PREVIOUSLY: Hong, with minor assistance from her jawari, has wrestled Esmeray into submission and chained her by her ankles to the rail facing out over the desert. NOW:
Esmeray eyed the mass of devils and demons defiantly, as if she was considering taking them all on. And perhaps she was. Slowly, she brought her breathing and her emotions back under control, regretting the loss of it. She hated herself for being—whatever she was. Emotional. Instinctive. Crazy—call it what you like, she hated it. She hated at herself.
She had known today was going to be difficult and that Channah would try to make her lose it. Channah always did that; a part of Esmeray hated her. But that was getting her nowhere—stop, stop Stop STOP!
She told herself—ordered herself—to breathe, to stay focused on her work, and to ignore the potential threats around her. Either Channah was going to put her in harm’s way, or she was going to protect her; and there was little enough Esmeray could do either way to improve or worsen her lot.
Like everyone in Channah’s orbit, she was the Succubus Queen’s tool and plaything. She had been for a decade—ever since Channah had rescued her from worse—and she loathed herself for it. Not that Esmeray was… entirely ungrateful. She reminded herself, as she frequently did, that she was fortunate; and that Channah had treated her better than anyone ever did before. It was as much as—more than!—a person could ask. She knew she should be more grateful, or at the very least, more philosophical, about it.
And yet, it still rankled. Esmeray longed to be free, free of all obligations and duties to her master. Free of all masters. Free of the world’s bondage! At times, she thought back longingly to her days on the streets of Constantinople, the earliest times she could remember.
Didn’t she? Of course, she did. There were lengths of darkness she could not account for, but there was no sense in thinking on them because there was nothing to learn about them. She had tried.
It was always the good times that beckoned to her anyway. Today, and on other days when she was forced by circumstances to the unhappy task of reflecting.
She hissed and spat at the devils, pleased they could not reach her, twice as pleased to get a rise out of them. She always could! They were predictable—fuck! Like her. No. No! She was not predictable. Everybody told her so!
It was just the demons. They were predictable that way, goading them a reliable gambit to break the cycle of her unwanted thoughts, trying not to think of—her position. The chains—
Back then, she told herself, she slept where she liked, ate what she liked, and kept herself to herself. Mostly. Always, she slept anywhere she could find, ate anything she could scavenge, and avoided the city watch as assiduously as she tried to avoid the other monsters the city watch was meant to guard people against. But not always with success. She shuddered, remembering there had been some bad times—days, nights, when they caught her and things had been beyond her control awhile, things happening of which she would be no part, and her only objective had been to escape and recover, restore order, restore equilibrium.
Like now.
Street children had only their wits to keep them a step ahead of horror; and like most street children, she had tripped and fallen into the clutches of evil men—always men—once or twice.
But it was the freedom she had usually enjoyed, that she missed now. She had been a brilliant child-thief. And when she started to come into her powers… well, unfortunately, a child struggling to comprehend their power attracted attention long before it started paying dividends.
Back then, perhaps… sometimes… maybe she had just been young and stupid. But there had been such a hope that things would get better someday, somehow. A wish that had at once been fulfilled when Channah took her in, and been slowly dashed to pieces ever since, as Esmeray, growing older and wiser, realized there was no way out for her from where she was right now, under Channah’s thumb. Nowhere for her to go to get away. But maybe, back then, before she met Channah—well, before she was caught by—
MAYBE BACK THEN, she thought forcefully to herself, she could have found somewhere, a place, if she’d had the chance.
As it was, she did not, and she would not. Not ever.
She was Channah’s, body and soul. Channah was a powerful matron and matriarch—which was generally to the good. She worked for the strongest person she had ever encountered, someone whose reach was global, whose time was infinite. It was a good thing to work for the Queen. Something filled with perks. The best she could hope for—
“Esmeray! Madwoman!” The voice tried again, more insistently. She straightened, shook her head to clear it, and looked back over her left shoulder to see Hong regarding her urgently. “Are you yourself again?”
She blinked, then nodded. “I’m fine.”
Something—disbelief, scorn, a decision of some kind that Esmeray’s assertion was incorrect—crossed her face momentarily. But after an initial sting, Esmeray’s more rational mind sensed whatever Hong was experiencing wasn’t meant for her. Hong was as focused on herself, as she was formidable. Not unlike Channah: Neither of them wasted time thinking about others, except for how she could manipulate them, and what they might be able to do for her. Despite her desire to dislike the snotty bitch, Esmeray instead felt something between relief to be dealing with a predictable, and therefore potentially helpful, person with no particular desire to mess up Esmeray’s life; and a desire to interact with Hong precisely because she couldn’t stand interacting with most people.
And Esmeray thought she saw something like a grudging respect from Hong as well. “When I heard about you, I couldn’t understand why my Queen would have anything to do with one as… brittle as you. But I see now. Do you?”
“What?” Esmeray asked, startled by the frank and sincere question.
“Do you know why she brought you here, to this place, the heteraslakos?”
“To remind me she can do whatever she likes to me,” Esmeray answered, shrugging matter-of-factly.
Something played around Hong’s lips before settling on amusement, and she snorted. “Very probably. But beyond that.”
“She said I’m damaged enough that I have the capacity to do real damage,” Esmeray answered slowly, watching Hong’s expression intently for anything insincere or petty. All she found was a flash of understanding.
Hong stepped up behind Esmeray, returning her curious gaze: “Can you abide the touch—a gentle touch—of a woman?”
Esmeray stiffened, wanting to snap that she could survive anything but quelling the urge to do so, as Hong raised her hands slowly. Sensing she had still been too fast, Hong pulled them back a moment, shushing her gently, before resting one, and then the other, on Esmeray’s sleeve, not looking away from her for a second. And then she paused, doing nothing, saying nothing, as Esmeray held her body tight as a drum, before starting to understand. With a testy but determined hiss of breath, she began forcing herself to relax. Even with the other qahramanah touching her.
“Can you touch others?” Esmeray nodded questioningly, and Hong explained, removing her hands from Esmeray’s sleeve and holding out her left hand, a few inches from Esmeray’s. “Then touch me.”
Esmeray hesitated, considering her irritation, her instant desire not to do what somebody else wanted her to do, and the tension that had arisen in her the moment Hong called her name. Deliberately, rationally, she chose to play along anyway. The queen bee obviously wanted something from her; and Esmeray wanted to know why Channah had dragged her here, what kind of show she was supposed to be putting on, exactly. Everyone wanted to be powerful and valuable—or at the very least, to understand their value to others, not merely to capitalize upon it, but to be wary of the threat the other person’s desire might pose.
Literature Section “06-98 Esmeray on Edge”—more material available at TheRemainderman.com—Part 98 of Chapter Six, “Le Saccage de la Sale Bête Rouge” (“Rampage of the Dirty Red Beast”)—1350 words—Accompanying Images: 1833-1835—Published 2025-05-23—©2025 The Remainderman. This is a work of fiction, not a book of suggestions. It’s filled with fantasies, idiots, and criminals. Don’t believe them or imitate them.