InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Anhanguera ❯ Sundown ( Chapter 11 )

“Ow! ”

Five grimaced and jerked back with the long swab doused in the antiseptic crap that the attendant from the bathhouse had given to the girl, just to torment him, he was sure.

Because it wasn’t bad enough that he’d been chained to The Rack for over twenty-four hours straight with no reprieve.  It wasn’t bad enough that he’d had a goddamn bottle shoved where no bottle should ever, ever be, either.  It wasn’t bad enough that the fucking bottle broke off and couldn’t be removed without causing even more pain on top of what he was already suffering . . . It wasn’t bad enough that, in order to remove the damned bottle, they’d literally had to smash it while it was still inside him.  It wasn’t bad enough that they’d had to use a weird, cranking device to hold his asshole wide open while they spent hours, digging those shards of glass out of him.  It wasn’t bad enough that he’d been laid up for the last four days, unable to do anything—couldn’t even lay on his back—except to shift himself over a bedpan when he had to take a piss, and shitting?  That was just not happening, as far as he was concerned—also not a problem since he hadn’t eaten anything solid since the whole thing had happened.

Nope, none of that stuff was bad enough.  He had to be tormented with that damned swab three times a day by a ten-year-old slave girl who didn’t complain, but couldn’t possibly think that it was a fun thing to do . . .

In fact, the only positive about the entire situation, as far as Caipora was concerned, was the ridiculous amount of time that he’d had to do nothing at all but to lay around and think.  Since that incident, he hadn’t seen Domajin even once, and, to be fair, he could do without ever having to look at that bastard, ever again, which, of course, was nothing more than wishful thinking.

But if he thought that he was ever getting anywhere near Caipora’s ass again?  Well, he had another thing coming if he really was stupid enough to think that . . .

As far as he was concerned, he’d earned the right to decline the overmaster.  There was a huge difference between the occasional whipping that he healed from in a night or two and what he’d done.  Maybe he hadn’t meant for the bottle to break, but that didn’t really matter.  No matter what the provocation was, he’d crossed the line.

Even so, his rage still boiled, just below the surface—rage at every last one of them that had participated in the whole thing, and if he ran into one of them in the dark?  God help them.

Finally, blessedly, satisfied that she’d properly swabbed his ass, Five threw away the swab and offered him an entirely apologetic kind of look.  “There wasn’t any blood this time, Master,” she told him.

“Good,” he grouched, rolling over, dragging the sheet up over him.  Still achy, which he supposed was understandable, given the extent of the injury.  “Then you can stop swabbing my ass, morning, noon, and night.”

She wrinkled her cute little nose.  “Does that mean you’d like some dinner, Master?”

He opened his mouth to say that he would, but decided against it.  He’d give it another day or so to make sure everything was healed up enough that having to use the facilities wouldn’t damn near kill him all over again.  “Not tonight,” he told her, glancing at the clock on the nightstand.  It was almost six.  “You need to get down there and eat,” he told her.

She didn’t look like she wanted to comply.  “I’m not—”

“Go eat, Five,” he told her sternly.  She might talk more now, but if he gave her a direct order, she never tried to argue with him.  Well, except for her bathing in the bathhouse, anyway . . .

She shot him a pouting look, but did as she was told, slipping out of the bedroom and, a moment later, out of the antechamber without a word of complaint.

Letting out a deep breath at finally being left alone, he sat up slowly—it hurt, but not nearly as much as he’d been afraid of—and swung his legs off the bed, frowning at the strange sensation under his feet of the cool marble tiles.  It was like his body had forgotten what it felt like, to be upright, which was nothing but crap, really, given that he hadn’t been laid up that long.

He got a rush of lightheadedness as he cautiously stood up.  His legs felt a little wobbly, and it took a moment for his equilibrium to right itself again.  His body ached quite a bit, he realized as he forced himself to move off toward the bathing area.  He figured it was safe to bathe now if everything was really healed for the most part.  For the briefest of moments, he’d considered making his way to the bathhouse, but his mind nixed that about the second it had occurred to him.  Even if he weren’t subjected to an enema—which was really not happening—the waxing and scrubbing was a little more than he could tolerate right now, too.  The healing bath was the only thing that he’d actually considered since it tended to work wonders on general aches and pains.  In the end, however, it simply wasn’t worth the trouble.   Nudging the panel to turn on the flow of water, he idly scratched the back of his neck as he waited for the tub to fill.

The bathhouse, he’d learned, was a law unto itself.  The attendants that worked them on all of the islands weren’t exactly the same as the regular enforcers and trainers.  The reach of the overmaster didn’t extend to them, he’d discovered—at least, not in the same way since the bathhouse attendants usually didn’t leave the confines of that building unless they were after food, and even then, Caipora had gone days at a time sometimes without having to venture out of the bathhouse when he’d been the one in charge.  Slaves brought meals to them in their rooms, just like they did in the mansion.  Since they were a little farther removed, the real law in there was the overseer, and if the current overseer was anything like Caipora was when he was in charge?  He’d have told the attendants that everyone—slave, master, enforcer—even Domajin—gets the same treatment—the full treatment—if they stepped into the bathhouse . . .

It didn’t take long to take a quick shower to wash off the filthy feeling he’d carried around for days.  It was true that Five had given him a number of sponge baths, but they hadn’t done a lot to alleviate the feel that he was dirty—something that he really wasn’t okay with.  Unfortunately, nothing could be done about that until now, anyway.  Taking his time as he scrubbed his hair, his body, he could feel himself slowly coming back to himself again.  By the time he’d finished, his mood was improved—at least, as much as it ever was.

Sinking into the tub—it was a little more than half-full—he let out a deep sigh.  He could have messed around with the herbs and oils but he figured at this point that a simple hot soak would be good enough.

“Oh!  Master!” Five gasped as she skittered into the room.  She looked entirely aghast as she gathered up the bottles of herbs and oils.  “I’m sorry!  I’m so sorry!”

“It may surprise you, but I am fully capable of self-bathing,” he told her calmly, if not rather dryly.  “I’ve done it for years without a problem.”

His reassurance did nothing to quell her upset that was thick in her aura.  “I should have known that you would want a bath!  I should have—”

“Did you eat?” he countered before she could work herself up any more.

She quickly nodded.

“Good.  Now, stop worrying. You’re not in trouble,” he told her.

She didn’t look like she believed him, but she nodded once as she dropped a bit of oil, a sprinkling of herbs, into the water and plunged her hand in to swirl it around.

He frowned as he watched her—as she hurriedly gathered the things she thought he’d need.  It occurred to him that he ought to tell her that he’d already washed—she really should have been able to tell on her own since he didn’t stink any longer.  It occurred to him, however, that she viewed her care of him as her most important task.

A vague kind of vision flickered through his mind, but he wasn’t entirely sure if it was a memory or just a darkly fanciful thought.  Five, kneeling beside the bed like a child saying nighttime prayers . . . her aura so thick, so heavy, and he could feel her upset, her fright . . . The depth of her emotions was hard to fathom.  How could a child so young suffer such misery, such despair . . .? But she . . . She hugged him, didn’t she?  As though she wanted to comfort him . . .

But his mind had been too thick with whatever drugs they’d shot into him in the bathhouse just before they’d set about, breaking and extracting that damned bottle.  So much of what happened directly after that was veiled in such mist that he really didn’t know how much of it his overactive imagination had filled in, and Five, unfortunately, was one of those things . . .

Catching her hand before she could scurry over to retrieve wash cloths, he frowned at her.  “Tell me something, Five.”

She blinked, her eyes clear, her sweetly rounded cheeks flushed slightly, her deep pink Cupid’s bow of a mouth pursing in a sweet little moue.  “Yes, Master?”

“Were you . . .? Were you scared?  When they brought me back?”

He saw it in her eyes: she wanted to lie.  He shook his head, and she scrunched up her face in a little scowl.  “A . . . A little . . .”

“You don’t have to lie to me, Five.  In fact, I forbid it.  You’ll never have a reason to lie to me.  Do you understand?”

She wouldn’t look at him as she jerked her head once in a nod.  For a minute, he didn’t think that she was going to answer him, and when she did speak, it was in a whisper that he had to strain to hear.  “You . . . You weren’t here,” she said.

His frown shifted into a confused sort of scowl.  “I wasn’t here?” he echoed.  “But . . .”

She shook her head, balling her tiny hands into fists in the skirt of her slip.  “There was . . . nothing in your eyes, Master . . . but I . . . I didn’t want you to . . . to leave me . . .”

He sighed, winced, let go of her to drag his hands over his face as he let his head fall back against the edge of the tub.  “Oh, Five . . . I’m . . . I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to scare you . . .”

“But you’re okay now, right, Master?” she ventured cautiously, finally daring to peer at him.

He forced a small smile, just for her.  “I’m fine,” he told her, reaching out, brushing her hair out of her face.  “I’m . . . I’m fine . . .”

“Well, well, well . . . So, you’re not dead, after all . . .”

Caipora didn’t slow his pace as he continued through the great room, heading for the back doors.  He’d woken up this morning, his body ridiculously stiff and sorer than before, and he’d known that he had to get up, had to get moving.  Narrowing his eyes on the sneering face of the enforcer who leaned against the wall, casually drinking a cup of coffee, he dismissed him just as quickly as he pushed the door open and strode outside.

“Not the overmaster’s favorite little bitch anymore, huh?  Does it piss you off, Caipora?” he persisted, following him, raising his voice as a few others, who were outside, doing God only knew what, looked over to see what was going on.

He ignored that, too, heading down the path that led to the enclosed practice field.  Domajin had moved on?  He snorted under his breath.  He should be so lucky . . .

Pulling out his cell phone, he hit the keypad to unlock the high gates.  It creaked open for him, and he strode through.  The area was kept locked at all times simply because of the weapons that were kept here for training.  The slaves weren’t taught to fight, but even an untrained youkai could cause significant damage if they had a mind to. Locks like those were also about the only reason he carried his cell phone.  After all, the only ones who might use that number weren’t really people he ever wanted to talk to . . .

Foregoing the weapon locker, however, he strode over to the Wing Chun Muk Jong, taking a moment to center himself before moving into the hand exercises to start with.  Slowly, just to reacquaint himself with the seven basic positions of his hands, then slowly gaining speed as it all came back to him.  The steady clack of the arms as he hit them was crisp and clear in the morning air.  There was something rather soothing about it—the increasing rhythm as he moved through the positions . . . It had been years since he’d practiced in such a way.  It felt good.

“Hitting a wooden stick isn’t really that impressive, you know,” the enforcer remarked, casually leaning against the support that ran through the dummies.

“And you are . . .?”

“Samuel Alonzo,” he replied, in a tone that indicated that the name should be one that Caipora already knew.  He didn’t, nor did he really care.

“I assume you have a reason for trying to speak to me,” Caipora asked without taking his gaze off of the jong’s center line.

The tarantula-youkai chuckled, his black eyes slowly roaming over Caipora from head to foot and back again in a slow, assessing kind of way.  “I’ve heard your legend.  They say you’re unbeatable.  Didn’t look so invincible a few days ago, now did you?  Screaming like a bitch . . . Everyone heard you; did you know?  But you were a pretty good fuck—when you weren’t passed out, anyway.”

Caipora didn’t miss a beat as his hands flew at the practice dummy.  “I assume you don’t know shit about The Rack, do you?  Guy like you?  You just bend over and spread your ass cheeks, right?  Samuel, was it . . .?”

He saw the movement seconds before he connected with his punch.  Anger was most certainly his enemy, and Caipora countered it, blocking him with one hand as he cracked the heel of his hand into Samuel’s nose.  The spider let out an angry howl as he stumbled back, doubled over, hands smashed over his broken face.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Caipora slowly shook his head.  “If that’s the best you’ve got, you’re not even worth my time.  Get the fuck out of here before I decide to show you the real meaning of domination.”

Sniffling loudly, he straightened up, the expression on his face registering his barely contained rage.  Wiping his bloody nose with the back of his hand, he tried to circle around Caipora, as though he believed that he could somehow gain the upper hand.

It wasn’t surprising when he lunged at him—and missed.  Dodging him was as simple as stepping out of the way.  Uttering an outraged snarl, he sprang at Caipora, his impatience a palpable thing.

Caipora, however, didn’t feel like toying with the idiot.  Catching him roughly by the throat, he slammed him onto the ground and held him there, his claws digging into the tender flesh of his neck, his expression deliberately blanked completely.  “I don’t know what you think you’re trying to prove, but I’m going to say this one more time—only one more time.  You need to get up and walk away—now—before you piss me off—and if you’re stupid enough to think that the overmaster is going to help you?  Save you?  Then you’re even dumber than I thought, and, if you ask me?  Dumb deserves to die.”

He was about to let go of the ignorant fool, ignoring the surface sting as Samuel furiously dug at his hand with his claws in a vain attempt to get Caipora to loosen his grip.  “Y-You,” he rasped out in a harsh wheeze, his eyes flaring wide as though he recognized—something—as he renewed his efforts to regain his freedom.  “I . . . know . . . who . . . you are . . . Really are . . . One of them—one of—”

“If you know that much, then you know that you’re going to die,” he growled back, low—just loud enough to be heard by the man on the ground.  Claws tightening, cutting off the youkai’s air, Caipora didn’t hesitate as he gave one hard squeeze, feeling the delicate bones of the spider-youkai’s neck collapse as though they were made of little more than paper.  Samuel choked, wheezed one time as his eyes rolled back in his head.  Turning his head just in time to avoid the blast of fabricated wind, of the dank cloud of black ash that exploded in the air, Caipora blocked his face in the crook of his other arm until the wind died down, faded away.

Standing up slowly, Caipora let out a deep breath, unsure exactly what he needed to do now.  He hadn’t been downstairs enough in the last few days to know if Samuel had made friends, if there might be any chance that he’d told someone else what he thought he knew . . .

No, it stood to reason that he hadn’t—or that maybe he hadn’t realized a thing, not until he’d thought to pick a fight.  That momentary flash of recognition . . . Maybe that was all there was to it, and even if he had been spending time with Domajin, Caipora was reasonably sure that Samuel hadn’t told him a thing.  If he had, then today never would have happened.

If he had, then Caipora would already be dead . . .

Standing back against the wall with the rest of the trainers, Caipora didn’t look around, kept his eyes trained straight ahead.  The slaves who were deemed ready were going through a final check by the purveyors who had showed up a few hours after his altercation with Samuel in the training yard.  Paulo Castelo had even taken the time to send Caipora a smug little grin that Caipora had summarily ignored.

Over to the right stood the youngest slaves—Five and the others her age.  As was common, the young girls were made to watch all of the official actions in preparation of what was to come for them one day, too.  The rest of the slaves were in their various lessons or busy doing chores in the kitchen or the yard, maybe in the bathhouse where they were made to scrub down everything on a daily basis.

It was rather disturbing, in Caipora’s estimation.  He’d thought it before, but it never failed to disgust him.  The various facilities were treated almost like weird and perverted schools, segmented into time slots for training or work . . . Everything had a time and a place, which seemed like such a strange concept for what they were made to do.  That was really not important now, though.  Right now, the ready virgins were being examined for the big virgin auction—something that occurred twice a year . . .

Domajin stood over near the high-backed chair he’d occupied during Caipora’s time on the rack, but if he was watching Caipora, he was doing a damned good job of hiding it which was just fine with Caipora.  If he had his way about it, he wouldn’t have to deal with that bastard for a long, long time . . .

The eighteen virgins were still, calm—at least, on the outside.  On the inside, they might have been quaking and afraid, but they didn’t show it.  So far, over half of them had been checked and had passed the virgin screening, and considering they were all checked every morning, he didn’t have reason to think that it wouldn’t be so now.

They had reached 435578, the earth-youkai who seemed to like her anal sex lessons with Caipora a little more than she ought to.  One of the purveyors—the one who was checking the girls—suddenly stood up, motioned to Castelo, only to lean in, to whisper something to him that no one else heard.  Castelo leaned down, jammed a hand up between the slave’s legs, only to straighten up a moment later, grabbing her arm roughly, dragging her out of the line as he turned toward Domajin, dealing 435578 a shake to emphasize his words.  “Ruined!” he yelled, propelling 435578 forward with a harsh shove that sent her sprawling on the floor.  “She’s ruined!”

“What?” Domajin hissed, striding forward, over to the girl, who he yanked to her feet.  “Who ruined you?” he demanded.  “Who?”

435578 didn’t answer, her pitiful sobs filling the quiet.  Beside him, he could feel the other trainers shifting, heard them trying to whisper to one another without being overheard or drawing undue attention.

She screamed when Domajin backhanded her, sending her, sprawling onto the floor once more.  “Do we assume you did this to yourself?” he growled, the edges of his youki, harsh and abrasive.  Her answer was more sobbing—louder, her fear spiraling thick in the room.  “Answer me!” he bellowed, dealing her a harsh kick in the stomach, another in the face.

Caipora stiffened, trying to control the urge to intervene.  Standard practice normally resulted in a flogging, but nothing severe enough to permanently maim her.  As annoying as the loss of funds would be, she would still be easily trained as a common sex slave in the Gauntlet.  Something was not right with the way Domajin was treating her.  Too brutal, too angry, too . . .

She yelped again when Domajin grabbed a handful of her hair, yanked her off the floor like she was little more than a rag doll.  Dragging her over to the row of enforcers on the opposite side of the room, he tossed her at their feet.  “Put her on a rack,” he commanded, turning on his heel and stomping over to the chair once more.

One of the enforcers—Pablo, the one who had tried to waylay Caipora just after Five’s arrival—jerked 435578 roughly to her feet and dragged her off, down the hallway that led to the punishment room.  Her wails echoed loudly in the cavernous space, and only when she’d been led away, after the thump of the heavy door closed, did Caipora relax his stance.

Glancing over at Five, he was relieved enough to see that she stood there in the appropriate way: in silence, chin down, staring hard at her feet.  Her little hands were balled into fists at her sides, though, and he grimaced inwardly.  As much as she tried not to show it, things like this frightened her, and he had very little doubt that she would be subdued, quiet, tonight . . .

The rest of the inspection finished without any more incidents.  After that, the virgins were herded out the door and into the bathhouse to be readied for the transport to the auction, and by the end of the week, the younger girls just behind these virgins in training would be moved up to start learning anal sex, the last of the arts they had to know.

“So, what do you suppose happened to her?” one of the instructors murmured to another as the crowd started to disburse.

“Stupid thing.  She was afraid of being sold,” another scoffed.

“Domajin’s pissed as hell,” the first one remarked.  “Seems like he’s been in nothing but a bad mood lately, ever since . . .”

Trailing off, as though he just realized that Caipora was still leaning casually against the wall, he smacked the other instructor in the arm, and the two hurried past, whispering as they moved away.  Caipora didn’t care.

Domajin spotted Caipora, his expression darkening as he stood up, as he made no bones about marching straight toward him.

Reasonably sure that the overmaster wouldn’t be dumb enough to try something now, Caipora didn’t move.

“You!  You little bastard . . . Did you do it?  Did you ruin her?” he hissed, managing just barely to keep his voice low.

Caipora shrugged.  “I didn’t do a thing,” he replied evenly.

Domajin’s face contorted in a mask of the blackest rage.  “She has a fascination for you, and you have a fascination for anything that you can throw in my face.  Where were you this morning?”

Using his shoulder to lever himself away from the wall, Caipora started to brush past him.  Domajin caught his upper arm, and he very pointedly glanced down at it before carefully shrugging his hand off.  “Not that I owe you an explanation for where I am when I am not working, I can tell you that I was in the training yard where I was attacked by some dumb bastard named Samuel.”

“And Samuel can verify this?”

“If you can find all of his pieces and put them back together again, yes,” he replied.  With that, he strode away, leaving Domajin there to fester in his own rage and frustration.

The crack of the whip drew another moan, another scream from the slave girl—the ruined virgin—435578—as she shuddered and shook.

Domajin held up a hand to stop the enforcer, Pablo before he could raise the whip again.  Striding over, planting himself before her, he grabbed the girl’s face roughly, squeezing her cheeks hard as she sniffled and choked and tried not to cry.  “Now you’ll tell me who did this to you,” he growled, his claws digging into her face.

She still didn’t answer him.  It didn’t surprise him, considering he’d been here for the better part of an hour, trying to get her to speak.  Either she’d done it to herself—a truly foolhardy thing to do—or she was protecting someone . . . “If you don’t answer me, I’ll strip you out of your skin and toss you down to the breeding camps,” he snarled.

The girl choked out a small sob, tried to shake her head, tried her best to convince him that she had no idea, just what had happened.  Her feigned innocence only served to fuel Domajin’s rage, his seething anger.  The idiot girl was going to cost him dearly.  If Anhanguera blamed him, then the loss of revenue could easily be passed on to him . . . or worse . . .

Pablo cleared his throat.  “Sir, if I may . . . You know that some of the slaves have a certain . . . fascination for Caipora, don’t you?”

Just the mention of that name was enough to make the blood boil in his veins.  Caipora, that beautiful bastard . . . Without a second thought, he let go of 435578’s face and backhanded her.  “Is that right?  Did he do this to you?” he demanded, unbridled rage, seething, roiling as the memory of his magnificent Caipora, fucking the hell out of the slave girl at Anhanguera’s meeting shot to vivid life in his head, only the girl on the rack wasn’t the proud golden goddess, no . . . It was this . . . this slave, head still turned to the side, hair spilling over her face, who cowered and sobbed before him.

“N . . . N . . .” she moaned.

Grabbing a handful of her hair, forcing her to look him in the eye, he leaned in close.  “You will tell me the truth!  It was him, wasn’t it?  He did this!”  Letting go of her hair, shoving her away, only to jerk back when the tightness of the chains caught her, held her, he turned on his heel, paced the floor that was sprayed with 435578’s blood. “He’s trying to ruin me—to get me in trouble for that incident,” he muttered, talking to himself, ignoring the others in the room.  “That’s all this is!  He ruined her so that I would be blamed for the loss of a virgin!  So that he can report to Anhanguera . . .”

“Overmaster,” the other enforcer in the room interrupted.  “Caipora hasn’t been out of his room since you—Uh, since then—not until today, and . . . and I saw him, heading toward the training yard this morning.”

He pivoted, glowered at the enforcer, Kato.  Normally a man of few words, he rarely spoke unless he had to.  Narrowing his eyes, Domajin started toward him.  “And you’d swear your life on this?”

Kato didn’t hesitate as he nodded curtly.  “About that incident, though . . .”

Gnashing his teeth together as his anger spiraled even higher, unsure if he just wanted a reason—any reason—to punish Caipora again—or maybe he simply wanted to see his face . . . “What about it?” he growled.

Kato frowned, as though he were trying to make up his mind about something.  “That day when he was on The Rack,” he began.  “He was given water.”

“Water?  That’s hardly—”

“A slave, overmaster.  A slave gave him water.  984152 . . . She gave him water.”

The last strands of reason seemed to stretch and then snap.  Striding back over to Kato once more, he narrowed his eyes.  “984152 . . . gave him water, you say . . .?”

Kato nodded.  “It’s in the surveillance footage from the great room.”

Domajin uttered a low, fierce growl.  “You,” he said, pointing at Pablo.  “Bring this one outside on The Rack, then fetch 984152.  You,” he added, turning his attention to Kato again.  “Bring Caipora to me.”