Brimstone

Screams reverberated like a symphony off the vaulted ceilings painted an aged cranberry red. Pale gold molding arced into oval domes, mimicking the interior of a Fabergé Egg, meeting in various high points where chandeliers dangled like swords of Damocles.

Blood—fresh and old—coated the potpourri air. It mingled with lemon-scented wood polish and subtle floral arrangements in priceless urns. The entire house was soundproof, yet Damascus heard the distant prayer call starting at the nearest mosque in the ancient city.

It was an annoying disruption from the screams still bouncing off the walls and vibrating along his flesh like a lover’s caress. Fortunately, it was Isha, the last prayer of the day.

Damascus thrived off the screams. No television sets or radios filled the background with white noise. His ears yearned for even the faintest echo of each outcry, every whisper of pain. He chose a scalpel from the tools scattered across a scarred worktable and approached his current victim strapped to a St. Andrew’s cross.

The beautiful piece of furniture was multipurpose, a permanent fixture custom-built to his specifications. It was difficult to say which use he got the most pleasure out of, but currently, kink wasn’t on the menu.

Damascus was after information of the vitally important variety, so hard limit restrictions were off the table.

“Let’s start again from the beginning,” he said, holding the scalpel up for his prisoner to see.

A sudden pounding on the barred doors behind him had Damascus’s lip peeling back in an aggravated snarl.

“A request from Oman,” the messenger called through the thick, ornately carved wood.

Finally. A change of scenery.

His victim’s relief was palpable. The Elemental’s body relaxed in his bindings, and Damascus could sense his desire to sob. That was simply unacceptable. He tossed the surgeon’s blade back on the table, where it clattered across an array of torture devices. Then, curling his hands into claws, he drove them right through the flesh and muscle of his victim’s bare stomach.

It wasn’t anything like the consistency of gelatin, as some people claimed. The Elemental’s flesh met Damascus’s fingers like taut leather stretched on a tanning rack, and even as he closed them around the three bottom ribs on either side of the male's body, the wounds attempted to heal around his wrists.

The heat of the Elemental’s fire blazed out of defense and the need to mend his injuries, even as they were happening.

Bones snapped and crunched, muscles and tendons tearing as Damascus ripped the broken ribs right out. Because his fire was stronger, that was all there was to it. Strength, age, experience. Power.

Blood, gristle, and ravaged flesh dripped from his hands like the remnants of a torn open package, his prizes clutched in his fists. The screams… Fuck, the screams. Still, it wasn’t enough. Damascus rolled his shoulder with dissatisfaction and waited for them to ebb before speaking.

“Now, when those grow back, I expect the names of all your little rebel friends,” he warned darkly. “Or I’ll start peeling your flesh one layer at a time, starting with your balls.”

He tossed the useless bones on his table of toys, wiped his hands with a blood-stained rag, and left the room. Damascus barred the doors again from the outside, then followed the spit of hallway to jog down the zigzagging stairwell.

It was cut up by small landings, each with a double-arched window covered in latticework shutters. During the day, the desert air flowed freely. Since it was night, they were closed because no Fire El in their right mind liked being cold.

The stench of his victim’s drying, tacky blood mingled with the ever-present Sandalwood, which he detested. Even after banning the incense from the premises, he could still smell it, like it was baked into the walls.

Damascus strode into his study, a masculine room filled with an impressive collection of antiques, and wasn’t surprised to find his Household Elder patiently waiting there. Passing the far deadlier Elemental, he thrust his hands and arms right into the grate of hot coals burning on a brass pedestal in the center of the room.

Damascus’s groan of pleasure was damn near erotic as his greedy Element pulled the heat and flames into his flesh, burning away all the dry blood and bits of sinew. Like the Phoenix that had always been the symbol of his clan, he was reborn inside the sterilizing fire.

When Damascus stepped back, he was superbly clean, rejuvenated, and, most importantly, smelled like himself again.

“Did you learn anything new from our guest?” Oman asked, understanding his need to freshen up first.

“Yes.”

There was that, at least. A tiny grain of success after days of endless disappointment. Oman arched a brow, intrigued. Damascus twisted the lid off his favorite Fireball whiskey and settled on a stool that had once belonged to the infamous Saladin.

“There’s anxious movement across the Med,” he reported. “And gatherings near the Aegean. Our guest seems to believe there’s unrest among the Council of Winds and their beloved Immortal. There are also whispers of unease from the Elders of surrounding territories.”

Oman accepted the information without revealing his thoughts on the matter. Damascus hadn’t expected otherwise. After a stretch of silence, the air shifted, indicating a subject change. He held his tongue, waiting and praying for something good.

“Our friends at the GSI have acquired a new person of interest,” Oman finally spoke. “An Elemental.”

“We’re working for the government now?” Damascus asked with distaste. “Against our own kind?”

Oman didn’t have to point out that one of their own kind was currently strapped to a cross three stories above their heads, regrowing six ribs. Elementals handled their own shit.

It was bad enough their business was highly regulated by the fucking Winds and Aeolus. The last thing they needed was a secret black ops agency butting in—especially one that focused solely on non-human citizens yet wasn’t on anyone’s books. They had all the resources and none of the accountability.

“No. We’re going to relieve them of their detainee,” Oman replied. “She’s a Water El. Orphaned. And while the significance of her rescue was greatly impressed, the reason was not.”

Damascus scoffed. “That’s the Travelers for you,” he quickly deduced, knowing his Elder would never follow such an obscure lead from anyone else. “Please tell me this water moccasin isn’t the romantic type.”

Oman smirked with amusement. “Don’t worry. Your time in Casablanca is temporarily on hold. The GSI captured the Water El just outside of Fresno.”

“Home?” Damascus perked up.

“Home,” Oman confirmed.

That was even better news than he’d dared to hope for.

“Thank the bloody gods,” he expelled with heavy relief. “I’ll gather the troops.”

“No,” his Elder said, halting him. “Just your bonded. I don’t want anyone else involved yet.”

Damascus waited, torn between the significance of that and his desire to get the hell out of Morocco as fast as possible. When no further explanation came from Oman, he ground his molars and pivoted out of the room.

Down the last flight of stairs and across the main floor, he found his bonded exactly where he’d expected: in the pool. It was a completely new addition to the ancient structure and utterly useless to the rest of the inhabitants.

The sound of female laughter and pleasurable moans darkened Damascus’s mood. He’d been knee-deep in bio-matter for so many days that he’d forgotten all his other needs. Apparently, his bonded hadn’t suffered the same problem.

Damascus stopped at the end of the monstrosity of mosaic tiles etched in gold, his midnight eyes dancing over the tangle of naked female limbs and silky tresses. They landed on the golden bastard lounging in the deep end, his arms resting along the tiled ledge while brooding. His features were dark and miserable, clashing with the scenery.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Damascus barked from the audacity of it.

Jade-green eyes flecked with sky blue lifted to meet his, and there was so much longing in them that it nearly gave his sadism a hard-on. It appeared Berlin was just as homesick as he was—or just as full of dissatisfaction, despite what the other occupants of the room would suggest.

Their fucked-up bond was to blame for that. It had been forged on the battlefield centuries ago, after decades of war, when it became apparent that neither of them would ever best the other. They were too equally matched, yet neither had anticipated their mutual respect and admiration would be used against them as punishment come judgment day, and that was precisely what happened.

The sentence was eternal, issued by Aeolus him-fucking-self. And ever since that day, neither Damascus nor Berlin have been able to find satisfaction without the other—including sexual release.