The Dark End of the Street: New Stories of Sex and Crime by Today's Top Authors (24 page)

The street exhaled.

Daybreak

S.J. ROZAN

O
N YOUR KNEES!”

The savage's words roared down with hopeless finality, recalling the thunder of the boulders that rolled from the breached walls of her father's city to lie mute and useless on the plain. Even now, after all these weeks in the barbarian kingdom, she comprehended little of what was said to her. But this phrase she understood, and understood as well the pain and penalty for disobedience. She knelt.

He gazed, grinning, at her ivory skin and huge dark eyes. Her hair rippled like blue-black silk, glinting even in the sickly fluorescent light. Her pink nipples stood from her breasts, hardened not by desire, he knew, but dread. Her fear inflamed him; and even more, her pride. He waited until he could barely stand it, so he could watch the beads of cold sweat form on her brow as she bent motionless before him. Then he barked the command. Flinching, she raised her slender hands, and slowly, the way he liked it, she worked his zipper down. He marveled at her movements, her control, steeling herself even against her own trembling. He could make her weep in pain—he had—but not from terror, or despair, though he knew she felt both, felt them more powerfully every day. He'd never known a girl like this. He wondered how long it would take, what it would take, to break her.

When first her father sent her into barbarian lands she had been frightened, but proud to go. A bride as tribute to the conqueror was an ancient tradition in wars across the land and across the ages. Her father had chosen her of all her sisters. That alone proclaimed her value. She set her chin high and determined he would not have reason to regret his decision. The savage would find her an obedient, industrious, and honorable wife. She would behave exactly as she would have if married to a prince of the people.

She was good, he gave her that: supple fingers, a tireless tongue. She'd discovered early what pleased him and when, though sometimes, just for the fun of it, he'd smack her for doing something he'd ordered her to do the day before. Most of the girls he bought were stupid, they whined and cried and weren't worth the trouble. Some of them, when it dawned on them what their mommies and daddies had sold them into, they went nuts, batshit nuts. Even though his trafficker knew what he wanted, even though he paid top dollar, he often got losers. He had to admit that made a kind of sense. What parents would sell a girl they could turn out themselves, who could work the streets of home and keep the money coming? He could use whatever he got, no question, but some of them didn't last long. But this one was something special. Of course, once he broke her pride, she'd be like the others and the magic would be gone. The thrill he got from the spark of hate in her eyes, the anger she suppressed like her own shivering: He'd miss that, once he extinguished it.

The barbarian, as always, used her in degrading, painful ways, beating her once he was too spent to respond to her touch. At the beginning, the horror of the hours with him had filled her mind completely, other thoughts staggering and unable to breathe under the weight. Now harsh experience had taught her what to expect. Now, while with him, she was able to remove part of herself, a precious, untouched part, from this blank-walled room and his heavy, sweating flesh. As he panted and groaned, she returned to the city of her childhood, to the perfumed rooms, the delicate silk-string music and the cool breeze wafting through the shaded walkways of the palace garden.

He rolled away finally and lay on his back breathing hard. She scuttled to the far side of the bed, knowing better than to touch him at this point. Eventually he heaved a satisfied sigh, and sat. That was her signal and she rose fast, stifling a groan, standing straight only with effort. He recalled punching her; maybe he'd broken a rib. He didn't care about that but he was annoyed when he saw he must have socked her in the jaw, too: Her lip was broken and bleeding. Damn. He liked their faces perfect.

Pressing away awareness of the new pain in her side, she crossed to the table and brought him the glass bottle as she had learned to do. Sometimes he forced her to drink from it also, which could be both blessing and curse. She disliked the taste of the gold liquid and she hated the path it scorched from her lips through her chest; but a few swallows could ease the agony, both in her body and in her heart.

He slugged back some whiskey, waving her off the bed, making her stand so he could survey her pale skin. He played his private game of measuring the fading of the yellow-green bruises and guessing where the purple ones would be blooming. A swollen crimson line glowed on her side already. Damn, that rib might actually be broken. She stood, biting her lip, trying to control her breathing, and once more he had to admire her: He didn't know if he could have taken what she took, day after day. But what choice did she have? Bought by his trafficker on the streets of some filthy city half a world away, smuggled through places she'd never heard of by a route she didn't know, she had no reality here, she didn't exist. No one missed her, no one was searching. She couldn't escape from this locked basement room with its single window high in the wall. She wouldn't try: The trafficker had made clear to her—graphically clear—what would happen to her father and young sisters back home if she did. No, locked in this room, her only hope was to please him, marking time, waiting and hoping for a future that would never come. He'd kill her in the end, like all the others. He could kill her now, this very minute, if he wanted; that thought made him laugh and then laugh harder as he saw her scared eyes widen.

She crushed down a shiver as she stood, fire burning her side, fear stabbing her heart when she heard his laugh. She tried to show him nothing, holding herself perfectly still, her back straight, her chin lifted and her hands quiet as she'd been taught at the court of her father.

He considered killing her, and he considered screwing her again. “Nah,” he said in English, knowing she couldn't understand, “I'm through for the day. That okay with you? You want more?” He watched her struggle with herself, understanding she'd been asked a question, not sure whether her response should be a nod or a headshake, knowing the wrong choice would bring a kick, a blow. Finally, she nodded. He cackled. “Nope, you bitch, you're lying.” He slapped her, but not hard enough to knock her over, though she staggered before she stood straight again. He thought about clocking her another one, but the hell with it. Boy, she'd really drained him. He marked the whiskey label, stood and pulled on his clothes. When she'd first arrived he used to take the bottle with him. Now he marked the level and left it because she'd learned that whiskey dulled the pain. He knew it would sit on the table all day calling to her and she wouldn't dare take a drink.

She remained standing straight and still after the barbarian left. Often he threw the door open suddenly, having not really gone away at all; or, after many hours, he returned. If he found her lying down, on the bed or even the floor, he would beat her again. He was a cruel man, her barbarian husband, subtle and pitiless. But once dark had fallen, he would not return. Then she was permitted to move, to eat the food he'd left her—its aroma filled the room and made her light-headed, but she didn't dare taste it yet—to attend to her other bodily functions, and to sleep. So she stood and she waited for dark, watching through the high window the light changing on the pink flowers of the cherry tree. In the gardens of her father's palace, the cherries must also be in bloom.

He chuckled to himself as he climbed the basement stairs, recalling her bewildered horror those first days as the rules of her new life became clear to her. She'd had trouble comprehending that she wasn't allowed to eat, to piss, to curl into a ball under the blankets and weep boo-hoo until after the sun went down. She did catch on, though, and after the first week he never found the food touched or the bed warm, no carpet impressions on her silken skin, no matter how long he'd made her stand. Once it was dark, he left her alone: Fair's fair, after all. And he had a life to live. Openings, benefits, and parties to go to. He couldn't give her all his attention. It wouldn't be right.

Finally the sky behind the cherry blossoms turned a deep cobalt, the color of her father's formal robes. She forced herself to wait unmoving until the first star appeared, though the barbarian rarely returned this late. Once she saw the pinpoint gleam through the branches, she breathed deeply, and stretched very slowly, wincing at the new fire in her side. She moved carefully to the sink, where she washed in hot water, cleansing herself of the barbarian's touch and his smell. Only then did she pull the blanket from the bed, wrap her naked body in it, and, cross-legged on the floor, begin to eat.

As he dressed for dinner he reflected on the problem he'd been putting off. The trafficker would be back soon, in fact should have been here a few days ago. He'd be bringing half a dozen girls to choose from. He wasn't nearly done with this one yet. But the trafficker was following instructions and would want to be paid. He purely hated the idea of paying for something he wasn't going to use.

Having eaten—heavy, unaccustomed food, which she nevertheless forced herself to devour completely as she thought back to the delicate rice and fish of her childhood—she climbed into the bed and lay on her back, staring at the cherry tree now gray against the black sky. The light in the room where she was kept never went out, but was never bright. Weak and dull, it left shadows in the corners. In the palace, sunlight streamed through the windows, and along the roofed walkways cool shade enveloped her as, with her sisters, she ran and laughed. In the perpetual twilight in which she lived now, she thought of those days, and slept.

Well, he'd made his decision. He'd like to have kept this one longer. She got him seriously worked up; and he very much wanted to find her breaking point, a challenge he'd never been faced with before. But novelty had always been a turn-on for him, too, and there was the fact that whatever was coming in he was going to have to pay for anyway. He had an odd feeling, also, that the memory of this one might be even more exciting when he had another in front of him than the reality of her was now. Too bad, a bit of a waste: But tomorrow, she would go.

The new pain in her side woke her, again and again. Breathing grew agonizing as the night went on. The injury throbbed when she lay still and stabbed her when she moved. The thought of her barbarian husband's weight crushing her, of the rhythmic pounding of his grunting pleasure—of his smile when he saw the hot and swollen wound—was terrifying. She understood: It was, finally, unbearable.

He canceled meetings, made sure his schedule was clear most of the day. He'd take as long as he wanted with her, since it was the last time; and then there'd be the messy part. He'd gotten it down to a routine: knees on her chest, thumbs on her neck, press, release, let her gasp and cough and think she was going to live; press, release, again, until finally, no release (except for him, usually, at that moment), then the shovel, the orchard; but it still always took longer than he expected.

She awoke at daybreak, as she always had in her father's palace. Although she couldn't hear it, birds would be calling in the cherry trees, creatures stirring in the undergrowth, new life starting on a new day. The thought cheered her as she washed, allowing herself to wish, just briefly, for a cup of the fragrant tea with which she used to begin the morning. Then she prepared the bed and went to the door. She would be standing when he came in.

He finished a leisurely breakfast, trying to remember where he'd gotten this coffee, because it was damn good. He collected a few things he hadn't used with her yet, because it usually took a girl a couple of days to recover from them before she was any good again. But she wasn't going to have to recover, was she?

The sun had not fully risen when she took her post. He had never arrived this early. But she did not want to be surprised by him.

He unlocked the upper door, closed it behind him, and trotted down the stairs, humming. He almost pocketed the key, then decided to make her hold it in her hand the whole time. He'd done that to others before. It nearly drove them mad.

She stood, awaiting him. It might be hours; but it might be this next minute. Pain and fear had taught her well over these last weeks. The new fire in her side was a distraction, but she crushed any thought of it. She could stand, motionless, for a very long time.

Now the basement hallway, now the lower door. He turned the key and stopped for a moment, savoring the delicious knowledge that she'd be standing naked, facing the door, waiting as she had been, he knew, for hours. He tasted her fear as she heard the click of the lock and he could barely stand the thrill.

She heard the key turn in the lock. She drew a slow, deep breath to calm her heart. He didn't enter immediately. This was his way sometimes, to increase her fright; but he never waited long.

He swung the door open.

She wasn't there.

She wasn't standing and the curled form under the blankets flooded him with fury. Seeing nothing but that mound, and in it her disobedience, her defiance, her pride and hate, he charged blindly toward it. He howled, reaching clawlike for the bed. He'd tear her apart.

As he bent to the bed she stepped from behind the door, arms raised. She swung with all her power, crashing the bottle onto the back of his head. It broke in a shower of glass and gold liquid. He staggered but did not fall, and turned to her, eyes wild. Wielding the shattered remains of the bottle like a dagger, she sliced it once across his throat, and again the other way, and again a third time, because she wanted to be sure.