Note: Strong trigger warning for this chapter for violence.
She must have passed out. Delphine found herself staring at her own lap, view obscured by the dimness of the windowless storage room lit by one small single-bulb lamp overhead, and the mess around her left eye — swollen, bruised skin, and hair matted to her face and neck with drying sweat and blood. That was the last place he had hit her, and the cut on her brow, as well as the lean line he had sliced around the back of her ear while asking her how long she thought she might live if he "removed" her "pretty face like a mask," must have been the source of the sticky, clotting mess that spread from her hairline to her chest. He had insisted that she would survive much longer than she might think, but considering the blood loss she had endured when he had roughly flayed one long, thin strip of flesh from the front of her shin — blood that had now formed an impressive puddle around her foot — she had hoped he might be wrong.
Raising her head was difficult, and rewarded with a pounding at her temples, particularly when the rays from the light bulb hit her bad eye. She tested the rope binding her wrists behind her and to the wooden chair, and found it just as tight as before, a pain shooting down her right arm as her shoulder shifted and a flaring of pins and needles spreading across her hands as the numb nerves recognized the sudden return of circulation with the movement of her fingers.
At least she wasn't hanging from her wrists, again.
Looking around, she could see not much else had changed, either. The floor was bare, save her blood and the few remnants of her clothing, and the shelves on the walls held nothing save his black leather case, which was placed neatly at the furthest corner from her. She wondered why he had left her in the room with his kit of implements — sharp and dull, blunt and burning — and tried to formulate a plan to tip over the chair and slither her way toward it, but she heard the muffled voices of men talking from beyond the closed door, and realized he was close by, and had not been gone for long.
A new wave of shock and fear hit her as her body screamed Struggle! Fight! Find out a way to get out of here before he gets back, and her brain tried to guide her with rational thought, how much would that effort cost you? What would be the best way to do it to avoid getting caught? Will there be a better opportunity? But just as she decided she might have no other chance, the door opened, and he came in.
His face might have been handsome, had it not been devoid of any kindness. A kind of distilled, controlled cruelty flowed off him like a waft of ozone, the cold, midnight certainty that something stared at you from the shadows of your childhood bedroom, the sudden freeze that trapped frogs and fish just under the surface of pond ice. This and the careful way he reached into his bag and drew out just the right knife, turning and inspecting it, all spoke of why he was called "The Blade."
"You haven't much time, Miss Cormier," he informed her, walking toward the chair. "I am told we want results quickly, and, I assure you, I will do what's necessary to procure them."
The light from above slicked across his precisely pomaded hair and threw parts of his face into stark shadows. He bent slowly at the waist until his breath blew faintly across her spattered face.
"Once again, what is the plan of attack?"
She stared at him, bleary, assuming the disguise of a mute, an injured doe struck by an automobile, in shock. His tongue flicked across the edge of his upper teeth, and his brow furrowed upward as his eyebrows rose in a bored, inquiring look. She judged that getting her to talk or being able to continue plying his craft on her might be equally satisfying to him. He raised the knife slowly and placed the tip of it on her upper chest to one side of her sternum, just dimpling the skin with its point.
"You know, you may think I have hurt you, that the pain I've inflicted so far has brought you close to the edge, but I assure you, that was merely the introduction to your own personal, dark fairytale."
Delphine felt her lungs expand with an uncontrollable gasp as the knife just pierced her flesh, blood welling up, warm, and forming a small trail toward her breast. It seemed so simple. She thought that after the other things he had done this might feel minor, but her nerves dumbly resumed their duty and sent their message of pain just as strongly as from the first cuts and contusions.
She remained silent, though her eyes scrunched, prompting another throb from the tender swelling of her face, and she felt new sweat spring to her cheeks, temples and forehead, prompting a peculiar itch as it beaded under the dried blood painted there.
"We already know about Normandy," he informed her, and a fresh, dizzying swirl of panic filled her mind. What day is it? How close is it to the landing dates? Has it been delayed, or has it already happened?
A small smile formed briefly at the corners of his lips, as he detected her emotions in the tiny, traitorous movements of her face, the dilation of her pupils.
"Yes," he said. "So now you will tell me what the next part of the plan is, remembering that I can always tell when you lie."
The knife edge slid a millimeter deeper, and Delphine involuntarily licked her lips, her tongue once again reporting the iron tang of blood.
The door opened.
Die Klinge barely glanced over, but she turned her head to see none other than von Leekie, his eyes looking sunken and cold, his face registering mild disgust and greater disdain.
"A change of plans," he informed them, and she detected his anger, his tension and his dismissal all in that one phrase, so well she had learned to read him. "She will be sent to Fort de Romainville for further questioning."
He looked at his former mistress and threw a blow at her worse than any she'd received until then.
"You may have heard of the Fort, Delphine. It's a prison and transfer system to the camps for pathetic, French rebels, along with other enemies of The Reich. Oh, and also, it's where your father was executed."
A primal cry caught in her throat as tears sprung to her eyes. Leekie watched her, and she thought there may have been a flicker of sympathy in his eyes. But then it was gone.
"I'll leave you to it," he said to Die Klinge curtly. The two men nodded to each other and von Leekie walked out.
"Hmm, pity," Die Klinge mused mockingly. "I suppose I'd better have you readied for transport. Until later, then," he promised.
As he rose to get the guards, he left a parting gift. His hand flicked firmly, casually, with the knife until a ragged chunk of epidermis and muscle flew out of the insertion point near her clavicle.
This time she screamed, and she wasn't sure if it was the knife or von Leekie's words that caused it.