Athame
Chapter Two
“It’s her ,” Holden nodded, beginning the delicate process of reeling in his catch. “She’s finally come out of hiding.”
Jarvis’ eyes were bright and almost entirely predatory, her face flushed with excitement. Holden struggled to keep his own expression impassive, but couldn’t quite manage it.
“What are you offering?” she asked, her tone wary.
“Full access,” the Englishman responded immediately. “Once we have her in custody.”
She blinked, not even attempting to conceal her surprise. But she rallied quickly, although Holden could tell she was just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Her eyes narrowed and her demeanour became even more calculating.
“What’s the catch, Ben?”
“Oh, come on, Katherine,” he replied, a sardonic grin replacing the mask. “What else do we have to offer? Help us bring the girl in. We can use her to track down Eris and then you’ll have your share of all the juicy secrets.”
He knew she didn’t trust him, which was part of the reason they got on so well together. Their relationship wasn’t tainted with the honesty to which so many others aspired. But Jarvis clearly knew a good deal when she heard one.
“Okay,” she told him. “I’ll make some enquiries.”
They exchanged grim smiles, while Holden wondered how much time he’d managed to buy himself, before she tried to fuck him over. The spot between his shoulder blades itched maddeningly as if waiting for the thrust of her hidden blade.
“Do that,” he suggested amiably as he rose to leave. “You know where to find me. Oh, and Katherine… don’t even think about going after her yourself.”
Everything else was foggy and indistinct. All that remained was her need. She’d given up trying to understand; even thinking was too much of an effort. Anita simply ached and that hollow emptiness only grew more unbearable.
Time passed, but she was lost in the tormenting haze and the passing seconds held no meaning for her. Everything poured forth, spilling from her tethered body and leaving her sticky with exhausted effort. The void was ravenous, constant in its demand to be fed. But, there was nothing. No strength, no will, not even the desire to fight against that remorseless desire.
“Good evening, little one,” Natasha’s voice swept through the vacuum, tearing the half-formed thoughts asunder. “You’re doing so well, Anita. Let me look at you.”
Anita was suddenly aware of her body. The hot, prickling sensation crawled beneath her skin, but she was detached from it. Not numb, but uncaring and unaffected. All that mattered was that inescapable need, and the only person who would ever be able to meet it.
Cool air touched her as the covers were drawn back once more. The Agent could feel herself unravel again, but now there was something to which she could cling. Soft hands stroked over trembling flesh, plucking at the perfect tethers, and Anita was suddenly screaming into the gag.
“Very good,” the doctor encouraged. “Now, just tell me what you want and I will grant it.”
She howled, begging and pleading for the emptiness to end. Grinding herself wantonly against the ropes, no longer caring how that only emphasised her weakness.
“Oh, Anita,” Natasha gasped, her voice husky with desire. “It’s such a hard decision, isn’t it? But don’t fret. Take your time, little one, there’s no urgency, no need to rush.”
Deft fingers plucked at her bindings, loosening the hogtie but still leaving her inescapably trapped. The Agent moaned as she was unceremoniously rolled onto her back. Natasha climbed up onto the bed, kneeling astride Anita and resting her knees against the bound woman’s torso.
Her arms tingled, but might just as well have been paralysed. Anita gazed up at the doctor and found herself transfixed by the vision of Natasha’s neatly trimmed sex. Dark lips glistened. The gleaming droplets pooled and dribbled, drawing her attention and holding her all but mesmerised.
“Soon,” her tormentor whispered, and that word was enough to make the Agent shudder.
Unable to focus properly, Anita was still all too aware of Natasha’s proximity. The doctor’s deft hands idly caressed that beautifully swollen mound, drawing tiny circles in the tight curls. A single droplet hung precariously, swelling before her eyes.
Then, the doctor slid her fingers up through the honeyed dew, before letting it trickle down, engulfing the Agent’s tender breasts in a warm, perfumed rain.
Natasha hissed a breath through pursed lips and her captive could only echo that soft sound.
More of the doctor’s musky essence dribbled through her fingers, dappling Anita’s cleavage and pattering against her engorged nipples. One hand buried deep between the drooling lips, Natasha used the other to gently smear her wetness over the captive woman’s soft curves, marking the Agent with spilled juices and adding more heat to the sensations currently driving the young woman insane.
“All that lust,” the doctor explained, while her fingers swept smoothly over the slick flesh. “Trapped beneath layers of my slippery control. Unable to escape, until I choose to release it.”
Whimpering, Anita realised that it was true. More and more of her control was melting away, yet still it was impossible to think of anything except the building arousal. Was it pleasure, almost too painful to enjoy, or pain, that tipped over and became the sharpest pleasure? She just couldn’t tell.
Only when her ample chest had been utterly coated did Natasha pause in her long, slow masturbation. Then, very slowly, the doctor inched forward and lowered herself onto Anita’s waiting face. She threaded her fingers through the Agent’s hair, tangling the dark tresses with sticky digits.
“Not yet,” Natasha insisted gently, then began to grind her seeping sex against the younger woman’s gag.
The Agent could do nothing as she was crushed into the doctor’s fragrant and all-consuming pussy. Groaning loudly, Natasha took everything she wanted, smearing her captive with a thick gloss of creamy control. Spent juices matted Anita’s hair, trickling down into her eyes and dampening the muffling gag. Drool and heat dripped seductively from her chin, and every breath was filled with her tormentor’s wonderfully cloying scent.
Blood pounded in Anita’s temples, drowning her in its heavy tattoo. Trapped in bizarre synaesthesia, Natasha’s words painted bright flashes across her darkening sight. Oxygen starvation wrapped everything in a heavy blanket where she saw, rather than felt, her tormentor’s threat.
“You’re just a toy,” the doctor said, mashing her captive’s hair into the soft, wet flesh. “A pretty doll, for me to play with. Fit only to be used… and abused. A thing that can bring me pleasure… and nothing more.”
There was no possibility of denial. Anita was soaking in Natasha’s perfume. Perfectly passive as her body was taken and forced to give the cruelly coercive doctor exactly what she wanted. The Agent had never felt more debased, and yet she found herself revelling in that sensation. She simply lacked the will to care.
She’d lost track of Natasha’s orgasms, but each new climax further tested the very limits of Anita’s endurance. By the time the doctor was finally sated, the Agent found herself with no choice but to acknowledge every word that had been remorselessly ground into her over those long hours.
When the heavily chewed, but still sodden panties were pulled from her mouth, Anita felt a sense of loss that was more visceral than anything she’d ever experienced. Only the doctor’s soft reassurance kept her from lapsing into despair as that connection was taken away.
“Hush now,” Natasha whispered softly, stroking the shivering woman’s face. “I am so very proud of you, little one. It is time to show my appreciation. But there is one more thing you must do for me. You’ll do that, won’t you? You’ll do anything I ask of you, without thought or question. Like a very good girl.”
Not trusting herself to speak, Anita just nodded. Her entire body shook with the force of her need. She vibrated, almost humming with pent up desire and frustration. She wanted to cry and she wanted to scream. But most of all, she wanted the release that was at once so desperately close and so horribly far away.
“Who am I?” Natasha asked very gently.
The Agent started to form the words, but the doctor stopped her with a gesture. Natasha’s expression was kind, but her eyes shone with anticipation.
“Think,” she ordered, “I know how hard that is, but you know the right answer.”
Silence stretched between them as Anita searched for the correct response. Gazing into her captor’s face and seeing her own dishevelled features reflected back in kaleidoscope eyes, the truth seemed to reach out and take hold of her.
“Mmm…” she began, her tongue suddenly clumsy. “Mistress!”
Anita never registered Natasha’s response. Waves of suppressed arousal crashed into her, tearing through her body and building to a crescendo where the young woman’s mind simply gave up. Her muscles convulsed, neurones firing and refiring, until there was nothing but that one, unending orgasm.
The seals opened with a sibilant whisper, releasing the faintest smudge of mist. Wet fingers curled around the altar’s polished ceramic, trailing strands of brilliant filigree. Celeste hauled her body from the artificial womb, sliding free of the machinery within. Mistress’ touch still tingled over her perfect skin, while her words reverberated through crystal clear thoughts.
Metal gleamed in the soft light. Circuitry glowed bright, pulsing within her polished flesh. But, rather than stripping away her frail humanity, the process seemed only to accentuate it. As if, by flensing the soft veneer, the altar had somehow found the truth beneath.
Celeste arched and stretched, glorying in her flawless design. She was beautiful, as Mistress had ordained. Filled with knowledge and ready, no, eager, to serve. Her movements were liquid, allowing her to spring from the altar with consummate ease and then, land without making a sound.
Every touch tingled with energy and with something far more base (though no less appealing). The transformation was still incomplete, but she could feel it spreading. Microscopic fibres crawled beneath her skin, branching and dividing into terrifying complexity. She was becoming. Something more. Something better, and every part of her delighted in that knowledge.
Mistress had need of her, a thought that was almost overwhelming. She was the instrument of her Goddess. A glittering blade to cut away this spreading corruption. An athame, forged from obedience and tempered in arousal.
The war was starting. With clumsy, ill-timed assaults, it was true. But that wouldn’t last. The hidden were now exposed and there was no more time for regret. Celeste clenched her small hands into fists, feeling the power surge through her body.
Limbs blurred into motion, complex kata that segued into fluid extemporisation. She danced across the small room, never stopping or even pausing. Her body glistened in the dim light, becoming plastic as it adapted to every sweep and jab.
Grinning savagely, she felt the challenge rising up into her throat. Her whirling progress finally stopped, and Celeste screamed her defiance in one last, ear-splitting “Kiai!” Silver fists hung suspended, slowly regaining a more normal shape. She held the pose for a few more seconds, letting certainty fill her. Everything was ready. She was ready. Soon, their enemies would gaze upon her Goddess’ creation and they would know despair.
Images played across the giant plasma screen, adding random colour to the computer monitors’ flickering glow. The usual buzz of conversation was absent, leaving the operation’s room unnaturally quiet. Holden stared at the satellite feed, watching the city’s recent history laid bare.
“We have to get one of these,” the researcher enthused, as the system’s clarity became apparent.
“And how do you suggest we do that, Perkins?” Holden demanded, his voice barely a whisper.
“Well,” the young man began, “they’ve let us into their system, we could always…”
“What?” he almost shouted, his outrage entirely feigned. “Steal from our closest ally?”
“Meaning,” Perkins suggested carefully. “Don’t let them catch me?”
Holden turned from the younger man, struggling to keep his expression bland. They had already backtracked to the point when the target had hurled herself from the ambulance. Now there was just the ‘simple’ matter of tracing the woman’s progress through the crowded streets.
The screen flickered, lending a jerkiness that seemed entirely out of place on the high-tech display. Perkins muttered to himself, while his fingers danced lightly over the keyboard. Tiny figures swarmed, organic Brownian motion that was anything but random. There were several false starts, but their own facial-recognition algorithms refused to let the woman escape.
Perkins cursed, while the images lurched and periodically dissolved into static. Holden barked instructions, still struggling to work around the technology’s vagaries. Following her erratic progress, they watched as she paused to make her telephone call. Almost immediately, the picture was lost in hissing white snow, while the distant observers fought to regain the errant signal.
Finally the target reached Islington, bypassing the wine bars and heading straight towards the Angel. She slipped into a small block of flats, using the service entrance to avoid notice. Perkins manipulated the controls and then waited as the clock spun rapidly forward, before finally announcing that they had a location.
The call went out immediately, and the rapid reaction team closed on the target. Unmarked Range Rovers approached from different directions, while the operation’s room sat and watched. All that is, except Perkins, who was still fighting with the connection and trying to clean up the distorted signal.
“It’s getting worse,” he complained to no one in particular, while the screen fizzed with static.
Then, the researcher began rapidly hammering the keyboard, keeping up a soft stream of invectives under his breath. He glanced up at the screen again, squinting at the overhead view and watching the troopers stack up on their entry points.
“Holden,” the young man wondered, his voice suddenly far too loud. “Where did the Yanks get the tech for these satellites?”
“How should I know?” he demanded angrily, not even bothering to turn.
Precious seconds ticked by while the researcher appeared lost in thought. Then, acting entirely on intuition, he opened another window, sliding through layers of security to access an older file, one that few people even knew about, let alone had the clearance to view. His eyes flicked back and forth between the archive and their live feed, between an old analogue recording and the current interference pattern.
“Oh bollocks,” Perkins gasped. “Sir, you have to stop them. You have to pull them out, right now!”
The fear in the younger man’s voice was enough to get Holden’s attention. He spun away from the screen, just as the frame charges began to detonate.
“Why?”
“Look,” the researcher pleaded, spinning his monitor around to show a brightly coloured trace. “This is the signal that’s interfering with the satellite. It’s coming from that building.”
“So?” Holden snarled, somehow knowing it was already too late.
“I’ve seen this signal before, Sir. It’s meshtalk.”
Breeching charges tore through the concrete walls and gas-masked soldiers poured through the jagged holes they left behind. Slender cylinders bounced into the darkness, careening from walls and filling the building with light and sound.
Weapons swept the tight confines, bulky suppressors adding a futuristic appearance to the compact machineguns. The entry teams moved with almost perfect precision, clearing as they went. More cordite billowed and choked, its leaden clouds stirred by the dull thump of exploding grenades.
Their orders were clear. The terrorist was to be apprehended, alive if possible, but no one would shed any tears if she ended up in a bodybag instead. Moving with almost balletic grace, both four-man teams swept through the building.
Without warning, feedback shrieked in hastily discarded earpieces, static whistling shrilly until the radios were killed. Falling back on hand-signals, they adapted to the new situation without pause, acting with nonchalant calm better suited to the Kill House back at Hereford.
It wasn’t overconfidence. Each trooper knew they were the very best. They had all read the target’s file and none of them were remotely impressed. So she had incapacitated one spook. None of the young men had any intention of letting her get that close to them.
But as they reached the central chamber and caught their first glimpse of the altar, the troopers found themselves wondering what else their briefing officer had neglected to mention.
Something wonderful scratched delicately over the surface of her brain. The touch sent tingles cascading along suddenly super-sensitive nerve tracts and forced a contented moan from her dry lips. Anita let her eyes drift open, while the world reasserted itself around her.
Everything was bright and sharp, while her memories seemed soft and mutable. She moved cautiously, surprised to find herself free once more. The bonds had vanished while she slept, it seemed, and her skin was unblemished. To Anita, all she’d experienced felt like an erotic dream, except for the faint scent of her tormentor’s ‘perfume’ still clinging to her nostrils.
The guard was back at the door, regarding her with those same dead eyes. She shivered at the thought of being watched that implacably while the doctor had her way with her body. How emotionless would he remain, while Natasha put her through her paces?
A soft smile touched the corners of her lips, and it took several moments for the wrongness to seep into her awareness. What the hell was she thinking? This doctor had come into her room and practically raped her… except that wasn’t true, was it? Anita had been a willing, perhaps even eager, participant. But still, she couldn’t dismiss the dichotomy between what she remembered and what could really have happened.
“Excuse me,” she asked the nameless guard.
He ignored her, gazing into the middle distance and affecting an air of relaxed competence. Anita felt her irritation spike. She had done nothing wrong, how dare they treat her like a suspect. Stifling the anger, the Agent fought to keep her voice level.
“Where did Dr. Pyszora go?”
For a few seconds she thought she’d imagined the man’s reaction, but as he turned to regard her directly, she knew that he had tensed when she mentioned the name.
“How do you know that name?” he demanded, his voice as cold as those dead eyes.
The man stepped closer, looming over the bed. Perhaps intentionally, his jacket gaped open and she caught a glimpse of his sidearm. She didn’t understand, but that clearly wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear.
“She told me,” Anita insisted. “When she visited before.”
“Visited?” he demanded again, making it sound more like a threat than a question.
Anita was baffled by his reaction. He’d met Natasha. She’d spoken to him, sent him away, in fact. How could he not remember? Unless it really had been a dream. But she could still taste the doctor on her tongue, and the memory of her touch was far stronger than any dream-born fantasy could possibly be.
Wasn’t it?
“Yes, she sent you out and we… talked,” her voice cracked, and she willed herself not to blush.
“What the hell are you talking about?” the guard shouted, neck muscles knotting as his face darkened.
One large hand encircled her slender throat, allowing his thumb to nestle snugly behind the angle of her jaw. Knowledge came from nowhere, filling her mind with icy certainty. She could feel his muscles tensing, preparing to squeeze.
Electricity flared and without warning she was a voyeur, watching someone else’s life. Sparks leaped, arcing in the darkness, illuminating long, sterile corridors and their faceless occupants. Here, there was only pain, pain with an implacable face and a name.
“Your implants,” she breathed, staring into killer’s eyes.
“You talk too much,” the guard snarled.
But she was only half-listening to his voice. Images flooded the Agent’s mind, almost overwhelming her with stolen emotion. Anita could feel crystal resonanting inside the soldier’s brain. It called to her.
Information bled across the link and, despite her best efforts, it was impossible to stop the flow of knowledge.
The surgery had been brutal. It had cost the lives of far too many, but Corporal Doyle here was one of the lucky ones. If lucky was the right word for someone forced to live in constant pain and with the threat of epilepsy hanging over his head.
His expression never changed. But she felt something shift. The cold, metallic taste of tempered steel filled her awareness and she knew he’d decided to kill her. Hatred poured from him and, staring into those frighteningly black eyes, she could see how it twisted her features into another’s likeness.
Without thinking, Anita drove her hand up into the soldier’s stomach. She had precious little leverage, but that didn’t seem to matter. Air exploded from her attacker’s mouth and she pivoted, helping his suddenly spastic body as it rolled off the bed.
Her mind was racing, but that didn’t stop her body from doing what it had to. Anita’s fingers stiffened, then sought out apparently random targets, hammering her point into the unconscious would-be assassin.
But still she tried to grapple with the truth. Because, if these memories were real, if Pyszora was the surgeon who had experimented on Doyle and his troop, then who the hell was Natasha?
She had already started searching for something to wear, when she realised what needed to be done. It was clear that she couldn’t trust anyone here, in fact, the more she thought about it, the more obvious it became that there was only one person in whom she had complete faith.
Holden.
The main screen erupted into a snowstorm of random noise. But Holden’s eyes were focussed on the researcher.
“Which means?” He asked softly, trying to ignore the sense that events were slipping beyond his grasp.
Perkins took a deep breath, nervously glancing at his computer screen as he did so. His internal battle raged for several seconds, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. Then he came to a decision.
“It’s the same thing that took out Vauxhall,” he explained.
“But I thought…” Holden began.
“No,” Perkins interrupted almost angrily. “The gas explosion was just a cover. It was an attack, a retaliation. Sir, you have to stop the assault, right now, before we piss her off.”
There were just too many questions he wanted answered. But, even before Holden could think where to begin, one of the technicians broke his concentration with a shouted exclamation.
“Sir, comms are down,” the young woman blurted, her confusion very obvious, “I think… Sir, I think we’re being jammed.”
“Oh,” Perkins sighed again. “Bollocks!”
Celeste felt them long before the first explosions rocked the building. Wild energy caressed her skin, building steadily towards a violent crescendo. The world once again took on that crimson cast, only this time she was ready to deal with these interlopers.
Microscopic sensors laced the concrete, lending her eyes and ears. Celeste watched the men… in their bulky armour, vision obscured by heavy gasmasks… and her grin became a rictus. She barely acknowledged their weapons. There was nothing to fear from their subsonic rounds and, although the grenades might be able to hurt her, she didn’t think it would come to that.
A low note of warning stroked the back of her skull—whispered words she could barely hear, yet of which she had perfect understanding. She froze, servos whining while the battle raged within. Celeste could feel the soldiers coming closer, and despite the certainty behind the message, she couldn’t bring herself to obey.
Guilt poured through her mind, acrid and unpalatable. Then the first flashbang detonated and, as if suddenly freed from her leash, Celeste hurled herself at the men.
Impossibly fast, a silvery shape blurred out of the darkness. It caught hold of the lead trooper and tore away his gun. Webbing stretched for only a moment and then snapped. The figure was still in motion, a naked chrome avatar of sensuality and destruction. The soldiers’ all-too-human reflexes finally caught up, but by then she was in the midst of them.
Muted gunshots echoed strangely in the narrow confines. But it seemed impossible to get a clear shot. Men stumbled, clutching and groaning, while she danced away, leaving tiny pieces of herself behind. Their training was beginning to come apart, tightly drilled excellence unravelling in the face of this seemingly unstoppable woman.
Batting aside his weapon, she stepped up to another target. Still spinning, her arm whipped round directly towards the stunned trooper’s head. He flinched away, far too late. But the blow never fell. Instead, when he looked back up, the soldier saw her fist frozen mere millimetres from him. Two needles gleamed from between her knuckles.
Almost immediately, the remaining soldiers aimed their weapons at the now motionless woman. Her silver skin was suddenly painted with more than half-a-dozen scarlet dots.
Celeste railed against the command for a few extra moments and then she finally relented. Her Goddess insisted she not fight and yet, the thought of going meekly to such as these was almost too much to bear. Anger suffused everything, even as the unnatural scarlet bled out of the world.
But it was not her place to question. It had simply taken time to remember as much. Mistress’ approval sang through her body, making it hard to even stand, and Celeste could almost sense her amusement as the slender ‘bot sunk slowly to her knees.
Her reward twisted itself around her spine, knotting strands of silken pleasure deep inside. Celeste smiled to herself and let her body adopt a more appropriate posture. Head raised proudly, arms crossed behind her and shoulders thrust back. Impishly she allowed her mirrored thighs to part a little more, catching infinite reflections of their shocked expressions in the oiled chrome.
A bubbling hiss snapped the soldier’s attention away, gun barrels unerringly finding the Goddess’ altar. Celeste already knew what must happen. Such bounty could not fall into the hands of their enemies. But it was still a wrench to watch the destruction of her portal into this new world.
The casket melted, bubbling away until nothing remained but a thick mercurial puddle. Mistress’ voice faded and Celeste tried to convince herself that she didn’t care. This was where she needed to be and that would be enough to sustain her.
But the sense of loss was too profound for her self-denials. She felt abandoned, rejected and, as the soldiers moved to cuff her hands behind her, utterly alone.