Author: Bulgroz the Third
Title: The Adjusters #36 - No Wedding but a Suspect
Keywords: MF, mc
Posted: January 4, 2013
Edited: January 4, 2013




			  The Adjusters #36


		       No Wedding but a Suspect



(Charleston, West Virginia. Three weeks ago.)


He enters the lobby of the building after making sure that the coast
is clear. He pulls his UPS cap down over his eyes and the uniform
collar up around his neck. He is on his home turf, and he cannot take
the chance to be recognized. Not yet--not until his Ministry has grown
large enough with Worshippers that he has nothing to fear from those
cockroaches that dare keep him from fulfilling his true Potential.

He tightens his grip on the package underneath his arm, and notices
that he is clenching one of his fists; he wills it open, forcing
himself to relax. Thinking about the roaches always makes him mad,
always has, those roaches that think nothing of stepping over the
little guy, that have no hesitation using the little guy, abusing him,
milking him dry, sucking the marrow from his bones, the soul from his
heart. Roaches, the lot them, feasting upon the remains of good people
that do not know any better. But not Him. His eyes have been
opened--he is a God now, a God who sees all and knows all and
understands all, and what he understands now is that he has the Power,
to make a difference, to punish the roaches.

If he was clenching his fist in anger before, he is now grinning in
near madness. Almost, because he has never felt so sane--so full of
life, vigor, clarity. So much to do now. Projects, Dreams, Visions
have been assaulting him at night as soon as he closes his
eyes. Beyond his Worshippers, beyond his Ministry--Vision of a New
World, where the Righteous are rewarded and the Roaches are punished,
squashed, trampled underfoot. His Ministry is based on rewarding
husbands that share their wives' purity and lend their womb for His
use, but there is nothing to stop him from punishing the roaches by
taking away their loved ones--their wives, theirs sisters, their
daughters.

He closes his eyes and allows himself a few seconds of fantasizing
about what he would do to them--to those poor unfortunate souls guilty
at most of being associated with the roaches--as a lesson, as a
warning, as a cautionary tale. He would make them bend--he will make
them offer themselves to him, to his magnanimity, to his mercy, and
then he will use them to satisfy his most base instincts, his most
vile tendencies, his most degrading drives, without any shame.

He shakes as he imagines these women, these girls, innocent,
inoffensive, either begging to be left alone or begging to be
taken--whatever his mood--dressed to arouse, desirable, available. And
all his, to do with as he wished. Holes to fuck, the lot of them,
whenever he wants, however he wants, wherever he wants.

He takes a deep breath. He is sweating slightly, and his shirt is
getting damp. His cock is throbbing, and threatens to drive him
mad. These flashes, these dark rages have been coming over him more
and more these last few months, trying to derail him from his Mission,
from his Ministry, to tempt him with the fruit of Sin--sex for
personal satisfaction, for egotistical gratification, for pleasure. He
worries... he worries he will succumb before his Ministry is complete,
before he has lifted his Queen to the throne on the right hand side of
the Lord--his Betrothed, his Other, his Missing Half.

The thought calms him down more effectively than anything else he
knows. Ever since the Dream two months ago, the Dream that heralded
the future of his Ministry, the Dream that bespoke of the riches to
come, the fulfillment, the joy, the completion--the rejoining of
halves that should have never been apart--ever since that blessed
Dream two months ago, the vision of his Beloved beside him judging the
souls of Worshippers and worshipping him as a female worships her
mate, ever since that Dream he has been able to think of nothing
else. Three weeks. Three weeks before the Ceremony. Three weeks before
they are one. The way it should always have been, the way it will
always be.

Three weeks, and the final preparations are but ready. All that is
missing is an officiating minister, a properly anointed soul to
dedicate the ceremony, to sacralize it, bless it with her own soul and
her own worship.

Last night, after a casual almost random conversation with Lizzie, it
came to him, in a flash, that he had tried to camouflage as best as he
could. It was so obvious, after he thought about it.

He confirms the door number, 302, on the mail box, and composes the
number on a pad. After two rings, a women's voice emerges from a
speaker.

"Yes?"

He tightens his grip on the package he holds in his hands, and lowers
his voice one register. "UPS, ma'am."

The door buzzer sounds, and he pushes the door open. He knows there
are no security cameras, but he does not want to take any chances. He
checks again to make sure his cap is down.

He takes the stairs to the third floor, avoiding the elevator. The
staircase is empty and well lit with bright fluorescent bulbs. He
climbs slowly, not wanting to wind himself.

The third floor is just as empty as the staircase was, but bathes in a
more diffuse light. The dark carpet muffles his footsteps.

Apartment 302 is the last on the right. He knocks, then turns his head
to the side, pretending to study the package he is holding, in case
his target looks through the peephole and recognizes him.

He should not have worried. When Shelley Caskill opens the door in her
long house robe, she is in the middle of a conversation on her cell
phone, and barely looks in his direction, simply extending a hand to
take the package.

"Yeah," she says, speaking to her interlocutor, "and then he said that
I had pretty good tits for an athlete--can you believe it? Hold on
Lizzie, there's a--" She looks up. He sees the recognition in her
eyes, soon to be replaced by confusion.

He puts his hand on hers, and she immediately stiffens and her face
goes blank as he feels the expected tingling sensation go down his arm
and sparkle on his fingers.

"Shelley," he says quietly, before the short-haired blonde can say
anything. "Tell her that a package arrived, and that you need to deal
with it and that you'll call her later. Act normal, and don't mention
me."

Shelley nods and he enters her apartment. He knows her roommate is not
here--he saw her leave twenty minutes ago for her evening shift at a
local strip club where she waits tables; he shakes his head in disgust
at the thought--maybe someone else that should be punished for
immorality?. He imagines the tall skinny blonde on her knees
satisfying every patron for free, and it feels so right, forcing her
making her money encouraging innocent men to drink and lust after
scantily clad women. He vows to turn all of those establishments into
Houses of Worship, devoted to Him and to keeping his Brethren
happy. He breathes deeply to keep the fire in his chest from spilling
and engulfing everything else.

Behind him, Shelley is saying goodbye to his Lizzie, promising to get
together tomorrow for lunch. He cannot help but grin--three weeks to
go, and Lizzie will be his, completely, fully, offering herself in all
of her virginal glory. He could make it so that the Marriage is
consumed tomorrow, of course, but he enjoys the anticipation, the
planning, the suspense.

He heads to the one-seater chair in the living room, and glances at
the rest of the apartment. It is tastefully decorated, which surprises
him.

Shelley has followed him, having put her phone aside, and is clearly
waiting for instructions. Most girls become silently submissive when
he uses his Divine Gift on them, at least for a short while, and
Shelley is no exception. She is usually in-your-face and loud and
opinionated, and he is not sure he dislikes the change.

He stops and looks at her. Even though she is wearing a plain house
robe and not a trace of makeup and her hair is wild, she is still
exceedingly attractive, young and vital and with incredible eyes. He
knows the stories of her past, her outings with Lizzie--that she sowed
her wild oats, that she was easy, that she loved sex with a
passion--and he disapproves. It is immoral, and Shelley is the image
of that immorality. And yet, he has wondered in the past just how she
might feel writhing longingly underneath him as he fucked her over and
over again.

"Shelley," he says, "I am your Lord, your Savior. I am the Light that
illuminates your life and reveals the Truth. You are my Servant."

He has no intention of making her a Vessel. She is not worthy of his
Seed. He has other plans for her.

"I am your servant, my Lord."

The way she says the words makes his cock throb, the way her perfect
lips shape those syllables. He has something to do, even though a dark
part of him wants to take her, hard, right then and there, wants to
hear her scream, moan, beg him to fuck her as hard as he can. He
shakes his head to clear it.

"Listen to me well, Shelley. In three weeks, your friend Lizzie is
getting married. You are her maid of honor."

"Yes, my Lord."

"You will be more. You will be my voice, my eyes, my will, nay, your
Lord's Voice, his Eyes, his Will. I will have tasks for you, Shelley,
tasks that you will perform without questioning them, doubting them,
or telling anyone about them."

He pulls out a cell phone from his pocket, hands it to her. "Keep this
cell phone with you at all times, but do not tell anyone of
it. Whenever it rings, you will answer it, as long as it is
convenient, and obey its instructions as if I were right there in
front of you speaking them to you. You will not refer to me as your
Lord when you speak into this phone, nor will you act as though it
were anything but a normal business call. You will not discuss the
conversations you have on this phone."

Shelley takes the cell phone, looks at it for a long moment, as if to
imprint its look and its feel deep into her memory, as if it were now
part of her, which he suspects is probably not a bad way of thinking
about it.

"Your main purpose in the next three weeks," he continues, "is to
ensure that Lizzie goes through with the wedding, that she does not
get cold feet, that nothing goes wrong. It is your responsibility,
Shelley--it is on your shoulders, do you hear me?" His voice is
getting forceful. "Do you understand me, Shelley?"

"Yes, my Lord."

Not for the last time, he wonders whether it is really necessary to
ensure that the wedding goes through as planned. So what if Lizzie
gets cold feet and cancels the wedding? He could still go through with
the Ceremony. And the answer to that question is unchanged since the
first time he verbalized it: it is the Right Thing to Do. Just like
his Ministry, just like his Vessels, it is the Duty that comes with
his Divinity. He can no more change it than he can change the way the
Earth circles the Sun.

The look she gives him carries the weight she shoulders with this
Mission he has assigned her. He does not tell her what he will do if
she fails. He does not need to. Whatever her subconscious comes up
with will be much more effective than whatever he can conjure up.

He smiles at her, to show her he is pleased with her obedience. "That
is not all, Shelley. You have another, very important role to
play. You will be officiating the Ceremony that day, the Ceremony that
will unite Lizzie to your Lord, that will crown her as Queen, that
will see her becoming Vessel to the greatest of all Worshippers who
shall follow in your Lord's footsteps." His voice starts rising,
filled with its own self-importance, as befits the imparting of
Prophesy, the heralding of future days.

"Yes, my Lord."

Shelley watches him, her lips slightly parted, and before he can
reflect about it or check the impulse, he leans over and kisses
her. She responds slowly, her lips parting while his tongue sneaks
inside. She tastes like red wine, he notices. He pulls back abruptly,
shocked at his own behavior.

"I love the way you kiss me, my Lord," says Shelley, a smile breaking
on her face. "Can I have more, please?"

He needs to clear his head. What is he doing?

"Don't you want to fuck your servant, my Lord?" Her tongue is slowly
running over her lower lip. "I think you're gonna like how tight my
cunt is."

Lust, unbridled, unfettered, terrible, is boiling in his blood,
threatening to ravage him and blow down his resolve. This is
wrong. This is a Sin. This is the path to Oblivion. He must focus,
focus on his Ministry, on his Duty.

Fuck her, says the dark Rage inside of him, the one that sees the
roaches everywhere, the demands retribution, payback, revenge. He
takes a deep breath. Takes a step back. "Shelley," he says, but does
not complete the sentence.

Anger washes over him like a relentless wave. Anger at Shelley, anger
at her immorality, anger at her temptation, but also anger at her
subservience, her obedience. He wants to slap her for her behavior,
berate her, spit on her, figuratively, literally. Who is she but a
little slut ready to spread her legs for the first idiot that looks at
her for more than a second? He is granting her the honor of bringing
about a Sacred Union, and all she is thinking about is giving her body
to him. She should be awed merely by the fact of his Presence--if her
little mind would but open a fraction of a percent, it would be blown
by his Greatness.

His anger swirls into a wave of nausea that forces him to sit down in
the chair. He forces his fists to unclench.

His patience has grown so thin lately, he feels like a live wire
reacting to every action about him. He needs to relax. He needs to
assuage the darkness inside of him. He cannot afford to be thrown from
his Path, from the Ministry's Sacred Trajectory.

He looks up at Shelley, still standing near his seat, with her long
house robe, looking at him, smiling, her eyes holding the promise of
wonders beyond ken. For a second, he envies her, her calm, her
poise. Then he makes a decision. He will not cede to Sin. But to
resist temptation without respite is a road to perdition. He needs an
outlet for the outstanding pressure of temptation. Shelley is his
Servant, and she will be that outlet. It is a concession, a
compromise, a means to avoid the Fall. He shall recruit her for his
Pleasure. The thought threatens to make him giddy.

"Shelley," he tells her. "Listen to me." He takes a second to form his
thoughts. He has never done this before. He is nervous, as if this
were a first date. "From now on, you will live for your Lord's
pleasure. Your body, your mind, your soul, will devote itself to
finding ways to please your Lord sexually, to the exclusion of any
other man or woman. Your Lord's presence, his attention, his touch,
will turn you on and make you crave his Seed. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my Lord." Her voice is low, hungry, demanding. "I'll be your
little fuck toy, your pet. I'll make sure you're always satisfied,
satiated, gorged. I'll be your every fantasy, your every wet
dream. I'll be yours the way no woman has ever been any man's."

He grins at her reaction. This might be a good idea after all, he
thinks. "A pet. I like that. Your Lord's pet. My pet." He rolls it
around his tongue, tasting the flavor of her new nickname. "When we
are not together, or when there are other people around, of course,
you will remain Shelley Caskill, the successful engineer and happy
girl. Although you will not have any desire for any other man or
woman, you will still feel the urge to flirt and tease. And you will
not talk about your Lord and your relationship with him, to anyone."

"Of course, my Lord. You will be my dirty little secret. My secret
Master."

"In a way, yes, pet. And you should know that I will probably share
you with others, and you will give yourself to whomever I chose, in
whatever way I desire."

"Yes, my Lord. I will be your little whore, and I will fuck whomever
you want me to fuck, and I will do it better than they've ever had."

He nods, and looks her over. His cock has been hard and twitching
madly for the past five minute, without any artificial help, which
surprises him.

"Take off your robe, pet," he tells her.

"Yes, my Lord," she says, untying the belt of the garment and
shrugging off the robe with a sexy motion of the shoulders, sending it
to pool at her naked feet.

He stares at her, and makes no attempt to hide his lust. Shelley basks
in the attention, and poses.

She stands half naked, clad only in a blue and gold basketball jersey
that is too large for her thin frame, and that dips dangerously low on
her chest and reaches the bottom of her thighs, at once camouflaging
her toned body and also exposing it through its semi-transparent
material and its broad openings at the neck and arms. She looks like a
girl wearing her player boyfriend's jersey to make him hard.

Shelley just looks at him, silent, expectant, poised and on display,
arms to her sides, one leg slightly bent in front of her, foot pointed
down. He appreciates the splash of blue polish on her toenails which
matching her jersey and emphasizes her delightfully delicate foot.

He lets his eyes roam up and down her body, unabashed, taking his
time. Barring unexpected interruptions, he has all night. He can take
his sweet time--and he intends to do just that, enjoying the
experience to its fullest. His cock jerks in anticipation. This is for
him--only for him--not for his Ministry. This is Duty no longer. This
is Pleasure. This is Release. This is Reward.

"Turn around, pet," he says, making a gesture.

Compelled, Shelley swivels in place, slowly, teasingly, clearly intent
on giving him as much pleasure as possible, as per her instructions.

From the back, her body is even nicer than from the front. The jersey
does not cling to her body, and he has in fact seen Lizzie's friend
wear much tighter and revealing clothing often enough. But this works
on her, very much so, and he has the unbidden desire to bend the
athletic blonde over and make her beg him to fuck her as hard as he
can, for as long as he wants. He takes a deep breath. All in good
time.

The jersey bears the name Garcia stenciled in gold across the upper
back above from a large number nine.

"Lift up your shirt, pet."

She does, revealing her tight ass in a small pair of black cotton
panties. The material clings to her skin perfectly, her ass so toned
there is no line marring its curve. He loves the view, simply loves
the view.

"Do you like my ass, my Lord?" she asks, shaking her rear end
teasingly.

"Of course, pet."

"They all want to fuck me from behind, you know? Men, all of
them. Just so they can look at my ass and touch my ass and spank my
ass as they shove their cock in my cunt. Do you want to fuck me from
behind, my Lord?"

He swallows. "Get on your knees, pet. Facing me." he says, by way of
response.

Shelley obeys, kneeling in the middle of the living room rug, her
knees two feet apart to keep her balance, the basketball shirt raising
up her thighs. He can peek her black panties from that angle, barely
covering her crotch.

"Take off your shirt, and toss it to me."

She does, pulling it over her head effortlessly after crossing her
arms to grab the hem. Her small breasts, unfettered by any bra or
camisole, bounce slightly as she does, and he is fascinated by the
large darkened areolas with the small hard nipples. Her stomach is
flat and her abdominal muscles can be easily discerned in her
position. And he gets the front view from the panties. She remains
motionless, presented to his gaze without shame.

"I like you staring at my tits, my Lord. It makes my cunt all wet. But
I'm sorry they're small. Would you like me better with bigger tits?"

Interesting, he thinks. Her insecurities must be coming out.

He looks at the shirt Shelley has given him, then at the blonde
kneeling two yards away from him, naked. He looks back at the shirt,
turns it around in his hands, looks at the back.

"Whose shirt is this, pet?"

"Brandon Garcia's, my Lord."

He looks at her. "And who is this Brandon Garcia?"

"The man I love, my Lord."

He finds this odd. He distinctly recalls hearing Lizzie say that
Shelley had not settled with a man, and is known for stringing along
one-night stands and putting out like the little immoral slut she is
deep down inside.

"Tell me more about this Brandon Garcia, pet. Who he is, where you met
him, why you love him. The whole story. And play with your tits while
you do so."

Shelley's hands shoot up to her small perky breasts, and she starts to
massage them while rubbing her nipples as she tells her tale.

"I met Brandon at West VU my third year, during a Christmas visit at
the local Children's Hospital organized by his basketball team. The
Mountaineers do something like that every year, and Lizzie and I had a
friend on the team that invited us."

"A friend?"

"Yes, my Lord. Harry. Point guard on the team. We called him the
Mule."

"The Mule?" He smiles, inquiring.

"Yes, my Lord. His cock's the size of my arm, and both Lizzie and I
just loved to play with it."

A shiver runs through him. "Lizzie? I thought she was a virgin..."

"She is, my Lord. Lizzie, she'd fuck him with her mouth, and I'd fuck
him with my cunt. I still get wet just thinking about getting fucked
by that thick black cock of his--it always felt like he was splitting
me open, and Harry got his kicks watching me thrash around his cock as
he pounded me."

Shelley seems to him to be getting into her memories, because she is
kneading her breasts more vigorously while gyrating her pelvis in a
way which her kneeling position must render difficult.

"Wait--his black cock? Harry was black?"

"Yes, my Lord. Like half the basketball team."

He frowns. He does not like the idea of Shelley, his pet, his future
slave to him and his wife, being fouled by a black man. "And what
about this Brandon--was he also black?"

"No, my Lord. He's half-Cuban, but got his skin tone from his mother,
or so he said."

"Okay. Continue, pet. And play with your pussy, too."

"Yes, my Lord." Without pausing, keeping a hand on one of her breasts,
Shelley sneaks a hand down her body and into her panties, and starts
moving it in circles, while continuing her tale.

"Brandon was a freshman, and he was having problems with one of his
courses. Long story short, I helped Brandon with his course, and in
return he fucked me hard and long and made me come many times."

"And Lizzie?"

"Lizzie was with us that first night, and she sucked him off a few
times, and also cleaned his come out of my cunt."

Shelley's hand keeps rubbing between her legs and into her panties. He
watches for a moment before pulling down his pants. His cock is hard
and stands upright, seeking release. He fantasizes for a moment about
having both Shelley and Lizzie kneeling at his feet, worshipping his
cock, taking him deep into their mouths, slobbering over it, over and
over again until he showers them with his Seed.

"Brandon and I clicked," Shelley continues. "It's like we were on the
same wavelength. We dated for a few months, in secret. It was easy
during the Holidays, as I went back home and Brandon came with me to
spend a week, but it was harder at school. I had to tell Lizzie I was
sick to explain why I didn't want to party quite so much."

"Why keep it a secret? Lizzie's your best friend."

"I don't know, my Lord. She seemed so happy partying and hooking up
with me and other guys, together, while at the same time keeping a
lookout for the perfect man that would sweep her off her feet, and I
guess I felt bad that I had found true love before she did, and that I
would have to stop hooking up with her. I don't know..." Her hand is
busily rubbing beneath her panties, and a light flush has spread up
from her shoulders.

"Then what happened?" he asks, gently stroking his cock--not hard
enough to make himself come, just enough to get a pleasant buzz of
anticipation.

"He dumped me, my Lord. Brandon dumped me. And he left the school,
transferred down to Miami, I think. I'm not sure."

"Why?"

"Because I was stupid, my Lord. Brandon left to visit one of his
sisters that was having some problems back home, and while he was gone
I slept with a man, and Brandon found out and he was hurt and upset
and angry and he just dumped me and left."

"You could not resist giving your body away to another man, could
you?" He shakes his head. Typical of an immoral slut, one that needs
punishing, as she will be, for this, for defiling her body with a
black man, for living a life of perversion and moral bankruptcy. He
feels the Rage rise again, and stamps down on it, hard.

"No, my Lord. I was down because Brandon was away, and Lizzie and I
went to a party, and I guess I drank too much or someone put something
in my drink because when I came to I was in a dorm room with my legs
spread wide getting royally fucked by a guy who sweated all over my
tits every time he pounded into me, while one of his pals was taking
pictures. I was covered in dried cum, all over my tits and all over my
face and I could taste it in my mouth. And my pussy hurt so much, like
it had been scraped raw. Once I kicked the guy off of me and snatched
my clothes and got away, I couldn't believe what I'd done. Later on,
the guys must have passed my pictures around and Brandon ran into them
or something, because he confronted me with them a few weeks later,
and he didn't believe me when I cried that I had no idea what had
happened, and then he just looked at me like I was a piece of dirt and
left. He didn't want to have anything to do with me, and soon left the
school altogether."

It sounds as though Shelley wants to cry as she tells the story, but
her voice remains neutral, matter of fact, but her hand in her panties
has slowed down, and she is noticeably less enthusiastic than before.

"So let me get this straight, pet: you had this guy you loved, this
guy whose shirt you still wear--" and he raises the wadded up jersey
to show her, "and you lost him because you couldn't keep your silly
slut legs closed and had to go and fuck two guys behind your love's
back. Is that it?"

There is but a slightest hesitation in Shelley's response. "Yes, my
Lord."

He frowns. The Vessels he converted have never resisted his
instructions, have never shown even the tiniest amount of volition
beyond his Wishes. Yet Shelley here seems to want to protest. Is he
imagining things, or is she trying to resist his Orders?

"Come, pet. Let's see if this body that you've passed around to half
the state is worth all you believe it's worth. Come to me."

"Yes, my Lord," she says and puts a hand on the ground to stand.

"Stop," he says, then points to the ground. "Crawl. On your hands and
knees. Head down. Then you will suck my cock."

"Of course, my Lord."

And Shelley drops down on all four and crawls over to the chair in
which he is sitting. It is a delightful sight, and his eyes roam down
her back to her ass, still clad in the tight black panties, but
swaying gently left and right with each step. He is going to enjoy
taking her, an enjoyment he has not felt in a long time.

Shelley straightens up when she gets to him and gently takes his cock
in her hand, and strokes it lightly before parting her beautiful lips
and licking the tip.

"How do you want me to suck your cock, my Lord? Nice and slow, or hard
and fast?"

"As you wish, pet. I'll let you know what I like."

He lets her do it the way she wants to do it, lets her gently suckle
on the tip of his cock before slipping half of it into her mouth,
sucking, stroking, licking. He enjoys how it feels, enjoys how she
looks, her pretty blonde head with its short hair and almost delicate
features, and her red lips around his cock. He has fantasized about
this moment often, and he is ecstatic that he can relish it without
guilt, without second thoughts, with Duty standing in the way.

Shelley, Lizzie's little slutty friend, sucking his cock, because it
is what He wants. The little slut. The little immoral slut.

He puts a hand on the back of her head, and presses it down, forcing
more of his cock in her mouth. Shelley, taken by surprise, chokes, but
does not resist.

"Open up, pet," he says, pulling her head back and pressing it back
down, thrusting his hips at the same time. "Open!" He fucks her mouth
again. "OPEN YOUR FUCKING THROAT!" he shouts as he forces his cock
into her mouth, bumping against the back of her throat.

He twists her head, for a moment wishing that her hair was longer so
he could grab it tightly and use it as reins. Perhaps he will tell her
to grow her hair out. He presses her head down at a different angle,
harder than before, and something gives and Shelley retches as her
throat opens up and his cock sinks all the way to the root, his
stomach smashing into her nose, his balls thumping against her
chin. "Oh yes!" he grins. "Fuck yes, just like that, pet! Just like
that!"

He closes his eyes and leans back into the chair, basking in the
feelings of Shelley's throat constricting around his cock, massaging
it, as she struggles to hold him inside. She does not try to pull
away--she wants to make him happy, as she was told--but it must be
uncomfortable. He does not particularly care. It is part of her
punishment for her immoral behavior, part of her Purgatory.

He lets her go after almost twenty seconds, and Shelley gasps and
takes a few deep breathes. She looks up at him, with a small
grin. "You like fucking my throat, my Lord? You like choking me?" She
does not wait for his answer, and resumes her sucking. She does not
take him in all the way on her own, but sucks him harder this time. He
caresses the side of her face for a few seconds before grasping her
head again and plunging his cock all the way in. It goes in easier
this time, and Shelley is still struggling, but does her best to keep
the position, her eyes looking up at him, tearing, but not breaking
contact.

After he lets her go, she grins, catching her breath again, and he
straightens in the chair, as she goes back to sucking him. He enjoys
the way her ass shakes as she shoves her head up and down in his lap,
and he reaches around and grabs a hard nipple between his fingertips
and pinches it lightly.

When he feels ready, he presses on her head again, with both arms, and
starts rapidly fucking his cock into her mouth, over and over again,
as deep as it will go. The sound of his stomach hitting her forehead
is fast and regular, and the sound of her throat around his cock make
for a grand accompaniment. Her back arches under the assault, but she
does not move away, lets him do whatever he wants to do.

What he wants to do is come, and come deep inside her throat, and he
feels it building rapidly in his balls, and then before he's even
aware of it he's exploding, his cock burning like fire as he unloads
deep inside the blonde at his feet, who can do nothing but swallow his
offering, though half of it dribbles down from her mouth onto his
balls. He comes for a long time, moaning throughout, pressing down on
her head.

He lets her go when he is completely spent, collapsing back into the
chair. Shelley coughs a few times, but she has a large smile on her
face, and she wipes the cum on her chin with two fingers. "I love your
cum, my Lord. So thick and juicy!" She sucks on her fingers.

He shakes his head, unsure exactly how to react. This is supposed to
be punishment? She seems to enjoy it as much as he does. "You really
are a little slut, aren't you, pet?"

"I'm not just a slut, my Lord, but I'm your slut. Do you want to fuck
your pet slut, my Lord? My cunt is nice and wet and begging for you."

"Clean me, pet. We'll see about your pussy after."

"Yes, my Lord." She leans forward between his thighs, and hungrily
licks all the cum that spilled from her mouth. He is still hard. And
he is thinking.

"Take your panties off, pet, and get down on all four. Show me your
ass."

Shelley's smile is hungry. "Of course, my Lord. With pleasure."

She slips the black panties down her legs, flashing him a shaved pussy
with dark lips that match her dark areolas. She flips onto her hands
and knees in the middle of the rug, presenting her rear end to his
roving eyes.

"You gonna fuck me now, my Lord?" she says, swaying her ass gently,
enticingly. "You gonna fuck my dirty cunt, my Lord?"

He stands, his cock still surprisingly hard and pointing straight
ahead, and kneels down behind the girl. He caresses her ass, tight and
hard and so fuckable it makes his teeth hurt.

"Listen to me, pet. Listen to me well. Your pussy is mine. No one but
me can touch this pussy, no one but me or anyone I deign lend it
to. No one touches it, no one fucks it, no one inserts anything in it
but me. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my Lord. My cunt is yours, and only yours, to do with as you
wish."

"Exactly. To do with as I wish. And here is what I wish. You will
crave a thick cock in your pussy, pet. Every hour of every day, you
will hunger for a cock to slip into your pussy and fill you up. You
will keep this desire to yourself, of course, at least when you are
not in the presence of your Lord, and you will not let it affect your
life, but you will feel the craving, and you will imagine cocks
penetrating you and satisfying you."

"Oh fuck," Shelley moans, shivering as if she dropped her feet into
ice cold water, and she presses her ass back against his hand,
spreading her legs to provide him better access to her pussy. "Please
fuck me, my Lord! I need your cock inside of me so bad!"

He allows himself a smile, and runs his hand through her slit, making
the blonde shiver even more. Shelley drops her head down to the ground
and raises her ass higher, to ease his access. She practically mewls
as her rubs her pussy, and it is drenched. He palms a handful of her
juices, and rubs it on his cock, already wet with her saliva.

He lines up behind her, and slides his cock between her
cheeks. Slowly, he presses the head of his cock against her asshole,
and pushes.

Shelley groans, stiffening. "I'm my cunt, my Lord! Please! Please
shove your cock in my cunt! Please, not in my ass! My Lord, please, in
my cunt! You're--oh! You're--oh! You're... YOU'RE IN MY ASS!" She
wails as his cock breaks the tight ring of her sphincter and
penetrates into her rectum. It is warm, and tight. Tighter than he's
ever felt. Her ass clamps over his cock like a vise. He is glad he has
already come, otherwise he would probably pop just by the sensations
he is feeling right now.

Shelley is trembling, and whimpering softly. "Please... my
Lord... please... in my cunt..."

He smiles. He has no intention of putting his cock in her pussy. She
is not worthy of his Seed. He will get his satisfaction from her
mouth, and from her ass. And from whatever humiliation it will please
him to unleash on the immoral blonde. And knowing that she is craving
a cock in her pussy without satisfaction strikes him as a suitable
method for teaching her the error of her ways.

"What's the matter, pet? Do you not enjoy a good reaming?" He presses
his cock further, and it sinks in slowly, and Shelley shaking
increases. He slides his hands on her cheeks, up to her hips, and
pulls her back against him. "It must remind you of those college
nights when you offered your butt to your fellow students."

"N... no... my Lord..." she groans.

"What do you mean, pet?"

"I've... oh! I've never had... a cock... in my ass, my Lord..."

"What? Really? You never had someone up your butt?"

"No... my Lord..."

He grins, happy at the thought. He pushes his cock in further, and
then pulls out and presses in again, making Shelley moan and arch her
back.

"Well don't worry, pet. That'll change."

He proceeds to fuck her ass slowly, enjoying the sensations to their
fullest, appreciating the visual of his cock spearing her between the
cheeks, and loving the fact that he is trailblazing and introducing
her to the delights of anal sex.

He does not notice that Shelley has been looking at him for several
minutes, so caught up he is. "My Lord?" she asks.

"Yes, pet."

"If I let you fuck my ass, will you then shove your cock in my cunt?"

He has to smile at that. "But I'm already fucking your butt, pet. I do
not need your permission."

"If... If I make it better for you, will you then shove your cock in
my cunt?"

He slaps her ass, hard, and is pleasantly surprised at the effect it
has on his cock inside her. "You'd have to make it pretty good,
pet. But if you do a good job, I'll consider it." He is lying, of
course.

And the whole experience changes for him. Shelley raises up on her
hands, and arches her back and starts to meet his thrusts, pushing
back against him. "Oh," she moans, "just like that! Shit! You like
fucking my ass, my Lord? You like fucking my dirty slutty ass?"

By way of response, he slaps her cheek again, and she groans at the
contact, and pushes back against him harder.

"That's right--spank me, my Lord. I'm just a dirty slut that likes to
take it up the ass--oh! I've saved my ass for you, my Lord--so you
could be the first to tear it open! Oh! Fuck! Fuck my ass, my Lord!"

He is not sure, but he thinks she must be squeezing her sphincter in
time with his thrusts, because suddenly the pressure on his cock
increases, and he is driven to his second orgasm almost against his
will.

With a loud groan, he pushes his cock as deep inside her as it will
go, and Shelley encourages him with a loud "Come inside my ass, my
Lord!" and he does, coming long and hard with his hands on her hips,
and her cheeks pressed into his lower abdomen. He leans over her,
feeling his balls empty for the second time of the evening.

When he slips out of her and sits down on the ground, his back against
the chair he vacated after coming in Shelley's throat, he watches her
fold over on the rug. She is looking at him. "Please, my Lord. Will
you fuck my cunt now?"

"Why did you keep your anal virginity, pet?" It is a weird question to
ask, but he was so convinced that Shelley had taken men anally before
that an explanation is eluding him.

"I was inspired by Lizzie, my Lord. She was working so hard at
preserving her own virginity, that I thought it might be a worthwhile
gesture for me to keep something intact for my one true love. It was
too late for my pussy, so I figured my ass would do."

"So Brandon never fucked you in the butt?"

"No, my Lord. I was planning to offer it to him, but he left me before
I could say anything." She looks at him again, and straightens up on
the rug, her legs spread, flashing him a dripping pussy. "Will you
fuck my dirty cunt now, my Lord? I swear, I'll make it even better for
you than fucking my ass"

He does not answer. He grabs Garcia's jersey, and tosses it to
her. "You're a mess, pet. Clean yourself up. Your face, and your butt,
and your thighs. Then we'll see."

Shelley, without hesitation, picks up her beloved jersey and wipes her
face with it before running it up between her legs to soak up her
juices and his semen, intermingled and dripping out of her ass.

He watches her, feeling his cock twitch again, wondering what abuse he
will lay on the blonde girl in front of him. He is toying with the
idea of messing with her mind and making her perceive him as Garcia,
just to see how she would react, and explore the degradations that she
would be willing to endure to be with the love of her life one more
time. He has never thought of using his Divine Gift like that before;
it opens up all new vistas of study.

"You know, pet, if you serve me well, perhaps I will grant you your
wish to see your beloved Garcia again. I'm sure that if I talk to him
I can convince him to spend some time with the girl who broke his
heart by cheating on him and who might just be willing to do whatever
filthy thing his mind can dream up. He must have some delightful
revenge fantasies running through his mind, and I'm sure he'd love to
sample that tight butt of yours, or sink his cock into your pussy
again."

Shelley's face brightens at his mention of her pussy, and she
moans. "Will you fuck my cunt, please, my Lord? Please?"

"We'll see," he says, spreading his legs wide. "In the meantime, how
about you suck my cock clean and get me ready for the next round?"

And it is without any hesitation that Shelley dives onto his soiled
cock and sucks it into her mouth, hoping desperately that her Lord
will deign slide his cock into her pussy and make her come.


				* * *


(Charleston, West Virginia. Now.)


Half an hour after leaving his hotel, and after asking the cab driver
to wait for him, Daniel walked up the steps to Elizabeth Bowden's
house, a small two stories on a quiet Charleston street. Shawbank was
interviewing their next presumed victim, a Sandra Spumoni, cited twice
in the previous five months for indecent exposure, and six months
pregnant. Her wedding had been six months ago.

Daniel knocked on the door, and then rang the doorbell when there was
no answer. After a few minutes, as he was debating just what to do,
the door opened.

"Yes?" It was a middle-aged woman wearing what looked like a uniform
that tried to not look like a uniform.

"Elizabeth Bowden?"

"Who wants to know?"

"Daniel Malcolm. I'm with ADSec, a security agency." Brisecoeur had
coached Daniel about ADSec, the subsidiary company that ADCorp had
created for its security, which had connections to federal authorities
such the Federal Bureau of Investigations. Daniel was not entirely
clear what the connection was--some of it was beyond his clearance
level--but it gave him and Shawbank and other members of the
Investigation and Enforcement Division at ADCorp some legitimacy.
Brisecoeur had hinted that ADCorp has more spin-offs and subsidiaries
than French presidents have mistresses. "I'm looking for Elizabeth
Bowden. I called earlier?"

The woman let him in, and called out into the house. "Miss Bowden? You
have a visitor."

A young woman, at most a few years older than Daniel, emerged from
what looked like the dining room. She was beautiful, with long red
hair streaming down her shoulders and a pale skin with a light
sprinkle of freckles. She looked resplendent in the light streaming in
through the window. She gave Daniel a dazzling smile. "Thank you,
Doreen," she said to the woman who had answered the door. "You know
you're not a maid, right?"

The woman gave a little smile and nodded. "Just taking a little
break."

Elizabeth Bowden laughed. "Dad giving you a hard time?"

"Let's say he's been grumpier than usual today," the woman Elizabeth
had called Doreen replied diplomatically.

"Doreen here is my dad's nurse," Elizabeth told Daniel, by way of
explanation. "I'm Elizabeth Bowden, but please, call me Lizzie." She
extended a hand, which Daniel shook. Professional, he though. And a
firm grip. "You must be Daniel Malcolm."

"Thanks for seeing me, Miss Bowden. As I said on the phone, I have a
few questions for you."

"Sure. Mind if we go to the kitchen? I'm trying a few things out. You
can be my taster."

Daniel followed her. She reminded him of Jenn--then again, any woman
that was friendly and good-looking and warm reminded him of Jenn. Put
it aside, he scolded himself. Focus.

"I gotta say," continued Elizabeth as she directed Daniel to sit on
one of the tall stools by the kitchen counter, "I was a bit confused
by your call. Why do you think I can help you? Here," she said after
pulling a ladle out of a pot simmering on the stove, "taste."

Daniel did. A thick butternut squash taste spread into his
mouth. "Nice. Very nice."

Elizabeth grinned. "Thanks! I've got a wedding coming up for a friend
of a friend and I have a caterer that I like but I wanted to make
something special and I've been trying out recipes." She dropped the
ladle in the sink, and covered the simmering pot. "Plus it keeps me
from going nuts. Or driving others nuts. I'm getting married
tomorrow," she said, with the voice of someone dismissing a topic
while wishing to be praised for it.

"Congratulations," said Daniel, as he knew he was expected to. And
Elizabeth looked so excited that it was not difficult to feel happy
for her. "I wish you the best."

"Thanks!"

"Are you taking care of it yourself?"

"Yes. Professional conditioning, I guess you might say. I can't let it
go. Besides, you know what they say: if you want something done well,
do it yourself. Or pay through the nose. I chose the first route." She
was speaking quickly, as if she had an abundance of energy desperate
for an outlet. "Would you like some tea? Some coffee? Anything? I've
got wine." She pointed to the bottle of red wine by the side of the
counter. There was a glass next to it, her own. She looked vaguely
apologetic. "Sorry, I'm just a bundle of nerves. It helps me calm
down."

"No worries, Miss Bowden. I do have a few questions that I was hoping
you could help me with. Could you take a look at this list?" He
slipped a printout of the list of suspected victims that Brisecoeur
had given him.

Elizabeth picked it up, but kept looking at Daniel. "Aren't you a bit
young to be a cop?"

"I'm not a cop. I'm working for a private security agency."

"A private security agency? That's pretty vague." Her eyes were
piercing, intelligent. "And what sort of thing are you securing, Agent
Malcolm?"

"Oh, it depends on the days. Your usual mutants, psychic weirdos, the
odd super-villain. On good days, we get to track down aliens."

Elizabeth stared at him for a beat before laughing. "All right, I
deserved that." She looked down at the list, cocked her head,
frowned. "Okay, these names are all clients of mine." She looked back
at Daniel. "What about them?"

"We're not entirely sure, Miss Bowden. I cannot go into the details
just yet, but we've been investigating allegations that someone has
tried to hurt these people, and we've been trying to find out what
they have in common in order to identify the threat. And it looks like
what they have in common is you."

Elizabeth looked worried for a second, and reached for her glass of
wine. She sat down. "Yes, I've planned their weddings. All of them. I
remember some of them quite well--you get to know people when you're
neck deep organizing one of the most important days of their
lives. And you're saying someone wants to hurt them? Who? And why? And
why me?"

"That's what we're trying to find out, Miss Bowden. Do you happen to
know anything that might link these people together beside you?"

She looked at the list again. "No... I don't think so. Nothing comes
to mind, certainly. I mean, they're all... No. There's nothing special
about them that I've ever noticed."

"What about their wedding? Anything odd happened? Anything out of the
ordinary? A guest that maybe stood out, did not belong, that appeared
on more than one occasion?"

Elizabeth thought about the question, ruminating it for a long moment
before shaking her head. "No. Nothing comes to mind. I don't usually
go to the ceremonies, because I'm often busy getting the final details
settled in the reception hall. I mean, there's always little things
that go wrong before and during every reception. People don't always
act like they're supposed to, or do things that make sense. But
nothing really special happened at any of these that has not happened
at others."

"How about staff? Do you use the same caterers, the same decorators,
the same florists?"

"No. There's people I know and trust, but I tend to play it local for
several reasons, and as far as I can tell just glancing at this list,
all of these wedding occurred in different places, so I've probably
used different people for most of them. I'd need to look at my files
to be sure." She made a face. "Why would someone want to hurt them?"

"I don't know, Miss Bowden. Do you keep your files in the house?"

"Files? You mean, on my clients? Yes."

"Who has access to them?"

"No one, really. Just me. I keep everything here. I work from home."

"Any assistants? part-time college students helping out?"

"Is this man bothering you, Lizzie?" The voice, strong and harsh and
old, rang from behind Daniel, interrupting the flow of his
conversation with Lizzie.

Daniel turned to see an older man, maybe in his sixties, sitting in a
wheel chair, looking at Daniel with an angry frown on his face. He had
a blanket over his legs. Daniel remembered the lift he had seen
running alongside the staircase in the entrance, and understood
Doreen's presence. She must be this man's nurse. Elizabeth Bowden had
mentioned her dad giving Doreen trouble.

He looked at the old man, while Elizabeth replied in a voice tinged
with amusement, "No, Dad--he's just asking me some questions about
some of my clients that seem to have run into a spot of trouble. He's
not bothering me." The old man's arms were strong, which suggested
that he had been wheelchair-bound for a long time. And the rest of his
body, the part not covered by the blanket, also looked fit, which
pointed at a regular regime of exercise. Doing so while physically
disabled required discipline, which when put in combination with the
straight bearing of the man hinted strongly at a military past.

"Sir? Daniel Malcolm." He extended a hand.

The older man stared at Daniel a long time, as if judging his
worth. "James Bowden." He shook the proffered hand. The handshake was
even firmer than his daughter's.

"Ever served?" asked the old man.

"Excuse me?"

"Dad--" Elizabeth chimed in, her voice still slightly amused.

"The military. Ever served, son? Ever seen war?"

"No sir. Never had that pleasure."

Before James Bowden could respond, Elizabeth intervened. "Dad, leave
him alone. Please excuse my father, Agent Malcolm. He tends to put the
bar high for men that come through the door and speak to his only
daughter." She looked at her father, and the two exchanged a glance
that held love, respect, and a mixture of stubborn determination and
challenge, all in one expression. Daniel was impressed.

"And to answer your question, Agent Malcolm," she continued, "no, I
don't have any assistants. This is a one-woman job. Although I am
reaching the point where I might need someone to help."

"Who would have the opportunity to look at them? Doreen?"

"I guess, but why? Why would she bother?"

"There's Greg," said James Bowden, his voice steady.

"Dad--"

"Who's Greg?" asked Daniel.

"My fiance," responded Elizabeth, still looking at her father. "Greg
Hermann."

"He has access to the files?"

Elizabeth still kept her gaze on her father, the two engaged in a bit
of a staring contest. "He does," she said. "He's taking care of the
insurance for the business." She looked back at Daniel. "You'd be
amazed the sort of things that wedding planners can be held liable
for." She shakes her head, gives him a small smile. "Greg's got
nothing to do with any of this. He's the sweetest guy you've ever
met." The way she said it, proud and so clearly in love, tugged at
Daniel's heart. He fought back thoughts of his own missing fiancee.

"He probably doesn't," replied Daniel, remaining diplomatic. "But you
said he's an insurance agent? He's probably got an office somewhere?"
Elizabeth nodded her assent. "He's probably keeping notes, and those
notes may have been compromised. We should explore all
possibilities. Could you tell me where his office is?"

Elizabeth hesitated one second, then sighed. "He works at Kanawha
Insurance, downtown. The Turner building. Do you know where it is?"

"I can find out. Thank you, Miss Bowden." Daniel stood, and Elizabeth
followed suit. "If you think of anything else, please call me." He
left her his cell phone number. "Mister Bowden," he extended a hand
towards the wheelchair-bound man, "it was a pleasure to meet you."

Bowden merely grunted as he shook Daniel's hand.

"I'll walk you out, Agent Malcolm," said Elizabeth. "Dad, I'm heading
out to Shelley's to make sure everything's squared away for tomorrow."
She shut down the stove, covered the pot that had been simmering
there. "There's some butternut squash soup ready, feel free to
partake. It has to get eaten somehow."

Daniel waited by the door as Elizabeth grabbed her handbag and leaned
down to kiss her father on the cheek. She gave him a sweet smile, and
lead Daniel to the door. "Bye Doreen!" she shouted.

"You have to forgive my father, Agent Malcolm," said Elizabeth once
they were outside. "He can be a bit gruff, especially with young men
that buzz around his daughter."

"Young men that aren't enlisted, that is."

"Believe it or not, he's even gruffer with enlisted ones. Probably
something to do with knowing how they think. He can be... overly
protective at times."

"Most fathers are."

"Maybe. But he's been raising me ever since my mother died, and it's
been tough. And I know that he's bitter about the fact that I help
take care of him. In his world view, a father takes care of his
daughter, not the other way around."

"How does he feel about Greg?"

They were in the driveway, Elizabeth with her car keys out, the cab
still waiting for Daniel. Elizabeth gave a somewhat sad smile. "He
likes him. I think. As much as a father can like the boy that's going
to take his little girl away. He's been very good about the whole
wedding thing, but these last few weeks, it's been tougher. Maybe he's
just really coming to grips with the fact that I'll be getting
married, and he's taking it as me leaving. Which in a sense I am." She
shrugged, looking wistful for a second.

"He'll get around," said Daniel, putting his hand on his arm, in a
gesture he wanted to be reassuring. "It might take some used to, but
he loves you, that's clear, and how could he not want you to be
happy?"

When Elizabeth looked back at him, her eyes were damp. She smiled. "I
hope you're right, Agent Malcolm, I hope you're right. Are you sure I
cannot drive you somewhere?"

Daniel nodded towards the cab. "It's okay, I have my ride right
here. I may be in touch later, Miss Bowden. In any event, best of luck
on your wedding tomorrow."

"Here's to luck not being necessary."

On impulse, Elizabeth reached out and hugged Daniel briefly before
getting into her car.

Daniel watched her go, slightly dazed. He had not realized how little
contact he had had with another human being since... since way too
long. Before he went down to his training with ADCorp at the beginning
of the summer, he had been spending a fair amount of time with his
friend Cindy, but that was already four months ago. He had pulled away
from his friends, from the people in his life--those that were
left--and he had no energy to fight that isolationist impulse. Part of
him wanted to be left alone, to sulk quietly in the corner, lick his
wounds, hide from the world.

People he cared about were gone. Serena. Radhu. Jenn. Too much
loss. Too much death. Too much uncertainty. He was a pool of darkness,
and that darkness was brought in sharp contrast when placed next to
someone as cheerful as Elizabeth had been. She reminded him of
Jenn. She reminded him of Cindy. Warmth and love in one bright
package. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath to steady himself,
then turned and walked back to the cab waiting for him in the
driveway. He told the driver to take him back to the Marriott.

He contacted Brisecoeur. "Got a lead. Elizabeth Bowden confirmed that
all of the suspected victims were her clients. So it's pretty clear
that she's the link we were looking for."

"It does sound like it, n'est-ce pas? I did a quick search for
Elizabeth Bowden," replied Brisecoeur. "She started her
wedding-planning business a few months before our first identified
victim. So the numbers match. Now we just have to identify the
Freak. Probably someone in her circle. And keep in mind, it's possible
she's been affected herself."

"You mean she might be giving our guy the names of possible victims?"

"Yup. It's been done before."

"Damn. I should have asked her about..."

"That's the thing. He'd have told her not to reveal his existence."

"How can we tell if someone's been affected by a Freak?"

"There's no real way we know of. We look for behavioral changes,
mostly. Psychological assessments."

"So what's next?"

"Protocol is to start looking at people in the circles of Bowden. I've
got her file here. Only child. Mother died when she was
eleven. Biological father left the home. Her mother's second husband
raised her. James Bowden, fifty-nine, wounded in the Gulf War. Shot in
the spine, paralysis of the lower body in December 1990," recited
Brisecoeur.

"He has a nurse."

"Male?"

"Female. Near as I can tell. Doreen something."

"Got it. Home-case nurse, Doreen Flaherty. Female. She can't be the
Freak, but maybe, again, she's controlled by him. I'll pull out a
circle search for her as well. As for Bowden, a few cousins, but all
out of the area. One could have traveled, presumement, but preliminary
searches reveal nothing. She doesn't have any employees listed in her
federal forms. Does she have any informal assistants?"

"She said no. Although her fiance takes care of her insurance. Greg
Hermann, at Kanawha Insurance. And he has access to her files."

"Mmm. The Gazette in Charleston has a wedding announcement for
Elizabeth Grace Bowden to marry Gregory Fitzgerald Hermann at the
Sacred Heart Church tomorrow at two in the afternoon."

Daniel hear typing in the background.

"Gregory Hermann. Works as an actuary for Kanawha Insurance in
Charleston. Started four years ago after graduating from the
University of Virginia. Two brothers, two sisters. His father is a
preacher. No information when the relationship started with
Mademoiselle Bowden."

Daniel was thinking. That Gregory was the son of a preacher squared
with Shawbank's assessment that the Special came from a socially
conservative background. "I think we should talk to him. It's Friday,
he's probably at his office. The Turner building downtown, Bowden told
me. Can you call Shawbank and tell her to meet me there?"

"Will do."

The cab driver knew the Turner building, and nodded silently when told
of their new destination.


				* * *


Elizabeth Bowden pulled her car next to the curb where her friend
Shelley was waiting. All through the ride, she kept thinking about her
meeting with Agent Malcolm, and the possibility that some of her
clients might be in danger because of her. She kept running through
her head the list of activities she had been involved in, to see if
anything came up, to see if she had missed something, some sign, some
hint that something bad might be about to happen, but she came up
blank. All she remembered was the joy and stress surrounding all the
preparations and gearing up leading to the various ceremonies and
receptions, all emotional, but aside from various quibbles between
families and conflicting desires and goals, nothing particularly
negative came up. Weddings were celebratory, by their very nature, or
so Elizabeth firmly believed.

As Shelley opened the door and slid into the passenger seat, pulling
the skirt of her suit down as she did so, Elizabeth wondered if she
had done right to call Greg to tell him about the visit she had
received and to ask him if he had noticed anything himself that she
might have missed with respect to those clients that Agent Malcolm had
identified. Greg had confirmed that he also could not think of
anything special about them--although his perspective was very much
from that of an insurer, and mostly focused on location and the
activities and catering options required by the reception.

Elizabeth shifted her attention to Shelley, who let out a deep sigh
next to her. "My, you look nice," she told her friend, looking her up
and down. Shelley had on a professional skirt suit that managed to
remain proper while still highlighting the shape of the young blonde's
fit body.

"Big client meeting this morning, with all the department heads, and
we had to put on a dog and pony show, to show the client that we could
construct his space rocket at the same price as our competitors, but
also could toss in chrome trims and blinking lights at no charge." She
grimaced to show exactly what she thought about the non-engineering
aspects of her work. "Now I need a drink, and a shower to wash off the
grime of PR bullshit."

Elizabeth smiled at her friend, and patted the blonde's stockinged
knee as she drove the car back into traffic. "You want to grab a drink
in the middle of your work day? I hope you're not designing a guidance
system or something for your rocket..."

Shelley wiggled out of her jacket, and leaned back against the seat,
her eyes closed. She unbuttoned the top two buttons on her shirt. "The
big boss gave us the rest of the day off. For good behavior, I
guess. So yeah, I can do a drink. And maybe we can find a stud
somewhere to scratch that itch I got." She turned her head to
Elizabeth, and smiled. "Or maybe you want to help with that?"

Elizabeth glanced at her friend and grinned back. "You don't give up,
do you? Let's go get that drink first, I want to talk to you about
tomorrow."

"Nervous?"

"Getting there. Tingle in my extremities, bit of a desire to jump and
scream, and just wanting tomorrow to be there already."

"I get that before races. You know what helps me when it gets too
much?"

"What?"

"Sex."

Elizabeth laughed. "I give up! You're impossible. So where to? The
Touch-And-Go Motel?"

"You're serious?"

"No! But I do want that drink. And I do want to talk to you, and run
through the day with you tomorrow. I need your engineer mind for an
hour or so, just to make sure the details are right."

"Fine. But I want you to know, my way is not only more fun, but it's
also more effective in reducing stress."

Elizabeth shook her head, amused by her best friend's
attitude. Shelley had always been there for her, and she really loved
the girl. And yes, if she were honest, part of her really wanted to
slip into a bed naked with the lithe blonde, and explore her tight
body one more time. Once I get Greg to okay the idea, we'll have some
fun, she told herself. She had no fear she would make her soon-to-be
husband see the beauty of the situation.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a ring tone--Elizabeth thought she
recognized a solo from Mahler's Third Symphony, and looked at her
friend in surprise. "How did I not know you were into classical music?
What else have you been keeping from me?" Shelley, as far as Elizabeth
knew, had always been much more into the vapid pop hits of the moment,
from Britney Spears to Katy Perry via Christina Aguilera and Lady
Gaga.

Shelley didn't respond, instead reached into her purse and pulled out
a small flip phone. Elizabeth frowned, as she knew her friend was an
inveterate iPhone addict.

"Yes?" Shelley said into her phone.

Elizabeth was now intrigued, as her friend's tone had
changed--serious, almost subdued--the way Elizabeth had sometimes
heard her talk to teachers back in high school, those teachers she
really liked and had wanted to impress. She could not make out the
voice in the receiver, and felt bad about even trying to hear. She
concentrated on the road, happy that traffic was light.

"Yes," continued Shelley after a pause.

Elizabeth gave a moment's thought on possible destinations, trying to
figure out whether her friend was more in the mood for a pub or a
cocktail lounge while running through the list of possibilities in her
mind.

"I understand," said Shelley into her phone. "Yes, twenty minutes."
She flipped the phone closed, and slipped it back into her purse.

"Everything okay?" asked Elizabeth.

"Of course. Why wouldn't things be okay?"

Elizabeth glanced at her friend as a beat-up red Volkswagen cut in
front of her coming out of a recessed parking lot.

"I don't know. You sounded... weird there on the phone."

"Just an unexpected call. Do you mind if we took a slight detour
before getting our drink?"

"Sure. What's up?"

"It's sort of a surprise. Make a left at the next light."

Elizabeth looked at her friend, confused. "Shel, what's going on?"

Shelley rolled her eyes, and made a face. "Would you just quit being
so nosy? I told you, it's a surprise! Just... trust me, okay?" She put
her hand on her Elizabeth's knee, and caressed it softly through the
redhead's jeans. Elizabeth had to admit that the touch felt good, and
Shelley must have picked up on it because she grinned. "I'll make it
up to you later..." Her voice held such promises that Elizabeth
shivered.

"Not before I talk to Greg, Shel. I told you."

"Spoilsport," the blonde pouted. "After the light, make a right at the
next stop."

"Up Washington?"

Shelley nodded. Ten minutes later, she was directing Elizabeth to park
beside a small church with a gothic facade tucked away in the shade of
three larger office buildings.

Shutting the car off, Elizabeth stared at the church, then at her
friend, who was getting out of the car.

"You coming?"

"Shel..." Elizabeth was hesitant. This was the last place she had
expected her friend to take her. "What are we doing here?"

"I told you, it's a surprise. Come on."

Elizabeth fell into step beside her friend, who seemed to have gained
some enthusiasm over the tiredness and gloominess she was exhibiting
earlier.

And Elizabeth wondered why Shelley had brought her here, of all
places. She had not stepped foot in this church since her mother died.


				* * *


Daniel had been waiting for no longer than ten minutes when Shawbank
met him at the entrance of the Turner building where Daniel had
confirmed Kanawha Insurance held office. She looked utterly
unflustered, as usual.

She nodded to him, and engaged the revolving doors.

Daniel followed. "Brisecoeur brought you up to speed?" he asked.

"Yes. Good work."

She walked past the reception desk, where the security guard called
after her. "Hey! You have to sign in! Miss!"

Shawbank did not bother replying, heading to the elevator bank.

Daniel sighed and stopped to sign in and mollify the guard. "Please
excuse my colleague. She's getting mentally ready to go and argue her
case to her insurance agent. You know how it is..."

He grabbed two visitor passes from the guard, who looked at him
suspiciously. Daniel gave him a mixture of a smile and a shrug and the
guard must have seen several dissatisfied clients of Kanawha Insurance
because he finally shook his head and let Daniel go. "Sixth floor," he
said.

Shawbank was holding the elevator. Daniel pressed the sixth floor
button, then handed her a visitor badge. "So what's the game plan?"

"We get him alone. We want to avoid a scene, but also keep him from
using his abilities to get help." She turned to Daniel. "Assume that
every woman in the vicinity has been affected by him and cannot be
trusted. He could have easily ordered any of them, or all of them, to
protect him at all costs, even their own life. If he's at all
powerful, they would not even hesitate."

"Really?"

"Really. I've seen it. It makes thing... complicated."

They found Kanawha Insurance easily. Daniel followed Shawbank's lead,
the raven-haired agent still imperturbable, but he could perceive a
tension in her gait. Somehow, knowing that Shawbank was unnerved
unnerved him.

"Brisecoeur," Shawbank said, speaking into the earpiece that both she
and Daniel had inserted during their elevator ride up. "Can you bring
up the plans of the building and keep an eye on the exits? I presume
everything is under camera surveillance?"

David hooked into the conversation with his own earpiece.

"Confirme," Brisecoeur replied. "Piece of cake, too. Crappy security."

"Just keep your eyes open. Shawbank out."

The insurance company's offices were bustling, and when Shawbank asked
the receptionist for Gregory Hermann, they were directed to a cluster
of offices on the western side of the building. Daniel scanned
everyone, remembering the picture of Hermann that Brisecoeur had found
and forwarded while Daniel was waiting for Shawbank earlier. Hermann
was young and would have been handsome if not for the angry acne scars
running down one side of his face. The scars had the advantage of
making Hermann easy to recognize.

"Gregory Hermann?" asked Shawbank of the young somewhat mousy
administrative assistant whose name plate announced was called Meghan
and who sat behind a desk clearly associated with the offices that
included Hermann's own.

The administrative assistant looked up at Shawbank and did a double
take, faced with the determined ice-blue eyes of the leather-clad
woman. Meghan's eyes shifted to Daniel, who smiled almost
apologetically. Textbook good cop bad cop, he thought. Except it
doesn't feel like an act, does it?

"Hi Meghan. I'm Agent Malcolm, this is Agent Shawbank. We're with
ADSec, a security company. We'd like a few words with Mister Hermann,"
Daniel said, keeping his voice even but tossing in a sparkle of
warmth.

Meghan shook her head. "I'm sorry, Mister Hermann is not here. Would
you like to make an appointment for later?"

Shawbank frowned, and stared at Meghan for a long moment, the scrutiny
clearly making the young administrative assistant
uncomfortable. Shawbank then stepped behind the desk and headed to one
of the offices, disregarding Meghan's outraged objections.

"Meghan," Daniel said, hoping to avoid a confrontation. "We have
reasons to believe that Mister Hermann might be in danger. It's
important that we talk to him." Assuming Meghan cared about her boss,
Daniel thought this might help her share information.

Meghan's eyes went from Shawbank--who had opened one of the office
doors--to Daniel, unsure how to act, now looking vaguely panicked. Her
eyes were wide. "Greg? In danger? Oh my God!" she said, covering her
mouth with her hand. "It's the Connellys, isn't it? He was making
jokes about it a few days ago, but I could see it in his eyes that he
was worried. And now they really are going to kill him and--"

"Meghan, please!" Daniel interrupted. The Connellys? What now?
"Where's Greg?"

She breathed hard. "I don't know. You just missed him. He left."

"Where to?"

"I don't know! He just left. Maybe... he looked in a hurry?" Meghan
looked like she was near tears.

Shawbank had returned from her search of the office, nodded to Daniel,
and walked off. Daniel, after thanking Meghan and promising her that
he would make sure Greg was safe, caught up with her.

"Brisecoeur," she said. "Hermann is on the run."

"Got him," Brisecoeur said after a short pause. He must have been
scanning the camera feeds from the building already. "Parking garage,
second basement. He's in a Toyota Corolla, color sky
blue. Registration matches the records. It's his car."

"The gates. Can you disable them?"

"Probably," the Belgian replied.

"You're not exactly a people's person, are you?" Daniel said without
turning to Shawbank when they were in the elevator heading down to the
second basement.

Shawbank shrugged. "Not necessary. You were there to deal with the
girl. I figured I'd check out Hermann's office."

"Is that why I'm on the team? I'm the nice guy?"

Shawbank shot him a look he could not decipher. "Just be ready. We'll
intercept Hermann at the exit. I'll deal with him. You distract the
guard if there is one."

"Is that safe, you going after Hermann alone?"

Another look. "Experience. I've taken down my fair share of
Specials. Just take care of the guard. I'd rather avoid
complications."

Brisecoeur guided them to the car exit from the elevator bank of the
second basement, and when they got there a blue Corolla was sitting at
the gate, its driver's side door open and dinging loudly, while a man
stood before the lowered gate examining it with a puzzle
expression. Clearly, whatever Brisecoeur had done worked.

The man turned when he heard the two agents approaching, and the
momentarily relieved look on his face that suggested he was expecting
building maintenance workers shifted into one of fear as he stared at
them.

"He's going to run," Shawbank said.

And indeed, just as she said it, the man who Daniel had recognized as
Gregory Hermann took off in a sprint. He ran in the direction opposite
the one from which Shawbank and Daniel were coming, a direction that
led him deeper into the garage.

Shawbank started after him, and Daniel followed.

"Go around," she said, pointing to the left. "Block his way. I'm going
direct. Brisecoeur, is there another exit?"

Daniel acknowledged, but Shawbank was sprinting away before she could
hear him. Her boots thumped lightly down the basement, echoing the
steps from Hermann further away. Daniel cut to the left, following the
road upwards.

Brisecoeur confirmed that there was a pedestrian exit on Daniel's
level, and Daniel reached it before Hermann, if that was were the man
was headed. Daniel paused, then ran towards where Hermann would emerge
from the long way around the lower level.

Hermann came running around a pillar and then stop in his tracks when
he spotted Daniel.

Shawbank slammed into Hermann from behind, tackling him in a move that
would have delighted Daniel's friend Jackson back at Darnell.

Hermann went down, hard, but he struggled with all his might. Shawbank
punched her fist into his kidneys from behind and Hermann doubled over
in pain. Shawbank took advantage of Hermann's distraction to flip him
onto his back--a move that caused Hermann to wail--and to straddle
him. While he struggled, Shawbank pulled from the folds of her leather
duster something that looked to Daniel like a short sword, and pressed
it against Hermann's throat.

As Daniel ran towards the scene, astonished at Shawbank's action--a
sword, seriously?--he saw Shawbank's face go blank, her eyes staring
in the distance.

Fuck, he thought. He is the Special.

He ran harder.