Chapter 2: Ambush

Scene 5 (M/F, mdom, femsub, mind control, slavery)

Liz hummed cheerfully as she walked the steps and halls, always keeping far enough ahead that she could entice her newest guest with the sway of her hips. She’d had a steady lucrative flow of clients so far: that first man, who’d been ravenous for her breasts after watching Valerie handle them; a lord’s wife, who needed a woman’s touch with her husband watching; another of her rogue friends, taking some quick fun before their night’s work. The sounds of moaning voices and clinking coins rang together in her ears. Business was good.

Now she was heading up to her favourite suite with her fourth client. He was a square-jawed, broad-shouldered man with a purposefully-cultivated air of mystery. He’d kept his hood up until she’d flirted it off him and only introduced himself with the obviously-fake ‘Hawke’, but that wasn’t unusual. Many people on both sides of this business valued their privacy.

Besides, it made it easier to read him. If a man that handsome was looking for professional company, she figured he had fantasies he couldn’t indulge elsewhere. He’d leapt at the chance when she’d suggested a fantasy suite.

She unlocked it with the key from her coin pouch, then swept the door dramatically open. The room’s walls rippled, shifting through several colours before settling into a rich mix of red and gold that made the comfortably-sized room look even more regal. As she stepped inside, she twirled about to give ‘Hawke’ a smile. “Welcome. This room is special — we can make it look like anything we can imagine.” A little hyperbole, but showmanship was part of the business.

Hawke’s shoulders were tense with anticipation, his stone-grey eyes bright with hunger. He stepped up closer to her. “And you?”

She knew what he wanted to hear. “I’m all yours. I can be whatever. You. Want.” She lingered just long enough to tease, then slid away from him to step up to the closet. It was almost as big inside as the room itself, filled with tools, toys, and of course, costumes.

He hovered just far enough away to avoid stressing her personal space, yet more than close enough to show his interest. “A slave,” he whispered. “I want you to dress like a slave.”

“Ah, a classic.” Liz was too young to have been working when slavery was legal, but it was still a common enough fantasy. She clapped her hands in a certain pattern and the room changed again: now the carpet and walls were patterned like the grey stone of a dungeon and the ceiling crystals cast a warm, flickering, torch-like light.

‘Dress like a slave’ could mean a number of different things, but Liz knew the most important. Huh, when did they get that new costume collar, with the yellow stones?

She passed it behind her and held her hair out of the way. The act of collaring her was part of the play. But as soon as he put it on, she knew something was wrong. A shiver of magic crackled off it and ran down her spine. She reached behind her, fumbled with the buckle, trying to undo it again. What—

“Hold still.”

The instant Hawke spoke the command, Liz froze. The instant after, a rush of unnatural, phantom pleasure ran through her, enough to make her hands shake where they still sat against the leather.

Hawke sighed as he closed the distance. “Good. Do you know how hard it was to get someone in here and switch the collars? I couldn’t smuggle in magic like that, not as a client.” While he spoke, he snapped a padlock over the buckle, locking the collar into place.

Liz gasped. His touch — even just fiddling with the back of her neck — felt good. It was hard to think. It would be so easy to just hold still, stay passive just as ordered, and receive the good feelings.

No. The only easy thing worth doing was a beautiful woman with loose morals. Liz strained against the compulsion until she could twist and look over her shoulder. As soon as she disobeyed, the blanket of pleasure faded from her, though the pressure to comply still restrained her. She tried to scream and it only came out as a grunt.

Hawke glared at her. “Don’t try it.” As soon as the words left his lips, even that grunt was silenced, and then another shock of bliss moved through her. “You can’t fight me. You can’t scream. So don’t waste your energy.” He sighed. Even with her under such control, he was still so tense. “Put on a robe. That black one.”

Liz’s hands moved before she even had time to think about it, and soon she felt the warm embrace of the robe wrapped around her. It was surreal: her heartbeat was still slow, her breathing still steady, even as internally, she strained with all her being.

He didn’t even seem to notice. He just lay his hand on the small of her back and guided her across the room. “Good. Now, you’re coming with me. The Owls very much want to meet you.”

The Owls. Immediately, dread flared through her spirit, even though her heart still wouldn’t speed up. Val was not the first partner she’d pointed their way, and several others had gone for the chance to skim some cream off the rich and powerful. People who shouldn’t have missed it at all ... but when the rich found themselves missing money, their vengeance was harsher than any other.

She fought against every step her body took, to no avail. By the time they reached the door, she was exhausted, like a marionette hanging limply by her strings — even while her body still moved with the same brisk energy her reflexes always did, sensually striding down the stairs with him.

But ... that meant he couldn’t order her not to waste her energy.

His commands weren’t as absolute as he wanted her to think. She’d known enough petty men to know that if someone wore his confidence on his sleeve in garish colours, it was because he didn’t want her to see how little was underneath. There were limits to what the collar could do.

So she relaxed, to let her body move on autopilot while she regained her strength and gathered her thoughts. There was something she could still do. So she just had to figure out what it was and find the right moment to do it.

Scene 6 (non-sexual violence)

Valerie didn’t hum, whistle, or sing. Silence was too deeply ingrained into her. But as she crossed the rooftops, she moved with a joyous, dancing step.

It had been a good night. Aside from her well-earned coin, those alchemy books had ideas that were worth stealing for her own recipes, and she had enough dry reagents to last for months. She smiled as the bordello came into view. As one more bonus, she’d spent half the handoff flirting with her contact Samanta. That sharpened her appetite for—

Hang on.

As Valerie peeked over the rooftop’s edge, the glossy shine of marigold hair caught her eye. Liz had just stepped out the front door, accompanied by a man with his hood up. The bouncer tipped his hat to them, like Liz was just heading someplace more private with a client.

But Valerie knew Liz never made house calls. Something was wrong.

Val dashed forward, leaping from rooftop to rooftop. She had too much distance to cover: by the time she reached the bordello, the stranger was ushering Liz into a covered carriage.

So as she ran, Val memorised everything she could about the carriage’s make. The exact breadth of its structure; the shade of its black paint; the shape of its unpainted wheels. Even if she couldn’t keep up, she wouldn’t lose it.

Liz kept her head down as they left the bordello. The more directly she resisted, the more it exhausted her. Even if she wasn’t literally compelled not to waste her energy, there was little point in doing so. Instead, she’d bide her time and wait for the right opportunity.

And she managed a private smile. Just before they reached the carriage, she spied a black-dressed figure with red-and-black hair, moving along the rooftops. Val was on her way.

Then ‘Hawke’ ushered her inside the carriage and her face fell.

It was already occupied, with barely two seats left for the two of them. The rough, ready men looked at her with a mix of leering lust and wary danger.

She felt a mix of flattered and horrified. Why had the Owls prepared six well-armed toughs to kidnap a sex-worker like her?

Hawke set her down between two of them then knocked on the front wall. Three steady, solid knocks, a signal for the coachman who would never see any of their faces.

Then they were off. What was she missing? Her hands shook as the carriage turned down Brightstone Boulevard.

Eighty. Eighty-one. Eighty-two...

Counting breaths helped Zofia to ease her tension. The steady, reliable progression of one number into the next was soothing. And with the moment drawing closer, she had a lot of tension to ease.

They — she, Pendleton, and the guardsmen Pendleton had provided — sat at an open-air teahouse with a view of the street. They were subtle about it, distributed around different tables rather than all clustered at one, and Zofia herself wore a full, black cloak.

She wasn’t alone. She forcibly reminded herself of that: though she was the only one at her table, she wasn’t alone in this operation. She had worked through every scenario of what security could fit in such a carriage and she knew: as long as she had good people behind her, she would succeed.

Finally, Malville — the slim-shouldered guard with the best view of the street — whistled a series of descending notes. He’d caught sight of their target.

Zofia strode out to meet it. As she did, she threw her hood back, identifying herself with the fall of tourmaline locks and the golden gleam of her tiara. “Halt!” She put as much steel into her tone as her hand, drawing her sword. “In the name of the crown!”

The coachman, eyes wide and terrified, pulled his horses to a stop rather than try to run her down or rush around her. He dropped the reins and put his hands up in open surrender. “I don’t know these people, Highness, promise! I’m not with them!”

Two of Zofia’s task force came up beside her. They would keep the driver under watch and make sure he didn’t break for it, so she stepped around to the carriage’s rear.

Now, everything depended on the people on the other side of that dark window.

Liz’s heart pounded in her ears, her pulse deafening as she stared out the rear window.

Princess Zofia Tourmaline. Of course Liz knew of her. An expert swordswoman, trained by Sir Jorge himself. Cold and standoffish, but utterly genuine in her personal crusade against corruption. When House Hasting had tried to bribe her out of an investigation, she’d jailed the whole family.

In Liz’s line of work, she was a pain in the ass. You couldn’t buy her off and trying to con her was risky at best, outright treason at worst.

These armed thugs weren’t for Liz. She was just the bait.

The carriage burst open and out rushed two men with swords, one already swinging at Zofia. She caught it on her own blade; among many other possibilities, she was ready for this.

“I would prefer to take you alive.” That reminder spoken, she pushed his sword forcefully off hers, then whirled to parry the other. He’d only just started building momentum and her force sent him reeling, but before she could press the advantage she had to sidestep an attack from a third man coming out of the carriage.

She had to backpedal a few steps, but it was fine. It was fine. She wasn’t alone.

Valerie allowed herself five seconds to catch her breath as she reached the rooftop’s edge, and surveyed an unexpected scene.

The carriage was stopped in the middle of the street, with Princess Zofia fighting on even terms with three men while several of the city’s guardsmen stood ready in the wings. Why weren’t they engaging?

No matter. Five seconds were up. Val anchored her grappling hook around the rooftop’s edge and rappelled down, making a line for the carriage, around the fight. Liz needed her.

Pendleton flinched every time he heard steel ring on steel.

Combat was such dreadful, noisy business. All the shouting, the screaming, the clanging. By rights, he shouldn’t even be here. He should be comfortably in his office, maybe with a beautiful woman kneeling under his desk.

But no. The Owls had sent a message, and he had to be here to see it through.

So he had certain appetites, and the Owls were the only way to indulge them. So what! It wasn’t his fault that slavery was illegal now.

And now he was caught between a rock and a hard place. If the princess succeeded and learned about what he’d done, he was ruined. If the Owls even thought he’d betrayed the favours he owed them, he was dead.

So now he had to commit treason. Such a bother.

He gave the signal.

Sudden pain flashed through the back of Zofia’s head. Magic made her tiara as good as a helmet, but being clubbed through a helmet still hurt.

Reeling, she let reflex take over, whirling to bat her assailant away. When did someone get behind her? How? She had been keeping so alert. Nobody else had left the carriage.

She’d prefer to take them alive, but survival took precedence. She knocked the club aside and drove her sword forward.

Her vision cleared, and she saw Malville, that young guardsman, stare down in shock at the blade buried in his chest. The cudgel fell from his hand as he went limp.

Malville had attacked her? What? Why?

She didn’t have time to think. Pendleton’s other guards rushed her while more came out of the carriage. She didn’t have the luxury of mercy. She fought hard, she fought like she meant it. Two more of her attackers fell, but there were just too many of them.