Page 55 of Unholy Gambit: Checkmate in Blood
He was doing this for her. To improve his chances at being given permission to move here permanently. To oath into the coterie.
For the right to live in her city. For the life they were building.
Humphrey needed a way to save face, a way to feel vindicated, if they were to coexist in the same city.
And so, he voluntarily placed his wrists in the shackles, knowing once they were locked, there was no turning back. No way to stop what was coming.
The chains tugged against the shackles around his wrists, an unseen motor pulling them into the post, trapping his wrists on either side without so much as a quarter inch of give.
Marco stepped forward, his voice low but resonant.
“Exigere.”
Axel exhaled once, silently. Readied himself.
Humphrey drew it out. Slow, theatrical. Either milking the moment or staving off his own fear. No matter. Axel didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.
The first lash landed with a crack that echoed. The knots on the leather tore into him. A white-hot line seared across his back — the hate of a man who’d waited centuries for this moment.
Axel’s jaw clenched. He’d ripped the arrogant prick’s left arm off. Should’ve grabbed for the other.
The motherfucker had fixed his spine. Had tucked his bowels back in and wrapped his torso to keep it all from falling out again.
It would take the bastard a day or two to grow the arm back and repair the rest, but Marco had rightfully insisted the terms be seen to immediately. You only need one good arm to whip someone, after all.
The second stroke landed atop the first. The third sliced across both, a cruel X that deepened the burn. Each strike rang through his bones, through his breath, through his vision.
He made no sound. He thought of the city he hoped to make his own. Thought of his Aury’s laugh. Her hand in his.
By the tenth, blood was running down his ass. Down his legs.
By the twentieth, his breath came fast and sharp. But he stayed upright, muscles coiled tight, control absolute.
By the thirtieth, the pain had a rhythm, a drumbeat of violence against his spine. He could feel the crowd’s discomfort settling in, heavier than heat. Some looked away, but most stared, mesmerized.
The older vampires had seen worse. Many had experienced worse.
Everyone was glad it was someone else and not them.
At forty, he stopped his silent counting. There was no need. Pain had its own clock. Time stretched out. The lashes came like a demented tune, ripping at his skin, muscles, sinew.
A longer than expected pause, and Axel heard the Latin behind him, denoting they were finished with one stage and heading into the next.
“Mutatio.” Marco’s voice again. Calm and clear. Precise. A clear vibration altering the energy of the ritual he presided over.
The last dozen were to be with silver barbs on the whip.
Axel felt the shift in the room. The hum of expectation and unease. Even seasoned vampires tensed. Everyone knew what came next. Vampire skin doesn’t heal cleanly after the insult of silver.
Karma.
Humphrey’s back bore the scars of the same whipping. Now Axel’s would match.
The metallic bane of vampires leaves behind stories carved in flesh.
The first barbed strike tore into his skin andripped out, hooked spines dragging meat and muscle with them. Barbs designed not just to strike, but totake, to tear away skin and muscle when withdrawn.
More than a merelash. A harvesting.
