Page 3 of Gates of Tartarus

“Right, well that doesn’t take us any farther forward, but I suppose it can’t be helped. OK, what about Tennireef?”

I gaze at him calmly. “What about Tennireef?”

Seef’s jaw tightens. “I do apologize, Ms. Driscoll. Could I ask you to try to see Tennireef, so that we can make sure he’s not raping and murdering anyone? But only if it’s convenient, of course.”

I’m the one who goes pale now. It was a cheap shot, but I didn’t have to needle him just because I’m irritated with his lack of p’s and q’s. “Of course,” I say quietly, and I think I see a hint of regret suffuse his features; but his face is impassive when I look up again. I close my eyes, seeking the soft blackness and the rope, but this time they don’t come. I can visualize them, but it’s like seeing a picture, painted in by my mind, rather than the real thing. And I keep having flashbacks to Tennireef’s flashback. I really, really do not want to see him masturbating to another assault.

Seef frowns when I tell him but just says, “OK. That’s probably enough for today. Tomorrow, wear something loose and comfortable. I’m adding self-defense to your training regime.”

“Err.” Visions of my YouTube karate sessions dance before my eyes.

“You have a problem with that?”

“No!” Seriously. What crawled up his fundament? I glare at him. “If you must know, I’ve been taking karate lessons.”

“Hmm.” Skepticism hangs heavy in the air. “We’ll see.”

We? I glance inadvertently at his stump, and his jaw tightens. “I’m quite capable of teaching you the basics, I assure you.”

Oh hell. All annoyance vanishes under a wave of acute mortification. “I, I...”

“Grab your stuff. I’ll walk you up to the lobby.”

We take the elevator up in silence. I’m squirming, and Seef is remote, as if he’s almost not aware of my presence. He leaves me with a curt nod, and I’m left miserably waiting for whoever’s going to be my chaperone. I’m kicking myself. How could I have done that? I didn’t mean to imply that he was somehow unfit. I didn’t even realize my eyes had flickered. But am I supposed to pretend that he isn’t missing part of his left arm? What’s the etiquette? And why was he so rude even before then? It’s like he took one look as I came in and decided he couldn’t stand me. Some of my guilt starts to subside as I think back over his behavior. If I committed afaux pas, at least it wasn’t on purpose. He, on the other hand, was a surly twat from the get-go. Well, at least it’ll make hitting him in the self-defense classes easier. I’m going to bemotivated.

Our meeting must have ended a little earlier than planned, because there’s no sign of any of the guys. I’m feeling worked-up and fidgety, and, all of a sudden, I wonder what I’m doing tamely waiting for an escort. I’m upset; I don’t want to be here; I want to go for a walk in the fresh air and grab a coffee, so why thefeckam I waiting? I’m a grown woman, for Christ’s sake. A week ago, I would have stayed put. A week ago, I hadn’t been kidnapped and survived. Maybe the experience knocked all the timid out of me, but I find I’m strolling out the front door and towards the nearest café. I’m going to treat myself to a large vanilla latté, then go for a stroll in the nearby Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, which soundsdelightful. I ping a text off to Emlyn, to let him know I’ll see everyone back at the house, and turn off my phone. While I suspect, deep down, that I’m still a jelly, I’m now a jelly withattitude.

Math not Maths

Friday, 2 November – Maela

Needless to say, I was in disgrace when the guys got home yesterday evening. I didn’t care: I’d had a lovely afternoon, wandering around Chelsea, window-shopping, getting to know my new neighborhood. I’m pretty sure Emlyn was getting ready to read me the riot act when he came in to find me lounging on the surprisingly battered, old, leather sofa in the library – a stunning room lined floor to ceiling with gleaming cherry-wood bookshelves à la country house – but Jorge must have sensed my churning mix of emotions and convinced him to let me be. Dinner was a muted affair, with all of the guys looking warily at me from time to time, as if they expected me to jump up on to the table and start declaimingThe Feminist Manifestoto the backdrop of Aretha Franklin’s “Respect”; and I went to bed early.

This morning, despite Kavi’s best efforts to help me cultivate serenity, I spend my time in bridge pose and butterfly pose thinking about what a wanker Seef is and dreading our session. And my mood is not at all improved to walk into Emlyn’s office that afternoon to see the twat himself sitting inmychair.Drol. I don’t even know what that means, but Seef used it as an insult, so that’s good enough for me. I have just enough time to say hello to Emlyn, who gives me a warm, if cautious, smile, when Seef announces that he’ll be giving me my first self-defense lesson before we come back and have a remote-viewing session. I want to protest, but Seef’s looking at me as if he can tell what I’m thinking, so I content myself with making faces at his back as I follow him out the door. I can’t even shoot an eloquent glance at Emlyn, as his phone rings as Seef gets up.

Seef and I go to a gym on another floor. He indicates the changing rooms and tells me he’ll meet me in a side room in five minutes. I’m relieved that we’re not going to have an audience; there are a few people working out in the main room, and I really don’t need anyone watching when I try to scratch his eyes out.

I take my time getting undressed and pulling on my yoga gear, long-sleeved to cover the bruises, but I can’t put off the training session forever, so I trudge slowly over to the small side room. Seef’s already in there, and all of the breath whooshes out of my lungs as I clap eyes on his half-naked body. He’s only wearing a pair of sweats and looks at me almost defiantly as I move onto the mat, but I’m almost too busy drooling to notice. He seems to be about 6’1” and like Kavi is heavily muscled. I’m guessing Seef has a sports prosthetic and starts the day with fifty push-ups, because his left bicep is just as sculpted as his right. It’s also adorned with a magnificent tattoo which swirls over his shoulder and spirals down his arm, a bold, Polynesian tribal pattern in plain black that ends in a shield design over the stump. He’s got a nice amount of hair on his chest, I see, and, as my gaze dips lower, a line on his abs as well. The man might be abalsaky drol, but credit where credit’s due, he’s a presence.

Fortunately, when he opens his mouth, he snaps me out of my trance. “Ready to jump off your stick, Driscoll?”

“Ready and waiting,salaud.” I square my shoulders as I narrow my eyes, and he gives me an evil smile. “I can assure you that my parents were married when they had me, princess.”Oh feck. He speaks French swear. Must have met a member of the Foreign Legion when he was out roughing up innocent villagers, stealing their animals, burning their crops, and sowing the fields with salt.

I’m trying to think up a really cutting come-back when he tells me that I’m going to be learningKrav Maga. It’s a fighting style based on a number of other martial arts including Aikido, Judo, Karate, boxing, and wrestling, but Seef tells me that the first lesson to learn is to try to avoid physical confrontation altogether. I need to be aware at all times when I’m out on the streets and to walk with confidence, head held high. If someone comes at me, I should try screaming first, to attract attention, and getting into a shop. If I’m in a deserted area and have to fight, Seef’s going to teach me how to go for one of my attacker’s vulnerable areas: eyes, nose, throat, solar plexus, groin, and knees.

“Overall, you’re not in bad shape,” he tells me. “The yoga you’ve been doing with Kavi has strengthened your muscles, and we can work with that and improve on it.”Huh? He’s been discussing me with Kavi? Of course he has. I suppose he’ll be getting updates from Jorge on my emotional state as well. After all, I’m an asset. No doubt Emlyn will soon be supplying him with brain scans so he can see my telesthesia at a molecular level. Because Seef’s such a decent chap, and the poor saps don’t know what he’s really like.I smile tightly at him.

The first thing I learn is how to use my weight and position my body to get out of a wrist hold. Seef grabs my wrist, yanking me forward, and we work on going with the motion instead of pulling back, then squatting down and bending my elbow toward him until he’s forced to let go. The motion has to become instinctual, he says, as I won’t have time to think through options in a real-life situation. He makes me do the maneuver over and over before teaching me an open-hand strike. I can use the heel of my hand to punch up into someone’s eyes or nose, but I need to remember not to telegraph my intention by pulling my arm back. I’m longing to practice on Seef but have to make do with a dummy.

After what must be the hundredth hand strike, my arms are starting to feel like jelly, and I can’t help but glance longingly at the clock. Surely, it’s time for a cup of tea and a biscuit? Seef the Scrot notices. “Feeling bored, are we, Driscoll?”

I stop and blow a piece of hair off my face. “Not at all. But I wouldn’t mind a short break.”

“Ag, shame! A Kronos operative won’t care if you’re tired. It’s too bad we can’t arrange for you to be attacked only when you’re feeling well-rested. I’ll try to work out a way, but until then, it’s time for you to do some laps.”

I stare at him, horrified. Laps, as in, around a track? Running?

“Yes, running laps, princess.”

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