. If this new sect gets a beachhead in the Americas..."

"The Sabbath is of no threat to the Inconnu, and that is where my concerns begin and end." Herne replied cryptically. "In this New World with its black race of slaves and red-skinned savages, there should be room for the children of both the major sects... a cattle breed of human living along side a nurtured bred of humans who live free to strive and create to their heart's content."

"The Camarilla is NOT a mere sect, Stag, just as you are not the Elder you claim to be. There are those who say you are nothing but an Autarkis and that your tales of the New World Inconnu a fiction to cover your cowardice."

"Cowardice, Wendell? By the traditions of the Camarilla itself, I could call myself Prince of Virginia. I have proven myself to both Prince Arnold and your sire." Herne said, so quietly that I could almost not hear him at all with my ear pressed against the wall as it was. Still, there was something about the timbre of his voice that frightened me greatly. "Are you so willing to test me, childe, when your sire would not?"

There was a moment of silence, and then, "You are correct, my Lord Stag, I do not want to test you. Nor did I willing mean to test the limits of your graciousness and hospitality. You must understand, I have only the highest admiration for a--"

"Please, now you are beginning to sound like an annoying Ravenos." Herne grumbled. "I beg you, again, to speak plainly. Just speak respectfully as well."

I knew nothing of what Herne spoke of. In all the civilized world, there was no Prince Arnold, unless it was in Denmark. My education is lacking on events in that part of Europe. What was a sabbath or a autarkis for that matter?

"You do not need me to tell you this is the skull of a Gangrel. Notice how the ear holes are shifted upwards, almost two inches higher than they should be."

"Do not forget," Herne chided him softly for reasons I didn't quite understand, but I was growing used to that. "The power of Vicissitude the betrayers of my clan possess may render flesh like clay... ah, but you know that... This is but the opening move in your bargaining gambit, is it not?"

"You have already negotiated with my sire, my Lord Stag, have you not?"

I think I heard Herne sigh, or perhaps it was just the sound of a man's weight resting upon a chair. It would have been a loud sigh for me to hear it. "Speak plainly, Wendell, for the night grows short and the Wild Things of Avalon will only tolerate visiting Kindred for a short time."

"Very well, then. I am sworn to provide the service my sire promised, of course, but for a small boon from you in the near future, I would offer you a more detailed 'reading' than my sire should like."

"How very enterprising of you, Wendell. Did your sire suggest that I might be more trusting of you if you were to casually suggest that you had every expectation that I shall be around in the future should you decide to request your favour returned?"

"My Lord, I--"

"Never mind, Wendell, I have spent the better part of the night playing word games with a pooka and I am mind weary. What is the favor you want from me?"

"Lord Stag... a pooka?"

"A figure of speech, Wendell," Herne said and I could almost hear the sparkle that I knew would be in his eyes. "It was hardly the better part. Simply the longest part."

Then suddenly, a voice behind me. "I heard that." I spun about, but suddenly, hairy arms were twined about me and my mouth was covered with a huge dirty paw like hand. I froze as the large brute hushed in my ears. "You wanted to listen, Penrod? Don't try to speak, just nod."

I nodded, of course. The voice belonged to Jared, but this hulking mass could not be the slightly smaller version of the man in the next room. Then, before I could realize my mistake, my head was pushed roughly against the wall, ear first. Then the man's ogre head, pressed against mine as if absurdly expecting to hear what I heard.

In these tight quarters, my wheelock would serve me not. If only I had thought to bring a knife. I had come hoping to find something to hold over Herne and now I find myself at the mercy of some brute who could hold my eavesdropping over my head at best.

I despise irony.

Once the shock of this odd turn of events began to pass and I realized I was in no immediate physical danger, it occurred to me that this man might be in the employ of Herne's late night visitor. If that were the case, I might be able to play along and somehow stay in Merlin Herne's good graces. It is possible, that in the darkness, the man may have mistaken me for a Negro. If only he hadn't called me Penrod... but perhaps I imagined that?

The smell of some dreadful musk filled the closet, making my eyes water slightly. The cool trail of a single tear down my face in the darkness induced a sudden feeling of panic within me. I bucked, but my captor's grip was like a vise.

My single tear, from the stench of the man more than from my own fear, fell upon one of his thick fingers covering my mouth. I could feel the tear run along the crevice between my cheek and his fingers. My shame burned as I felt his cheek rise up against mine and I realized the bastard was smiling.

I commanded myself to be still and silent, to give this hulking creature no more satisfaction at the situation I found myself in.

I could hear Herne speaking again and I forced myself to concentrate on his words. In the darkness, I could concentrate on listening or I could dwell on the smells and sensation of being embraced so by this beast. Since my unwelcome companion seemed more intent to listen than to abuse me, I too decided to listen in hopes of better understanding my predicament. Yet, I was all too aware that a silent dagger in the dark could bring an end to me easily.

Perhaps this is why none of the words made sense to me.

"... none of these bones belong to a Toreador?" Herne was saying as his words suddenly became understandable to me once more. "But what of the architect? Why would he associate himself with a coterie of Gangrels?"

"I know not Lord Stag, but I did get the sense your architect was several centuries old while these are but the remains of a few neonate. It might be that between the fire and the sunlight that reached the bottom of the bay, there is simply nothing left to find."

"This is a great pity, Wendell. Monsieur Devereux was a visionary. His preliminary sketches for New Arcadia were inspired... something no mortal man could expect to achieve in his lifetime..." I heard a thud of flesh on wood. His roll top desk perhaps. "Proof that Kindred have more to offer the world than just nightmares and selective culling... lost."

"Perhaps... not, Lord Stag," this Wendell said. "I do not know... I do not think...that your Devereux was aboard the ship."

"What do you mean?"

"To a man, each neonate was blood-bonded to a Malkavian. This is perhaps more than my sire might require me to tell you, so if we are in agreement...?"

"Yes, yes, I shall owe you a small favour. Now, get on with it."

"Lines of agony and madness are branded upon them... he did unnatural things to them and made them thank him for it. Indeed, it might even be that the Malkavian loved them in his own way... the four of them kept the ship under his control until halfway across the Atlantic when the Malkavian... I can see the Malkavian growing bored. I can see the gangrels growing restless as the crew was well behaved. The Malkavian's madness leapt upon the crewmen like a wolf upon unprotected lambs."

"That explains the odd behaviors of the crew the harbormaster spoke of."

"But not the physical symptoms of disease the remaining crew succumbed to."

"You may attribute their torments to me." In the silence that followed, I could only hear the breath rushes in and out my nose and the sound of the floorboard beneath our feet as the man holding me tightly shifted his weight.

"I had thought it odd," Wendell spoke after a moment, his voice suddenly tight, "that an Old Clan Tzimisce would ask for aid from the Clan Tremere, especially in the field of thaumaturgy."

"That a Tzimisce should come to you for advice at all, should have struck you as odd. Yet, not all the world should be as you expect, lest you grow bored."

"Indeed... so you are not the Elder you claim to be, then. I suppose you plan to kill me now."

Herne chuckled. "I am no fraud, Wendell. I am the Methuselah known as 'the Stag' of the Old Clan Tzimisce. My story is simply more... complicated than you might expect. When I was but a childe of 60 or so, my sire shifted my education to the study accursed blight upon my clan. Of course, at the time, no one understood the threat Vicissitude posed... nor did we even suspect the existence of the soul-eaters. What fools we were; I mastered Vicissitude at nearly the cost of my own soul, shriveled black thing that it was. If not for the love of a wise and gentle faery, I would not even... ah... but I can see you do not believe in faeries."

"I am sorry, Lord Stag, but no. I wish it were so, it would be nice to believe that the darkness we bring to the world was balanced out somehow."

"Indeed, that is perhaps the wisest thing I've heard you say all night, except for admitting fear that I might deliver you to your final death."

"Then...?"

Herne laughed and then I heard a strangled cry and then the rapid drum roll of feet. I heard chairs overturn and then silence once more.

"I promised you a small boon, did I not?" This was Herne's voice, but rougher and deeper than it is normally. "I shall let you live for your life means nothing to me, except that I have sworn to never take another's life, be they dead or undead. And unlike any other in my clan, I have a cause for the concern of my soul."

Next to me, the beast silently chuckled as we listened to furniture being set right.

"My Lord Stag... if you do not mind my asking... why do you let the rumors persist? Now that I have seen your zulo form, I can confirm that you are indeed who you say you are... would that be something you wish? Or do you have a reason to let the gossipmongers spread falsehoods?"

"You have not seen my zulo form, Wendell. This is but a -- excuse the wordplay -- mantle of my position within the faerie court."

In the closet, next to me, the brute clicked his tongue ruefully. "That was bad."

"As for the rumours," Herne continued, "I care not what other Kindred do so long as it does not interfere with my business. The fae have no wish to work with others of our kind besides myself and the changing creatures I have gathered to my side have no love for the Lupines who have slaughtered so many of their kind. Since we are mutual enemies with the Garou, they wish you no active harm."

There was silence for several moments then Herne spoke again, thoughtfully. "But it might be best if you were to remind your House that the Old Clan Tzimisce adore nothing more than their privacy... and that it is not only the Malkavians that may go mad."

With those words, I realized with dread that perhaps those words were spoken more directly to me who he could not see than to this Wendell.

"As you will, my Lord Stag."

"No, to finish your reading before we allowed ourselves that little tangent."

"My lord?"

"The Toreador, what of the Toreador? You've already shown you can do more than just describe their last moments of life. I need to know what happened to the Toreador."

"My Lord, there was no Toreador aboard the White Lady. Your architect... he was a Malkavian."

"Impossible."

"My Lord Stag... these skulls knew your architect as many things... an artist, a sodomite, a mad man... he turned these three young warriors into craven pathicusses and syncophantic shades of their formal selves. No, my Lord Stag, unless there is something more powerful and craftier than I, I swear to you that Claude Devereux was many things... but he was not a Toreador."

More words were spoken, but my ears had begun to ring and the darkness seemed to spin about me. The odor of the man squeezing me suddenly seemed to grow stronger and I was overcome with it.

***

more in Chapter 8, coming soon...