Incubus

Incubus Part 9

A/N Trigger Warning: This part contains a torture segment.  Do not read if being restrained or reading about torture makes you uncomfortable

You wake with a pained groan. Your throat feels raw and dry from all your coughing. It tastes like there's cotton in your mouth, your tongue thick and swollen. Your eyes blink open, trying to take in your surroundings. It's a dark room, only a single incandescent bulb hangs from a wire directly overhead. The walls are a cold, unforgiving metal. There are places where the metal has stained from blood, grime, and who the hell knows what else.

You try to move, only to realize you've been confined to the uncomfortable metal chair you're sitting in, your hands tied behind the back rest. Struggling a little more, you find that neither your binds, nor the chair will move. The chair must be bolted to the floor. Your bindings, on the other hand seem to tighten further the more you struggle, so you stop quickly. You try to stretch out your fingers, already feeling the effects from your blood being cut off at the wrist.

You're left in the dim room for a few minutes before a door opens behind you. You wince when the grating sound of metal against metal fills your ears. The man from before, Rumlow, steps into your field of vision, dragging a metal chair behind him. He flips it around and straddles it backward, arms crossed over the back of the chair as he faces you. His blackened gaze washes over your form.

You're still able to sense his aura, but it doesn't seem to affect you as much, he must be muting it.

"Glad to see you're awake. Was worried there for a moment," he smirks darkly.

You school your features into an unamused glare, knowing he doesn't actually give a shit about you.

Your reaction only seems to make his grin widen. "So... you're the little descendant that thought it would be a good idea to spread her legs for an incubus. Can I ask why?"

Your glare hardens. "Because he asked nicely," you respond sarcastically.

Rumlow's smirk falls and a second later you feel that heaviness in your lungs again. You can't fight the urge to cough, despite how much it hurts to do so. "You might want to think twice before testing my limits. You'll find that they're very short," he warns ominously.

The pain in your chest slowly eases up and you gasp for choked breath. "What are you?" you repeat your earlier question.

Rumlow regards you for a moment. "What do you know about magic wielders?"

You raise an eye brow. "You're a witch?" you ask incredulously.

He rolls his eyes. "There are four classes of magic wielders," he starts, holding up four fingers briefly, before switching to just hold one. "Witches are human and they make up the first class. They practice natural based magic, using potions from herbs and drawing energies from the alignment of the moon and the sun. Basic stuff, mostly white magic."

He holds up two fingers now. "Then there are Enchanters, descendants born with magic. They can cast spells using their own energies, and some can be relatively powerful. But they too, only wield white magic." He raises a third finger. "Then you have Bokors, the voodoo sorcerers that practice both white and black magic. They use a combination of natural and enhanced magic. Most usually come from demon bloodlines."

He crosses his arms back over the chair, a sort of darkness shadowing his features. "Lastly, you have Castors. And Castors live in a class all on their own, because they're the ones that give up their souls to possess unlimited power. They can wield dark magic in its purest form. The kind of magic you can only dream of. I'll let you take a guess at which one I am," he smirks.