Children of the Moon Ch. 2

How long we sleep, I do not know. It is right that I should wake in his arms, my face tucked into the hollow between his chin and shoulder. It is right that his arms are wrapped so tightly, one hand on my hip in a possessive way. The blanket covers us, his body warming me. A hot flush starts at the center of my being and radiates outward. I wonder if he dreams of me, his hardness pressing against my belly. He mumbles something I do not catch.

I am distracted. It is too warm here, even with his heat. Something is out of place. I pull away from him slightly, opening my eyes. PAIN! My head echoes, light seeking out every dark corner. The animalistic scream of pain must be mine as I throw myself against Riddick, seeking the shadows.

He wakes with a curse, one arm pulling me tighter against him. The blanket is pulled to cover me fully as he reaches out for something. Gently he picks me up, draping my cloak and a leather jacket over my head. I whimper softly at the pain that still echoes and throbs in the space behind my eyes.

I hear his voice asking where to take me, and tell him that the house is mine. The door flies back against the wall with a resounding crack of plaster and ancient wood, making me wince in pain. It slams shut behind me. He pauses, I think he must be looking to the tightly shuttered windows. Across the room is a door, a red light over it indicating it as a dark room. Whether he guesses it as the right place or only seeks to return me to my darkness, I am not sure.

My body begins to relax as I am dropped onto a bed. I struggle my way free, for one frantic moment thinking of countless times waking from nightmares. My fingers claw through the cloak, tossing the jacket away. I lash out at him, unthinking. Blood in the air as I rake across his chest. My vision is dark, unfamiliar tones and lights… A half memory of another life, before the shine, that which is forgotten. I hear, somewhere in the distance of time, a strangled scream, feel wet tears on my face, and feel a muted amateur version of the Rage.

I am slammed roughly against the wall, breath escaping in a whoosh, a soft “oeuf” sound as vision clears. The more familiar mercury, red and black tones returning as I find myself pinned in the corner of bed and wall, held down by his body. A low warning growl promises further pain. The blade is in his hand again, pressing against my throat. Slowly I will the muscles in my body to relax, watching him through half lidded eyes.

My mind works quickly, searching for the words to explain, for a way to express the dizzy swirl of emotions within me. I sigh, letting one hand brush along his arm that holds the blade and rest against his hip. “How can you do it so calm?” I ask, dismissing the vision as inexplicable. “Be in the sun.” My eyes are wide as I study him. He smirks slightly for a moment, but it fades as he watches.

Emotion, for us, is hard. Not so much to feel, but to recognize. Eyes express emotion, but the Shine reflects only the viewer. To an outsider we seem cold, inhuman. They imagine that our soul is taken. It is easy to believe, an easy thing to become lost in. The surge of rage, the bloodlust, the hunger… A more primal part of man is awakened, a more primitive self.

Emotion exists. A different level of emotion, alien to “normal” man. Unreadable to most, sometimes even to ourselves. Those who care learn, somehow. Body language or tone of voice… The set of mouth and lips as words are spoken.

By these signs, or others I’ve yet to learn, he understands. There is wonder in my voice, which is easy enough to recognize. I think what causes him to stop and study me so intently is the tone beneath the wonder, the undertone of jealousy, perhaps even bitterness. I’m not entirely sure myself what it is. I don’t remember the day, don’t remember whether I liked it or if I should miss it. I only know that his almost casual reaction to my outburst… irks me…

He laughs suddenly, and presses a kiss against my lips before falling back onto the bed, dropping the blade onto the floor. His voice grates along my frayed nerves, its smug tones mocking as his eyes linger over my too white, almost translucent flesh. “Don’t get out much, do you?”

My eyes narrow, but before I can strike he grabs both of my wrists in his one hand, the other cupping my chin. My head is turned toward him so that I must watch his slow study of my body. There is something insulting about the way his eyes move over me. It is possessive, also, which excites me. His smirk returns as I move toward him, my mind and body remembering and longing for a repeat of last night. Questions seem irrelevant now, except for the mental note.

Perhaps I am not Luna’s captive after all… If it is possible for him to live in the day world, perhaps I might as well…

His hand moves to my throat again. Already my breath catches as I feel his palm’s heavy weight against my skin, his fingers curling lightly. He presses fingertips against the pulse points, the only pressure. I anticipate the squeeze and the slow rush that is the danger of trusting a man such as this. Any moment, any time he is near me, any time he touches me… When his hand moves to my throat, it could be for the game he’s already learning to play, or it could be with intent… Always the danger that once he will not stop and this… It is addictive, the rush, the thrill of knowing that it could be the last moment, the overwhelming need to absorb as much sensation as possible, in case he does not stop…

He leans forward, inhaling deeply. I can almost see his ears perk at the sound of my erratic heartbeat as I strain into his touch, wanting… He smiles and nips at my lower lip, runs his thumbnail across my jaw line and across my lips. I see a flash of vision, his large thumbs with jagged nails pushing into a man’s eyes, rupturing them. Digging deep into the ocular cavity, pushing through vitreous fluids and blood. A deep voice whispering that later he might find other uses for the cavity.

I feel something within me shift, a coiled thing, creeping upward. It hungers for violence and pain, it thrives on suffering. That part of self which was awakened by the operation and fed by this, and other, side effects for the Shine. I feel my tongue flick out and run across the ball of his thumb, drawing it between my lips. Lips closing around the thumb, sucking it further into my mouth as the tip of my tongue explores the cracks in the nail. Lightly I trace the swirls and whorls of his finger, sucking hard as I let him draw his hand away. Some part of me urges me on, I reach for the other hand, doing the same with its thumb. The vision does not come again, nor do the flavors that dark part of me hungers for.

He watches me curiously, having no idea my thoughts or needs. My hands trace his body, searching for lasting impressions, for other memories. I find vague images of battle, some faint tang of blood as my lips and tongue explore, impressions left behind of other women he has had. I seek out these memories, but none sate me. None have fed his thirst for blood or my need for pain. Many women, meaningless, faces of lust but none used for his darker desires. That, apparently, is fed only in battle.

I scrape my teeth across his nipple, drag my nails down his sides just enough to draw blood. I remind him of last night, and of our brief contest earlier. I brush my lips against his and sit up, as if to move away, climbing out of bed. With my action and in my attitude, I dismiss him as unimportant. Intently I watch from the corner of one eye as I reach for a robe to cover myself with. I know that he will anger, that he wants. Carefully I test him, seeking just the right ways to anger him without awakening his deeper rage… I want him to punish me, to own me… Not to truly harm me.

I keep my back to him as I pull the robe closed, tying a careful bow at my waist to keep it together. I sense the fragile balance of lust and anger as it tilts within him. I hear the slight creek of the bed as he sits up, leans toward me. I listen to the growl beneath his breath as he reaches out to tug at the sleeve of the robe, grabbing my arm. I glance at him over my shoulder, somewhat impatiently, as if he is interrupting me with his trivial needs.

Suddenly I am yanked into the bed, his hands on my upper arms, fingers digging into the flesh with bruising force as I am pushed down against the bed. He covers me with his body, one knee against my belly as he pins me in place. His lips press against mine so hard that my mouth opens to his kiss as he parts his lips, tongue pushing past my teeth and delving deeply into my mouth. One hand moves from my arm, a throbbing left behind where I know fingerprint bruises will show later. Roughly he tugs at the belt, pulling the knot loose and yanking the belt free of the robe.

My hands are pulled together, wrists crushing against each other as the belt is wrapped tightly around them and secured to the iron bedpost. The knee on my belly grinds painfully as he leans up to he rail. I mutter something not quite rude under my breath, squirming as if to free myself. One leg comes up as if to knee him, but I deliberately miss, hitting his hip to knock him off balance. I tug at the belt, managing only to tighten it around my wrists. My body squirms and twists as if to escape.

He growls, lunging for me. One hand slams against my thigh, pushing it down against the bed. The other goes to my throat again, wrapping and squeezing. I am still instantly, as if submitting, but I put all of my energy into NOT straining into his hand. He squeezes for a moment more, looking down at me. He presses one knee between my thighs and leans forward, rubbing slightly as his mouth moves over my breast. The hand on my throat does not relax, only provides a steady pressure, not unlike the building pressure created by the friction of his knee pressing against me.

Involuntary, my thighs come together, squeezing his leg, urging him to lean harder. I lose the battle of my own will and raise my head, pressing my throat into his palm. My breath comes in soft gasps as I keep my eyes steady on his. Some gleam or imp must dance, as Riddick’s eyes widen slightly. He stares at me, then leans forward. Lips brush across my cheek, teeth graze against cheekbone and close on my earlobe. His soft whisper comes, repeating last night’s question. “It excites you?”

I say nothing, twisting my hips slightly to put the pressure of his knee where I need it. He nods slowly as he sits up. Very deliberately, it seems to me, and indeed it must be… He moves away from me. He stands at the side of the bed, looking down at me. I frown, glaring up at him as I struggle, in earnest now, against the binding of my wrists. He cannot understand my need, he is useless… I will have what I want if it means I must beat it out of him, or into him perhaps.

He leans down, shoving me back against the bed again. Almost he seems to know my thoughts as he whispers. “But I do understand.” And he stands again, looking around the bedchamber for the first time.

I look at it as he might. A large bed, piled high with pillows and blankets, to the point where one might become lost within them, or hide. A bookshelf against one wall, dusty tomes piled carelessly on the shelves. A dresser, drawers open and empty except for dust kittens. The walls are bare and dirty, yellow. The one window is caked over with dirt and mud from the inside and out, and a blanket tacked up to cover. The sinks from the ancient darkroom are in one corner, piled full of moldy cardboard boxes.

There are no personal items. Nothing to show, to the casual observer, that someone lives here. He turns to look at me, speculative, wondering. “How long have you been here?”

“Months? Years? I woke here.” I shrug, puzzled by his intent expression. He watches me like someone who has discovered a rare breed of plant or insect. It hasn’t occurred to me to ever wonder or care. It doesn’t seem important.

“How do you survive?” He sits on the edge of the bed, running fingertips up and down along the inside of my thigh. The gesture is almost tender, but it isn’t. He is thinking, wondering. Whatever he came to my garden for, whatever he expected, it wasn’t me. He obviously didn’t know or expect to find me here.

“Luna provides.” I smirk, my tone is mocking, and slightly bitter. My goddess, my protector, my captor; how I hate her. At his curious quirk of brow, I relent. “Each night when I go into the garden, I find food. Tribute or bribe, I don’t know. Sometimes a man will come. He watches me eat and drink, never speaking. Once I am finished, usually he goes away again. Every so often he stays. He comes to kneel in the grass at my feet, bowing his head always as he speaks. He is forbidden to look into my eyes, it is death.”

I smile slightly, the visits are my second greatest amusement, they promise to give me outlet. “He gives me files, pictures, names, house floor plans, security codes. I am to study the information, memorize it. On a certain night that will be designated in the file, he comes with a bag of clothes I am to wear, and weapons. I am taken to a location and given an amount of time. If I finish and return by that time, I am brought home. If I am not waiting when they come, he says they will leave me, but this never happens.” I smirk again.

“You’re a Merc.” He says, still studying me in that strange way. His hand travels higher on my thigh, pushing the fabric of the robe away as he rubs my hip in small circles. Fire begins in that spot and travels through my blood, making it hard to think, to care about his questions. I’m distracted, and reminded of my original intention to goad him into violence.

I shrug, shifting my hips toward him slightly, causing his hand to slip along my thigh. Easily he pulls his hand away, avoiding the contact I want. I frown at him. The muscles in my thighs bunch as I shift away from him again, drawing my knees up slightly. My shoulders hunch slightly as I scoot close to the head of the bed. He watches me silently, smiling a little. My eyes shine out in the darkness of the room as I pounce, wrapping my legs around his chest and flipping him onto the bed. My shoulders are wrenched painfully by the action, but I ignore it.

He is pinned beneath me, my thighs squeezing as he tries to toss me. I smirk down at him. “Done talking now?” The question is too innocent and he glares at me.

My head is yanked back, he wraps his fist around the length of my hair, shoving against my hip with his other hand. My shoulder screams with agony, the bond cut into my wrist. I am on my back now, looking up at him. He straddles my chest as I did his a moment ago. His erection brushes against my cheek as he leans down toward me. He is feral, a large predatory feline who anticipates the joy of tormenting its prey.

“This is what you wanted, right?” His hips shift slightly and I feel the silky underside of his erection brushing against my cheek again. Unsure whether he refers to his arousal, or his dominant attitude, I merely smile. My head turns to the side, tongue darting out to swirl around the tip of his penis. My lips open to draw him into my mouth, but he shifts away, moving down so that he straddles my belly and I feel his heated length nestled in the valley between my breasts.

His hands frame my face for a moment, as if he will lean forward and kiss me. My lips are pushed outward by the pressure of his palms against my cheeks. His thumbs press against my eyes, closing them. I frown, but comply.

We play games, primitive feline creatures that we’ve become. Always games. He knows what I want but he refuses to give so easily. Is it a power game? Must I submit to him somehow to gain my prize? No, submission wouldn’t do it, what I want is aggression, force… That can be earned only by fighting back, drawing him into my own game… But perhaps, for now, to give in to his wants, to submit… Perhaps the anticipation, the ever increasing need for his violence…

So I lay still. My eyes close and I do not flinch as he places coins over my eyes. I have done this for the dead, for the innocents who had to fall beside the guilty. “Give them peace.” I say as I do it for them, and later remember them to Luna. The coins are warm, from his jacket pocket.

He settles onto the edge of the bed, hand stroking my thigh still. The robe falls open as she strokes slowly higher. His hands move constantly over my body, exploring, stroking, petting. It is not sexual, but sensual. I imagine myself as a kitten, sprawled contentedly in her master’s lap, purring softly at his attention. I purr. He laughs.

“Tell me what you remember.” The question comes as a surprise. I frown. He brushes hair away from my face, letting fingertips trail along my cheek and across my throat.

“Why? The past is dead.” Why does the question annoy me? Why have I never considered the past until now? Should it matter? Would knowing change the present, or the amorphous future? I frown at his silence, remembering his almost casual response to my panic in the sunlight. A thought occurs. Would knowing or remembering the past free me from Luna’s captivity?

“I know darkness. I know the night. I know Luna’s constant gaze. I know the cold sea breeze against my face”

His fingertips rub slow circles against my temples as he says softly, almost offhandedly. “There is no sea near here.” I hear the underlying intensity in his voice and understand. The sea is from before I woke here, it is that memory I must explore.

I force my body to relax, sending my mind backward. I feel the sea breeze against my face again. There is a heavy weight across my shoulders. The world is brighter than I know it. There are colors in the sky that I recognize. Red, blue, purple… “Sunset” I say softly. “It is sunset and I know that I won’t see another. A man stands beside me, his arm heavy across my shoulders. This is his way of reminding me that I am captive. I know that he fears for safety. For his own safety, and others. There are others here, talking, laughing, watching the sunset.

“There is a beach below, and the ocean stretches out forever, like a shining beam direct to heaven… His voice speaks in my ear, say it is time to go. I know he lies, that I have time still, but I go… It doesn’t seem worth fighting, or fighting for. The colors burn into my mind and I think that I must remember them as I die. I walk beside him to the car, slip in, allowing him to replace the restraints before he moves around to his own side of the car.

“I watch the road move, notice that we go the wrong direction. I ask but he only smiles. I shrug and wait. What does it matter where I am executed? The building we come to is deceptively small. I know there are passages beneath the ground. Labs mostly. I realize now, as he pulls me from the car, that something is wrong. I struggle within the restraints but the sharp smell of ozone comes as I am zapped with a stunner. I fall unconscious knowing, I have been betrayed. It was all a setup… The charges, the trial, my escape and the bounty… All a part of some elaborate game, to get me here…

“I wake later, on table. I hear voices around me. The doctor I remember from whenever I came here before I guess. The merc’s voice as he laughs, counting his reward. He comes to the table, saying something in his sickeningly sweet southern drawl, such an affectation. I doubt he’s been to earth, much less lived in the south as he pretends. It is an act to hide whatever secret his smack habit covers. He took the morphine that was meant for me, fucking Lawrence.” My voice becomes a low growl as I remember him, the one who captured and delivered me into this hell. “I bit him when he tried to kiss me goodbye, promised to find him again and kill him slowly”