Smokey Joe laughed. “Maybe the witch needs some adult supervision. Preferably in the form of a spanking.”
Shears laughed.
“Think she likes it rough?” Smokey’s footsteps started up again, and I tried to hold myself back from leaping out of the cell and beating both their asses.
“You can’t fuck a witch,” Shears said, jogging to catch up. “She’ll turn your dick into a toad. You’ll croak every time you come.”
They both cracked up at that.
“As long as I’m inside that tight little ass,” Smokey Joe said, “I don’t give a fuckwhatit sounds like when I come.”
The power humming through my blood turned to rage, heating me from the inside, making me shake all over again.
Laugh it up, motherfuckers. I’m going to kill you in the bloodiest way possible.
They were getting close. A quick scan of the cell I’d been trapped in revealed nothing useful—Jonathan had been careful not to leave any weapons or sharp tools around. I could take a chance and try to hit one of them with the chair, but that would leave me too exposed to the other guy, especially if they were packing weapons.
With no easy escape route, I dropped back into the chair and slumped forward. They were expecting a weak, impotent demon held captive by a devil’s trap injected right into my bloodstream.
So that’s what they were gonna get.
For a minute, anyway.
Smokey Joe arrived first. Dude was built like a tank, complete with a square head set off by a square buzz cut. A brutal scar curled around his neck, and his biceps were covered in tribal tattoos I was pretty sure he didn’t know the meaning of.
His inner forearm was branded with some kind of symbol. Celtic, maybe?
He took one look at the open gate and me slumped in the chair, and said, “Why the fuck is this open?”
I said nothing.
“Speak, hellspawn,” he barked.
I lifted my head, barely meeting his eyes. “Jon… Jonathan,” I panted. “Tormenting me.”
Shears appeared behind Smokey. He was about my size, with the same tattoos and Celtic brand as his partner. Both men were human, mid-forties, dressed in nondescript black T-shirts, camouflage pants, and boots.
Their pockets bulged, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t because they were happy to see me. They were packing, geared up like some kind of cave militia.
“Why the fuck would Jonathan give you a chance to escape?” Shears asked.
“Can’t escape,” I said, lowering my voice as though it was costing me a lot of energy to speak. “Can’t move. He… torments.”
Smokey Joe laughed, his lungs wheezing. “Gotta hand it to the little fucker. He makes torture an art form.”
The men entered the cell, daring to step closer.
“So where is he?” Shears asked me.
“Fuck Jonathan.” Smokey Joe grabbed his cock and laughed. “I wanna know where that little cunt witch is at.”
“Fuck… you,” I panted. Even a weak, impotent demon like me couldn’t let him get away with that kind of talk.
Shears grinned, pulling a baton from a metal loop on the back of his belt. It looked like a police baton, but it was carved in runes and symbols.
Another devil’s trap.
“I say we smoke him,” Shears said, touching the baton to my shoulder. I flinched for show, but I didn’t feel a damn thing.
