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When Tally came to the first thing she noticed was that she couldn’t move her arms. She gave them a second tug, to no avail. Instead, harsh rope dug into her wrists, binding her hands behind her. What was supposed to be the mission where they caught Nicte Batan had apparently gone awry. Tally did her best to rack her memory for what had happened. She had been in the cabin with Raelle, Scyla, and Abigail. Oh my God, she thought, panic growing in her throat. She instinctively panicked, trying to stand, only to find that her legs, too, were bound, likely to the legs of a chair. Where were the others? Were they alive? Were they here? Where was she? For the first time Tally opened her eyes. She was in a room she didn’t recognize. It was spacious enough for her heavy breathing to echo off the dull gray walls. One bare lamp hung above her, keeping the room in enough darkness that Tally couldn’t identify the large appliances shoved against the far walls. What she did recognize made her stomach flip with dread. Not more than a few feet away was a surgical cart laden with a variety of scalpels, forceps, and a vast array of surgical tools.
There was a slight cough, and Tally realized she wasn’t alone. To her left, tied to a chair in a similar manner, was Nicte Batan. The site of the Spree leader sent a new wave of panic through Tally. Restrained or not, Nicte was dangerous.
The sound of her struggling must have caught Nicte's attention because the Spree leader let out a harsh laugh. “No need to worry about me, Red. Looks like we're in the same boat.” She flexed her arms against the binding ropes to prove her point.
Ignoring her, Tally kept tugging at the ropes tying her arms. But she was still coming to and was getting nowhere fast. Fine, time to use a witch’s best weapon. Tally opened her mouth to sow an attack seed, but the sounds seemed to die in her throat. That was when she felt the snug metal of a collar, repressing her powers.
Another chuckle from Nicte. “I already tried that. They’ve got us both wearing them.” Tally groaned, trying to push her thoughts past her growing sense of hopelessness.
But none of that mattered. Not when the rest of her unit were missing. She gave Nicte a side glance. An hour ago she would have sworn she wouldn’t have asked anything of the terrorist. But an hour ago she hadn’t been tied up in a strange environment and unable to do work. Reluctantly, she turned to Nicte to ask.
“The others, the ones I was with. Are they…” Tally couldn’t bring herself to speak the words out loud. Not that it mattered, because a second later she heard a sound behind her of a door opening. For a second no one spoke, as she heard the door shut again and a key turn in the lock. But as the sound of footsteps came towards her and Nicte, a voice finally spoke.
“Your friends are dead.” The voice was raspy and almost giddy. The manic tone drew goosebumps over her skin. She hoped that whoever this was, he couldn’t tell. The last thing she needed was to appear afraid. The owner of the voice drew closer, walking a path between the chairs Nicte and Tally were tied to. As soon as he entered her line of sight Tally began taking in and memorizing his features. Short brown hair, dark eyes, skin folding with wrinkles and a wide mouth. Unfortunately, none of those features, or the man’s overall appearance would stand out in a crowd. Still, Tally continued to scan his face for identifying features.
Because it was easier to focus on him than what he had just said. But try as she might, Tally couldn’t focus on the man’s words. Her blood seemed to be pumping so loud in her ears she couldn’t hear anything else. Instead, her brain clasped on to those four words, repeated over and over in her mind. “Your friends are dead. Your friends are dead. Your friends are-” Tally was dragged out of her spiral by the sharp feeling of someone slapping her. The shock and pain was enough to draw her back to the present. The man chuckled when she flinched.
He knelt down so that he was eye level with Tally, mere inches separating them. She tried her best to remain stoic, but being so close to what was so clearly a member of the Camarilla caused her to pull back the slightest fraction. Of course, the man noticed, and gave another, spiteful, laugh.
“So, you’re really the best the army has to offer? The best and the brightest? I mean, you’d have to be, to be sent to capture the leader of the Spree.” Though Tally’s eyes were focused on the face in front of her, she heard the sound of metal scraping against metal. Nicte. Tally had almost forgotten that she was there, her brain still caught on the fate of her unit. “Your friends are dead.”
The man finally stood, turning his attention to Nicte. “Yes, I know who you are. Nicte Batan. Founder of the Spree.” He said it in an odd, almost reverent tone that didn’t sit right with Tally. He walked closer to Nicte, fixing her with an intense stare. “You know, I should thank you. You’ve done more to turn the public against your kind than I could ever dream.”
A dark shadow passed over Nicte’s face, but it was quickly replaced with a sharp smirk.
“It’s a pleasure,” she responded. “If you untie me I’ll shake your hand.” Without a word the man closed the space between him and Nicte, and with a speed Tally didn’t expect, his fist connected with her face. The hit was so hard, Nicte’s head snapped back at an angle that made Tally flinch. When she recovered, Tally noticed that Nicte’s lip had cracked open and a thin rivulet of blood was running down her chin. Nicte, however, barely acknowledged the wound. Instead, she let out a high pitched, almost manic peal of laughter. “Oh boy,” she addressed the man. “If you know who I am, you know it’s going to take a lot more than that to hurt me.” A flicker of annoyance flashed across the man’s face, until it was replaced with his previous smug mask as he began to walk towards the surgical cart.
“You know, I was kind of hoping you would say that.” He turned back and the look in his eyes made Tally’s blood run cold. It was pure sadism. And his eyes weren’t the only thing flashing. In his right hand the man was clutching a scalpel. When he started stalking towards Nicte, with that weapon in his hand and that gleam in his eye, Tally Craven felt something she never could imagine: sympathy for Nicte Batan.
***
To her eternal credit, Nicte refused to scream. Tally was impressed, even if she would never admit it. The first thing the man did with his scalpel was make one long cut down the front of her shirt, brushing the pieces of fabric away, revealing her torso and black bra. Nicte barely reacted, holding herself still as a statue. But she couldn’t fully hide the fear in her eyes when the man’s gaze raked over her. Picking up on the shift in Nicte’s energy, the man let out a low laugh.
“You think that’s what I want? Don’t flatter yourself, witch. I’d cut off my hand before touching you in that way.” Nicte’s tense posture seemed to release by the smallest fraction. Her relief was short lived, however, when the man lifted his scalpel, metal gleaming in the dim light. “Good thing there are other ways to hurt you.” And with those words, scalpel brandished, he descended upon his prey.
Tally had no idea how long the torture lasted. Only that Nicte took it with bitter wit, throwing out quips between clenched teeth as he hacked at her stomach, chest, and arms. Sometimes the cuts were small and shallow, dragging pieces of skin with them. Sometimes they were deeper, and Tally took note that Nicte was losing a lot of blood. Still, she didn’t scream, barely even flinched. This was clearly frustrating the man, as his cuts came with increasing speed and ferocity. When he saw that he was getting nowhere the man backed away, all but growling with rage. This caused a smirk to spread across Nicte’s face.
“What’s the problem, Camarilla?” She taunted. “Not what you expected? Didn’t think a witch could challenge you? Well, I’ve seen shit that you, with your tiny knife,” she paused with a cruel smile “Could never imagine. Now why don’t you get the hell out of here and try again tomorrow?”
For a brief moment the man looked like he wanted to light Nicte on fire right then and there. But instead he took another step back, though his evil grin made Tally uneasy. “You know, Batan, I might just do that.” He started towards the door. Over his shoulder he added. “Sleep well, witch, and wait until you see what tomorrow brings.”
The moment the door locked behind him, Nicte collapsed like a marionette whose strings had been cut. It was as if the cocky, sure woman of only a minute ago had been replaced by something broken. Not that Tally could blame her; with her wounds still painting her in blood, the bravado could only last so long.
All Tally herself wanted was to collapse, to close her eyes and let this all wash away like a bad dream. She almost believed that if she did, when she opened her eyes, Raelle, Abigail, and even Scylla would be rushing in to save her. She twisted as far as she could to see the door, hoping any moment for it to fly open and reveal her unit, bringing storm and fury upon this place. But all she got was a scoff from Nicte.
“No one’s coming to rescue us, Craven.”
“You don’t know that,” Tally shot back. Still, the man’s voice kept echoing in her head. Your friends are dead. Your friends are dead. “They’ll come for me. They’ll come for us.”
“And if they do?” Nicte demanded. “They’re not gonna catch and release. No,” She turned from looking at Tally to staring straight ahead. Tally thought she might be crying, but couldn’t tell for sure. “No, my future was over as soon as we met.” Despite who Nicte was, Tally couldn’t help but feel a little bad for her. She knew that Alder’s mind was set on Nicte’s execution, and didn’t want to lie to her. When General Bellworth had changed her mission parameters to bring Nicte in alive, Tally’s goal had been to shine light on the truth. Even then she hadn’t been under any illusion that Nicte would make it out of Fort Salem again. And with her bleeding from two dozen wounds, there was no guarantee she would even make it that long. But to say it was another thing entirely.
“Maybe not. You’re guaranteed a fair trial, just like anyone else.”
“What, by a jury of my peers? After everything you know about me, after everything you’ve seen today, do you really think you can patronize me?” This time the tears in her voice were clear. Tally knew this wasn’t an argument she was going to win, and, frankly, she was tired of trying. She just sighed.
“You’re right. They’re going to execute you the moment we step foot onto Fort Salem. Maybe you deserve it. But whatever they have in store for us, no one deserves that. So, yeah, I’m going to keep hoping for a rescue. And if you were smart you would, too.”
Done trying to make her point, Tally turned her focus to working the ropes binding her arms. She didn’t know when the man would be back or what exactly lay in store, but she would be ready. The rough rope chafed at her wrists, rubbing them raw. But every time she thought about stopping, the man’s voice reverberated in her head: Your friends are dead. And every time her determination grew. Yeah, she was being held back by ropes and a collar. But she would get free. And goddess help the Camarilla when she did.