ONE

Magic. He detested magic. It was a dirty, sneaky thing; often cast from afar, while the would-be user lay safe and sound, far away from the actual bloodshed of battle. It was an unfair advantage that not only leveled the playing field, but often obliterated it. And in his world, there were as many different types of magic as there were users. Demon magic was distinctively different than faerie magic, which was different than elf magic (or at least the elves would have one believe it to be so, as they’d been trying to distance themselves from the faerie regime for quite some time). There were angels; although they mostly kept to themselves, and as such he had the good fortune to have never encountered one. He had heard they were a sanctimonious lot, very old school and unlike demons, had no sense of humor. Smite on sight, was more their thing, although new age thinkers would have you believing they were all cherubs with harps rather than armor-wearing sword-wielding instruments of destruction.

And then, there were the witches. While he knew there were as many types of covens practicing as many different brands of magic; he logged them all neatly together in his mind as a massive thorn in his side. Much like the little witch who was accosting him now.

She appeared as a young twenty-something, as he was well aware that looks could be deceiving whenever magic users were involved. She had the look of an Irish lass, with pale delicate skin and a head full of thick wavy hair. She was brandishing her fists as she glared at him, a fiery redhead with a slim athletic build and a mean right hook. She was dressed ready for combat in a pair of army-green cargo pants and a fitted black camisole.

“Vile filth,” she spat at him, and indeed some spit did fly as she struck him again; his head snapping aside as blood and spittle spewed from his mouth. As his head lolled forward a string of red saliva dribbled from his swollen and busted lip. There was a high-pitched ringing in his ears and in his mouth, the familiar tang of blood.

“Demon spawn!” She slugged him again. “Where is she? Where’s the girl?”

Flattery, Damon thought, would get her nowhere. He chuckled inwardly and even managed to crack a smile at his own joke; a feat that he immediately regretted as the act itself caused him an additional bout of pain. For a little thing, she certainly packed a punch, as a dull ache had taken up residence in his jaw, and his fractured nose throbbed painfully. He lifted his head to peer at her through the one eye that wasn’t already swollen shut. It was probably good that she hadn’t seen him smirk.

“Just tell us what you’ve done with the girl.” Red was breathing heavily as she glared at him; skin damp from exertion, her green eyes blazing. He thought he might be wearing her down.

Overhead, a lone bulb hung from a wire, its yellow light casting deep shadows across the room. Small windows set high on the outer walls had been hastily boarded up, allowing only a small glimpse of pink and orange sky. Dust danced in the mellow light that penetrated. Had he really been here that long? He’d been abducted late last night; a feat (he would be sure to point out) that would never have succeeded if magic hadn’t come into play. The fading light meant that he had been their guest for nearly a day now, which also meant that by now, he would surely be missed. That realization opened a whole new kettle of fish. It was bad enough that he had been swept up in this colossal waste of time, he hardly needed his family to be caught up in it as well.

It appeared he was being held in an old cellar or storeroom. He could see only one exit; a heavy wooden door that hung on rusty hammered hinges. To the right of the door sat an ancient workbench, its top littered with rusty tools and an odd assortment of clutter. Discarded furniture, a couple of old steamer trunks and some junk-filled crates littered the area. Everywhere he looked was something old and broken and forgotten.

From the shadows, a second figure hopped down from atop an old green dresser that was missing a pair of its drawers. They stretched lazily before making their way forward to stand at Red’s side. This new figure peered at Damon with mild interest, and as she did, realization washed over him. She was a mirror image of the first; identical in all aspects from her looks to her stature. She was even dressed similarly, but entirely in black.

Bloody hell. Twins.

This new woman turned to her sister and placed a hand upon her shoulder. “Come on, Justice. You said it would be my turn next. Can’t I have a go at him?”

Justice frowned. “This isn’t a game, Liberty. Don’t treat it as such.”

“I would never, but you’re exhausted, and this approach clearly isn’t working.” Glancing at him, she pulled her sister aside, and in heated whispers they began to argue. He could hear them if he focused, but their words were meaningless, and his time was better served by trying to break free while they were distracted.

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There were a few support-columns scattered across the room and between a pair of these, a makeshift wall had been erected. It was here that he was bound, arms outstretched as heavy iron spikes had been hammered through the back of his hands and deep into the timber behind. To further restrict his movements, a leather strap encircled his neck. Dried blood stains on the cement below told him that he wasn’t the first to use these accommodations.

He tried to free his hands and winced, as pain jolted from his palms. They had doubled down with magic of course; a mobility spell, that had seized his limbs in a strange rigor mortis. But that spell had been cast hours ago and seemed to be wearing off, as he was now able to wiggle his toes. Gnashing his teeth against the pain, he tried once more to pry his hands free. Blood dripped anew, making his hands itch as it trickled down, but the effort was futile. With his arms outstretched and palms facing down, he simply had no leverage in which to free himself.

“Here, let me help you with that.” Liberty swung at the spike in his hand with a large mallet, missing entirely and striking his outstretched fingers instead. 

Black spots danced before his eyes as an explosion of pain erupted in the pit of his stomach. A moan escaped his lips. His knees crumpled beneath him, and he slumped forward; only to be held upright by the leather strap at his throat. He choked against the noose as it strangled, and finding his legs, forced himself upright as his mangled fingers began to throb. Yep. That mobility spell was definitely wearing off.

“Was that really necessary?” Justice asked. She sounded exhausted.

Libby shrugged. “He was trying to escape—thought we weren’t watching. He needed to be reminded who’s in charge. Besides, he doesn’t need his hands to speak. In fact, there are a lot of bones here that have nothing to do with speech.” She dropped the hammer and stood to face him. Reaching out, she took hold of his bloodied dress-shirt and pulled at the fabric. He felt the buttons pop, one after the next, until his shirt hung open and his chest was exposed. She gazed at him appreciatively as she spoke. “Lots of fleshy places too.”

Damon scowled, as she looked him over. He would kill her. Wring her pretty, little, neck. It had been a lifetime since he’d last murdered, maimed, or tortured; but for this one, he would happily make an exception.

Libby sighed. “Such a shame, he really is quite handsome.”

Oh, Bloody hell!

 “And that, dear sister is precisely why you don’t get a turn.”

Libby laughed, sounding snarky. “Oh, come now.” She smirked at her twin. “Are you suggesting you don't find him attractive, cause I happen to know we have the same taste in men, and this one, is the entire package; tall, dark and those eyes—

“That’s hardly the point,” Justice stammered. “The difference, is that I can stay objective.”

Liberty snorted and turned her attention back to Damon. “Where’s the fun in that?” Taking a step closer, she grasped hold of his chin, examining his face. He struggled against her, but the bitch held strong, and their eyes locked. “You’re like a venomous spider, with a pretty, sparkly web. I wish there was some way to mark you, to show people what you really are.” She sighed as she released him. “But no brand or mark will work. Not when you’re able to heal as you do.” A wistful smile lit her lips. “Perhaps, I’ll still try.”

“Whuh—” Damon choked as he tried to speak. His throat was dry, and a coughing fit ensued. It shook through him, jarring his battered body, an earthquake of pain.  

Liberty glanced at her sister. “Did we forget to unbind his tongue?”

Justice shook her head. She had caught her breath, but still looked drained. “I’ll go get him some water.”

She disappeared through the heavy door and Damon heard soft footfalls from the room beyond. They sounded hollow, like steps on a flight of wooden stairs. She returned only a few moments later with a bottle of water. Her hand trembled as she passed it to her sister.

“Are you okay?” Libby asked as she took the bottle, the playful tone had left her voice.

“I think I should take that break after all.”

Liberty nodded her agreement. “Good idea. You rest up, while I keep an eye on our guest.”

She waited for Justice to depart before picking up an old wooden crate and dumping its contents upon the floor. Turning it on its end, she dragged it over to a spot directly in front of Damon before taking a seat upon it. Cracking open the bottle of water, she took a sip.

“Just between you and me,” she admitted as she looked him over. “I’m not convinced that you’re the one. Well, not the one we’ve been looking for, anyways.” She shrugged. “Whether you’re responsible for this new girl that’s gone missing—I suppose that’s entirely possible. You are what you are, after all.”

Getting up, she crossed the room to the workbench, where she began rifling through the contents strewn across its top. She fished up a shallow metal box; its rusted surface covered in dents. Opening its hinged lid, she dumped its contents with the rest of the clutter on the tabletop. “This should do,” she said, as she crossed the room to the old green dresser. There she retrieved a worn leather bag. Carrying both items, she crossed back to her overturned crate, once more taking a seat upon it. Digging within the depths of the bag, she smiled and came out with her hand clasped tightly around something.

“Do you know what these are?” She opened her hand to show him.

He saw what looked like a few small pebbles. They varied in size; some were as big as marbles, while others were smaller than raisins. Each was perfectly smooth and milky in colour and flecked with veins of red or yellow or gold. 

“These are phoenix stones.” They clanked dully as she dropped them into the tiny box. “They’re what remain after the bird moults. It’s true that most everything goes up in flame as it’s reborn, everything except these little guys. Not even the phoenix fire can destroy them. They’re useful in spell casting because they allow a small, controlled fire to generate extraordinary heat.” She brought the tin to her face. Incendia,” she whispered, and was instantly awarded with a magical blue flame.

Carefully she set the tin on the floor a few feet away. From her hip, she produced a hunting knife; one edge was honed and smooth, while the other held an ugly jagged ridge. She set the tip of the blade into the flames. “And now we wait.” She was smiling at him, her eyes lit with delight. “When the blade turns orange—the fun begins.”