Feisty Repartee

Secrets of the Night

The lovely Silk started our latest installment of SpyVella, the original brain child of the wickedly talented Phoenix.

Chapter I - Ravens and Ghosts

This is my humble offering by way of Chapter II.

Next week, the irrepressible Theresa tackles Chapter III.

CalTechGirl will follow with Chapter IV and Phoenix will provide the grand finale!

The dim light of morning fought through the colored stain of the glass paned and fret-work shuttered windows. Moving her eyes slowly she checked her surroundings as the weight of a heavy arm crushed her against the velvet and silk bed coverings. From her vantage, the remnants of her sheer sari peered from beneath the man’s trousers from a pile across the room. The master of the house, Constantine, deeply snored beside her and for the hundredth time since he had first spied her in the house of another Birkirkaran, she quashed the urge to vomit as his foul, greasy odor assaulted her once again.

With small, but steady and smooth movements she pulled a pillow to her and eventually traded positions with it under the offending appendage. She was then able to slip deftly from the opulently dressed bed. Light on her feet, her slight frame often belied her eighteen years and she was frequently mistaken for a child. Her long blonde hair and wide-set blue eyes added to the illusion and made her particularly attractive to the Middle-Eastern men who bartered with one another for her flesh. Standing less than five feet, she hovered over the master, her lithe body cast a small shadow across the massive room. He continued to breathe deeply and without concern for the precariousness of his very existence.

Quivering as the cool air touched her bare skin, she checked the master’s pockets, as well as the lining of his clothes. From the pockets she retrieved the keys to the compound, but from the folds of his jacket, she secured the elements of her freedom.

Her time in the house of Constantine had been short, just a few weeks, but she was well familiar with the plush and ornate confines of these guilded cages, as well as the oppressive scent of incense which intermingled with the musky odor of human copulation.

The cumbrous houses of Birkirkara were not so different from the ones she had known in Istanbul. There were; however, not homes, merely factories and sweat shops whose product was the base satisfaction of powerful, but, all to often, twisted men. She knew these places for what they were: true lairs of iniquity.

It was in these quiet moments of dawn, just before the house began to stir, that she often had a flicker of recognition, a brief moment where she actually remembered the time when life was different. That magical period from her past when she had loving parents and lived in a modest home full of warmth and joy. That was before the darkness of the orphanage, before she was sold to slavery. It was well before she stopped believing in gods.

She trembled as her heart began to ache for the five-year-old happy child she once was. Steeling her nerves and mentally slamming the door to sentimentality, she lightly scrambled across the room to a serving tray on the thick carpets before the stone fireplace. Bending over, she scanned the remnants of the master’s last supper: a half gnawed leg of lamb, bones from roasted fowl, the grease from goat sausage, and various grapes and other fruits, untouched. Popping a grape into her mouth, she spied cutlery tucked under the edge of a plate. Reaching for the sturdy fork, she knew exactly what was required of her.

***

“Dammit. Dammit to hell!” Sam swore under her breath. She was too late, about twenty-four hours late, she cursed to herself and re-thought recent strategies.

Malta was one of seven small islands making up an archipelago in the middle of the Mediterranean. Flying in on a private jet would not have gone unnoticed, so she had taken the time to slip onto a neighboring island and made her way in on motorized skiff so she could come and go quietly. The cover had cost her.

Picking up her satellite phone, she contacted Cutter.

The only information she had to relay was the odious sausage eating son-of-a-bitch from the tube was named Constantine and he met his demise with a fork to the jugular.

While it was not quite square one, she thought it might as well be. All her leads were literally, dead ends.

***

Sitting in his Jaguar, John told Sam to go to ground. Exiting the vehicle, he set the alarm and returned his Blackberry to his pocket. Walking up to his flat, he reached for the knob with key in hand and he realized the door was slightly cracked. Instantly he brandished his Kahr Mk 40 and eased in.

Greeting him was the faint essence of musk and a living room full of candles. Carefully checking his environment, he continued through the small, but elegantly appointed apartment. The luminous glow of candles led him to the bedroom.

As his shadow appeared in the doorway, a soft, husky and slightly accented, but definitely feminine voice purred: “Cutter, I have been waiting for you, my darling.”

She was a vision as she lounged across his bed, clothed only in her long golden locks. He was entranced as he watched her gracefully pull one grape after another from the bunch in front of her and delectably place them between her sensuous lips. She looked so young with her flawless alabaster skin.

Long moments later, she turned her liquid blues eyes to him: “Come closer, my love, you have had long day, Natasha will take care of you.”

Relaxing slightly, John lowered his gun before responding: “You know what I want.”

Smiling triumphantly, she gave him a sideways glance before she reached under a pillow before presenting him with an envelope in one of her expertly manicured hands. “This is for you,” she taunted, “but you will have to come to me to get it.”

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