Page 12 of Ravaged By the Reaper
Malem steps back, dismissive, as if he’d never leaned in. “You will.”
But I’m already riding that thread of hope. My body trembles, not from pain, but from recognition. Something alive and unstoppable is reaching for me.
And I’m not broken yet.
I feelthe thing crawling along my scalp again, its tendrils twitching, greedy, wet. It wants another dive. Another flaying of my soul. But it hesitates—ever sinceheshowed up in that flash of red and ruin. The warrior with the hooked blade and blood-drunk eyes.
He’s not a memory. He’s a warning. Or maybe a promise.
I have no control over whether he comes or not… butthis? This extractor? Malem?
That I can twist.
I take a breath, even though my ribs protest with a thousand bruises. The next time the extractor lowers, I guide it—not to the truth, but to something soft, seductive, and entirely false.
I’m younger again,walking through the soft blue gardens of Velmari Prime, a favored Companion haunt. The scent of star-roses clings to the silk of my sari; the hum of invisible insect drones vibrates in the air. A client, faceless and elegant, walks beside me, murmuring about the diplomacy of silence.
"I've always found the right pause says more than any poem," I whisper, tilting my head, letting a strand of platinum fall artfully over one cheek.
The memory is perfect. My heart thrums in time with the fake scene. Let the extractoreat this.
The tendrils shiver.I feel them flicker, confused.
Good.
I plant another memory—me on the sand dunes of Dralkhar III, laughter tangled in the wind, naked under twin moons with a client who never existed. I paint the whole thing in color, scent, and heat, layering every detail like I’m orchestrating a scene from a performance opera.
The extractor twitches again. One of its filaments retracts with a spasm, like it’s choking on the imagery.
“Problem?” I purr, my voice syrupy, measured. The Companion mask slides back into place like an old glove.
Malem lifts his head from his slate, his pale eyes flicking toward mine. “You’re coping.”
I smile, the kind that promises silk sheets and secrets whispered at midnight. “I’m surviving. There’s a difference.”
He says nothing, but I catch the shift in his posture. The faintest lean forward.
Good. Bite the hook, bastard.
“Tell me something, Malem,” I murmur, letting the straps dig into my wrists just enough to flush the skin. “Do you always greet companions with shackles and mind-rape?”
His brow ticks up, just a fraction. “You’re not a Companion. You’re a spy. You know that. I know that. This charade serves no one.”
“I serve,” I counter smoothly. “That’s what we do. Even when we’re bleeding.”
He’s watching me now. Not leering—he doesn’t have the stomach for that. But studying. Like I’m a riddle. Good. Let me be a riddle he underestimates.
“You bleed well,” he says at last.
I arch a brow. “Was that… flattery?”
Silence.
I laugh, and it's a sound I haven’t made in hours—or days. “I didn’t think Inquisitors were allowed charm.”
“We’re allowed results.”
“And have you got any?”
