FIC: Midnight Smoke (1/2) [Alex Rider/Yassen Gregorovich, NC-17]
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, annephoenix!!!
*hugs very hard*
This monster has been in the works for you since, well, a while after Sectus, both 'cause I love you (of course!) and as thanks for introducing me to a YA series that abuses its hero even worse than JKR ;). Hope you like, even though I'm aware how busy you are at the moment - no need to read any time soon :).
*hugs again*
Title: Midnight Smoke (1/2)
Author: Hijja (kennahijja@yahoo.com)
Fandom: Alex Rider series by Anthony Horowitz (set between Skeleton Key and Eagle Strike)
Pairing: Alex Rider/Yassen Gregorovich
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: non-con, underage/chan (Alex is eternally 14)
Summary: Alex Rider investigates a spate of teen abductions and runs into an old enemy.
Note: Thanks to Thea for test reading. And I swear I had no clue about the theme of the most recent novel when starting this - still haven't read it :). The title comes from Mike Batt's "The Hunting of the Snark" album.
Alex Rider had regretted many times over that he had ever stepped into the building on Liverpool Street that housed Royal & General. Which was not the exclusive private bank it appeared to be on the outside, but a branch of MI6. Since that day, he had been blackmailed to work for the organisation on three different occasions.
He'd rarely felt less like a teenage super-spy than right at this moment, however. The real James Bond might handle sitting in flimsy black pyjamas on a bunk bed in a tiny cell with cool superiority, but Alex certainly didn't. He'd already examined the metal door and walls, to no avail: the walls were massive and the door had withstood every attempt to coax it open. Worse yet, Alex had the ominous feeling that he was being observed from the other side. From the slight swaying motion of the ground below his feet, he knew that his prison was aboard a ship. It told him nothing else.
His wrist watch, a gift from MI6's own Mr Smithers and engineered to turn into an electric saw blade if set for 11:55, had been taken from him along with his not quite standard-issue Gameboy. His sole remaining gadget was a silver ear stud, a twin of the one that had secured his escape from Point Blanc Academy. Now, it was holding one dose of metal-corroding liquid. Without a clue as to where the door mechanism might be located, Alex refused to waste it on a possibly futile attempt to escape. No, he thought: if he waited for his captors to show themselves, a better opportunity might present itself.
So far, however, opportunities had been distinctly few: he'd been drugged, abducted and imprisoned, but was still far from unlocking the mystery he'd come to solve.
Three days ago, in Alan Blunt's drab corporate clone office on the top floor of Royal & General, Alex had been briefed on the details. There had been a swathe of disappearances among teenagers from the London Docklands area - indiscriminately targeting nightclubs, private pleasure barges, run down working class estates and modern luxury developments for months. None of this had, of course, interested MI6; it had been left to harried, over-taxed police authorities. Until the last disappearance: the fifteen-year-old son of a Shadow Cabinet Minister and his girlfriend, attending a party on a Thames luxury yacht: celebrating one moment, then never seen again.
When MI6 rushed to the aid of old moneyed aristocracy, they'd connected the cases of missing persons and arrived at an alarming conclusion: seven teenagers had vanished in the Docklands during the past four months alone. Then other number had begun trickling in - three more in Liverpool, six on the other side of the English Channel in Calais and Le Havre, a further four in Amsterdam - all teenagers, all vanished in the dock areas of port cities, with no bodies ever found. Teenage abductions on a massive scale, most likely by boat - that was what Alan Blunt had said thoughtfully before the full force of his frosty grey eyes had fallen on Alex.
"We're not demanding that you get involved," had said Mrs Jones, Blunt's second in command, her fingers absently toying with a peppermint wrapper. Blunt had given her a stern look.
"We could send in an adult agent, Alex, but it would in all likelihood be futile. You, on the other hand, would make for a perfect target," he pointed out, as if Alex needed to hear it spelled out. "The young people who have disappeared are mostly between thirteen and seventeen years old, healthy and often quite handsome. None of them, however, has been trained by the best the SAS has to offer. You have a genuine chance of discovering who is responsible for these crimes."
Well... Alex smiled grimly in retrospect. So far, discovery had been limited to him stumbling into a random pedestrian in a shady by-street behind an even shadier Docklands discotheque, in a pungent cloth being pressed over his face, and in waking up in this room to the light-headedness that accompanied the after-effects of a drug. At least half a day had passed since then, yet nobody had bothered to drop by and feed him. His tongue was dry and his stomach rumbled. The light-headedness had vanished, but had left the throb of a headache in its wake.
So much for his sneakers having been outfitted with powerful micro transmitters; "Just press the logo three times in one-second intervals and we'll send three military speed boats to your location to pick you up," Smithers had promised. The boots did him no good whatsoever, now that he was barefoot and dressed in something that resembled black silk pyjamas. Bad enough that someone had been undressing him after picking him up. He could only hope that the boots hadn't undergone examination and had given him away.
When the door hissed open, Alex jumped even though he'd been waiting and hoping for it. Two men stood in the doorway, looking for all the world like your average evil minions: black ninja suit, dark hair, cold if quite young faces. The younger looked barely twenty, the other some few years older. Both moved with the sort of unselfconscious grace that came with years of martial arts training. The submachine guns that hung from their shoulders by leather straps, muzzles aiming right at Alex's stomach, convinced him that now would be a bad moment to try and make a run for it.
"Where am I? What do you want from me?" he exclaimed, trying to behave like a normal, scared fourteen-year-old.
"Be quiet!" younger minion snapped. There was no audible accent to his voice, although Alex would have bet that English wasn't his native language.
"Get up," older minion added, emphasising the command with a jab of his gun.
Alex rose from the cot and padded out into the corridor ahead of them, resisting the urge to rub the fresh bruise on his arm.
The gentle sway of the ground under his feet confirmed that they were indeed aboard a ship, and a moving one at that. The corridor outside his cell was brightly lit and wide. It had to be a larger vessel then, a cruiser perhaps, and one that had travelled beyond the calm waters of the British coastline. Alex wondered how far it had gone while he'd been unconscious.
Obediently, he walked in front of the guards, stumbling once or twice to make himself look more exhausted than he was. The drug had worn off, and the walk helped clearing his head.
Another corridor, then a round cast-iron staircase that Alex climbed very slowly and with both hands clinging to the railing. When he reached the top, the bare metal walls had given way to wood panelling. A carpet that looked Persian and was surprisingly soft covered the floor and caressed his naked feet.
"Stop." The command brought him up short in front of an oak-panelled door. Older minion pushed the touchpad keys on the wall, while younger brushed the muzzle of his gun against Alex's neck. Alex froze and watched as older minion stepped through the doorway, bowing his head reverently. Alex followed him inside after another prod with the gun.
The cabin was spacious and elegant. A polished mahogany table, another expensive carpet in shades of brown, the walls decorated with brass nautical instruments, ancient maps behind glass and, taking up most of the east wall, an oil painting with a stormy sea scene.
Three people were assembled around the table. Closest to the door was a man in his fifties who looked vaguely Northern European, with fair skin, close-cropped grey hair and a nondescript face. He was wearing a naval uniform with captain's insignia and a matching cap. He looked up when Alex entered, but only for a moment before his attention returned to the papers in front of him. Behind him loomed a veritable giant, taller by at least a head. Muscles bulged inside the same black would-be-ninja uniform that the guards wore, but he carried his bulk with an unquestionable air of authority. The lower half of his face was obscured by a black beard, shiny and well-trimmed. If anything, his eyes, as black as hair under a jagged curve of bushy brows, looked even more sinister than the beard. He carried a truncheon clipped to his belt.
Unlike his companions, the third man was small and slender, scarcely taller than Alex himself at fourteen. He sat at the head of the table, so very straight that at first Alex mistook him for a youth. A second glance, however, revealed a lined face and a tight white braid. His upright posture appeared to have been purposefully chosen to compensate for his age. He was dressed in a long black Japanese-style robe, and looked well over seventy.
It was the old oriental man who acknowledged Alex, if with a glance as impersonal as if someone had brought in a puppy. No, Alex thought, a dog might have been received with more interest.
"What is your name, boy?"
"Alex," Alex said, biting his lip. A lot of bad people seemed to know his name for no good reason. "Alexander Wilder," he added, aware of the pause, but hoping they would attribute it to natural fear in a fourteen-year-old boy abducted by strangers and held at gunpoint. "What... what do you want from me?" he rushed on. "I'm a British citizen, and my family will miss me. If you want money-"
"Quiet." The giant with the beard had the voice to go with his stature, rumbling through the room. Alex fell silent. He didn't have to pretend being nervous - he didn't want to cross that man. "Who you were is of no interest to us. You belong to the Schola now."
"The Schola-?" Alex started, and fell silent when Blackbeard put his hand on the truncheon in his belt. Alex could see electrodes at the tip - some kind of taser, most likely. Not something he wanted to become intimately acquainted with.
"Is this the one who has been chosen?" the old man asked Blackbeard, in French. Alex conjured a frown, feigning confusion. Ian Rider had taught him French during their holidays in the Bretagne, but it wasn't something most schoolboys his age would understand - or be fluent in.
"Yes," Blackbeard confirmed, also in French.
"Ask our guest in, then," the old man said pleasantly.
Blackbeard touched a keypad on the table. In the right-hand wall, another door panelled with tropical wood hissed open, and yet another black-clad would-be-Ninja guard stepped in, bowed respectfully from the waist, and moved aside.
Behind him, another man entered. Alex's heart hammered once, painfully loud, then stopped and plunged into his stomach. There was no way he would ever forget that handsome face, the close-cropped blond hair, or the way Yassen Gregorovich moved with all the grace of a dancer on a tightrope. Yassen Gregorovich, who had murdered Ian Rider, but who had let Alex go free the last time they'd met even though Alex had threatened to kill him. Yassen, who knew everything about Alex and MI6 and who would know, beyond a shadow of doubt, why Alex was here today.
Half a dozen mad impulses to escape tore at him at once, all of them futile. There were the armed guards behind him, and all hope of making a run for it had evaporated the moment Yassen had come through the door. The assassin's face was utterly without expression.
The old man rose from his armchair in a fluid but measured move as if mourning life-long grace now overshadowed by age.
"Yassen - welcome to the Schola once more. It has been a long time." Yassen Gregorovich inclined his head a mere fraction. There was no answering smile on his face. "Here is the boy you chose." The old man pointed at Alex. "Does he still please?"
Yassen took a few steps forward and stopped right in front of Alex, close enough for Alex to smell his aftershave. He wore black jeans, a white shirt and a black leather jacket, all deceptively casual. Still without betraying a hint of recognition, Yassen reached for Alex's shoulder and pushed back the silly pyjama top. The silk slithered off Alex's back, and younger minion pulled it off and threw it over the headrest of a nearby chair. Without paying it any heed, Yassen ran the knuckles of his hand over Alex's collarbone, pausing for a second with cool fingers resting against the hollow of Alex's throat. Then he lifted Alex's chin.
Alex stared into clear blue eyes, searching for a message, an acknowledgement, any sign at all. He received nothing.
Yassen Gregorovich stepped away with a nod to the trio. "Yes. Him."
"He is our most recent acquisition, as you know," the old man said softly. "He will be made ready for you. Expect him tomorrow morning at dawn."
"No." Yassen's tone was clipped, very precise. "Now. No drugs."
Blackbeard's booming laugh filled the cabin. "You always had an evil streak, Gregorovich, but it looks as if Scorpia's taught you true cruelty."
Scorpia? Alex wondered. He'd never heard the name before, but his neck prickled with apprehension where Yassen had touched him.
Yassen's eyes travelled over Alex's face as if looking for something, then returned to Blackbeard, who still chuckled. "Reality is cruel," he stated. "Fleeing into dreams and illusions is worse."
"Ah, you'd know all about that," Blackbeard snorted, but the old man lifted his hand.
"Patron's choice, Mareem." He inclined his head to Yassen. "The boy will be brought to you in an hour. And afterwards, we will speak about the offer Scorpia is planning to make us."
Hands grabbed Alex from behind. He struggled as he was dragged to the door, and didn't even have to pretend to be scared. Whatever they were planning to do with him, it sounded bad. And Yassen knew who Alex was and what he was here for, even though he hadn't told his accomplices - yet. For a moment, Alex entertained the hope that the assassin might be here for an assignment, that they had no idea who he was either, but then they obviously knew him.
He ceased fighting outside when the muzzle of the submachine gun was shoved into his ribs from behind with enough force to send him to his knees. He groaned at the sharp pain. Older minion stopped his accomplice from hitting Alex again, and, after a quick ride in a downward lift, he found himself manhandled into yet another corridor. He could hear the hum of the ship's engines more loudly now, a powerful throb under the soles of his bare feet. Two more boy-faced guards in black waited outside another door, and one of them pushed a code into the number pad as Alex approached with his escort. Alex followed the movements of the man's fingers and committed the number to memory as the door swung open.
The doorway emitted a burst of hot air that all but plastered Alex's fringe to his forehead. With it came the smell of hot water, bathing oils and chloride, reminding him for a moment of the shabby Victorian indoor pool Brookland pupils visited for swimming lessons. There was another tang in the humid air, subtle and confusing, whose origin Alex couldn't determine.
In the small, white-tiled antechamber a young boy in the same sleeveless pyjama top and trousers Alex had woken up in sat cross-legged on the floor.
"Call your mistress," older minion commanded, and the boy was on his feet in a heartbeat, disappearing behind a curtain of silk and glass beads.
Only moments later, a woman stepped out. She wasn't tall, not much taller than Alex himself, but an elaborate chignon and a floor-length grey dress gave her the illusion of height. Her face was expertly made up, but the cosmetics didn't succeed in masking the frostiness and the sharp cut of her features. The dress was sleeveless and low-cut, exposing sagging skin at her neck that made Alex add another ten years to her age. She had to be over fifty, although the rich dark hair showed no streak of grey. A loose belt held the dress around her hips, and inside the belt she carried the same electrode-tipped truncheon as Blackbeard. Cold grey eyes travelled over Alex while the two minions bowed in unison.
"This one is to be prepared?" she asked.
"Yes, Madame," older minion answered respectfully.
"Bring him."
She strode back through the curtain, and younger minion shoved Alex after her into what looked like a mix of steam-bath and sauna. A hot pool bubbled in the middle of a room that was outfitted in white tiles from floor to ceiling. Along the walls, the tiles cropped out into couch-like structures strewn with towels and pillows. Another couch, flanked by two polished wooden trunks, stood beside the pool in the middle of the room. Two of the couches along the wall were occupied: a dark-haired boy and a girl with thick braids crouched amidst the pillows. The young boy who'd greeted them skipped back out through the curtain to resume his vigil.
"Your name?" the woman asked.
"Alex," Alex replied sullenly, then added, "Look, you can't keep me here, you-"
"You will not speak unless you're told to," the woman cut short his protest. "You will, moreover, obey every order you are given without hesitation. I am Madame Souterre, your training-master. You will address me as 'Madame'." She looked him over and her nose crinkled ever so slightly. "Now, you will undress and get into the pool."
Alex flushed hotly, and not because of the steam that rose up from the water. He only had his pyjama bottoms left to lose, but he was not going to give them up, not in front of two women. Not even a pair of semiautomatics would make him.
"No," he said firmly.
Madame's lip twitched into something that was almost a smile. She turned her head. "Petra - come here, please."
The girl slipped off her cot and quickly padded over on naked feet. Standing in front of Madame, she gave the same bow from the waist that seemed customary.
Alex frowned. He'd seen the girl's face before, in the briefing with Alan Blunt and Mrs Jones. She was the girlfriend of Oliver Ramsay, the Shadow Cabinet Minister's son whose abduction had brought Alex into the game in the first place. Her name was Petra Nazarian, and her father was a military attaché at the Bulgarian embassy in London. In the briefing photographs, she'd smiled saucily into the camera. Now, her face was pale and drawn. The mass of bronze hair was unmistakable though, even though it was now tamed into two heavy braids.
Like all the teens Alex had seen so far, she was wearing black, in her case a thin sleeveless dress that left her legs bare above the knee and showed off a budding chest and generous hips. Not the waif type, but certainly stunning, Alex decided, and flushed harder. Surely she wouldn't try to wrestle him out of his trousers?
Madame looked him right in the eye with an eerie, satisfied smirk and then the truncheon was in her hand. Alex steeled himself, but instead of swinging at him, it came down in an arc and touched the girl's chest.
Petra wheezed, an explosive exhale that drew all breath from her lungs, and crumbled with a terrible, choking noise. Her head arched back as if trying to break her neck, fingers twisting into claws and her heels drummed against the tiles in frantic agony.
Alex dropped to his knees beside her, scared to touch the flailing body for fear of causing her more pain. The girl's lips turned blue and Alex stared up in horror at 'Madame'. "What have you done?"
"Nothing much." The woman shrugged carelessly. "The current isn't set to kill - for the moment."
Indeed, the girl's contortions quietened and after a few moments she lay still. Her face was pasty white and her eyelids almost blue in the artificial light.
Madame cocked her head. "I can repeat the lesson, if you need it?"
Alex shook his head in defeat. For modesty's sake, he turned around before stripping off the flimsy trousers, and slipping into the water the next moment. The heat stung him like a shiver of fiery hailstones before his body got used to it. The steam hid him from sight, and a citrus scent rose up from the water's surface. From above the rim, Madame peered down at him. Her mauve-painted toes pointed to a large sponge on a tray beside the pool.
"Wash. Your hair too."
Alex grabbed the sponge and proceeded to swipe it all over his body and face, finally dunking under to rinse his hair repeatedly. He had to repeat the same procedure twice more before Madame seemed satisfied and motioned for him to climb out. He obeyed, his flush invisible against the ruddy colour his skin had acquired in the heat.
Petra Nazarian, who was back on her feet if still dead pale, handed him a large, fluffy towel. She kept her eyes averted, which relieved Alex, especially when he had to dry off his hair with it. He was just about to knot it around his hips when Madame interrupted.
"Hand it back, please. There is nothing we haven't seen of you when you were brought aboard."
Struggling to maintain a shred of fraying dignity, Alex thrust the towel at the girl, then froze when Madame's hand touched the back of his bare shoulder. Cold fingers probed the sore bruise left by younger minion's gun barrel, and Alex winced.
"I haven't seen this when he was brought aboard." She looked at the guards. "He did not attempt an assault on Lord Harada, did he? Or attacked the two of you bare-handed?"
"Gregorovich won't care," younger minion mumbled, sullenness and nerves warring on his face. "The boy will have a lot more bruises before he'll be through with him."
"Yassen Gregorovich has been granted patron rights," Madame replied coldly. "If he takes offence, you will be punished."
Older minion threw his accomplice a look that had him paling even further, then gave his bow again. "Of course, Madame. We apologise."
"She has bruises too," Alex said very coldly, inclining his chin at Petra. Her chest above the neckline was marred by a lurid blue-red mark. His eyes met Madame's in an open challenge.
"She hasn't been chosen for service." The woman shrugged. "And as she will only serve me, I shall overlook it." Alex saw the girl shudder at the words, and hatred rushed through him in a tidal wave.
Then Madame turned to the other boy, who hadn't moved or looked up from his cot so far. "Hamal, see that the orchid bath is prepared."
The boy, perhaps two or three years older than Alex, dark-haired and olive-skinned with an aquiline nose, slid off the cot as if he had no bone in his body.
"No," older minion interrupted, and shrank back a little at the sight of Madame's raised eyebrow. "I'm sorry, Madame - he's been called for assignment." A quick look at his wrist-watch. "In thirty minutes. Without drugs."
"That is highly irregular." A frown marred Madame's flawless forehead. "Yassen Gregorovich?"
"Yes, Madame."
"I remember. He would have no scruples to mock our most sacred traditions." Her mouth tightened into a thin line as she turned to Alex. "Very well, boy. Lie on that table there, on your front, please."
The 'table' was a narrow bench covered with another one of the fluffy towels Alex had been given to dry off. He lay down, grateful to be able to hide his nakedness.
"Use the lemongrass oil, Petra," Madame ordered. "If memory serves, Yassen Gregorovich has always preferred it."
One of the chest was opened and closed before Alex could feel the girl's breath on his neck, although he hadn't heard her barefoot approach. Nevertheless, he flinched like a bee-stung horse when something cool trickled onto his back. The smell of lemongrass, tart and fresh, wafted up to his nostrils. Her fingers were firm as she rubbed the oil into his back, but her breaths came fast. Her braids tickled Alex's side as she bent over him and whispered, "I'm sorry."
She smoothed oil all over Alex's shoulders, back and legs, and Alex's face flamed against the towel when she kneaded his buttocks.
"Petra Nazarian?" he breathed, and felt her nails scrape his flesh in surprise.
"Yes! How-"
Madame's voice cut the hot air like a verbal ice cube. "If I want to hear you converse, I shall let you know." The girl's hands trembled on Alex's skin, and she fell silent immediately.
Madame stepped up close enough to fill Alex's vision with a swirl of floor-length grey skirts.
"Well, Alex... you've been incepted into the Schola," she said, watching oil being massaged into Alex's flesh.
"I've been kidnapped," Alex clarified. "And you won't get away with keeping me prisoner. The British government-"
"The British government will do nothing - young people have been vanishing from European shores for years, and no government has bothered to investigate. The Schola has the freedom of the seas."
"But what do you want from me?" Alex exclaimed.
"The Schola was founded under the reign of Emperor Justinian of Byzantium in the sixth century," Madame continued without paying him any heed, "to become the world's most renowned school of courtesans."
Paling, Alex surged up under from under Petra's hands. "I am no... no courtesan!"
"Of course you aren't." The woman eyed his heat-mottled shoulders with contempt. "As it stands, you are nothing - not even the lowliest neophyte. Still, trained or not, you have been called upon by a patron, and we have to make sure you don't shame us."
Alex's stomach felt as if he'd swallowed acid. "You can't expect me to-" He didn't manage to finish his sentence. The prospect was too terrifying.
"That's enough, girl," Madame told Petra. "Back to your cot. Hamal, take over."
Alex saw copper braids dance as Petra hurried off, and then he found himself rolled onto his back and the boy - Hamal - took up her place with the oil bottle, fingers sliding over Alex's front and stomach. His hands were more gentle than Petra's, but he didn't look at Alex while he oiled his skin methodically. Instead, his eyes seemed focused on the empty air next to Alex's shoulder.
A sound of helpless protest escaped Alex's mouth when oil-slicked fingers ran over his groin. He wanted to strike out, but the memory of the truncheon with its gleaming electrode held him back. He squeezed his eyes shut when he was turned onto his back again. Hamal pulled his legs apart until they hung off the side of the table, and trickled more lemongrass oil down the exposed crack between his buttocks. Alex's eyes teared up with shame and sheer panic while Hamal's fingers chased down the trail to probe his opening. One fingertip was coaxing the warmed oil into him, not pressing forward more than an inch, but even that was too much. Alex's skin crawled from neck to foot.
"Yassen Gregorovich chose you even though you have no training whatsoever," Madame took up her lecture again as if nothing was happening. "He cannot expect skill. He has, however, every right to expect obedience. If you resist or disobey him, he is within his rights to punish you at will. To kill you, should he decide to. I, on the other hand, will not punish you, Alex." She twirled the truncheon in her hand until she caught Alex's eyes, before pointing it at the two teens. "I will punish them. And you will watch."
Alex kept his head down and his fists clenched while helplessness sank into his stomach like a pool of lead.
As soon as Hamal took his hands off him, he stumbled to his feet and grabbed the fresh pair of silk trousers Petra brought him from a clothes chest. He pulled them on quickly, feeling a little less vulnerable, but still so shaken that his fingers trembled. Madame took something that looked like a necklace from the same chest and stood behind him. Cold metal ringed Alex's throat and snapped shut at the nape of his neck. Alex's hand flew up and encountered a thin metal ring with a flared lock at the base of his throat. He swallowed hard.
"It's time," Madame told the two minions who'd watched Alex being... 'prepared', and handed the older a small rectangular parcel wrapped in black silk. "Take him."
"Move, boy," the man said and pushed Alex towards the door. "Gregorovich isn't the type you want to keep waiting."
Alex found himself herded back into the lift and out into yet another corridor, softly lit with Chinese silk lampshades. A bottle-green carpet and gold-ornamented wood panelling created an atmosphere of luxury. Alex had neither time nor inclination to admire it; he was feeling the slickness of the oil between his buttocks with every step. The guards escorted him to he last door at the end of the corridor, and motioned for him to knock.
A heartbeat later, the door opened and Yassen Gregorovich stood in the doorway, his face as cool and disinterested as it had been before.
"Your company is here to serve his patron," older minion said, eerily formal. He bowed and handed the assassin the silk-wrapped parcel. Yassen tugged back the fabric and revealed a piece of black iron chain and something that looked like a nest of leather snakes. When Yassen lifted it out, it turned out to be a whip of sorts, with a short wooden handle and two dozen or more thin, soft leather strands. Yassen turned it over in his hand, then stepped aside to let Alex inside. The cabin was large, fitted out like a hotel room in dark browns and mint greens. A half-open door in the back led into a spacious bathroom.
Half of the room was taken up by an enormous antique bed that reduced Alex's breath to a panicked rattle in his lungs. An aluminium case rested atop a slender 18th century walnut secretary; Yassen's leather travel bag stood under the table. The entire wall above the bed was taken up by yet another seascape painting in an elaborate baroque frame. The greys and greens of its ocean matched the colour scheme of the room.
Yassen waited until Alex had stepped through the doorway, then threw the door shut. Alex jumped. Their eyes met and locked, and Alex felt tension thickening around them. Yassen unfurled the whip, observed it for a moment as if contemplating a sleeping snake, then put it down on the secretary. Finally, Alex's composure broke under the oppressive silence. He clenched his hands into fists.
"What the hell is going on here?"
Yassen's fist caught him knuckles-first across the face and split his lip. The force of the blow knocked Alex backwards, but before he could fall, the man took hold of his shoulders and slammed him against the door. The back of Alex's head hit the wood panel with a dull thud that sent a jolt of pain through his skull. Tears blurred his eyes for a moment.
Yassen grabbed the flared lock of the collar on Alex's neck and wrenched his head up.
"Do you see the painting over the bed?" he asked. Alex's eyes started to wander, but another wrench stopped him. "Don't stare. The painting conceals a camera - the Schola's insurance policy to guarantee its patrons'... confidentiality."
"They're watching us?" Alex gasped.
"Of course. There may be microphones too, but I'm using a scrambling device. You can speak openly, but don't face the camera while you do - lip reading is one of the first skills that Schola members learn."
Suddenly, Alex understood why the assassin had him pinned against he door and was shielding his face against the cameras with his own body.
"I warned you the last time we met that you would be better off not to see me again, Alex Rider," Yassen said. "If you persist in putting yourself into harm's way, harm will come to you. You've brought this upon yourself. This time, there will be no escape."
Right up to this moment, Alex had not truly believed, deep down, that Yassen would actually touch him. The man was a cold-blooded killer who had murdered Alex's uncle and God knew how many others. But he'd let him go the last time, and there had been... well, a sense of understanding between them. A sense of honour. Alex knew that he might expect a bullet through his head, or a knife in his heart; but he hadn't expected rape, in spite of all implications to the contrary.
The Russian's hand crept up to Alex's hip, stroking the flesh through the flimsy fabric of his harem pants. "I will not apologise to you, Alex Rider. I did not ask you to cross my path again. My employers have sent me to negotiate with the Masters of the Schola, and they won't speak to anyone who is not a patron - who hasn't... availed himself of the services they offer."
"But why me?" Alex cried. "I thought... Do you really hate me that much?"
"I do not hate you. I picked you because, like me, you're in the game - the least innocent of all potential victims. For the Schola, you're nothing but a fledgling whore. If they knew who you are, you might already be dead - or they might consider you an even greater prize. You have made many enemies. The Schola enjoys excellent relations with the Chinese Triads - their upper echelons would find the opportunity to... visit you here quite entertaining."
Alex could feel his lips turn to ice. "Are you going to tell them?"
"Not unless you jeopardize my mission." Yassen's cold blue eyes narrowed, just inches from Alex's face. "In fact, I'm not unreasonably cruel, Alex. I will not force you. I will offer you a choice. If you decide to submit, I will try to hurt you as little as possible. You will not enjoy it, but you won't suffer lasting physical damage. I am skilled enough to make you respond. It will make things easier. I will, however, offer you an honourable way out."
"Honour?" Alex snarled. "You've made a career out of molesting little boys!" He saw Yassen's eyes darken. He raised his hand. Alex flinched, but it didn't lessen his rage.
"No - I will not hit you for drawing the wrong conclusions," Yassen said, voice tight.
"Wrong?" Alex sneered. "That woman downstairs..." He couldn't got the name out, and just spat, "Madame! She could list your preferences!"
"Eloise Souterre knows me because she was my training-master when I was younger than you are now."
Alex reeled with shock. Yassen Gregorovich was the most in-control man he'd ever met. To think hat he had gone through this in his childhood was unbelievable. And yet, it would explain a lot. The man's almost feminine good looks, his unobtrusiveness. The very grace that had always drawn Alex's eye. He'd thought it was what made Yassen such a successful killer, but now...
"They abducted you?" he asked, only to start at Yassen's bitter laugh.
"Nothing so dramatic. The Schola bought me from my parents when I was twelve. They were poor Black Sea fisher people with nine more children, and the Schola promised them affluence, and a better life for me." Again that bitter chuckle. "Are you pitying me, Alex? Don't. The Schola kept their promise. They made me who I am. I won't pity you either."
"But-" Alex ploughed on, "this place - it's not about becoming an assassin, is it?" Part of him wanted to keep Yassen talking rather than waiting for him to do anything, another bubbled with sudden hope that it might be true.
"Don't play coy, Alex," the Russian snapped. "It's about becoming a whore."
Yassen's arm came round his throat in an iron grip that warned him off all further struggles. The man was one of the world's most highly paid killers. A bit more pressure, and he'd break Alex's neck with no effort at all.
"I offered you a choice, Alex. If you prefer death to sharing my bed, I will snap your neck and choose one of the others in your stead. It will be quick - painless."
"That's no choice!" Alex wailed. The grip around his throat loosened and he felt Yassen's cheek against his, acutely aware of his aftershave and, underneath, the scent of his skin.
"It's the best I can give you," Yassen said. "And I need your answer now."
There was temptation in the thought that it would take only a little additional twist and the nightmare would be over. But Alex didn't want to die. He'd survived a pool-sized jellyfish, a fall from the roof of a moving freight train in the French Alps, and the near-explosion of a nuclear bomb in a submarine shipyard in Murmansk. Surely Yassen couldn't hurt him worse than he'd been hurt before? And if Yassen himself had managed to survive without breaking, could Alex do anything less?
Weakly, Alex tried to moisten his dry lips. "I don't want to die," he whispered, and the surge of shame that followed the admission almost suffocated him. He no longer knew which choice would make him a coward. Both, probably, one way or another.
"I know."
Yassen pulled Alex away from the door, and propelled him towards the bed with a cruel shove. Alex balked and dug in his heels, only to find himself lifted and thrown bodily onto the mattress. He bounced once, head spinning, before scrabbling backwards and shrinking against the wood lattice of the headboard, eyes wide with fright. He was acutely aware of the painting in his back, as if the invisible cameras were scorching his neck.
The assassin paused beside the bed, frosty blue eyes staring down at Alex's frantic face before he started to methodically remove his clothes. Jacket, shoulder holster, shirt, boots, jeans... all were thrown onto a nearby chair. The thin, dark line of an old scar cut across the side of Yassen's neck, ruler-straight. It wasn't the only one. There was a lattice of scars over his ribs, as if the flesh there had been torn by something sharp and edgy. The telltale round shape of a bullet wound in his side, and a deep mark from a knife or sword down the side of one thigh. The number of scars would have disfigured a lesser man, but despite Alex's bubbling hatred for the Russian, he had to admit, even now, that Yassen was beautiful.
Yassen's fingers paused at the waist of his loose black boxers, and Alex could feel his own lips moving without conscious thought. His heart hammered in his ears as if it was trying to jump free of his chest. "Please, don't!" He barely recognised the dry croak as his own voice.
Yassen took his hands away and swung himself up onto the bed, crouching down next to Alex with the speed of a slithering viper. Before Alex could duck away, the Russian had stretched out long, tanned legs, and leaned his back in a comfortable sprawl against the pillows in front of the headboard. He grabbed Alex around the waist to pull him into his lap.
Alex squirmed, then froze when he realised how acutely aware it made him of Yassen's... anatomy. The muscles in his back knotted into hard bumps against Yassen's chest, and his nails dug painfully into his palms. To his horror, his eyes started to burn.
"No," he murmured as if creating a mantra against his own fear. "No, no, no, no-"
Yassen's hand closed around his throat and choked the frantic whispers into a feeble hiss of breath. The other palm slid over Alex's hip, his groin, where the fingers spread to caress the outline of his prick through the flimsy silk of his pants. Alex dug his fingers into the bed sheet and teeth into his lower lip. He'd wanked before, of course, and being fourteen meant having inappropriate erections at he most inconvenient times. But he'd never been fondled on purpose, least of all by a man.
And Yassen knew what he was doing. He yanked the trousers down over Alex's hips and the silk slithered away under his fingers despite Alex's tense legs. Insistent fingers tugged and teased, and Alex could feel himself firming in Yassen's hand, growing hot and fat and sticky at the tip. A delicious surging heat tightened in his balls. Alex squeezed his eyes shut, unable to hold back hot tears of mortification.
Yassen pressed his lips to Alex's temple. "Don't be ashamed to respond," he murmured. "It's natural, and it will make things easier."
"Just get it over with," Alex moaned weakly. Misery yawned in his chest like a black hole, and Yassen's slow consideration threatened to break him apart.
"You don't know what you're asking for," Yassen warned.
"I don't care!" Alex flared, grateful that he was facing away from the painting as his face crumbled. "Whatever you think you have to do, do it, and stop... stop playing."
Despite his words, the suddenness with which Yassen released his prick almost had him keening. Then he yelped when the same fingers cruelly squeezed his nipple. A brilliant burst of pain shot up his nerves and then down to his groin. He writhed, only too aware of the small blob of sticky goo spilling from the head of his cock.
"Let's stop playing, then," Yassen snarled, turning away for a moment to shed his black boxers.
Alex caught a glimpse of him - long, lean thigh muscles, a prick half hard and pink, average looking but way too huge for Alex's peace of mind. A tuft of blond hair grew at his groin.
Then Yassen knelt above him and lowered himself until he was lying right atop of Alex, his upper body stretched out over Alex's chest. Yassen's tight brown nipple brushed Alex's red, smarting one, and he felt his cock jump against Yassen's in a way the man could not possibly overlook. Alex bared his teeth helplessly when he saw the smug expression on the face right above his.
Yassen's weight was immobilising him, although the assassin was bracing himself onto his elbows and wrists in order not to crush Alex. Being trapped as he was made Alex want to struggle like a mad animal but any movement he made would grind him against Yassen in the most provocative way possible. Then Yassen did exactly that - grinding down on Alex's groin, rubbing their aligned pricks together until they seemed to spark heat off each other. Alex could feel the man hardening against him.
Alex's thighs were still trapped between Yassen's, but he opened them as far as he could, unable to resist the clamour for contact that rushed through his blood. He squeezed his eyes shut, determined at least not to watch Yassen's face, and wrapped his arms around the assassin, digging nails into the firm flesh of his back.
He bucked, helplessly caught in the primal rhythm, his erection stimulated beyond endurance by the slick and sticky slide against another. His arms were full of warm, naked body and his heart was thumping like some mad little animal. He felt the leaden pressure in his balls spill over into liquid heat with a slowness that was agonising. Jerking against the hollow of Yassen's groin, he felt the warm pulse of his come spilling between their bodies.
He muffled his cry against Yassen's shoulder, dancing on the edge of ecstasy for a moment longer before Yassen's sheltering weight lifted off him.
Yassen rose to his knees, settling himself cat-like beside Alex and pulling him close so that he spooned Alex's back. The assassin's cock nudged hot and hard against Alex's buttocks.
Alex froze. His heartbeat sped up in a way that was anything but aroused. The position gave Yassen the opportunity to run his hands over Alex's front at will; playing at his nipples, stroking his belly, dipping down to catch a bit of semen on his fingers and rubbing it over Alex's lip. Alex ducked his face away, but Yassen cupped the back of his head, exerting an eloquent pressure on the base of Alex's skull. Face flaming with hate, Alex brushed the fingers with his tongue and tasted himself, awful and bitter.
"You might make a decent Schola adept after all," Yassen commented without letting go of Alex's head.
Tears stung in Alex's eyes while Yassen rolled him onto his back, then lifted his legs up, exposing his arse and spreading his upper thighs for easier access.
Breathing hard, Alex stared up at the ceiling, past the side of Yassen's face and the short blond hair that was surprisingly soft despite being cropped so close. The seascape painting loomed prominently above him, and Alex understood the message Yassen was sending by putting him in this position. There would be no quarter, no more room for talk. Yassen would use Alex in whatever way necessary to gain the trust of the Schola.
Leaning over him, Yassen pulled open the top bedside drawer and lifted out a small tube from amongst an assortment of implements that Alex looked away from rapidly. Unscrewing the tube with one hand, he squirted a measure of smooth, oily cream onto his fingers and gave Alex's bottom another push upwards. More lemongrass. Alex gagged.
Yassen's cold gaze brushed him, and Alex swallowed hard. His back and leg muscles were starting to cramp, and his skin crawled where Yassen pushed against his arse hole, fingers slicked and still burningly there. He hadn't seen Yassen prepare himself, but he must have, carefully so. The initial breach still burned Alex to the core. He closed his fingers around the bars of the headboard and let his eyes fall shut, sagging against the body of the assassin. There was nothing else left to do.
Alex forced his mind to go away during the worst of it, slipping in and out of awareness as Yassen slid in and out of him. It wasn't the pain so much, although it did hurt, jarring his nerves, flaring up his spine and making him want to crawl out of his skin with horror. Yassen was careful enough as he had promised - gradual slides, shallow, measured thrusts that had no passion behind them. Still, it filled him in a way that made Alex hurt not only in his arse, but also in his chest.
One of Yassen's hands remained firmly on Alex's cock, stroking him in time with Yassen's thrusts, and while it didn't manage to dull the pain, it set a counterpoint. The frisson didn't make Alex hard, not after having spent himself and after having been thrust into a chasm of horror, but his prick twitched ever so often.
No, the true horror was that it didn't hurt enough. Being raped shouldn't be something you endured while being able to think about it - if the pain had shut down his mind, Alex would've been grateful. His eyes spilled over against his will, and he felt his chest constrict in a wracking sob. Yassen pulled him close, his mouth sliding along the shell of Alex's ear.
"The first assignation is the watershed." The assassin ran the index finger of his free hand down Alex's cheek. "Those who break are eliminated, no matter how beautiful or gifted. Those who survive take their first step towards serving as the elect of the Schola. You will, I think, belong to the latter."
A hiss of rage spilled from Alex's lips at that. He twitched, trying to free himself although it made the cock inside him move sharply and burned a sick path of pain up his spine.
Yassen's breaths against his neck came sharply now, as sharp as his thrusts, his hands on Alex shoulders like chains trapping him in misery. His face hidden against the nape of Alex's neck, Yassen murmured something inaudible, then jerked his hips once more and climaxed to the sound of Alex's high, ragged whimper.
The sensation was vile, squelchy and messy even as it soothed the raw, dry burn inside Alex's channel. It started to sting when Alex fully realised that it was Yassen's come that filled him. The Russian held him a moment longer in an almost crushing grip, then let go and shifted himself, withdrawal eased but not rendered painless by the slippery mess in Alex's hole.
Once he'd freed himself, Yassen shoved Alex backwards onto the pillows and grabbed the length of chain from the nightstand. He clipped it to the base of Alex's collar. Another click, and it was connected to a handy ring at the foot end, effectively chaining Alex to the bed.
Without a word, Yassen disappeared into the bath and a moment later Alex heard water running. It didn't take long for the assassin to return, a towel slung low around his hips before he discarded it to reach for his clothes. He dressed quickly, not gracing Alex with a look, then opened the silver case and took out a gun. It was a Russian Army issue Grach MP-433. Alex's heart gave a nervous thump, but the Grach disappeared into Yassen's shoulder holster, which then vanished under his leather jacket. Somehow, Yassen made the post-coital preparations of a killer look perfectly natural. Shoes and socks restored, he finally looked over his shoulder at Alex. A cold leer twisted his lips.
"Don't go anywhere, little Alexander," he mocked. "I may come back for more later."
Then he left.
continued in Part 2
*hugs very hard*
This monster has been in the works for you since, well, a while after Sectus, both 'cause I love you (of course!) and as thanks for introducing me to a YA series that abuses its hero even worse than JKR ;). Hope you like, even though I'm aware how busy you are at the moment - no need to read any time soon :).
*hugs again*
Title: Midnight Smoke (1/2)
Author: Hijja (kennahijja@yahoo.com)
Fandom: Alex Rider series by Anthony Horowitz (set between Skeleton Key and Eagle Strike)
Pairing: Alex Rider/Yassen Gregorovich
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: non-con, underage/chan (Alex is eternally 14)
Summary: Alex Rider investigates a spate of teen abductions and runs into an old enemy.
Note: Thanks to Thea for test reading. And I swear I had no clue about the theme of the most recent novel when starting this - still haven't read it :). The title comes from Mike Batt's "The Hunting of the Snark" album.
Alex Rider had regretted many times over that he had ever stepped into the building on Liverpool Street that housed Royal & General. Which was not the exclusive private bank it appeared to be on the outside, but a branch of MI6. Since that day, he had been blackmailed to work for the organisation on three different occasions.
He'd rarely felt less like a teenage super-spy than right at this moment, however. The real James Bond might handle sitting in flimsy black pyjamas on a bunk bed in a tiny cell with cool superiority, but Alex certainly didn't. He'd already examined the metal door and walls, to no avail: the walls were massive and the door had withstood every attempt to coax it open. Worse yet, Alex had the ominous feeling that he was being observed from the other side. From the slight swaying motion of the ground below his feet, he knew that his prison was aboard a ship. It told him nothing else.
His wrist watch, a gift from MI6's own Mr Smithers and engineered to turn into an electric saw blade if set for 11:55, had been taken from him along with his not quite standard-issue Gameboy. His sole remaining gadget was a silver ear stud, a twin of the one that had secured his escape from Point Blanc Academy. Now, it was holding one dose of metal-corroding liquid. Without a clue as to where the door mechanism might be located, Alex refused to waste it on a possibly futile attempt to escape. No, he thought: if he waited for his captors to show themselves, a better opportunity might present itself.
So far, however, opportunities had been distinctly few: he'd been drugged, abducted and imprisoned, but was still far from unlocking the mystery he'd come to solve.
Three days ago, in Alan Blunt's drab corporate clone office on the top floor of Royal & General, Alex had been briefed on the details. There had been a swathe of disappearances among teenagers from the London Docklands area - indiscriminately targeting nightclubs, private pleasure barges, run down working class estates and modern luxury developments for months. None of this had, of course, interested MI6; it had been left to harried, over-taxed police authorities. Until the last disappearance: the fifteen-year-old son of a Shadow Cabinet Minister and his girlfriend, attending a party on a Thames luxury yacht: celebrating one moment, then never seen again.
When MI6 rushed to the aid of old moneyed aristocracy, they'd connected the cases of missing persons and arrived at an alarming conclusion: seven teenagers had vanished in the Docklands during the past four months alone. Then other number had begun trickling in - three more in Liverpool, six on the other side of the English Channel in Calais and Le Havre, a further four in Amsterdam - all teenagers, all vanished in the dock areas of port cities, with no bodies ever found. Teenage abductions on a massive scale, most likely by boat - that was what Alan Blunt had said thoughtfully before the full force of his frosty grey eyes had fallen on Alex.
"We're not demanding that you get involved," had said Mrs Jones, Blunt's second in command, her fingers absently toying with a peppermint wrapper. Blunt had given her a stern look.
"We could send in an adult agent, Alex, but it would in all likelihood be futile. You, on the other hand, would make for a perfect target," he pointed out, as if Alex needed to hear it spelled out. "The young people who have disappeared are mostly between thirteen and seventeen years old, healthy and often quite handsome. None of them, however, has been trained by the best the SAS has to offer. You have a genuine chance of discovering who is responsible for these crimes."
Well... Alex smiled grimly in retrospect. So far, discovery had been limited to him stumbling into a random pedestrian in a shady by-street behind an even shadier Docklands discotheque, in a pungent cloth being pressed over his face, and in waking up in this room to the light-headedness that accompanied the after-effects of a drug. At least half a day had passed since then, yet nobody had bothered to drop by and feed him. His tongue was dry and his stomach rumbled. The light-headedness had vanished, but had left the throb of a headache in its wake.
So much for his sneakers having been outfitted with powerful micro transmitters; "Just press the logo three times in one-second intervals and we'll send three military speed boats to your location to pick you up," Smithers had promised. The boots did him no good whatsoever, now that he was barefoot and dressed in something that resembled black silk pyjamas. Bad enough that someone had been undressing him after picking him up. He could only hope that the boots hadn't undergone examination and had given him away.
When the door hissed open, Alex jumped even though he'd been waiting and hoping for it. Two men stood in the doorway, looking for all the world like your average evil minions: black ninja suit, dark hair, cold if quite young faces. The younger looked barely twenty, the other some few years older. Both moved with the sort of unselfconscious grace that came with years of martial arts training. The submachine guns that hung from their shoulders by leather straps, muzzles aiming right at Alex's stomach, convinced him that now would be a bad moment to try and make a run for it.
"Where am I? What do you want from me?" he exclaimed, trying to behave like a normal, scared fourteen-year-old.
"Be quiet!" younger minion snapped. There was no audible accent to his voice, although Alex would have bet that English wasn't his native language.
"Get up," older minion added, emphasising the command with a jab of his gun.
Alex rose from the cot and padded out into the corridor ahead of them, resisting the urge to rub the fresh bruise on his arm.
The gentle sway of the ground under his feet confirmed that they were indeed aboard a ship, and a moving one at that. The corridor outside his cell was brightly lit and wide. It had to be a larger vessel then, a cruiser perhaps, and one that had travelled beyond the calm waters of the British coastline. Alex wondered how far it had gone while he'd been unconscious.
Obediently, he walked in front of the guards, stumbling once or twice to make himself look more exhausted than he was. The drug had worn off, and the walk helped clearing his head.
Another corridor, then a round cast-iron staircase that Alex climbed very slowly and with both hands clinging to the railing. When he reached the top, the bare metal walls had given way to wood panelling. A carpet that looked Persian and was surprisingly soft covered the floor and caressed his naked feet.
"Stop." The command brought him up short in front of an oak-panelled door. Older minion pushed the touchpad keys on the wall, while younger brushed the muzzle of his gun against Alex's neck. Alex froze and watched as older minion stepped through the doorway, bowing his head reverently. Alex followed him inside after another prod with the gun.
The cabin was spacious and elegant. A polished mahogany table, another expensive carpet in shades of brown, the walls decorated with brass nautical instruments, ancient maps behind glass and, taking up most of the east wall, an oil painting with a stormy sea scene.
Three people were assembled around the table. Closest to the door was a man in his fifties who looked vaguely Northern European, with fair skin, close-cropped grey hair and a nondescript face. He was wearing a naval uniform with captain's insignia and a matching cap. He looked up when Alex entered, but only for a moment before his attention returned to the papers in front of him. Behind him loomed a veritable giant, taller by at least a head. Muscles bulged inside the same black would-be-ninja uniform that the guards wore, but he carried his bulk with an unquestionable air of authority. The lower half of his face was obscured by a black beard, shiny and well-trimmed. If anything, his eyes, as black as hair under a jagged curve of bushy brows, looked even more sinister than the beard. He carried a truncheon clipped to his belt.
Unlike his companions, the third man was small and slender, scarcely taller than Alex himself at fourteen. He sat at the head of the table, so very straight that at first Alex mistook him for a youth. A second glance, however, revealed a lined face and a tight white braid. His upright posture appeared to have been purposefully chosen to compensate for his age. He was dressed in a long black Japanese-style robe, and looked well over seventy.
It was the old oriental man who acknowledged Alex, if with a glance as impersonal as if someone had brought in a puppy. No, Alex thought, a dog might have been received with more interest.
"What is your name, boy?"
"Alex," Alex said, biting his lip. A lot of bad people seemed to know his name for no good reason. "Alexander Wilder," he added, aware of the pause, but hoping they would attribute it to natural fear in a fourteen-year-old boy abducted by strangers and held at gunpoint. "What... what do you want from me?" he rushed on. "I'm a British citizen, and my family will miss me. If you want money-"
"Quiet." The giant with the beard had the voice to go with his stature, rumbling through the room. Alex fell silent. He didn't have to pretend being nervous - he didn't want to cross that man. "Who you were is of no interest to us. You belong to the Schola now."
"The Schola-?" Alex started, and fell silent when Blackbeard put his hand on the truncheon in his belt. Alex could see electrodes at the tip - some kind of taser, most likely. Not something he wanted to become intimately acquainted with.
"Is this the one who has been chosen?" the old man asked Blackbeard, in French. Alex conjured a frown, feigning confusion. Ian Rider had taught him French during their holidays in the Bretagne, but it wasn't something most schoolboys his age would understand - or be fluent in.
"Yes," Blackbeard confirmed, also in French.
"Ask our guest in, then," the old man said pleasantly.
Blackbeard touched a keypad on the table. In the right-hand wall, another door panelled with tropical wood hissed open, and yet another black-clad would-be-Ninja guard stepped in, bowed respectfully from the waist, and moved aside.
Behind him, another man entered. Alex's heart hammered once, painfully loud, then stopped and plunged into his stomach. There was no way he would ever forget that handsome face, the close-cropped blond hair, or the way Yassen Gregorovich moved with all the grace of a dancer on a tightrope. Yassen Gregorovich, who had murdered Ian Rider, but who had let Alex go free the last time they'd met even though Alex had threatened to kill him. Yassen, who knew everything about Alex and MI6 and who would know, beyond a shadow of doubt, why Alex was here today.
Half a dozen mad impulses to escape tore at him at once, all of them futile. There were the armed guards behind him, and all hope of making a run for it had evaporated the moment Yassen had come through the door. The assassin's face was utterly without expression.
The old man rose from his armchair in a fluid but measured move as if mourning life-long grace now overshadowed by age.
"Yassen - welcome to the Schola once more. It has been a long time." Yassen Gregorovich inclined his head a mere fraction. There was no answering smile on his face. "Here is the boy you chose." The old man pointed at Alex. "Does he still please?"
Yassen took a few steps forward and stopped right in front of Alex, close enough for Alex to smell his aftershave. He wore black jeans, a white shirt and a black leather jacket, all deceptively casual. Still without betraying a hint of recognition, Yassen reached for Alex's shoulder and pushed back the silly pyjama top. The silk slithered off Alex's back, and younger minion pulled it off and threw it over the headrest of a nearby chair. Without paying it any heed, Yassen ran the knuckles of his hand over Alex's collarbone, pausing for a second with cool fingers resting against the hollow of Alex's throat. Then he lifted Alex's chin.
Alex stared into clear blue eyes, searching for a message, an acknowledgement, any sign at all. He received nothing.
Yassen Gregorovich stepped away with a nod to the trio. "Yes. Him."
"He is our most recent acquisition, as you know," the old man said softly. "He will be made ready for you. Expect him tomorrow morning at dawn."
"No." Yassen's tone was clipped, very precise. "Now. No drugs."
Blackbeard's booming laugh filled the cabin. "You always had an evil streak, Gregorovich, but it looks as if Scorpia's taught you true cruelty."
Scorpia? Alex wondered. He'd never heard the name before, but his neck prickled with apprehension where Yassen had touched him.
Yassen's eyes travelled over Alex's face as if looking for something, then returned to Blackbeard, who still chuckled. "Reality is cruel," he stated. "Fleeing into dreams and illusions is worse."
"Ah, you'd know all about that," Blackbeard snorted, but the old man lifted his hand.
"Patron's choice, Mareem." He inclined his head to Yassen. "The boy will be brought to you in an hour. And afterwards, we will speak about the offer Scorpia is planning to make us."
Hands grabbed Alex from behind. He struggled as he was dragged to the door, and didn't even have to pretend to be scared. Whatever they were planning to do with him, it sounded bad. And Yassen knew who Alex was and what he was here for, even though he hadn't told his accomplices - yet. For a moment, Alex entertained the hope that the assassin might be here for an assignment, that they had no idea who he was either, but then they obviously knew him.
He ceased fighting outside when the muzzle of the submachine gun was shoved into his ribs from behind with enough force to send him to his knees. He groaned at the sharp pain. Older minion stopped his accomplice from hitting Alex again, and, after a quick ride in a downward lift, he found himself manhandled into yet another corridor. He could hear the hum of the ship's engines more loudly now, a powerful throb under the soles of his bare feet. Two more boy-faced guards in black waited outside another door, and one of them pushed a code into the number pad as Alex approached with his escort. Alex followed the movements of the man's fingers and committed the number to memory as the door swung open.
The doorway emitted a burst of hot air that all but plastered Alex's fringe to his forehead. With it came the smell of hot water, bathing oils and chloride, reminding him for a moment of the shabby Victorian indoor pool Brookland pupils visited for swimming lessons. There was another tang in the humid air, subtle and confusing, whose origin Alex couldn't determine.
In the small, white-tiled antechamber a young boy in the same sleeveless pyjama top and trousers Alex had woken up in sat cross-legged on the floor.
"Call your mistress," older minion commanded, and the boy was on his feet in a heartbeat, disappearing behind a curtain of silk and glass beads.
Only moments later, a woman stepped out. She wasn't tall, not much taller than Alex himself, but an elaborate chignon and a floor-length grey dress gave her the illusion of height. Her face was expertly made up, but the cosmetics didn't succeed in masking the frostiness and the sharp cut of her features. The dress was sleeveless and low-cut, exposing sagging skin at her neck that made Alex add another ten years to her age. She had to be over fifty, although the rich dark hair showed no streak of grey. A loose belt held the dress around her hips, and inside the belt she carried the same electrode-tipped truncheon as Blackbeard. Cold grey eyes travelled over Alex while the two minions bowed in unison.
"This one is to be prepared?" she asked.
"Yes, Madame," older minion answered respectfully.
"Bring him."
She strode back through the curtain, and younger minion shoved Alex after her into what looked like a mix of steam-bath and sauna. A hot pool bubbled in the middle of a room that was outfitted in white tiles from floor to ceiling. Along the walls, the tiles cropped out into couch-like structures strewn with towels and pillows. Another couch, flanked by two polished wooden trunks, stood beside the pool in the middle of the room. Two of the couches along the wall were occupied: a dark-haired boy and a girl with thick braids crouched amidst the pillows. The young boy who'd greeted them skipped back out through the curtain to resume his vigil.
"Your name?" the woman asked.
"Alex," Alex replied sullenly, then added, "Look, you can't keep me here, you-"
"You will not speak unless you're told to," the woman cut short his protest. "You will, moreover, obey every order you are given without hesitation. I am Madame Souterre, your training-master. You will address me as 'Madame'." She looked him over and her nose crinkled ever so slightly. "Now, you will undress and get into the pool."
Alex flushed hotly, and not because of the steam that rose up from the water. He only had his pyjama bottoms left to lose, but he was not going to give them up, not in front of two women. Not even a pair of semiautomatics would make him.
"No," he said firmly.
Madame's lip twitched into something that was almost a smile. She turned her head. "Petra - come here, please."
The girl slipped off her cot and quickly padded over on naked feet. Standing in front of Madame, she gave the same bow from the waist that seemed customary.
Alex frowned. He'd seen the girl's face before, in the briefing with Alan Blunt and Mrs Jones. She was the girlfriend of Oliver Ramsay, the Shadow Cabinet Minister's son whose abduction had brought Alex into the game in the first place. Her name was Petra Nazarian, and her father was a military attaché at the Bulgarian embassy in London. In the briefing photographs, she'd smiled saucily into the camera. Now, her face was pale and drawn. The mass of bronze hair was unmistakable though, even though it was now tamed into two heavy braids.
Like all the teens Alex had seen so far, she was wearing black, in her case a thin sleeveless dress that left her legs bare above the knee and showed off a budding chest and generous hips. Not the waif type, but certainly stunning, Alex decided, and flushed harder. Surely she wouldn't try to wrestle him out of his trousers?
Madame looked him right in the eye with an eerie, satisfied smirk and then the truncheon was in her hand. Alex steeled himself, but instead of swinging at him, it came down in an arc and touched the girl's chest.
Petra wheezed, an explosive exhale that drew all breath from her lungs, and crumbled with a terrible, choking noise. Her head arched back as if trying to break her neck, fingers twisting into claws and her heels drummed against the tiles in frantic agony.
Alex dropped to his knees beside her, scared to touch the flailing body for fear of causing her more pain. The girl's lips turned blue and Alex stared up in horror at 'Madame'. "What have you done?"
"Nothing much." The woman shrugged carelessly. "The current isn't set to kill - for the moment."
Indeed, the girl's contortions quietened and after a few moments she lay still. Her face was pasty white and her eyelids almost blue in the artificial light.
Madame cocked her head. "I can repeat the lesson, if you need it?"
Alex shook his head in defeat. For modesty's sake, he turned around before stripping off the flimsy trousers, and slipping into the water the next moment. The heat stung him like a shiver of fiery hailstones before his body got used to it. The steam hid him from sight, and a citrus scent rose up from the water's surface. From above the rim, Madame peered down at him. Her mauve-painted toes pointed to a large sponge on a tray beside the pool.
"Wash. Your hair too."
Alex grabbed the sponge and proceeded to swipe it all over his body and face, finally dunking under to rinse his hair repeatedly. He had to repeat the same procedure twice more before Madame seemed satisfied and motioned for him to climb out. He obeyed, his flush invisible against the ruddy colour his skin had acquired in the heat.
Petra Nazarian, who was back on her feet if still dead pale, handed him a large, fluffy towel. She kept her eyes averted, which relieved Alex, especially when he had to dry off his hair with it. He was just about to knot it around his hips when Madame interrupted.
"Hand it back, please. There is nothing we haven't seen of you when you were brought aboard."
Struggling to maintain a shred of fraying dignity, Alex thrust the towel at the girl, then froze when Madame's hand touched the back of his bare shoulder. Cold fingers probed the sore bruise left by younger minion's gun barrel, and Alex winced.
"I haven't seen this when he was brought aboard." She looked at the guards. "He did not attempt an assault on Lord Harada, did he? Or attacked the two of you bare-handed?"
"Gregorovich won't care," younger minion mumbled, sullenness and nerves warring on his face. "The boy will have a lot more bruises before he'll be through with him."
"Yassen Gregorovich has been granted patron rights," Madame replied coldly. "If he takes offence, you will be punished."
Older minion threw his accomplice a look that had him paling even further, then gave his bow again. "Of course, Madame. We apologise."
"She has bruises too," Alex said very coldly, inclining his chin at Petra. Her chest above the neckline was marred by a lurid blue-red mark. His eyes met Madame's in an open challenge.
"She hasn't been chosen for service." The woman shrugged. "And as she will only serve me, I shall overlook it." Alex saw the girl shudder at the words, and hatred rushed through him in a tidal wave.
Then Madame turned to the other boy, who hadn't moved or looked up from his cot so far. "Hamal, see that the orchid bath is prepared."
The boy, perhaps two or three years older than Alex, dark-haired and olive-skinned with an aquiline nose, slid off the cot as if he had no bone in his body.
"No," older minion interrupted, and shrank back a little at the sight of Madame's raised eyebrow. "I'm sorry, Madame - he's been called for assignment." A quick look at his wrist-watch. "In thirty minutes. Without drugs."
"That is highly irregular." A frown marred Madame's flawless forehead. "Yassen Gregorovich?"
"Yes, Madame."
"I remember. He would have no scruples to mock our most sacred traditions." Her mouth tightened into a thin line as she turned to Alex. "Very well, boy. Lie on that table there, on your front, please."
The 'table' was a narrow bench covered with another one of the fluffy towels Alex had been given to dry off. He lay down, grateful to be able to hide his nakedness.
"Use the lemongrass oil, Petra," Madame ordered. "If memory serves, Yassen Gregorovich has always preferred it."
One of the chest was opened and closed before Alex could feel the girl's breath on his neck, although he hadn't heard her barefoot approach. Nevertheless, he flinched like a bee-stung horse when something cool trickled onto his back. The smell of lemongrass, tart and fresh, wafted up to his nostrils. Her fingers were firm as she rubbed the oil into his back, but her breaths came fast. Her braids tickled Alex's side as she bent over him and whispered, "I'm sorry."
She smoothed oil all over Alex's shoulders, back and legs, and Alex's face flamed against the towel when she kneaded his buttocks.
"Petra Nazarian?" he breathed, and felt her nails scrape his flesh in surprise.
"Yes! How-"
Madame's voice cut the hot air like a verbal ice cube. "If I want to hear you converse, I shall let you know." The girl's hands trembled on Alex's skin, and she fell silent immediately.
Madame stepped up close enough to fill Alex's vision with a swirl of floor-length grey skirts.
"Well, Alex... you've been incepted into the Schola," she said, watching oil being massaged into Alex's flesh.
"I've been kidnapped," Alex clarified. "And you won't get away with keeping me prisoner. The British government-"
"The British government will do nothing - young people have been vanishing from European shores for years, and no government has bothered to investigate. The Schola has the freedom of the seas."
"But what do you want from me?" Alex exclaimed.
"The Schola was founded under the reign of Emperor Justinian of Byzantium in the sixth century," Madame continued without paying him any heed, "to become the world's most renowned school of courtesans."
Paling, Alex surged up under from under Petra's hands. "I am no... no courtesan!"
"Of course you aren't." The woman eyed his heat-mottled shoulders with contempt. "As it stands, you are nothing - not even the lowliest neophyte. Still, trained or not, you have been called upon by a patron, and we have to make sure you don't shame us."
Alex's stomach felt as if he'd swallowed acid. "You can't expect me to-" He didn't manage to finish his sentence. The prospect was too terrifying.
"That's enough, girl," Madame told Petra. "Back to your cot. Hamal, take over."
Alex saw copper braids dance as Petra hurried off, and then he found himself rolled onto his back and the boy - Hamal - took up her place with the oil bottle, fingers sliding over Alex's front and stomach. His hands were more gentle than Petra's, but he didn't look at Alex while he oiled his skin methodically. Instead, his eyes seemed focused on the empty air next to Alex's shoulder.
A sound of helpless protest escaped Alex's mouth when oil-slicked fingers ran over his groin. He wanted to strike out, but the memory of the truncheon with its gleaming electrode held him back. He squeezed his eyes shut when he was turned onto his back again. Hamal pulled his legs apart until they hung off the side of the table, and trickled more lemongrass oil down the exposed crack between his buttocks. Alex's eyes teared up with shame and sheer panic while Hamal's fingers chased down the trail to probe his opening. One fingertip was coaxing the warmed oil into him, not pressing forward more than an inch, but even that was too much. Alex's skin crawled from neck to foot.
"Yassen Gregorovich chose you even though you have no training whatsoever," Madame took up her lecture again as if nothing was happening. "He cannot expect skill. He has, however, every right to expect obedience. If you resist or disobey him, he is within his rights to punish you at will. To kill you, should he decide to. I, on the other hand, will not punish you, Alex." She twirled the truncheon in her hand until she caught Alex's eyes, before pointing it at the two teens. "I will punish them. And you will watch."
Alex kept his head down and his fists clenched while helplessness sank into his stomach like a pool of lead.
As soon as Hamal took his hands off him, he stumbled to his feet and grabbed the fresh pair of silk trousers Petra brought him from a clothes chest. He pulled them on quickly, feeling a little less vulnerable, but still so shaken that his fingers trembled. Madame took something that looked like a necklace from the same chest and stood behind him. Cold metal ringed Alex's throat and snapped shut at the nape of his neck. Alex's hand flew up and encountered a thin metal ring with a flared lock at the base of his throat. He swallowed hard.
"It's time," Madame told the two minions who'd watched Alex being... 'prepared', and handed the older a small rectangular parcel wrapped in black silk. "Take him."
"Move, boy," the man said and pushed Alex towards the door. "Gregorovich isn't the type you want to keep waiting."
Alex found himself herded back into the lift and out into yet another corridor, softly lit with Chinese silk lampshades. A bottle-green carpet and gold-ornamented wood panelling created an atmosphere of luxury. Alex had neither time nor inclination to admire it; he was feeling the slickness of the oil between his buttocks with every step. The guards escorted him to he last door at the end of the corridor, and motioned for him to knock.
A heartbeat later, the door opened and Yassen Gregorovich stood in the doorway, his face as cool and disinterested as it had been before.
"Your company is here to serve his patron," older minion said, eerily formal. He bowed and handed the assassin the silk-wrapped parcel. Yassen tugged back the fabric and revealed a piece of black iron chain and something that looked like a nest of leather snakes. When Yassen lifted it out, it turned out to be a whip of sorts, with a short wooden handle and two dozen or more thin, soft leather strands. Yassen turned it over in his hand, then stepped aside to let Alex inside. The cabin was large, fitted out like a hotel room in dark browns and mint greens. A half-open door in the back led into a spacious bathroom.
Half of the room was taken up by an enormous antique bed that reduced Alex's breath to a panicked rattle in his lungs. An aluminium case rested atop a slender 18th century walnut secretary; Yassen's leather travel bag stood under the table. The entire wall above the bed was taken up by yet another seascape painting in an elaborate baroque frame. The greys and greens of its ocean matched the colour scheme of the room.
Yassen waited until Alex had stepped through the doorway, then threw the door shut. Alex jumped. Their eyes met and locked, and Alex felt tension thickening around them. Yassen unfurled the whip, observed it for a moment as if contemplating a sleeping snake, then put it down on the secretary. Finally, Alex's composure broke under the oppressive silence. He clenched his hands into fists.
"What the hell is going on here?"
Yassen's fist caught him knuckles-first across the face and split his lip. The force of the blow knocked Alex backwards, but before he could fall, the man took hold of his shoulders and slammed him against the door. The back of Alex's head hit the wood panel with a dull thud that sent a jolt of pain through his skull. Tears blurred his eyes for a moment.
Yassen grabbed the flared lock of the collar on Alex's neck and wrenched his head up.
"Do you see the painting over the bed?" he asked. Alex's eyes started to wander, but another wrench stopped him. "Don't stare. The painting conceals a camera - the Schola's insurance policy to guarantee its patrons'... confidentiality."
"They're watching us?" Alex gasped.
"Of course. There may be microphones too, but I'm using a scrambling device. You can speak openly, but don't face the camera while you do - lip reading is one of the first skills that Schola members learn."
Suddenly, Alex understood why the assassin had him pinned against he door and was shielding his face against the cameras with his own body.
"I warned you the last time we met that you would be better off not to see me again, Alex Rider," Yassen said. "If you persist in putting yourself into harm's way, harm will come to you. You've brought this upon yourself. This time, there will be no escape."
Right up to this moment, Alex had not truly believed, deep down, that Yassen would actually touch him. The man was a cold-blooded killer who had murdered Alex's uncle and God knew how many others. But he'd let him go the last time, and there had been... well, a sense of understanding between them. A sense of honour. Alex knew that he might expect a bullet through his head, or a knife in his heart; but he hadn't expected rape, in spite of all implications to the contrary.
The Russian's hand crept up to Alex's hip, stroking the flesh through the flimsy fabric of his harem pants. "I will not apologise to you, Alex Rider. I did not ask you to cross my path again. My employers have sent me to negotiate with the Masters of the Schola, and they won't speak to anyone who is not a patron - who hasn't... availed himself of the services they offer."
"But why me?" Alex cried. "I thought... Do you really hate me that much?"
"I do not hate you. I picked you because, like me, you're in the game - the least innocent of all potential victims. For the Schola, you're nothing but a fledgling whore. If they knew who you are, you might already be dead - or they might consider you an even greater prize. You have made many enemies. The Schola enjoys excellent relations with the Chinese Triads - their upper echelons would find the opportunity to... visit you here quite entertaining."
Alex could feel his lips turn to ice. "Are you going to tell them?"
"Not unless you jeopardize my mission." Yassen's cold blue eyes narrowed, just inches from Alex's face. "In fact, I'm not unreasonably cruel, Alex. I will not force you. I will offer you a choice. If you decide to submit, I will try to hurt you as little as possible. You will not enjoy it, but you won't suffer lasting physical damage. I am skilled enough to make you respond. It will make things easier. I will, however, offer you an honourable way out."
"Honour?" Alex snarled. "You've made a career out of molesting little boys!" He saw Yassen's eyes darken. He raised his hand. Alex flinched, but it didn't lessen his rage.
"No - I will not hit you for drawing the wrong conclusions," Yassen said, voice tight.
"Wrong?" Alex sneered. "That woman downstairs..." He couldn't got the name out, and just spat, "Madame! She could list your preferences!"
"Eloise Souterre knows me because she was my training-master when I was younger than you are now."
Alex reeled with shock. Yassen Gregorovich was the most in-control man he'd ever met. To think hat he had gone through this in his childhood was unbelievable. And yet, it would explain a lot. The man's almost feminine good looks, his unobtrusiveness. The very grace that had always drawn Alex's eye. He'd thought it was what made Yassen such a successful killer, but now...
"They abducted you?" he asked, only to start at Yassen's bitter laugh.
"Nothing so dramatic. The Schola bought me from my parents when I was twelve. They were poor Black Sea fisher people with nine more children, and the Schola promised them affluence, and a better life for me." Again that bitter chuckle. "Are you pitying me, Alex? Don't. The Schola kept their promise. They made me who I am. I won't pity you either."
"But-" Alex ploughed on, "this place - it's not about becoming an assassin, is it?" Part of him wanted to keep Yassen talking rather than waiting for him to do anything, another bubbled with sudden hope that it might be true.
"Don't play coy, Alex," the Russian snapped. "It's about becoming a whore."
Yassen's arm came round his throat in an iron grip that warned him off all further struggles. The man was one of the world's most highly paid killers. A bit more pressure, and he'd break Alex's neck with no effort at all.
"I offered you a choice, Alex. If you prefer death to sharing my bed, I will snap your neck and choose one of the others in your stead. It will be quick - painless."
"That's no choice!" Alex wailed. The grip around his throat loosened and he felt Yassen's cheek against his, acutely aware of his aftershave and, underneath, the scent of his skin.
"It's the best I can give you," Yassen said. "And I need your answer now."
There was temptation in the thought that it would take only a little additional twist and the nightmare would be over. But Alex didn't want to die. He'd survived a pool-sized jellyfish, a fall from the roof of a moving freight train in the French Alps, and the near-explosion of a nuclear bomb in a submarine shipyard in Murmansk. Surely Yassen couldn't hurt him worse than he'd been hurt before? And if Yassen himself had managed to survive without breaking, could Alex do anything less?
Weakly, Alex tried to moisten his dry lips. "I don't want to die," he whispered, and the surge of shame that followed the admission almost suffocated him. He no longer knew which choice would make him a coward. Both, probably, one way or another.
"I know."
Yassen pulled Alex away from the door, and propelled him towards the bed with a cruel shove. Alex balked and dug in his heels, only to find himself lifted and thrown bodily onto the mattress. He bounced once, head spinning, before scrabbling backwards and shrinking against the wood lattice of the headboard, eyes wide with fright. He was acutely aware of the painting in his back, as if the invisible cameras were scorching his neck.
The assassin paused beside the bed, frosty blue eyes staring down at Alex's frantic face before he started to methodically remove his clothes. Jacket, shoulder holster, shirt, boots, jeans... all were thrown onto a nearby chair. The thin, dark line of an old scar cut across the side of Yassen's neck, ruler-straight. It wasn't the only one. There was a lattice of scars over his ribs, as if the flesh there had been torn by something sharp and edgy. The telltale round shape of a bullet wound in his side, and a deep mark from a knife or sword down the side of one thigh. The number of scars would have disfigured a lesser man, but despite Alex's bubbling hatred for the Russian, he had to admit, even now, that Yassen was beautiful.
Yassen's fingers paused at the waist of his loose black boxers, and Alex could feel his own lips moving without conscious thought. His heart hammered in his ears as if it was trying to jump free of his chest. "Please, don't!" He barely recognised the dry croak as his own voice.
Yassen took his hands away and swung himself up onto the bed, crouching down next to Alex with the speed of a slithering viper. Before Alex could duck away, the Russian had stretched out long, tanned legs, and leaned his back in a comfortable sprawl against the pillows in front of the headboard. He grabbed Alex around the waist to pull him into his lap.
Alex squirmed, then froze when he realised how acutely aware it made him of Yassen's... anatomy. The muscles in his back knotted into hard bumps against Yassen's chest, and his nails dug painfully into his palms. To his horror, his eyes started to burn.
"No," he murmured as if creating a mantra against his own fear. "No, no, no, no-"
Yassen's hand closed around his throat and choked the frantic whispers into a feeble hiss of breath. The other palm slid over Alex's hip, his groin, where the fingers spread to caress the outline of his prick through the flimsy silk of his pants. Alex dug his fingers into the bed sheet and teeth into his lower lip. He'd wanked before, of course, and being fourteen meant having inappropriate erections at he most inconvenient times. But he'd never been fondled on purpose, least of all by a man.
And Yassen knew what he was doing. He yanked the trousers down over Alex's hips and the silk slithered away under his fingers despite Alex's tense legs. Insistent fingers tugged and teased, and Alex could feel himself firming in Yassen's hand, growing hot and fat and sticky at the tip. A delicious surging heat tightened in his balls. Alex squeezed his eyes shut, unable to hold back hot tears of mortification.
Yassen pressed his lips to Alex's temple. "Don't be ashamed to respond," he murmured. "It's natural, and it will make things easier."
"Just get it over with," Alex moaned weakly. Misery yawned in his chest like a black hole, and Yassen's slow consideration threatened to break him apart.
"You don't know what you're asking for," Yassen warned.
"I don't care!" Alex flared, grateful that he was facing away from the painting as his face crumbled. "Whatever you think you have to do, do it, and stop... stop playing."
Despite his words, the suddenness with which Yassen released his prick almost had him keening. Then he yelped when the same fingers cruelly squeezed his nipple. A brilliant burst of pain shot up his nerves and then down to his groin. He writhed, only too aware of the small blob of sticky goo spilling from the head of his cock.
"Let's stop playing, then," Yassen snarled, turning away for a moment to shed his black boxers.
Alex caught a glimpse of him - long, lean thigh muscles, a prick half hard and pink, average looking but way too huge for Alex's peace of mind. A tuft of blond hair grew at his groin.
Then Yassen knelt above him and lowered himself until he was lying right atop of Alex, his upper body stretched out over Alex's chest. Yassen's tight brown nipple brushed Alex's red, smarting one, and he felt his cock jump against Yassen's in a way the man could not possibly overlook. Alex bared his teeth helplessly when he saw the smug expression on the face right above his.
Yassen's weight was immobilising him, although the assassin was bracing himself onto his elbows and wrists in order not to crush Alex. Being trapped as he was made Alex want to struggle like a mad animal but any movement he made would grind him against Yassen in the most provocative way possible. Then Yassen did exactly that - grinding down on Alex's groin, rubbing their aligned pricks together until they seemed to spark heat off each other. Alex could feel the man hardening against him.
Alex's thighs were still trapped between Yassen's, but he opened them as far as he could, unable to resist the clamour for contact that rushed through his blood. He squeezed his eyes shut, determined at least not to watch Yassen's face, and wrapped his arms around the assassin, digging nails into the firm flesh of his back.
He bucked, helplessly caught in the primal rhythm, his erection stimulated beyond endurance by the slick and sticky slide against another. His arms were full of warm, naked body and his heart was thumping like some mad little animal. He felt the leaden pressure in his balls spill over into liquid heat with a slowness that was agonising. Jerking against the hollow of Yassen's groin, he felt the warm pulse of his come spilling between their bodies.
He muffled his cry against Yassen's shoulder, dancing on the edge of ecstasy for a moment longer before Yassen's sheltering weight lifted off him.
Yassen rose to his knees, settling himself cat-like beside Alex and pulling him close so that he spooned Alex's back. The assassin's cock nudged hot and hard against Alex's buttocks.
Alex froze. His heartbeat sped up in a way that was anything but aroused. The position gave Yassen the opportunity to run his hands over Alex's front at will; playing at his nipples, stroking his belly, dipping down to catch a bit of semen on his fingers and rubbing it over Alex's lip. Alex ducked his face away, but Yassen cupped the back of his head, exerting an eloquent pressure on the base of Alex's skull. Face flaming with hate, Alex brushed the fingers with his tongue and tasted himself, awful and bitter.
"You might make a decent Schola adept after all," Yassen commented without letting go of Alex's head.
Tears stung in Alex's eyes while Yassen rolled him onto his back, then lifted his legs up, exposing his arse and spreading his upper thighs for easier access.
Breathing hard, Alex stared up at the ceiling, past the side of Yassen's face and the short blond hair that was surprisingly soft despite being cropped so close. The seascape painting loomed prominently above him, and Alex understood the message Yassen was sending by putting him in this position. There would be no quarter, no more room for talk. Yassen would use Alex in whatever way necessary to gain the trust of the Schola.
Leaning over him, Yassen pulled open the top bedside drawer and lifted out a small tube from amongst an assortment of implements that Alex looked away from rapidly. Unscrewing the tube with one hand, he squirted a measure of smooth, oily cream onto his fingers and gave Alex's bottom another push upwards. More lemongrass. Alex gagged.
Yassen's cold gaze brushed him, and Alex swallowed hard. His back and leg muscles were starting to cramp, and his skin crawled where Yassen pushed against his arse hole, fingers slicked and still burningly there. He hadn't seen Yassen prepare himself, but he must have, carefully so. The initial breach still burned Alex to the core. He closed his fingers around the bars of the headboard and let his eyes fall shut, sagging against the body of the assassin. There was nothing else left to do.
Alex forced his mind to go away during the worst of it, slipping in and out of awareness as Yassen slid in and out of him. It wasn't the pain so much, although it did hurt, jarring his nerves, flaring up his spine and making him want to crawl out of his skin with horror. Yassen was careful enough as he had promised - gradual slides, shallow, measured thrusts that had no passion behind them. Still, it filled him in a way that made Alex hurt not only in his arse, but also in his chest.
One of Yassen's hands remained firmly on Alex's cock, stroking him in time with Yassen's thrusts, and while it didn't manage to dull the pain, it set a counterpoint. The frisson didn't make Alex hard, not after having spent himself and after having been thrust into a chasm of horror, but his prick twitched ever so often.
No, the true horror was that it didn't hurt enough. Being raped shouldn't be something you endured while being able to think about it - if the pain had shut down his mind, Alex would've been grateful. His eyes spilled over against his will, and he felt his chest constrict in a wracking sob. Yassen pulled him close, his mouth sliding along the shell of Alex's ear.
"The first assignation is the watershed." The assassin ran the index finger of his free hand down Alex's cheek. "Those who break are eliminated, no matter how beautiful or gifted. Those who survive take their first step towards serving as the elect of the Schola. You will, I think, belong to the latter."
A hiss of rage spilled from Alex's lips at that. He twitched, trying to free himself although it made the cock inside him move sharply and burned a sick path of pain up his spine.
Yassen's breaths against his neck came sharply now, as sharp as his thrusts, his hands on Alex shoulders like chains trapping him in misery. His face hidden against the nape of Alex's neck, Yassen murmured something inaudible, then jerked his hips once more and climaxed to the sound of Alex's high, ragged whimper.
The sensation was vile, squelchy and messy even as it soothed the raw, dry burn inside Alex's channel. It started to sting when Alex fully realised that it was Yassen's come that filled him. The Russian held him a moment longer in an almost crushing grip, then let go and shifted himself, withdrawal eased but not rendered painless by the slippery mess in Alex's hole.
Once he'd freed himself, Yassen shoved Alex backwards onto the pillows and grabbed the length of chain from the nightstand. He clipped it to the base of Alex's collar. Another click, and it was connected to a handy ring at the foot end, effectively chaining Alex to the bed.
Without a word, Yassen disappeared into the bath and a moment later Alex heard water running. It didn't take long for the assassin to return, a towel slung low around his hips before he discarded it to reach for his clothes. He dressed quickly, not gracing Alex with a look, then opened the silver case and took out a gun. It was a Russian Army issue Grach MP-433. Alex's heart gave a nervous thump, but the Grach disappeared into Yassen's shoulder holster, which then vanished under his leather jacket. Somehow, Yassen made the post-coital preparations of a killer look perfectly natural. Shoes and socks restored, he finally looked over his shoulder at Alex. A cold leer twisted his lips.
"Don't go anywhere, little Alexander," he mocked. "I may come back for more later."
Then he left.
continued in Part 2