Darkness Girl: Trickster God

Chapter Fourteen: A Pianist's Hands

Behind the two way mirror Seline and Kessler stood in the dark and watched Pyotr begin his work. Trevellian entered quietly behind them. 

'You very nearly made an unforgivable error, Trevellian,' said Seline. 

'She's sleeping now. She might have some nightmares, but she'll be fine.' 

Trevellian gently pulled a curtain across the mirror, blocking their view of Regan's torture. Kessler folded her arms and gave him a look like she was mentally putting a red mark next to his name. 

'Why the hell did you even put her in there in the first place?' she said. 

Trevellian felt a brief twinge of irritation. Kessler still hadn't made any firm commitments to Unity, but she demanded answers all the same. 

'I wanted to see if I could convince Regan to give in to us without torture. Jordan can map a craft in a coerced subject, but it's easier if they're completely willing.' 

'I told you Regan wouldn't crack because you fed her some flowery words. You almost lost your psychic,' Kessler gave a nasty laugh. 'She had your weakness picked in seconds lover-boy.' 

Trevellian clenched his jaw and bit back a snide response. 

'Getting a fast result was a long shot from the start,' he said, addressing himself to Seline. 'My long term approach remains the same.' 

'Do what you think is best,' she dismissed him with a wave of her hand. 

'Are you sure he can stay detached?' Kessler asked after he'd left. 

'Trevellian knows what he's doing. He was just establishing a baseline. Now he knows how far he has to go before Regan breaks.' 

'And Regan knows where your weaknesses are. There's no way you're going to get your psychic in a room with her again.' 

'I think perhaps you're choosing to venture unwisely into unfamiliar territory,' said Seline with mild annoyance. 'Interrogation and manipulation are not required for a silencer, but for an infiltrator they're as much a weapon as your sword. Trevellian has been extremely successful as Jordan's handler.' 

'She looked like she was going to run off.' 

'And yet she didn't. That's the skill of a good infiltrator, and Trevellian's skills are sound.' 

'I guess we'll see,' Kessler shrugged. 'Personally, I think Regan will die before your boy can crack her.' 

'You almost sound like you want him to fail.' 

'Stop probing me, Seline. My resolve hasn't wavered.' 

Seline laughed. 'Perhaps I was too transparent.' 

Kessler pushed the curtain aside and moved closer to the glass to look into the filthy room where Regan hung. 

'I know Regan,' she said. 'She's like a wild dog. The harder you hit her, the harder she hits back, and she's at her most dangerous when she's wounded.'

***

Regan's head snapped back and her body jerked against the chains. She felt warm blood dribbling from her nose. It ran in rivulets across her lips and dripped off her chin to mix into the grime on the grate beneath her. Pyotr wiped some flecks of blood from his knuckles. 

There was something unfinished about Pyotr that reminded Regan of the rough plaster cast a sculptor makes before they work in bronze. He wasn't large in the sense of having a lot of muscle or fat, instead he was more like a normal person built on a slightly larger scale. 

He took a moment to stretch and roll up his shirt sleeves. His muscles were tangled lumps of sinew that bulged under his skin. Thick, rubbery veins stood out on the backs of his hands, and his movements were awkward, as if his size caused a delay between his brain and his limbs. He seemed to consciously move each part of his body instead of allowing it to happen by instinct. 

He held up one massive hand to catch the dim, sickly light and slowly rotated it, examining every contour in meticulous detail. 

'My mother always said I had pianist's hands,' he said. 

'She probably says you're a perfect gentleman too.' Regan spat some blood onto the floor. 

'People think that pianists have small, delicate hands. They think the piano is a dainty instrument.' Pyotr curled his hand into a fist. His knuckles stood out against his skin like boulders. 'They are wrong! Playing the piano is like war. You must master the instrument, dominate it even! Every moment you play the piano, your soul is dragged ever closer to the abyss. It is a titanic struggle where weakness is punished without mercy.' 

'I get the feeling you'd say the same thing about eating breakfast.' 

Pyotr closed his eyes and lowered his arm. 

'You are a wonderful subject,' he said. 'Such force of will. You are like the sapling that springs back, even after the gale.' 

Suddenly, he moved forward and grabbed her jaw, forcing her to look into his large, watery eyes. His strong fingers clamped down on her face. She could feel the pressure grinding her teeth together and pushing her jaw out of alignment. 

'There is fire in your eyes,' he hissed. 'I feel it burning in my chest. It sends waves of rage through my blood. I will smother that fire until there's nothing left but cold cinders.' 

His large bony fist hit her in the side with the mechanical force of a piston. Regan felt a sharp pain lance through her and knew that he had cracked some of her ribs. She brought a knee up swiftly and tried to strike him in the liver, but he caught it easily. Almost gently, he placed a massive thumb on the wound in her thigh, then, very slowly, he began to press down.