She had to have him back.
Finally, it was finished. Every piece back in place, taped down so that it looked like a Frankenstein card. She found her clothes and put them on, picked up Tou-Tou and put him in the large leather handbag that doubled as his carrier. She left the card on the bed and went home to her apartment.
There was nothing left to do but wait for him.
That night she dreamt of The Bleeding Man again. In the second dream he died while inside of her and the red was everywhere, on her hands and on her chest and on her mouth as she drank the blood straight from his heart.
Roman Charity
On the Ides of March, Malcolm finally made contact with her again.
She’d just closed the gallery for the evening, which entailed nothing more than drawing the red velvet curtains behind the front windows, flipping the OPEN sign around, and locking the door. Upon returning to her office to fetch Tou-Tou from his basket, she found a book of art lying open on her desk. It had been so long since she’d seen Malcolm, she’d almost given up hope he’d ever return to her. She glanced around the office, sniffing the air, hoping to catch any glimpse of him, any trace of his scent. Her body came alive merely at the possibility of Malcolm. As ecstatic as she was that he wanted to see her again, she feared to open the book. What did he want with her this time? What would he make her do? What would he do to her? What would he make her enjoy him doing to her?
She sat in her desk chair slowly and told herself she was doing it for the money. For the money she would see Malcolm again. For the money she would submit to his sexual demands. For the money she would open the book.
But it wasn’t for the money.
She opened the book anyway.
The red velvet cord marked a page near the back. On it was a painting called Roman Charity, dated 1767 by the artist Jean-Baptiste Greuze. She’d never seen the painting before or heard the phrase "Roman charity.” It meant nothing to her, but the scene was clear enough. A thin old man languished in a prison cell and a young woman in a voluminous dress offered him her breast to suckle. A prostitute visiting a prisoner? Seemed like a logical explanation for the scene. It was tame enough. Bare breasts hardly shocked her. After the Minotaur nothing could shock her.
In her head she heard Malcolm’s voice taunting her.
Don’t say things like that. Men like me take statements such as that as a challenge.
Mona still didn’t know what had happened the night with the Minotaur. Had he drugged her with an untraceable drug? Or had the wine been potent enough to daze her into seeing the back room as the meeting place for ancient Athenian priestesses and the Minotaur they served? Or was there another possibility far more terrifying than being drugged or going mad?
What if—somehow, some way, some impossible way—it had all been real?
Mona knew that question would plague her the rest of her life if she never learned the answer, and she would never learn the answer if she never saw Malcolm again. Reason told her to run, to escape this dangerous game she was playing with this dangerous man. But she was past reason now. She’d had the strongest orgasm of her life while chained to a boulder with a half-man, half-beast inside her. There was no going back after that. She could only go forward.
After gathering Tou-Tou in his carrier, she went to her apartment. She had some of her mother’s old gala dresses hanging in the closet. One was blood purple with bell sleeves and full skirts with gold braiding on the bodice. It looked like something from a late Renaissance painting. As soon as she put it on and stepped in front of the mirror, Mona felt an overwhelming compulsion to return to the gallery that very night. She tried to ignore the compulsion, but it grew stronger when she unbuttoned the back of her dress. It felt like an itch, only inside her brain where she could never reach it. Quickly she buttoned the dress again and the itch lessened. She took a step toward the door and it lessened more. She walked away from the door and sat on her bed and the itch grew so strong she wanted to beat her head into her hands. There was nothing for it. She had to go.
The streets were almost empty at this late hour, yet she still received her fair share of strange glances in her dress with the skirts so flowing she had to hold them up to avoid tripping over the hem as she half-walked, half-ran back to The Red.
She entered by the side door and didn’t hesitate a second before slipping through the door into the back room.
But the back room she knew was gone.
"Malcolm…what have you done?” she whispered as she the door closed behind her.
For surely Malcolm had done this deed. But how? The wood flooring was gone, replaced by hard stone. The walls were stone as well. Flaming torches lined the stone walls and the smell of burning wood pricked at her nostrils. She could see the dark night sky through a square, iron-barred window chiseled in the stone. She pressed her back to the wall when she saw two men approaching. They were carrying bronze helmets under their arms, and wore dull white tunics and leather sandals. They looked like how she’d always pictured ancient Roman soldiers.
"You there,” one said to her. "Coming or going?”
She panicked. "Coming,” she said. "But I don’t—”
"Cimon’s girl,” the other said. "Let her pass. He’s not long for the world.”
"I’ll search her. You know our orders.”
She shrank from his hands when they reached for her but she knew she must not fight as her body was bent over and searched. Searched for what? For weapons? Her? She had nothing. The soldier ran his hands all over her body and through her clothes. The two soldiers smiled at each other as the one lingered longer than necessary under her skirts where she was bare and naked. Mona warmed to his touch. Malcolm had trained her to enjoy being violated and this man was certainly violating her. He cupped her bottom, rubbed it, slid his hand between her thighs and pushed one finger into her.
"I don’t have anything,” she said as he stuck in a second finger and stroked her inner walls. "I swear I don’t.”
"Let her pass,” the older soldier said. "We have to finish our rounds.”
"If we must,” the younger one said, taking his hand out from under her skirt. He pointed at an open doorway with the fingers that had just been inside her. "Hurry. He’s not going to last much longer.”
"Thank you,” she said, dipping into a curtsy. She rushed past the men and down the passageway. Torches lit her way, although she didn’t know where her way led. Cimon? Who was Cimon? The man in the painting? The prisoner? She was there for Malcolm, but who knew what role he’d decided to play in this carnal Wonderland.
She heard low moans coming from the rooms she passed. They weren’t moans of pleasure but of profoundest suffering. This was a prison. She understood that. And somewhere in this prison was Malcolm, waiting for her. The panic in her heart was real. Her lungs pounded with it. Her dress felt tight across her chest. Her breasts ached horribly, and she wondered if it was because her panicked breathing was constricting her blood flow. They felt congested, swollen. Ignoring her pain, she ran down the dust-choked corridor until she came to the very end.
The cell was not guarded and the iron door wasn’t locked. She looked around to see if anyone would stop her from entering. She saw no one. She took a torch from a wall sconce and entered through the open door.
"Malcolm?” she whispered. The room was dark and dank and cold. She heard the rattling of a chain on the stone floor and she inched toward the sound. "Malcolm? Oh, God, Malcolm…”
It was him, though he hardly looked himself. He lay naked but for a loincloth on the cold floor, his knees pulled to his chest and his hair the white of dirty snow. His body was skeletal. She could see every bone and every sinew and every joint. The withered face was unmistakably her Malcolm, his black eyes glinting like flint. He had not lost his will to live, though it seemed he had lost everything else. His only possession was the iron shackle on his ankle that bound him by a thick chain of heavy links to the wall. Mona put the torch into the wall sconce and knelt on the floor by his head. She touched his face tenderly and wept.
"What’s happening?” she asked. "What have they done to you?”
He opened his lips but no sound came out. She looked for water, for wine, for anything to wet his tongue. The dungeon was empty but for his broken body.