Okay, folks. I warned you for violence and here it goes. There will be more, and in some ways, what is to follow is worse, but this is the most graphic portion of the story. I sincerely hope it doesn't push anyone beyond their comfort levels, and you have my deep apologies if it does.

The song should give you the warning for this one. The theme is "Judas" by Fozzy. Which is, I think, a true anthem for dark!Eliot.

Enjoy!

Chapter 8: Blood on the Path

"Eliot Spencer."

Eliot read the history of the man in front of him in one look and shifted his weight minutely to the balls of his feet.

"Eliot?" Molly whispered from behind him.

The Russian stepped into the cell and pulled the door shut behind himself. This wasn't a local errand boy dropping off food. This was someone high in the organization, probably Gogol's second- or third-in-command. He was built strong and broad, and his tattered sleeveless shirt revealed dozens of Russian gang tattoos, each worse than the last.

"You put my brother in the hospital and then prison," he said.

Eliot already knew that. He recognized the family resemblance. He only hoped Molly didn't – this man's brother was one of the ones who had held her in the house of mirrors.

"What do you want?" Eliot asked, keeping his voice low and menacing.

The man smiled. "Payback."

"Come get it, then."

"Eliot, no!" Molly moved as if to block him again. This time Eliot caught her with an elbow and pushed her behind him and into the corner of the room.

"Stay out of this, Botasky."

"She's a very pretty girl." The Russian moved closer, circling Eliot's position in the dim room. "If you want, I could take my payback out of her instead of you."

Molly made a terrified sound.

Eliot met the man's eyes with utter coldness. "Go to hell."

"You first."

The Russian charged.

Eliot dodged the initial blow, crouching and spinning, putting the chain that tethered him in the Russian's way and tangling his feet in it. Eliot finished the pivot, bringing up the hard point of an elbow into the man's jaw.

But the man was skilled, experienced, and not hobbled by chains.

Hits rained down on Eliot's head, which he couldn't block since he couldn't raise his arms fully. He managed to turn and get a few of them across the shoulders and back, but that couldn't stop the blows that sent blood flowing down his skin and birthed a ringing in his head. Unable to straighten up, Eliot could only endure the assault from above and wait for his opponent to reveal a weakness he could exploit.

The Russian lifted a leg to kick at Eliot, and Eliot grabbed his chance. He caught the oncoming foot in the length of chain binding his hands to his feet, yanking them both badly off-balance. They crashed together to the floor, but Eliot was already curled up protectively. He rolled with the fall and put himself on top of his opponent. Eliot drove his fists into the man's nose and followed it up with a knee to the stomach.

It would have been enough to fell most of the people who ever went up against Eliot, but this Russian, like his brother, was not so easily dispatched.

The Russian grabbed the length of chain leading to the grate and hauled it up, whipping Eliot across the face with it. Eliot dropped, stunned.

Blood roared in his ears. There was a painful bloom of force against his chest that repeated a few times before all went quiet but for his pounding heart and his ragged breathing. He hurt, and his eyes were having trouble focusing.

But even above the rush of his pulse filling up his hearing, Eliot could make out the frightened cry of Molly.

"Eliot! Help!"

A dark chuckle.

"Please, Eliot! Please get up!"

"No. He's going to lie there, helpless – and watch. Come here, little girl."

Molly screamed.

And a different Eliot rose from the floor.

Eliot had always been a man of many faces, many methods, many perspectives. There was the Soldier who had left his home with a flag on his shoulder, later jaded but no less dedicated. There was the Operative who walked with hands drenched in blood and fire in his wake. There was the Commander who knew how to keep his men alive while pitting them against death. There was the Retrieval Specialist with a reputation for being unbeatable. There was the Hitter who defended his team and never let them down.

But there was someone else who lived deep in Eliot's skin. A spirit of violence that screamed with bloodlust. A monster who defiled and murdered and destroyed without regret or hesitation. The Devil himself, apocalyptic and unstoppable.

It was a side of himself Eliot had locked away and buried, only to be called upon in the most dire of circumstances. But he did not need to call it now; Molly's vulnerability and terror summoned it from its sleep into full wakefulness.

Like a berserkers of old, he rose heedless of injury or restraint, utterly mad and hungry for blood.

Eliot fell upon the Russian in a red-soaked haze, as out of control as if he had been drugged. Exceptional control was all that kept Eliot from the demon in his soul on any normal day or in any standard fight, and in this moment, it was broken.

Not by his own injury or blood or fear, but by a protectiveness that surpassed everything and went straight to his core.

The same protectiveness that carried Eliot through a burning warehouse with more than a dozen lives snuffed out in his wake. The same that would kill or die without pause for those lives that meant far more than his own ever could. In spite of the absence of those four precious souls, one child in danger, screaming in terror, was more than enough to draw it forth once more.

And the Devil was screaming, too.

YOU DARE THREATEN WHAT IS MINE?

I WILL SEE YOU DIE!

Only when Eliot felt a thin pair of arms surrounding his shoulders and cold wetness on his neck did he freeze, breathe, and awaken to himself once more.

What he found before him was as bad as the nightmare that had consumed him.

The Russian under his hands was more meat than man. His face had been obliterated by repeated smashing of chain and manacle and fist. His chest was caved in on one side.

But he still breathed.

Molly was clinging to his back, whispering something over and over again, and it took Eliot several moments to realize she was pleading for him to stop.

Eliot couldn't look at her. He closed his eyes. "He's already dead, Molly. Let me finish it. Or he'll...it'll take him a while."

Molly vanished from his back and he heard a muffled sob.

But he couldn't turn, didn't dare. He had too much to think and feel, and he could not let himself do either as he braced the weight of his body on the Russian's chest, took the ruined head between his hands, and snapped the thick neck.

Eliot only realized as he crawled off the man that he had left another bloody ruin in addition to the man's face, one that stained the front of his pants nearly to his knees.

And somewhere inside, the Devil smiled in pure satisfaction.

Eliot sat heavily on the ground, staring at his hands. They looked like he had stuck them in a vat of ketchup. Or paint.

He would have sold his soul to the first bidder who could turn that redness into nothing but paint.

He also was still bleeding from a cut on the head, and at least one finger was broken, to say nothing of his split knuckles and a dozen other bad bruises across his body and the echo of ringing in his ears.

"Molly." It would have been easier to lie down and die than speak to her now, with this evidence of his curse all over him. "I'm sorry, Molly."

He glanced through his blood-streaked hair to where she had curled up in a corner, hugging herself and crying.

Eliot stared at his hands again. This was why he hated touching people, and hated being touched. This, right here. Because he would never be clean of all the blood he had spilled in his lifetime. Because, even when he laid his hands on a person without intending violence, the blood seemed to seep onto them anyway. No one could be clean once they'd touched Eliot. His sins leaked over everything he touched.

Eliot couldn't blame Molly for being terrified. Even for hating him. It was the safest, sanest choice she could possibly make.

But he still had to protect her.

"Molly." He kept his face turned away from her. "They're going to find him. I need you to get behind me when they come." His throat went dry and tight and he had to swallow twice before he could say, "You don't have to get near me until then, though."

It burned like a knife in the gut, but Eliot forced himself to get up and act. To fall back on tactics and efficiency and and the work of survival – if only to muffle the howling inside himself.

Almost mechanically, Eliot searched the Russian's pockets for anything useful. He didn't find a phone or keys, but there was a fair-sized pocket-knife, a wallet with several IDs, and some cash. Eliot stowed those in his own pockets. Then he tore a few strips of material from a clean bit of the dead man's shirt and bound up his knuckles and his head as best he could. He also took the man's watch.

Almost thirty hours. Eliot's internal clock had only been off by about two hours. He and Molly had been locked in a Venezuelan basement for more than a full day.

And every hour that passed without Parker bursting through the door, or Nate or Sophie sauntering through using a fake accent, was a good hour as far as Eliot was concerned. His desperate ploy must have worked, or at least slowed them down.

The auction couldn't be far off now. Gogol had had almost a full day and a half to get the word out about his prize. Eliot figured it couldn't be more than another twelve or twenty-four hours before he would be put up in a meat market in front of however-many people who wanted his blood.

But, as long as Eliot went up there with no sign of Nate, and without Gogol gloating at him, he would call it a win.

However, he didn't intend to let things get that far. He just needed to get Gogol in range and take him apart.

He made himself look at the corpse on the floor with controlled, emotionless consideration.

Maybe this would be the thing to force Gogol to return. Honestly, they both should have expected it. Eliot had tangled with too many Russians too many times not to run into one with a grudge. There was no way Gogol hadn't known the identities of the people Eliot had taken down that day in the carnival that started all this. And that was outside any other interactions Eliot had had with the Russian mob on his own – and those interactions went back years.

It had probably been unavoidable for someone to decide to take revenge via a beat-down or worse. Eliot hadn't considered it because it wasn't worth considering. There were always people out there looking to get back at him for the life he lived and the things he'd done. After all, some of them were bargaining for his life right now. But those without the cash to participate – they would find their own ways.

People always found ways to get revenge, it seemed.

He realized that Molly was still crying. Suddenly concerned, Eliot lifted his head. "Molly? Did he hurt you?"

Nate, if I'm engaged…

Do your worst.

And now he had. "Molly. I need you to tell me if you're okay."

Molly unburied her face from her arms, her knees still tight to her chest. Her color was all wrong, and her eyes were wide with panic. The bruise from Gogol's slap had faded to a thick yellow color, but nothing new marred her face.

However, Eliot could see red marks from fingers on the nearer of her arms.

"He didn't…" Molly gulped. "You…" Her voice failed her and she pulled her knees even tighter. She shook her head and closed her eyes. "He didn't get anywhere. Before..."

Eliot nodded. He started to move, telegraphing every adjustment and shifting as slowly as if he were enticing a bird to sit beside him. He pushed the dead body into an unused corner of the room. Then he planted himself there, between her and it, as far away as the chain would let him go.

"I'll meet you in the middle when they come," he said. "You don't have to get near."

Molly swallowed. "Get near that...or you?"

Eliot ducked his head. "Near this. You...I promise I won't hurt you. But you have to let me protect you. Even if…"

He trailed off. There was no point in voicing the rest of it now. If she hated him, if she couldn't trust him, if she couldn't stand him – none of that mattered. He would keep her safe no matter what she thought, and no matter what it cost him.

Molly nodded and put her face back on her knees, wrapping her arms around her head.

But he heard her whisper, "Okay, Perky."

-==OOO==-

It took four hours for someone to come down. Their surprise that the door was unlocked was quickly forgotten by the shock of the dead body.

Eliot had debated about twice a minute during that whole time whether or not he should send Molly out, maybe see if she could escape. He was pretty sure she had forgotten the door was unlocked, and he was grateful for it. Because, while maybe Molly could have found a key to free him if she did head out on her own, in the last four hours Molly hadn't so much as looked at him. If she ran out there now, this upset, who knew what she would get into? And if she was so distressed by him, by what he had done, could he really ask her to find a key to free him?

But that was not nearly as important as the fact that he didn't dare let her out of his sight. Not now. If she'd been caught before this, they might have beaten her, but they would still value her for the hold she gave them over her father.

But now Eliot had killed one of them.

There was every possibility Gogol would hold true to his threat and they would punish Molly for his actions.

Eliot didn't care in the slightest if they punished him, but he would not let them hurt Molly.

This was Eliot's fault. For killing. For frightening her. For failing her in the first place. For not protecting her as he had promised.

When the door clicked open, Eliot waited exactly long enough for a very surprised, unfamiliar goon to see the blood and the body, and then made a half-leap, half-sprint towards Molly.

He fully expected her to flinch away from him.

But she didn't. Molly dove at the same time he did, settling behind him as if he weren't streaked with blood. She kept her head down, sheltering in his shadow. But this time she curled her fingers into the fabric of his shirt.

Eliot didn't know if she was holding on, or holding him back.

He decided it didn't matter either way.

"Tell your boss this guy was about to break our deal," Eliot said. That wasn't precisely accurate to the exact terms Gogol had laid out, but it was close enough. "And get rid of him before he starts to smell."

Molly gagged behind him.

The goon was staring at Eliot as if he were a rabid dog.

"Go!" Eliot yelled, startling them both. "Tell your boss that this sack of rotting camel piss deserves exactly what he got, and I'll do the same to anybody else who messes with her!"

The goon dropped several bottles of water and a bowl of food and fled, slamming and locking the door behind him.

Eliot expected Molly to bolt the instant the door shut, but she didn't. He held perfectly still, waiting for her to move.

Molly's move was to lean her forehead on his back and let out a trembling sigh.

"So...how soon before we can get out of here, do you think?" she asked.

Eliot blinked. He didn't turn because that would dislodge her, but he made a questioning noise.

"You still need Gogol to come here, right? Do you think...he'll come now?"

"God you're a sharp kid," Eliot said without meaning to. He cleared his throat. "I don't know. He might. It depends on how soon they're going to sell me off, I think. And how important that guy was."

Molly nodded against his back.

"You okay?" Eliot asked.

"No." But her grip on his shirt tightened. "Definitely going to need therapy now."

"You were getting therapy either way," Eliot told her, utterly serious.

She huffed something that might have been a laugh in another life. "I guess that's probably true."

"Molly...I never wanted you to see…" He trailed off and shook his head. "I'm sorry."

"I know." She shoved her nose into one of his ribs.

"It's okay if you're scared of me."

She made a sound he couldn't quite identify. "I'm sorry, Eliot."

"What do you have to be sorry for?"

"I...I couldn't stop him. And he...so you…"

Eliot turned slowly, giving her every opportunity to move away. But she didn't. She let him turn and looked up at him with eyes that were red and swollen and trembling on the very edge of panic.

"This was not your fault." He met her gaze and held it. "What happened here was his fault and mine. You didn't do anything wrong. At all. All the blame…" He took a breath. "Lay it on me, kid. Not on yourself."

New tears grew in Molly's eyes, but she shook her head and squared her jaw. "Can I...lay it on him instead? Because...I think...I think I would rather hate him than you."

Eliot's chest filled with too many feelings to parse. Guilt, shame, sorrow, rage – they cartwheeled together in a rush as choppy and fast as any carnival ride. He could only nod at her.

"You do whatever you gotta to survive. Because that's the only thing that matters. If you get out alive and safe...then you work on fixing the rest of it." And because he couldn't be less than honest with her, not after he'd promised, he added, "I'm just...sorry you have to survive me, too. I never wanted that for you."

"I know."

But this time when Molly started to cry, she put her arms around Eliot's middle and wept into his stomach.

Eliot gave her a full two minutes before he dared hug her back.

"I'm sorry, Botasky. But I'll get you out of here. I promise."

"I'm sorry I'm scared," she said between hiccups. "I shouldn't be scared of you...but I am."

"It's okay." Eliot paused, an ugly smirk tugging at his mouth. "Most people would tell you that I'm probably the most dangerous person you've ever met."

That surprised her enough to look up at him. "Are you?"

"Dangerous?" He nodded. "Hell yeah. But not to you. Never to you."

"Are you the most dangerous?"

Eliot couldn't quite stop the bark of laughter. "It depends, I guess."

"On what?"

"On if you're scared of getting hurt, or getting destroyed. Because I can hurt people, and I can kill 'em." He waited until her momentary flare of terror faded again before he said, "But I can't destroy people as well as Nate Ford."

"He's more dangerous than you?"

"At his game? Yeah. Not at mine."

"What's his game?"

"Chess."

"And what's yours?"

Eliot just looked at her. Molly glanced to the corner of the room and shivered. But almost as quickly, some of the tension drained out of her.

"That's who they're after, right? You're bait for him?"

"Yeah."

Molly turned her head to his arm and made a noise between a laugh and a sob. "These guys must have a death wish."

Eliot didn't bother to keep himself from snorting. "If they didn't before, they will now." When Molly looked up, he gave her a tiny smile. "Because Nate's going to make them wish they'd never been born."

"Assuming they don't kill him."

"They won't." Eliot felt steel and cold creep into his gaze, so he lifted it away from her. "Or I'll make them wish I'd only killed them."

Molly shivered again, but hugged him tighter.

"You're really scary. You know that?" But she sounded almost fond as she said it.

"Yeah," he said, totally sincere. "I've been told that before."

"I'm glad you're on our side, Perky."

"Yes." And he crushed her against him for a moment. "I am. And don't you ever doubt it."

-==OOO==-

With the extra water the goon dropped, there was enough left over after rationing for Eliot to get the worst of the blood off his hands and face and hair. Molly actually cleaned the cut on his head with a gentle touch that didn't quite shake.

And they both ate the food they were given, though Eliot could see it turned Molly's stomach to do so. But it was only the second time anyone had fed them since they'd arrived, and hunger proved stronger than her disgust.

Afterwards, Molly stayed by his side, keeping him between her and the dead body, though they didn't speak.

Except for when Molly asked Eliot to "play the shirt game," which was code for Eliot to yank his shirt up around his face like an awkward scarf so she could stand over the grate without him watching her. She talked plenty then to cover the sounds of what she was doing, mostly berating him for being a guy and having it easier, and inventing new insults for the grate named Dexter.

And they could both laugh at that, even though it sounded more like tears.

Another ten hours passed.

This time when the door opened, it banged wide in one quick motion and a crowd of stern-faced men with guns entered. Eliot pulled Molly behind him, calculating angles and possibilities.

"Where's your boss?" he asked.

"You will see him soon," said the one in front. "And then you will say goodbye." He glanced at the body at the end of the room which was not quite yet beginning to smell, but the signs of bloat were clear. "I hope whoever takes you makes you pay for this."

"I'm sure they will," Eliot said. He met the eyes of every man willing to face him. "She comes with me. She stays at my side and under my protection until the deal is done."

"Or we all die?" The man smiled. "Yes. This I know. She is the only reason we hold you at all. We will tell your new master to acquire you a...companion. It makes you far easier to control, Eliot Spencer."

Eliot's rage went white hot, but he kept it in check. For now, he had to play along. Only a little while longer.

Eliot pulled Molly into the circle of his arms when a couple of men moved close. They unlocked the chain that tethered him to the grate, but kept the others in place. When they gestured, Eliot went, shuffling along and hunched over, Molly awkwardly stumbling with him.

"Could you find a worse way to do this?" she asked in a whisper close to his face as they exited the room and had to navigate a staircase with an awkward, unbalanced gait that forced them both to half-crawl in turn.

"Yeah," Eliot whispered back. "We could be unconscious again, so don't give them any ideas."

Molly rolled her eyes and held onto a splintery railing when her feet threatened to get caught up in Eliot's chains. It took them several times longer to get out of the basement than it had taken to get down there, but Molly was quietly grateful. Shielded in his arms, she was practically invisible to the crowd of men with guns whose eyes made her want to shake apart inside.

Eliot had actually killed someone for her. And when she wasn't caught up in the horror of the 'had actually killed someone' part, she felt very safe – because she knew that he would do it again if he had to, even though it had made his eyes look dead and his face seem wrong.

Though she did find it strange that she could feel both safe with him and frightened of him at the same time – but maybe it wasn't too strange after all.

Up the stairs and through a hallway led to a tin shed serving as a garage and a dingy, half-rusty van. Eliot had to release Molly to climb in, but once he was seated on the bare metal of the floor, he lifted his arms once more and she crawled back into them. He held her better than a seatbelt.

"Watch them, Botasky," he whispered to her. "I need to listen."

For the duration of the drive, while Molly watched the crowd of thugs in the car, Eliot made a mental map of where they were going and where they'd been. He didn't know the streets of Caracas well enough to follow it directly, but he knew they had passed from one side of the city around its edges and were now ascending a mountain. He wasn't surprised. If he was going to be hosting a live auction for who-knew-how-many rival gangs, factions, possibly governments, and probably some of the worst scum of the world, Eliot knew he would put them in a secure location away from the city where it wouldn't be immediately obvious if a small war broke out.

Eliot only opened his eyes when they passed through a gate, taking in what clues he could from what was visible through the windshield about the big manor house that was to be the site of the auction. Gogol would be here for sure, and probably soon.

Getting out of the van meant he had to let Molly go again, and Eliot was not surprised when a few of the thugs took their chance to rough him up, either for what he'd done to their friend-slash-ally-slash-gang-brother, or just because it was a day that ended in 'y' and that's what people like them did. He flashed Molly a smile and didn't fight back too much, even as he picked a few pockets while they tossed him around between themselves.

But, soon enough, Eliot and Molly were led into the manor house through a back door and down into yet another basement – this one with a clear area for a wine collection and another for prisoners; Eliot was sure this must be a base for human trafficking, where Gogol held his chattel and where he sold them. There was no other reason for such a nice manor house to have an honest-to-god dungeon complete with yet more chains.

What Eliot did not expect upon being hauled into the basement prison was for a familiar figure to look up at him from the floor and wave, showing off some chains of his own.

Nate gave a cheerful smile. "Hi Eliot."