The Devil's Dance

~ 2 ~

The first thing I noticed as I woke was the heat. Dry and suffocating, making each breath a slow labor. The murmur of voices brought me out of my haze somewhat, but it clung to me strangely. Each thought felt as heavy as my limbs, requiring more effort than it should have just to will myself to wonder what was happening.

I felt hands on my shoulders pulling me into a sitting position, and I tried to move away, to make them stop, but my body refused to answer. My head lolled forward as if I were a child's doll, and a small, gentle hand helped it back up and brushed the hair from my face. A woman said something to me, and I blinked hard to clear my vision. Before me, I saw a small circular table where my arms were resting, and I assume where I had been slumped over. The room was pale stone and capped by two doors, one of them open and leading to a corridor and the other closed. There were no windows and no other furniture aside from another small table against the wall with a pitcher sitting on top. Sitting in the chair across from me, a paunchy man covered in tattoos was holding my left hand and wiping the skin around my wrist with a damp cloth. I feebly yanked my arm toward me, and the clank of manacles drew my eyes down. I was restrained. A jerk of my feet produced the same noise. Bound hand and foot.

"...will be alright," the woman said in a soft voice. My eyes were starting to focus, and her face was hovering about a foot away. She was smiling nervously, glancing back and forth between me and someone or something behind me. "It'll only sting for a little while. Mine did, and it's all fine now." My heart stopped as she held up her left wrist to show me the chain tattoo etched into her skin.

Everything sharpened suddenly. It was like moving through thick mud, but I forced my body to respond. I jerked my wrists hard, the metal clanking loudly as I attempted to break free. I had to get away, I had to run, but I had to get out of these Devils-damned chains first. A low growl rumbled in my chest and got louder as my lips drew back from my fangs in a snarl. Out. I needed to get out.

The woman backed up all the way against the wall, fear sparking to life in her eyes. The man holding the tattooing kit also backed away, a similar expression painted across his features. Behind me I heard the creak of leather armor and then heavy, gauntleted hands fell upon my shoulders and held me still in my chair. I turned my head. Four guards stood lined against the pale stone wall of the small room, and a fifth was holding me in place. I felt his hot breath on top of my head as he growled, "Shut up and sit still," into my hair.

In response, I reared my head back into his mouth.

"Fuck!" I could smell the blood as it dripped from his split lip. He reeled back for a moment, stunned, then took his metal-plated fist and cuffed me across the back on my head so hard I saw the Saints.

"Can we give him another dose? I can't work if he's thrashing about," said the man in the corner with the tattoos. I lifted my eyes to focus on him, to growl or intimidate him into staying away, but my vision blurred and my stomach churned every time my gaze shifted.

The guard that struck me grumbled under his breath and set his hands on my shoulders again, pinning me in place. "No, he's been dosed for a week already. The slaver said any more, and he might become dependent. He can't very well fight in the pit if he's a drooling addict." He gave me a shake, making the room spin around me. "You're going to sit still now, aren't you?" I couldn't even muster a groan in reply. I was focusing on not losing the contents of my stomach. "Come on. The Emir wants him cleaned and examined by midday. Get on with it."

The Emir. Dosed. Slaver. The words stirred something in me, and I focused hard, trying to remember exactly how I'd gotten to this place. My memory was distorted, coming in flashes and disjointed scenes. I remembered the stream and the men. I remembered being thrown into a boat and traveling for days, and someone coming in to force an over-sweet drug down my throat every other day. I think they'd drugged my food and water as well. And I vaguely recalled the slaver with the braids mentioning an Emir. Cascavel. I was in Cascavel.