My boots thunk on the wood floors as I make my way out to the parlor where the boy is currently tied up. I'm wearing brown, tight fitting pants and a white button up shirt, waspie corset cinching the waist. I can't help but strut down the hallway, a cat ready to chase a mouse. My hair is tied up in a tail high on my head that swings with every strut. I approach the parlor doors, and BAM! They're kicked in.
"Awwww" I pout. He's still asleep, eyes closed, not cowering in fear as I had hoped. Well, there's time to fix that. Around my waist hangs the dagger I liberated last night, rope, scissors, perfume, a small notebook and a skin of water. Perfect! My toes tap across the floor, as nimble fingers unscrew the top of the flask.
"Holy fuck! What are you doing?" His eyes are wide open now! This is the best feeling in the world. "Who are you?" Water is dripping down his vest and his hair is hanging, plastered to his face.
"I'm afraid you aren't in the position to be asking questions right now, boy." I spit the last word.
"I have some things to ask you though, and if you act agreeable and provide truthful answers, you will be allowed to leave here." I sit back in my chair, as he clears his throat.
"What's your name?" What? That's different. I've never been asked my name after giving the spiel. They ask where they are, or what I want, or if I'm a virgin, or try to escape. The boy looks at me coolly, steadily. He's been prepared for this.
"As I told you, I can't tell you that. What's yours?"
"I want to know your name." He's staring strangely earnestly at me, looks honestly interested. That just furthers my confusion. From smirking bastard to kindhearted prisoner is a big leap.
"I wish I could tell you boy. Maybe once you tell me your name I could be inclined to tell you mine."
"You look like an Arabelle, or maybe a Clara. Could be a Rose though, because of your red lips." There's the smirk. I didn't miss it. I don't have red lips right now, pressed in a tight scowl.
"I will give you one more chance to tell me your name before I take more drastic measures."
"I like to imagine you were a circus performer, maybe a tightrope walker, and the crowd would shout out Rose dance for us! Rose wave yo-"
"Shut. Up." He just smiles at me, all teeth. Time to change tactics. I'm not going to get him serious, he's far too trained to give in. I have to throw him off rhythm. The notebook from my back pocket slides into my hands, and I pull up a stool to sit in front of him.
"Boy, in the past two weeks you have visited an astounding twenty two taverns, sixteen brothels and houses of ill repute, and three abandoned buildings. At the taverns you order cider or honey wine, but never finish your cup. At the brothels, when prompted, you use several pseudonyms, including misters Victor Smith, Fillip Da Vinci, Jean-Jean De Jean, Jean-Paul, and my personal favourite, Ben Derofer. Classy. " I pause to take a sip of water, my eyes never leaving his face. "At the taverns you act friendly but don't introduce yourself to people, staying alone. You don't make lewd comments at the maids or waitresses, have never been arrested, but visit whorehouses often. You go with girls who are young, between seventeen and twenty, tall and curvy with dark brown hair." At this he looks up to my eyes, and stares me down. I can see him scan my face with abject innocence and a cherub grin. What an ass. I happen to have dark brown hair, ample curves, and stand taller than nearly every woman I know. What a coincidence.
"Listen here boy, I know every detail of your life, every step you've taken for the past while now. I know you take Camembert on your danishes, and you live in a large apartment overlooking the park. Despite all this, I still do not know your name. You will tell me or I fucking swear I will drive these scissors into your kneecap and watch you bleed out on the floor."
He crosses his arms and leans back in the chair.
"Those are sewing shears, and cheap at that. They would stick in maybe an inch, and then I would be able to cut myself free." He's right. I wouldn't waste my scissors on him. Time to bring out the big guns. I pull something shiny out from behind my back.
"Well, this is a knife, one you gifted to me last night." He pales just a bit. "And unlike the sewing shears, this knife is very sharp and evidently very expensive, and very large. I will not enjoy it, but unless the next word out of that mouth is a name, I will remove your kneecap." His eyes widen a bit. I'm not smiling. Torturing people who have done unforgivable things is fine, torturing people who are meant to die by the blackness in their heart that mirrors the blade in my palm. That's not the case today. This boy is a bastard and a spy and a whore but he's young, and I really don't want to stain this shirt.
"My name is Vaughn."
"You're lying." Walking up to him, I raise my dagger, and drive it down, hard. It hits it's mark.
"What the hell? You could have hit me!"
"I know!" I yank it out from the wood an inch from his thigh. He's staring at me, hyperventilating. I might be too, so I grab my knife and storm out of the room, slamming the door behind me. My feet won't stop pacing, and run me up and down the hall. What am I doing? I know I should stab him, that I should have carved him up like a turkey by now, but I just can't. I'm not a bad person. I'm not a good person, don't be fooled, but I'm not a bad person. Mediocre people only torture people when they're out of time, and I have plenty of time left, so I decide I will not rip this boy's kneecaps from his body. But I'm not going to take his bullshit anymore. Deep breath, stand tall, walk back in there with confidence. I sit politely to face him.
"Listen here. I don't want to hurt you, but I will if I absolutely need to. Now, I need you to tell me some things. Okay?" He nods, face flat. I don't think he thought I would take a stab at him.
"Let's begin. How old are you?" He opens his mouth to speak.
"Seventeen and nine months, you?" Seventeen? Younger than I thought. I'll answer him truthfully, in hopes of encouraging more answers.
"My seventeenth birthday is in four days." A look flickers across his face quickly, but I can't read it before a grin flies back on. Shit eating grin. I remind myself that I got an answer before I can punch him, and my stool is taller than his wooden chair, so he has to look up at me. Little victories.
YOU ARE READING
Mad Honey
FantasyWIP - Azalea is an academy trained spy, an occasional assassin. She's sent on mission to find and interrogate a boy who has been watching the academy, and her. But things go wrong when she is kidnapped and thrown into a conspiracy much bigger than h...
