and let Abby take away the pain.
“Why are you still alive?” someone asked. “You look like death. All broken and bloody and chopped up like raw meat. Why are you still alive?”
“She’s immortal,” Nikolai answered. “Aren’t you, Princess?”
“Rune,” she said. “Just Rune.”
She wanted Z. She wanted him to be happy and smiling and alive.
She had a feeling that was asking a little too much.
The witch hated her—of course she did. Rune had come to destroy her, and despite her power and the fact that she’d imprisoned Rune, she was still going to have the fear in the back of her mind that yes, Rune would kill her.
It was only a matter of time before she consulted with her wizards and found a way to trap Rune in inescapable darkness forever.
She’d bury Rune alive, and leave her there for eternity.
If Rune allowed her to.
And she certainly wasn’t going to be merciful to anyone Rune loved.
“Are we getting out of here?”
The question floated to Rune’s ears and interrupted her thoughts, so quiet she almost didn’t hear it.
Cree’s question, tentative and afraid.
The bird’s bravado and pride and arrogance were gone.
“What did she do to you?” Rune asked, wanting to know, dreading the answer.
She hadn’t liked Cree, but there in that dungeon, she felt a certain connection with her. Somehow, the bird made her feel less alone.
“I can answer that.” Wicked Abby continued caressing Rune’s hair, but there had been, for one brief second, a hesitation as she listened to Rune’s question. “At first, the witch played with the bird. Got her trust. Made her feel special.”
Bitterness crept into her voice like furtive little thieves, and her fingers began to stroke a little harder against Rune’s head. “The bird believed Damascus loved her. They shared a bed. They shared stories. They got into each other’s heads and hearts…at least that’s what the bird believed. Isn’t that true, Cree Stark?”
For a time, there was silence. Even the room held its breath. Then, “Yes,” Cree whispered.
“But then, things began to change. The witch took pleasure in hurting the bird—ignoring her, leaving her behind, parading other lovers before her—and soon the emotional pain turned to physical pain as Damascus ordered the bird whipped. Beaten. Starved. Raped.”
She paused, and her fingers once again gentled against Rune’s skull.
But Rune could no longer relax. Her stomach tightened and her body tensed, waiting with the rest of them to hear Abby tell Cree’s story.
“The bird wondered constantly how to get back into the witch’s good graces. How to regain her love. And she thought and thought about what she could have done to displease Damascus in the first place.”
Rune shuddered.
“Finally,” Abby said, her voice almost playful, “Damascus called in another of her favorites. She ordered her to torture the bird, to make it a public torture. “Hurt her, but keep her alive.” That was the order.” And once again, Abby’s fingers tightened on Rune’s skull.
There was no relief, no pleasure in the woman’s stroking fingers then. And the first tendrils of pain began to creep in, slipping out from the tips of Abby’s fingers.
Sinking into Rune’s flesh.
But something—whether the warning in Nikolai’s eyes or the butterflies in her gut—kept Rune still.
She didn’t dare move.
Moving right then would be a very, very bad idea.
“It became a public entertainment,” Abby continued. “The torture of the bird.” She looked around at the shadowy, silent prisoners. “Some of you were already in the dungeons, and you missed the shows.”
When no one assented nor denied, she went on. “It became a game to find new ways to keep the bird alive but make her wish she were dead. To find new ways to please the witch. Because that’s really all that mattered, you see. Pleasing the witch. The cost to others?” She shrugged. “That did not matter at all.
“If the torturer displeased the witch, she too was punished. She lived in terror because every move would result in either pleasing the witch or disappointing her. One did not wish to fall out of favor with Damascus.”
Harder and faster her fingers moved, as though she were a masturbating woman whose hope of an orgasm was just out of reach.
Rune didn’t move.
The other prisoners drew back with wide eyes and open mouths, hands firmly over their hearts, and listened like joyously terrified kids around a campfire.
Likely it was a break in their monotony of constant horror.
In the background, hidden from sight, Cree Stark sobbed quietly.
“Go on,” Rune said, when Wicked Abby had been silent for too long. “Tell