Drake didn’t run. Not yet. He slid his feet off the table, dropped them onto stone that was every bit as cold as he expected it to be, and kept his arms at his sides instead of covering himself. Doing that would suggest the monk didn’t have control of his actions.
The monk spoke again. “Clint, walk to the sacrificial circle and stand in front of it.”
Drake didn’t have any idea where the sacrificial circle was, but now that he wasn’t chained to a table, a broader inspection of the darkened interior of the castle tower was possible. The sacrificial circle wasn’t hard to find. It was glowing blood red, for one, and also, Westin was standing in the middle of it.
Drake risked a quick glance down at his own chest, and from this angle, he could see the small black disc attached to his chest was wafer thin. It looked like he could simply rip it off and snap it in two, but that would let the insane desert monk know he wasn’t being controlled. So instead, Drake padded toward the glowing red circle and Westin.
What was creating that glowing circle on the floor? Was there a hidden projector on the ceiling? Another series of LEDs buried right into the stone? Was the serial killer who’d abducted him also a Hollywood effects artist in his spare time?
Drake reached the circle to find Westin standing tall and straight inside it, his mouth a hard line. He looked like a dude facing a firing squad, one who didn’t plan to flinch. Drake was shocked to find anyone could look so stoic in the face of... this.
Was Westin deluded too? Was he also insane? He was certainly acting like he was under some sort of mind control.
“Listen to me,” Westin said calmly. “I know you don’t want to do this, and I forgive you. This isn’t you. You won’t kill me.”
Drake glared at him. “Why would I kill you? I’m not a homicidal maniac!”
“It is Lord Gloomwood who will kill me, not you,” Westin continued grimly. “His obedience fetish is absolute. You can’t blame yourself for what happens next.”
Once again, Drake couldn’t help but wonder if Westin and the robed man were in this together. Were the two of them acting out some sick fantasy? Was Westin another victim... or the robed man’s accomplice?
Sandals on stone were followed by the swish of robes as the robed man stopped at Drake’s other side. “Westin is entirely correct,” the lord said. “Not that it matters. Soon my power will be all that matters in this world.” He produced a sharp dagger from his robes.
“What ritual are you planning, fool?” Westin demanded.
“Did you think I would keep you alive all this time simply to expend you in a mundane summoning ritual? Your divine blood is good for so much more. With it, I will open a portal to the underside and take what I desire.”
“You’re mad,” Westin whispered. His eyes widened as blood drained from his face. “You cannot attempt to summon a leviathan. It will consume us all!”
“Not if I seize its power for my own.”
“You’re not powerful enough to control such a demon! No one can!”
“In this you are mistaken. Once I control the power of a leviathan, even your father and the noble court will not dare challenge me.”
Still standing in the circle, Westin looked to Drake. “You must stop him!”
Drake glared back. “Fucking how, exactly?”
“I don’t know, but you have to be able to do something. You have divine blood. If he means to use you as the instigator for a ritual of the underside—”
“Silence, Westin!” the lord barked. “Do not speak again. Do not ever speak again.”
Westin’s lips clamped shut as the disc on his chest flared red. He blinked desperately but said nothing else. Meanwhile, Drake struggled to wrap his head around those words.
You have to be able to do something. You have divine blood.
What divine blood? He was a part-time construction laborer working his way through night school in hopes of landing a job that didn’t suck. The only ace up his sleeve he had, currently, was that he wasn’t compelled to do anything... even if his idiot abductor believed he was. So was Drake’s power that he was not insane?
He was tempted to throw a few punches and make a break up those stairs, but the so-called lord of Gloomwood Manor still had a fucking dagger. Which, as Drake stared wide-eyed, the man pressed hilt-first into his hands. He stared down at the weapon in disbelief.
“Clint, do not harm me,” the lord said. “Simply listen to my words.”
Drake had never murdered anyone before. He’d never thought himself capable of it. But stabbing a guy couldn’t be that hard, could it?
The monk smiled grandly as he clasped his hands together at his waist. “It is time for you to complete your purpose here. Look to the ritual circle. Memorize its pattern.”
Still clutching the knife, Drake looked. The patterns on the glowing red circle in which Westin stood were, at first glance, impossibly complex. Yet an insidious sort of sense was already worming its way into his brain, a sensation that was both chilling and unpleasant.
He felt like something physical was even now coiling around his heart. Had these two slipped him something, like an edible? Was he fucking high right now?
“Clint, this is the pattern you will carve into the body of Westin Proudglade,” the monk said. “Carve it, to scale, around the obedience fetish. Once you begin carving, you must not stop no matter how much the canvas screams.”
Drake glared at his idiot captor. “There’s no way I’m doing that!”
The big monk’s ruddy brow furrowed. “You cannot resist my obedience fetish. You—”
“I’m not carving up some dude’s chest!” Drake took a step back and brandished the dagger. “Now back off before I stab you in your tiny dick!”
The monk’s eyes shot wide in obviously maniacal rage. “What rarity is this? How can you resist my fetish?” He raised both hands. “You will obey me, Clint Eastwood!” He wiggled his fingers like he was trying to do a trick. “For your defiance! Suffer!”
They both stood in silence as the big man stupidly wiggled his fingers, looking increasingly frustrated as nothing happened. As the man lunged for him with a feral snarl, Drake lunged as well... forward... and stabbed. He jammed the dark black sacrificial dagger straight into the gut of the lord of Gloomwood Manor.
It was all too easy to stab this psycho in the gut, and Drake wasn’t sure who was more surprised he pulled it off. He’d just stabbed a guy. That was a thing that happened. The big man even had the decency to look surprised.
The monk coughed up blood. “I will consume you. Wretched sacrifice!”
As Drake stared in wide-eyed disbelief, all the man’s visible flesh darkened and... was he actually sprouting fur? His nails lengthened into claws. His two front teeth swelled ominously, and his voice dropped to a low hiss.
“Now, before the Eidolons—”
“Shut up!” Drake yanked the dagger out and stabbed again and again. The monk’s fury turned to panic as his now long-nailed hands belatedly attempted to ward off Drake’s slashes, but even those were no match for Drake’s bright red tunnel vision, animal fury, and, most likely, temporary insanity. Enough of this LARPer bullshit! Enough!
The size difference between them didn’t matter. Only his rage. And as the rage flowed out of him, the pressure inside his chest warmed. A warmth he relished. A warmth he craved. The lord of Gloomwood Manor toppled and Drake came down on top, stabbing away.
The big man had long stopped moving when Drake finally stopped stabbing. His arm throbbed with exhaustion as the warmth flooding his body and the hunger flooding his mind both faded. The big man’s eyes looked up, unseeing and unmoving.
Had the monk really grown claws and fur? No. That was impossible. Drake had hallucinated, probably because of whatever drugs they’d slipped him, and now, he’d straight up murdered a guy... so how did he feel about that? Guilty? No.
He felt relieved. Relieved to be alive. Being alive was fucking awesome.
Drake ripped the stupid disc off his chest. It felt like ripping off a bandage and took some chest hair with it, but he was done playing games. There were fresh scratches all over his chest and arms, shallow cuts like he’d picked a fight with a rake. Must have been fingernails.
The killing had been self-defense. All of this was self-defense. It was fine, really. People defended themselves from being murdered all the time.
As Drake grappled with the enormity of what he’d just done—stabbed a man, repeatedly, to death—Westin simply stared at him in silence. Drake glanced his way. He expected Westin to look horrified by all he’d just witnessed, but instead he looked... relieved?
“What the hell, man?” Drake asked softly.
Westin pointed silently at his mouth.
“What’s that? Why are you doing that?”
Westin gestured hurriedly again. Was he really... was he still pretending he couldn’t speak? Just how deep into this delusion was this poor idiot?
No matter. Drake knew how to fix this. “Westin. Speak.”
The naked blond man gasped in relief. “Thank you! Thank the Eidolons for you, Clint Eastwood! You’ve saved us both! You defeated the lord of Gloomwood Manor!”
“Did I?” Drake was still a bit too pissed off to celebrate.
“Can you order me to remove this fetish? I loathe its weight upon my soul.”
“Sure, Westin. Remove your fetish.” He felt dirty just saying that.
Westin grabbed the small disc on his chest and, with a grunt, ripped it free. He, too, had a seared circle on his chest, but didn’t seem to mind. He looked thrilled.
Beside them, the dead robed man farted loudly. Drake immediately took a step back from the corpse. “Is he dead?” Maybe the man was faking somehow.
Westin’s brow furrowed. “Has his title not yet passed to you? Did he have a successor?”
Drake did not answer any of those questions because they all sounded like more fantasy bullshit. He’d just survived an encounter with an insane, steroid-addled serial killer. There had been no way to not die but to kill, and that huge asshole had absolutely had it coming.
“Well no, I mean... he’s probably dead. I did stab him twenty fucking times. I’m just making sure, because this all seems insane.”
Westin’s brow furrowed in sympathy. “You were summoned here from another realm. I understand how overwhelming this must be. You’ve never traveled between realms before?”
“I... have not.” Drake decided it would be easier for both of them if he let this man spew his insanity unopposed. “So where am I?” Or rather, where did Westin think they were? How far had that crazy monk taken him after he pulled Drake out of his wrecked truck?
“Come.” Westin extended a hand. “Follow me out of this dungeon, and I will show you the more pleasant side of the realm to which the former lord summoned you. If you are Lord Gloomwood now, we have nothing to fear from its other denizens.”
Drake raised one hand. “Let’s take just a moment here, Westin. Why would I be... that?”
“So far as I know, Lord Gloomwood had no designated successor. Moreover, the old lord revealed you have divine blood. Therefore, when you defeated him in battle, you, Clint Eastwood, inherited his title, his wealth, and his responsibilities.”
Drake didn’t have divine blood. He had no idea what that meant. He was a poor kid from Iowa whose mother worked as a clerical assistant and whose father was a deadbeat.
Westin grinned. “I daresay the old lord’s former denizens will be a sight better off with you as their new lord. The man you defeated when you saved us was unpleasant.”
Drake struggled valiantly not to punch Westin in the face. “Was it the ritual sacrifice that made him unpopular with the locals, or just the naked torture dungeon?”
“I’m certain we can find fresh clothes upstairs,” Westin assured him. “But do not worry, my friend. You have nothing to be ashamed of. I do not dally with men, but I assure you, you need not feel bashful about your nudity. You are quite the specimen of virility.”
Westin definitely meant that. “Thanks,” Drake said.
Should he return the compliment? Westin seemed like he might appreciate a compliment, but Drake wasn’t about to go around telling other guys they were specimens of virility. Especially when they were both butt naked in a torture dungeon.
Drake didn’t run. Not yet. He slid his feet off the table, dropped them onto stone that was every bit as cold as he expected it to be, and kept his arms at his sides instead of covering himself. Doing that would suggest the monk didn’t have control of his actions.
The monk spoke again. “Clint, walk to the sacrificial circle and stand in front of it.”
Drake didn’t have any idea where the sacrificial circle was, but now that he wasn’t chained to a table, a broader inspection of the darkened interior of the castle tower was possible. The sacrificial circle wasn’t hard to find. It was glowing blood red, for one, and also, Westin was standing in the middle of it.
Drake risked a quick glance down at his own chest, and from this angle, he could see the small black disc attached to his chest was wafer thin. It looked like he could simply rip it off and snap it in two, but that would let the insane desert monk know he wasn’t being controlled. So instead, Drake padded toward the glowing red circle and Westin.
What was creating that glowing circle on the floor? Was there a hidden projector on the ceiling? Another series of LEDs buried right into the stone? Was the serial killer who’d abducted him also a Hollywood effects artist in his spare time?
Drake reached the circle to find Westin standing tall and straight inside it, his mouth a hard line. He looked like a dude facing a firing squad, one who didn’t plan to flinch. Drake was shocked to find anyone could look so stoic in the face of... this.
Was Westin deluded too? Was he also insane? He was certainly acting like he was under some sort of mind control.
“Listen to me,” Westin said calmly. “I know you don’t want to do this, and I forgive you. This isn’t you. You won’t kill me.”
Drake glared at him. “Why would I kill you? I’m not a homicidal maniac!”
“It is Lord Gloomwood who will kill me, not you,” Westin continued grimly. “His obedience fetish is absolute. You can’t blame yourself for what happens next.”
Once again, Drake couldn’t help but wonder if Westin and the robed man were in this together. Were the two of them acting out some sick fantasy? Was Westin another victim... or the robed man’s accomplice?
Sandals on stone were followed by the swish of robes as the robed man stopped at Drake’s other side. “Westin is entirely correct,” the lord said. “Not that it matters. Soon my power will be all that matters in this world.” He produced a sharp dagger from his robes.
“What ritual are you planning, fool?” Westin demanded.
“Did you think I would keep you alive all this time simply to expend you in a mundane summoning ritual? Your divine blood is good for so much more. With it, I will open a portal to the underside and take what I desire.”
“You’re mad,” Westin whispered. His eyes widened as blood drained from his face. “You cannot attempt to summon a leviathan. It will consume us all!”
“Not if I seize its power for my own.”
“You’re not powerful enough to control such a demon! No one can!”
“In this you are mistaken. Once I control the power of a leviathan, even your father and the noble court will not dare challenge me.”
Still standing in the circle, Westin looked to Drake. “You must stop him!”
Drake glared back. “Fucking how, exactly?”
“I don’t know, but you have to be able to do something. You have divine blood. If he means to use you as the instigator for a ritual of the underside—”
“Silence, Westin!” the lord barked. “Do not speak again. Do not ever speak again.”
Westin’s lips clamped shut as the disc on his chest flared red. He blinked desperately but said nothing else. Meanwhile, Drake struggled to wrap his head around those words.
You have to be able to do something. You have divine blood.
What divine blood? He was a part-time construction laborer working his way through night school in hopes of landing a job that didn’t suck. The only ace up his sleeve he had, currently, was that he wasn’t compelled to do anything... even if his idiot abductor believed he was. So was Drake’s power that he was not insane?
He was tempted to throw a few punches and make a break up those stairs, but the so-called lord of Gloomwood Manor still had a fucking dagger. Which, as Drake stared wide-eyed, the man pressed hilt-first into his hands. He stared down at the weapon in disbelief.
“Clint, do not harm me,” the lord said. “Simply listen to my words.”
Drake had never murdered anyone before. He’d never thought himself capable of it. But stabbing a guy couldn’t be that hard, could it?
The monk smiled grandly as he clasped his hands together at his waist. “It is time for you to complete your purpose here. Look to the ritual circle. Memorize its pattern.”
Still clutching the knife, Drake looked. The patterns on the glowing red circle in which Westin stood were, at first glance, impossibly complex. Yet an insidious sort of sense was already worming its way into his brain, a sensation that was both chilling and unpleasant.
He felt like something physical was even now coiling around his heart. Had these two slipped him something, like an edible? Was he fucking high right now?
“Clint, this is the pattern you will carve into the body of Westin Proudglade,” the monk said. “Carve it, to scale, around the obedience fetish. Once you begin carving, you must not stop no matter how much the canvas screams.”
Drake glared at his idiot captor. “There’s no way I’m doing that!”
The big monk’s ruddy brow furrowed. “You cannot resist my obedience fetish. You—”
“I’m not carving up some dude’s chest!” Drake took a step back and brandished the dagger. “Now back off before I stab you in your tiny dick!”
The monk’s eyes shot wide in obviously maniacal rage. “What rarity is this? How can you resist my fetish?” He raised both hands. “You will obey me, Clint Eastwood!” He wiggled his fingers like he was trying to do a trick. “For your defiance! Suffer!”
They both stood in silence as the big man stupidly wiggled his fingers, looking increasingly frustrated as nothing happened. As the man lunged for him with a feral snarl, Drake lunged as well... forward... and stabbed. He jammed the dark black sacrificial dagger straight into the gut of the lord of Gloomwood Manor.
It was all too easy to stab this psycho in the gut, and Drake wasn’t sure who was more surprised he pulled it off. He’d just stabbed a guy. That was a thing that happened. The big man even had the decency to look surprised.
The monk coughed up blood. “I will consume you. Wretched sacrifice!”
As Drake stared in wide-eyed disbelief, all the man’s visible flesh darkened and... was he actually sprouting fur? His nails lengthened into claws. His two front teeth swelled ominously, and his voice dropped to a low hiss.
“Now, before the Eidolons—”
“Shut up!” Drake yanked the dagger out and stabbed again and again. The monk’s fury turned to panic as his now long-nailed hands belatedly attempted to ward off Drake’s slashes, but even those were no match for Drake’s bright red tunnel vision, animal fury, and, most likely, temporary insanity. Enough of this LARPer bullshit! Enough!
The size difference between them didn’t matter. Only his rage. And as the rage flowed out of him, the pressure inside his chest warmed. A warmth he relished. A warmth he craved. The lord of Gloomwood Manor toppled and Drake came down on top, stabbing away.
The big man had long stopped moving when Drake finally stopped stabbing. His arm throbbed with exhaustion as the warmth flooding his body and the hunger flooding his mind both faded. The big man’s eyes looked up, unseeing and unmoving.
Had the monk really grown claws and fur? No. That was impossible. Drake had hallucinated, probably because of whatever drugs they’d slipped him, and now, he’d straight up murdered a guy... so how did he feel about that? Guilty? No.
He felt relieved. Relieved to be alive. Being alive was fucking awesome.
Drake ripped the stupid disc off his chest. It felt like ripping off a bandage and took some chest hair with it, but he was done playing games. There were fresh scratches all over his chest and arms, shallow cuts like he’d picked a fight with a rake. Must have been fingernails.
The killing had been self-defense. All of this was self-defense. It was fine, really. People defended themselves from being murdered all the time.
As Drake grappled with the enormity of what he’d just done—stabbed a man, repeatedly, to death—Westin simply stared at him in silence. Drake glanced his way. He expected Westin to look horrified by all he’d just witnessed, but instead he looked... relieved?
“What the hell, man?” Drake asked softly.
Westin pointed silently at his mouth.
“What’s that? Why are you doing that?”
Westin gestured hurriedly again. Was he really... was he still pretending he couldn’t speak? Just how deep into this delusion was this poor idiot?
No matter. Drake knew how to fix this. “Westin. Speak.”
The naked blond man gasped in relief. “Thank you! Thank the Eidolons for you, Clint Eastwood! You’ve saved us both! You defeated the lord of Gloomwood Manor!”
“Did I?” Drake was still a bit too pissed off to celebrate.
“Can you order me to remove this fetish? I loathe its weight upon my soul.”
“Sure, Westin. Remove your fetish.” He felt dirty just saying that.
Westin grabbed the small disc on his chest and, with a grunt, ripped it free. He, too, had a seared circle on his chest, but didn’t seem to mind. He looked thrilled.
Beside them, the dead robed man farted loudly. Drake immediately took a step back from the corpse. “Is he dead?” Maybe the man was faking somehow.
Westin’s brow furrowed. “Has his title not yet passed to you? Did he have a successor?”
Drake did not answer any of those questions because they all sounded like more fantasy bullshit. He’d just survived an encounter with an insane, steroid-addled serial killer. There had been no way to not die but to kill, and that huge asshole had absolutely had it coming.
“Well no, I mean... he’s probably dead. I did stab him twenty fucking times. I’m just making sure, because this all seems insane.”
Westin’s brow furrowed in sympathy. “You were summoned here from another realm. I understand how overwhelming this must be. You’ve never traveled between realms before?”
“I... have not.” Drake decided it would be easier for both of them if he let this man spew his insanity unopposed. “So where am I?” Or rather, where did Westin think they were? How far had that crazy monk taken him after he pulled Drake out of his wrecked truck?
“Come.” Westin extended a hand. “Follow me out of this dungeon, and I will show you the more pleasant side of the realm to which the former lord summoned you. If you are Lord Gloomwood now, we have nothing to fear from its other denizens.”
Drake raised one hand. “Let’s take just a moment here, Westin. Why would I be... that?”
“So far as I know, Lord Gloomwood had no designated successor. Moreover, the old lord revealed you have divine blood. Therefore, when you defeated him in battle, you, Clint Eastwood, inherited his title, his wealth, and his responsibilities.”
Drake didn’t have divine blood. He had no idea what that meant. He was a poor kid from Iowa whose mother worked as a clerical assistant and whose father was a deadbeat.
Westin grinned. “I daresay the old lord’s former denizens will be a sight better off with you as their new lord. The man you defeated when you saved us was unpleasant.”
Drake struggled valiantly not to punch Westin in the face. “Was it the ritual sacrifice that made him unpopular with the locals, or just the naked torture dungeon?”
“I’m certain we can find fresh clothes upstairs,” Westin assured him. “But do not worry, my friend. You have nothing to be ashamed of. I do not dally with men, but I assure you, you need not feel bashful about your nudity. You are quite the specimen of virility.”
Westin definitely meant that. “Thanks,” Drake said.
Should he return the compliment? Westin seemed like he might appreciate a compliment, but Drake wasn’t about to go around telling other guys they were specimens of virility. Especially when they were both butt naked in a torture dungeon.
