Author's note: Thanks for the kind comments, and for the nice reviews to those who posted them. I hope you'll continue enjoying the story. Here is your chapter for today, good reading ^^

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Heaven has no rage, like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury, like a woman scorned.

William Congreve in “The Mourning Bride”

25 kms from Granada, Spain

The sun had not yet risen, the grey light of dawn shining on the low hills. The cicadas had fallen silent for a while after a whole night of singing, in the lapse of time between night and day, but already some activity could be seen in the courtyard of the lone mansion on the mound.

It was an ugly thing, built more to impress others by its sheer size, than with any thought of architectural aesthetics, squatting on top of the hill like a particularly ugly toad.

Meticulously trimmed lawns and gaudy fountains covered the ground around it, trees long uprooted in a flagrant disregard of any environmental necessities, further enhancing the lack of grace of the building.

It looked even more incongruous compared to the untouched summits of the other hills of the area where scrawny but healthy pines and shrubs clung to the soil. When wildlife was abundant in the neighboring land, no bird nor beast dared approach the ugly manor house, as if sensing something awry within the confines of the domain.

As two tired and battered men opened the doors of the car parked in the courtyard, the faint outbursts of a woman’s shrewish voice, accompanied by the occasional noise of breaking pottery, could be heard coming out of a half-opened window on the first floor.

The two men slowly entered the mansion, one nondescript fellow heavily limping, with a pale and sweaty face, the other one accommodating his sluggish pace, his own face expressionless, dead eyes staring into the distance.

The men climbed the overly grand stairs with the heavy steps of the condemned, only stopping in front of the opened door of the room from where the shrill woman’s voice originated.

“Adan, I had another wrinkle this morning, another one! We are starting to look old again…We need her, and we need her now! I refuse to be like those old cows slobbering over their dear grandchildren, I deserve better than that...no, I am better than that!”

More potteries shattering against the wall accompanied the response of the man trying to soothe her:

“I called back some of our operatives in Africa. They’ll take a few days to wrap up their tasks before coming here, but they should take care of our little problem for us. I swear to you my love, soon you will have what you desire.”

Gulping, the pale faced man limped into the room, followed a step behind by the dead-eyed one. His already white face blanched even more in front of the enraged woman.

The venomous voice of the woman rose again, sugary sweetness covering the poison within.

“So you dared coming back alive after failing me. Tell me Richard, are you an imbecile, an incompetent, or both?”

Wincing, the man kneeled in front of the mistress of the house, not daring to raisie his gaze. The other man walked to stand with his back to the wall at the end of the room, adopting an at-guard posture.

“My Lady Isabel, please give me a chance to correct my mistakes! There was more opposition than we were told to anticipate, there are strong men protecting the three women our intelligence didn’t…”

Lady Isabel’s dainty hand struck the cheek of the kneeling Richard, sending him crashing on the ground, the strength of the blow belaying her petite frame.

“If they are so strong then don’t fight them you fool! What could have been so hard in nabbing an unsuspecting little girl from the streets of a peaceful town? You are a disgrace to this house!”

She viciously kicked the downed man again and again, blood flowing from his split lips staining the carpet underneath, his crumpled form quietly enduring her barrage.

“Or maybe you’re telling me that a common little girl can give the slip to three grown men all by herself, or that she’s accompanied by strong men even when going to the toilet?”

At last the distinguished looking Adan assumed the punition delivered was fitting the crime, stopping her from killing him.

“Isabel, my love, I’ll take care of this vermin. We still need this rat to manage our French sites, changing at this point might set back some of our operations. Why don’t you send some of the pets to them? We would get better info, and maybe get rid of some of the hindrance.”

She coquettishly pouted at Adan’s words.

“Make sure this doesn’t happen again. Next time, I will get rid of him. Or maybe raise second grade pets out of him.”

Adan kneeled next to the downed man, gripping his busted jaw in a steel grip, eliciting a pained moan.

“You heard the lady Richard. Do not fail our house again. You wouldn’t like the consequences. Don’t think for a minute I wouldn’t let her play with you, and to hell with the French operations.”

He looked at the third man in the room.

“Make sure this thing doesn’t die. Get him patched up, then send him back once he can walk.”

The dead eyed man simply nodded in acceptance.

The Lady Isabel walked out of the room, her path to the library uninterrupted. There she removed a tacky gilded plate from one of the built-in cabinets, pressing on the small switch hidden behind.

A muffled click came from the wall next to the cabinet, a thin black line outlining the previously hidden door.

She pushed the door open, taking the flashlight suspended to a hook on the tunnel’s wall, closing the door after her crossing.

Soon she stepped on some stairs leading down to a doorway some meters under the mansion, bracketed by a pair of unlit torches.

As she lit them, the horrors of the underground place were revealed in the dancing flame.

The cell-like room wasn’t overly big, maybe five meters across, though it looked bigger as the flickering light failed to completely dispel the darkness.

Symbols and letters in long dead languages had been scribbled all over the walls in a flaking reddish brown substance, sending a shiver to the spine of any unsuspecting poor soul unlucky enough to see them.

More of the substance could be seen staining deep groves in the floor, obviously there to drain it, leading to the stone altar in the middle of the cellar, or clinging to the diverse blades and tools lined up on one of the walls.

However, the most striking feature of the room was neither the symbols nor the altar, but the unmoving man chained to the wall behind the altar.

One could have thought him simply asleep, if not for the unnatural stillness of his form. He was not dead either, his pale chest rising and falling almost imperceptibly, albeit much too slowly for a healthy man.

Pasty, unhealthy white skin further enhanced his resemblance to a corpse, despite the lean but hard muscles underneath.

Lady Isabel leisurely strolled to him, stepping over the stains of the floor without a care for her slippers or the hem of her long skirt.

She whispered in a purring voice as she petted the red hair in a proprietary fashion, as if he was a pampered pet.

“Now you see what happens when you refuse me? Everything above could have been yours, had you chosen to serve me of your own free will, but now, you’ll have to stay down here for as long as I deem you useful. Had you known this, I wonder if your answer would have been the same?”

Her laugh tinkered in the cold cellar, echoing on the bare walls.

She retrieved a dagger on the altar, its wavy blade stained by old blood and rusted in spots, but with an edge as sharp as when she first used it, then slashed a shallow cut on the man’s chest, followed by another, and another, forming gruesome patterns with the man’s blood.

“Don’t you find it ironic that even your rejection is helping me? I find it very enjoyable, how about you? Isn’t this fun?”

Strangely, no blood stained the floor under the red haired man for as long as Isabel continued carving her patterns, even though it flowed freely from his chest, as it seemingly evaporated as soon as it left his body.

An hour later a sweaty Isabel walked back up the stairs, a tired but content expression on her cold face. In her arms was a medium-sized closed crate from which some scraping and clicking sounds could be heard, or sometimes an angry hiss.

Adan was riffling through papers in the library when she emerged, both waiting for her and guarding the passage from unwanted disturbances.

After putting down the clicking crate, she closed the door, rearranging the plate on the switch.

“How many did you get this time?”

“More than enough for the task at hand. I’m tired, send them to the place and locate adequate lodgings nearby. They will be easier to control from a closer range.”

“I know just the place. I can guarantee you will love it. Maybe we should buy it, go back to tour the region once we’ll be done with the crisis at hand?”

“We leave Monday. As for tourism, I’d much prefer Paris. I need new evening dresses for the next season.”

“As you wish my love, like always.”

Down in the dark cellar, slender fingers twitched in an imperceptible motion, the slow, slow motion of breathing increasing of just this much.

Glowing embers followed the lines of the patterns etched in flesh, knitting the borders of the injuries together, leaving only smooth, unbroken skin in their wake.