Hands crawled across Mary’s skin like decaying spiders. She hung spread, belly down, retching futilely. Her stomach first turned at the smell of the rotting dead surrounding her, but she refused to let them see her weakness. Her gorge rose when the dead pawed and clawed at her, fingers and teeth drifting from her limbs to her body, but she clenched her jaw shut. Then Mort spoke, “Hold, scum. You’ll get your turn.”

Her mind tried to break. It tried to let her leave this place, detach from her body and what was about to happen. But as the light forced her mouth open, the damned geas hovering inside her flared to life. No illusions. No madness. No escape. When the light bent her neck back, lifting her eyes and gaping mouth to Mort, her limbs yanked at the light once more, but it was like swimming through set concrete. All she did was wrench her own joints.

When she closed her eyes, tears of rage and humiliation leaked from the corners. When Mort’s fingers slipped into her mouth, tugging at her tongue painfully, she tried to bite down, wrenching her jaw to match her limbs. When… something else, something she refused to acknowledge, plunged through her open mouth, forcing its way into her throat, she gagged. The smell of rotting musk forced its way into her nose as his crotch rammed into her face. Her retching turned into a sobbing, wretched heave as he forced his way in again and again. His hands tore needlessly at her hair, forcing her to inarticulate, muffled cries of pain.

Laughing, he mocked her, his words involuntarily timed to his thrusts, “Oh, poor frigid bitch. Afraid if you open your eyes, you’ll want what you see? I’ll fix that for you.”

His thumbs found her eyelids and pressed. Pressure forced her lids open, then agony ripped through her as blinding light and talons pierced her eyes. For a second, she saw nothing but his thumbs. Then she saw nothing at all. She rejoiced that unconsciousness must be coming soon.

But it didn’t. Eyes weeping things other than tears, Mary’s whole body convulsed against the light, wrenching her limbs still further. Unintended whimpers forced their way through her throat. She was breaking. Again the geas lashed at her, forced her back to sanity, forced her back to what was happening.

The light turned Mary, rotating her like a pig on a spit. Pain speared through her as she was spitted in truth, something unseen forcing its way in where no man had ever been. Blinded, denied madness, denied unconsciousness, she held her breath and prayed for death.

Mort apparently felt her stop breathing. His next words had no laughter, but were no less cruel, “Stupid cunt. You are in Hel. No sleep, no swoon, no death. We will use you until we are ready to sacrifice you, and you will feel every second of it. Your mind might snap. Doesn’t matter. Once we sacrifice you, you’ll spend every moment of eternity binding Hel and I together. You’ll go mad then, I’m sure.”

Sprawled belly up, back forced to a painful arch, Mary gagged and writhed as fury ignited within her. Inarticulate sounds of rage leaked from her abused throat. Mort stiffened, his voice grew strained, and filth and corruption filled her, leaking from her nose for lack of other exits.

Every muscle in her body heaved against the force constraining her. Her mind slipped into berserker rage, she worked her jaw harder than anything else, trying to make a weapon of her teeth. Then the never sufficiently damned geas pulled her back from the edge of berserker madness, leaving her weeping with the pain of violation and limbs disjointed by her own struggles.

“You’re just a little slut, aren’t you? You’re moaning for it. You even got all naked for us. You’re a filthy, disgusting naked slut. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Dislocated joints were nothing next to the pain of knowing he was right; she’d done this to herself. The geas reached out again, pulling the lie from her eyes, and rage suffused her again. She wrenched herself again to no avail, her muscles tore as she had been torn. Fear trickled in as she realized she was well and truly trapped. Terror and rage tore through her when the geas wouldn’t let her stop struggling.

“I think she needs some clothing. Where’s my knife?”

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Mary’s empty eyes shot open in reaction. Something drew a cold line drawn across her chest from shoulder to shoulder. A sharp point shoved into the front of her right armpit, followed by another line of cold from there to that shoulder. That line was mirrored on her left side. The lines of ice turned to fire as blood mixed with the sweat and filth dripping from her shoulders, pooling in the hollow of her throat. Coarse talons teased at the cut from shoulder to shoulder. They hooked into her skin, and her world exploded in pain.

Her gagging, muffled shriek was cut short when she heard the horde about her begin muttering, mumbling, repeating a single word. “Hungry.”

“You’ll get your fill. Stay back from that gate until Hel is with us. When she is you’ll get what’s left as well.”

The harsh, guttural voices were insistent, angry. “Hungry. Now.”

Mort’s voice leaked power with every syllable. “Silence, curs!”

The words went away, but the muttering didn’t stop. The abuse continued, talons scratching at her skin, things being forced inside her. A groan of anguish escaped her as she went still a moment, trying in vain to recover from the shock of being flayed from shoulder to nipple. Mort’s voice cut through her pain again, shoving panic into her to replace the despair.

“You’re a useless little bitch. You can’t even scream right.” Vomit surged up as her throat cleared. As she puked up his filth, trying in vain to keep it from her nose, he slapped her again and again, shouting, “Scream, bitch! Scream!”

Mercifully, he went still. In the sudden silence, Mary heard fingernails scratching at her, wet noises as she was violated, more slavering where teeth gnawed at her thighs and buttocks despite Mort’s injunction.

Mort’s voice sounded incongruously abashed. “Oh, that’s right, you can’t. My bad.”

Her neck and jaw were free. She turned, blowing filth and vomit and tears from her nose, spewing up bile from her mouth, retching uncontrollably. Somewhere in another world she heard putrid flesh striking putrid flesh, followed by Mort’s scream of rage. “I told you she was mine first, scum! Back away!”

A moment of merciful stillness, and then something forced its way into her again. She tried to stay silent, tried to keep that from him, tried to retain that much dignity, but her body betrayed her, and whimpering moans escaped her throat. At least they weren’t the screams he demanded of her.

“You filthy little cunt, you love this, don’t you? You disgust me, reveling in your nakedness. Taunting us all with your body, your flesh. Even as your soul binds Hel and I, you’ll feel the horde eating your remains. I swear you’ll feel every bit of meat they rip free, feel every bone as they crack it for the marrow. Stupid filthy little slut, I’ll show you.”

Guilt tried to wash over her again, insanity flowing with it. Her new geas was there once more, forcing her back to sanity, to clarity. Anger burned, not the flashing burn of anger at pain, but a more sustained fury as she realized that had his old geas been in place, she would even now be enjoying his attention while guilt made her long for death. So great was her rage she almost didn’t feel the cold line draw its way from side to side across her navel.

She felt the punctures at her waist, the cuts that joined them and the line across her torso. This time she knew what was coming. Fear clutched at her, but she locked her jaw shut as she felt talons teasing back her flesh from her belly. The talons got a grip, and her teeth cracked as she clenched her jaw to keep from screaming.

Even in the empty open darkness she could hear the echo of her scream. Mort’s voice dripped with satiation as he slipped free of her. “Now that was a scream.”

He pulled away, his voice moving toward where she thought the gate might be. “Ok, lads. She’s yours to use now. You can even have a few bites, long as you don’t break the skin. That shouldn’t be a problem, right?”

Pain fueled her terror, and Mary lost control of her voice. She heard herself saying “Ogodogod” over and over again, almost unintelligibly. She tried to stop herself. Mort heard. Worse, he understood. Worst of all, he responded.

“There are no gods but us, bitch. We killed them, we bound them, we drove them off. Better yet, we convinced you to drive them off for us. I can remember the look on the White Christ’s weeping face the day your clergymen decided hate was easier than love, exclusion easier than tolerance, judgment easier than forgiveness. That image used to sustain me.”

Suddenly Mort’s voice was loud in her ear; his breath hot against her face, his vile stench washed over her. “From now on, the image of you like this will be my happy place. Bitch.”

Then he was gone, and the locusts moved in. A single command, negligent with distraction, filtered through the pain of mouths and fingers tearing at her guts, her shoulders, her breasts. “Leave her mouth free to scream. They’ll help me pass the time while we wait for Hel’s remains.”

The dishonored, rotting dead tore at her body, her mind, her soul. She distanced herself from the first, focused on the geas in her mind, leaned on it to keep her sane. They tore at the soft parts of her body, feeding themselves. They tore at the soft parts of her mind, robbing her of the memories of joy, of kindness, of tenderness. They tore at the soft parts of her soul, until only the steel beneath remained.