Mara the Wicked (A "Dead Seed" story)

Nine: One of Us

When she first stepped inside the dungeon (there was no other way to describe it), a wicked smile tugged at the corners of her lips. She had been so focused on escaping the other night that she hadn't had a chance to really take in this beautiful masterpiece that Aimeric had created.

There were torches instead of electrical lights, mounted to the stone walls of the room, which added to the look of a medieval prison. There were no windows, just pictures. Pictures of the sun, mountain tops, lakes, and oceans. All reminders to these tortured beings of what they would never see with their own eyes again. They would never feel the warmth of the sun on their faces. They would never breathe in the scent of fresh air, only this stagnant scent of death, urine, and feces that filled the room heavy as a deep fog. The cool feeling of rain as it fell from the sky—none of it.

The only wish these people had was the release of death.

In one corner of the room there was a jail cell. Several people huddled together in the farthest corner, as if they would be safer there. Most had been beaten; cuts, bruises, and burns ravaged their bodies. Some of them were naked, some had on dirty clothes that had been ripped and torn in places. One woman had a bald spot on the side of her head, bloody and raw as if the hair been ripped out.

Two of the people were in chains against the wall, free to move their legs, but nothing else. One woman, one man. The man hung there, too weak to stand. Blood was dried and caked on both of them. Some wounds were fresh and oozing the red substance, dripping to the floor. Other wounds were older and had either scabbed over or were infected.

There were two others in that room that were not in cages or chains. One, a man, was strapped to a medical table, arms and legs bound and spread. His hands had been impaled through two spikes at the head of the table and left there, with the spikes jutting from his palms. Blood pooled below his wrists and made a stream that dripped off the table and on to the floor.

Mara took in the scent of the blood, closing her eyes and breathing in deeply.

The last person she laid her eyes on, Mara couldn't tell at first if it was a man or woman. The person had been strapped to a wheel-looking device, arms and legs spread wide. He or she had been flayed, the skin had completely removed from the person's chest and arms. It was only when she looked down that Mara saw it was a woman strapped to the wheel. The muscles of her torso and arms were completely exposed, blood lay in a puddle below her feet.

Setting her empty glass on the table where the man was strapped down, Mara went closer to the flayed woman to get a better look.

Her breaths came slow, not much strength to them. The woman was practically dead, but hanging on just enough to suffer a little longer. When Mara stood in front of her, a pair of blue eyes among the bloody mess that was her face opened just enough to stare at her, begging, pleading for her to kill her and end her pain.

The woman would not be so lucky.

"What's the point of this?" Mara wondered out loud. "Does it make them taste better, or is it just for your own amusement?"

"Mostly my amusement." Aimeric came up to stand behind her.

Mara twisted her head slowly, looking at the bloodied woman with curiosity. Maggots wriggled out from beneath the flesh still on her neck, crawling onto the exposed muscle just below.

"You are a sick bastard, aren't you?" Mara said, grinning over her shoulder.

"In my former life I was no different," Aimeric admitted. "I had a wonderful room in the mansion before it burned down. A room made with the most beautiful skin. I went there to think, when I needed time alone—I felt most comfortable there. Here, I don't have that ... yet." He nodded at the woman and added, "She will become part of it."