Checkered Tales and Nighthawk Feathers

Eddie, Purpose, Treasure

Author's note.
Please be aware that this entry is darker and more intense than the others in this collection.
Threat of death, and at one point, Eddie vividly imagines himself being stabbed. Additionally, tickling is used as a power play and method of psychological torture.
The author does not condone the use of tickling as a torture method, despite what their flirting strategies with threatening women may suggest.
Still, if this chapter is uncomfortable, unpleasant, or too intense for you, please back out as soon as you are no longer enjoying it. There will be more stories to come that will hopefully be more appealing to you. Cheers,
Arby.
P.S. Threatening women hit my line.

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The butt of a gun against his forehead, and then blackness. That's all Eddie Chiplucky remembers. There's a dull throbbing pain in his head now, and his shoulders are sore, but he can't move to stretch or massage them. Everything comes back in drips and drops: the bar, telling Ethan the truth about Otho. Bright lights, rough grabbing hands, the clink of cuffs. Rage and disappointment. Charles Coven, looming and authoritative, boring holes through him with those quiet disapproving eyes. Slowly, he slides the pieces of the puzzle together, trying to ignore the coppery taste in his mouth. He remembers Bruno dragging him away, and things being said but not what those things were, and then the jarring void of unconsciousness.

Eddie tries to move, but his shoulders ache more and he sways, unbalanced. He's standing up, arms high above his head. Handcuffs hold his wrists together, thrown over an enormous steel hook hanging from the ceiling. The chain is just long enough for his toes to touch the floor, but resting on his heels is hell on his shoulders so he teeters on his tiptoes and tries to focus on his surroundings. He's in some kind of warehouse; it's dark. Surrounding him are enormous crates, both metal and wood, some marked with big, spray-painted letters and some not. Some have air holes. Others tap and scratch ominously in the near-silence. Eddie draws in a rattling breath.

Stuck in storage with all of the other treasure. He can only hope that the box Charles puts him in is one of the ones with air holes, and isn't destined to be dumped in the ocean or buried in concrete.

After what feels like hours, alternating between wobbling on his tiptoes to alleviate the pull on his arms and straining his arms to give his calves a break, Eddie hears the sound of padlocks being undone, chains loosening, enormous bolts sliding out of place. Only momentarily, light floods the warehouse, blinding him. The flash dies quickly as the doors shut but it's enough to sear the silhouette into his mind: a man's neat, square outline walking briskly towards him with devilish confidence.

'Wakey wakey, Eddie.' Charles slaps gently at his cheek. 'Have a nice nap?'

Finding his voice is hard. He probably spat it out with a little blood when Bruno knocked him unconscious. Hoarsely, he replies.

'Had better.'

Charles laughs politely, and Eddie hates him for it – keeping up that smarmy affable façade when it's just them, when Eddie knows what he is. If he dropped the act and killed him right now, at least that'd be respectable.

'Oh, poor Eddie. Just not your day, huh?' Charles laughs again, pinching Eddie's cheek, and Eddie has to fight not to curse at him. Telling this man to fuck off would only make things worse, even if it'd feel good. 'Don't worry, it only gets worse from here.'

Squinting through his steadily ebbing headache, Eddie grunts. 'What do you want, Chuck?'

The other man looks almost surprised, looking around the warehouse. He surveys all the boxes and crates, the big metal cages, reinforced glass containers covered in obscuring fabric. A smile crosses his face, unbearably smug.