end of the hall and looked down both directions
branching out from there. Disappeared in opposite directions. A few
moments later they were back. She watched them shrug before
returning to the gathering room. Neither of them looked up.
She wasn’t even breathing hard. And she still
had the powder compact in her right palm. Wow. Unbelievable.
“I’m not an aficionado of torture, Mister
Griggins.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“But I was trained in the arts. All sorts of
variations. I think tonight I will pursue the Chinese Dynasty
Imperial method. Death by one thousand knives. Do you know what
that entails?”
“I’d rather not, actually,” Len replied.
Deandra dropped to the hall floor soundlessly
using more newly gained skills, much to her surprise. She skimmed
the floor in a running tip-toe to reach her prior vantage point. A
moment later she had the compact open and trained on the room. The
two men had returned to their previous positions. Another tip of
the mirror got her a distorted view of Len, and the old man facing
him, a weapon-toting guard on either side.
Two more. She amended her count of bad guys.
Fifteen. Maybe more outside. And the old guy looked near ninety.
Feeble. It took forever for his next spate of words to finish. He
had a cane he tapped on the floor occasionally for emphasis.
“Do you know your Chinese history, Mister
Griggins? There was this man who actually climbed the walls of the
Forbidden City, intent on killing the emperor. He was within reach
of that goal before the palace guards caught him. He was taken
before the emperor and asked why he’d do something so ill-fated.
His reply was the horrid life outside the gates. The starvation he
faced. The poverty. The squalor. The lack of hope. When they asked
him why he hadn’t just committed suicide, you know what he
said?”
“I’d rather not know that, either,” Len
replied.
“Well, I’m still going to tell you.”
“Figures.”
Len was hog-tied, or as close to it as a man
could be in an upright position atop a chair. They had his ankles
roped to his wrists behind the back of the chair, putting him in a
forward leaning position. And if that wasn’t uncomfortable enough,
the rope was laced around his throat and torso, too. Len saw her.
Deandra caught his eye in the mirror. He tipped his chin just
slightly and then moved his eyes to the huddled group of women.
What the hell did that mean?
“This fellow told them that he didn’t commit
suicide outside the gates, because if he had, his name would be
lost to posterity. Since he’d breached the walls of the Forbidden
City, his name was going to go into the annals of history. Stupid
man.”
“Sounds like it.” Len shifted slightly,
motioning toward the women with his chin. He blinked slowly and
steadily at her. Twice.
“He reaped the cruelest of deaths and to what
end? Nobody remembers his name. Only his transgression. And the
method of his death. I don’t suppose you want to know what is it,
do you?”
“Will that stop you from telling me?” Len
asked.
The old man smiled. “Sadly. No.”
“Well, then, lay it on me. What
happened?”
“He was skinned alive. His flesh removed
slice by slice. Not deep enough to kill at first but imagine the
pain as he bled to death. In absolute agony as air hit every wound.
Over a span of several hours. They knew the perfect method to
prolong life, making certain the organs received enough fluid to
keep him alive for the longest time possible.”
“Sounds unpleasant,” Len remarked.
“I have been taught these methods, Mister
Griggins. I don’t like using them. But I will. Please don’t make
me.”
“Tell me one good way to stop you,” Len
said.
“Give us the vampire. The one named
Grimm.”
Deandra gasped and dropped the mirror. She
watched it fall from nerveless fingers. The sound would’ve been her
undoing if several members of the 2100 Radical Society hadn’t
broken into squeals and laughter, and all kinds of
branching out from there. Disappeared in opposite directions. A few
moments later they were back. She watched them shrug before
returning to the gathering room. Neither of them looked up.
She wasn’t even breathing hard. And she still
had the powder compact in her right palm. Wow. Unbelievable.
“I’m not an aficionado of torture, Mister
Griggins.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“But I was trained in the arts. All sorts of
variations. I think tonight I will pursue the Chinese Dynasty
Imperial method. Death by one thousand knives. Do you know what
that entails?”
“I’d rather not, actually,” Len replied.
Deandra dropped to the hall floor soundlessly
using more newly gained skills, much to her surprise. She skimmed
the floor in a running tip-toe to reach her prior vantage point. A
moment later she had the compact open and trained on the room. The
two men had returned to their previous positions. Another tip of
the mirror got her a distorted view of Len, and the old man facing
him, a weapon-toting guard on either side.
Two more. She amended her count of bad guys.
Fifteen. Maybe more outside. And the old guy looked near ninety.
Feeble. It took forever for his next spate of words to finish. He
had a cane he tapped on the floor occasionally for emphasis.
“Do you know your Chinese history, Mister
Griggins? There was this man who actually climbed the walls of the
Forbidden City, intent on killing the emperor. He was within reach
of that goal before the palace guards caught him. He was taken
before the emperor and asked why he’d do something so ill-fated.
His reply was the horrid life outside the gates. The starvation he
faced. The poverty. The squalor. The lack of hope. When they asked
him why he hadn’t just committed suicide, you know what he
said?”
“I’d rather not know that, either,” Len
replied.
“Well, I’m still going to tell you.”
“Figures.”
Len was hog-tied, or as close to it as a man
could be in an upright position atop a chair. They had his ankles
roped to his wrists behind the back of the chair, putting him in a
forward leaning position. And if that wasn’t uncomfortable enough,
the rope was laced around his throat and torso, too. Len saw her.
Deandra caught his eye in the mirror. He tipped his chin just
slightly and then moved his eyes to the huddled group of women.
What the hell did that mean?
“This fellow told them that he didn’t commit
suicide outside the gates, because if he had, his name would be
lost to posterity. Since he’d breached the walls of the Forbidden
City, his name was going to go into the annals of history. Stupid
man.”
“Sounds like it.” Len shifted slightly,
motioning toward the women with his chin. He blinked slowly and
steadily at her. Twice.
“He reaped the cruelest of deaths and to what
end? Nobody remembers his name. Only his transgression. And the
method of his death. I don’t suppose you want to know what is it,
do you?”
“Will that stop you from telling me?” Len
asked.
The old man smiled. “Sadly. No.”
“Well, then, lay it on me. What
happened?”
“He was skinned alive. His flesh removed
slice by slice. Not deep enough to kill at first but imagine the
pain as he bled to death. In absolute agony as air hit every wound.
Over a span of several hours. They knew the perfect method to
prolong life, making certain the organs received enough fluid to
keep him alive for the longest time possible.”
“Sounds unpleasant,” Len remarked.
“I have been taught these methods, Mister
Griggins. I don’t like using them. But I will. Please don’t make
me.”
“Tell me one good way to stop you,” Len
said.
“Give us the vampire. The one named
Grimm.”
Deandra gasped and dropped the mirror. She
watched it fall from nerveless fingers. The sound would’ve been her
undoing if several members of the 2100 Radical Society hadn’t
broken into squeals and laughter, and all kinds of
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