Figleaf Leatherworks Ch 01

Chapter 1

G

lysless slammed into the concrete hard enough that her knee cracked. The two cultists carrying her didn't seem to notice, or probably didn't care, as they dumped her at the foot of their Fate's effigy and retreated to the edges of the candelabra's glow. Any one of them could've pulled the blade from her back, but nobody dared approach their Mistress's broken pet. They stood at the periphery watching, she imagined, as her blood coursed down the silver sword and swelled the oily pool at the feet of their blasphemous idol.

It was like being a rabbit with its ass in a snare trying not to scream out and attract attention, trying even harder not to flail and expose yourself to the dangers prowling the wilds. Except in this case

she

was the danger and exposing her Mistress's cult to the truth of things would probably get Glys on a lot of people's shit list.

So there she sat at the foot of the effigy; it looked down at her with pitiless eyes and androgynous features that masked anything

human

. It held out a finger with a thick collar hanging from its thumb- an offering, an entreaty to the protection offered in submission. She didn't need to see it to know how much that collar looked like the one around her own neck.

All she could do was clutch the fragile strands of her Glamour to keep it composed while she huddled in her body, contorting her essence around the blade and pushing on her muscles individually to keep blood circulating so nothing died. The sword had cut her heart in two and opened up her lung, stuff she could rebuild; the wing was going to take a lot longer.

The would-be assassin had caught her just right to pin one of her wings to her back with the hilt of his sword, which had bought him enough time to steal one of her pistols and unload into her back as she shielded her Mistress. The bullets she'd pressed out on the way over, but silver burned when it broke skin, and even now she could

feel

the burbling of her body as it tried to reform around the weapon.

If this shit scarred, she was going to throw a fit.

That wouldn't do, though. She could be seen as weak or she could be seen as terrifyingly powerful, she couldn't do both. And, anyway, even if she forced her body to move she risked more damage which meant either someone was giving up their soul or she was going to have to devour a whole cow to have the material to fix it.

All there was right now was patience and the mournful baying of a gaggle of idiots.

She heard them as if in a fog, whispers from some far away place; they mumbled their safe words as entreaties to their as-yet-unborn Fate. It was their way of begging for relief and focusing will to help something become real. The fact that it was Glys that needed help wasn't materially consequential, it was the

act

that they hoped would bring their quasi-deity into being.

"Leave us!" The Mistress's voice cut through the air. Even huddled in her body, Glys could pick out the specific tones of anger that'd become satin to Glys's being over these last few decades. It'd been such a long time since she had heard anything that sounded like panic in the woman's voice, she could almost confuse it for concern.

For just one split second she heard the little urchin girl crying out from across those decades, worried for her protector. It was a fantasy, though, wasn't it? Her panic was momentary. Her concern vapid and shallow.

The guests and cult members alike shared confused glances- at least that was the vibe she got, their masks hid their faces.

"Now!"

As soon as the last petitioner meandered out Glys dropped her Glamour and forced air over her scratchy vocal cords. She didn't dare move her head, the effort required would bring her dangerously close to that chunk of metal buried in her torso. "Get it out!"

"Now, now- It's fine! Just

heal

."

She wanted to scream. She wanted to reach over her broken shoulder, yank the fucking thing out and shove it right up her Mistress's ass. "I can't!" She wheezed through her punctured lung. All this time and the bitch still had no grasp on how body mechanics worked.

"It's never been a problem before," the woman said pitilessly.

This idiot. Glys cranked her arm around at an unnatural angle to reach for the handle, her hand wrapped around it. Then just to drive her point home, she pulled. Wrenched. The blade bobbed on the ground in front of her with a metallic clang and she

heard

more than felt her arm dislocate itself while the muscles tore to accommodate the demands she put on her body.

The sharp tang of the old woman's disgust and fear was her immediate reward. Not much point in being a demon if you couldn't fuck with people from time to time. "I can't."

"Fates Weave, why would you-- F- fix that!"

She could sense the woman several feet away staring at her back. She wouldn't lift a finger, not until Glys dropped her hand by her side and forced the muscles and tendons to heal up properly. Once she raised her hand and wiggled her digits, the woman came over. She probably didn't see Glys's rude gesture.

"It's silver, dipshit!" Glys snarled.

"Well why didn't you say so? Hold on." A boot touched her lower back. Pressed down- she was too much of a waif to add any weight, Glys barely noticed. Slender hands wrapped around grip of the sword. Wrenched. The sharp heel of her Mistress's boot dug in and pinched. This was getting them nowhere.

Just for kicks, Glys screamed when she wrenched again. Her Mistress jerked back and squealed.

Glys cackled a wheezing sound as she slumped forward. When the Mistress went to brace her foot again Glys took the weight as leverage and tipped all the way to faceplant onto the basement floor, driving the blade far enough out that her Mistress could do the final honors.

When she wasn't offered a hand Glys rolled over and forced herself to sit. She stretched her wings, reached for the very edges of the basement chamber and slid her focus from the anchor points where her wings joined her flesh. Where

she

began and her

body

ended. She negotiated things with her vessel, pushed back into it and swelled within her body like an oil fire. She mended her heart, massaged the air back into her lungs, sealed up the tears and cuts. Slowly the pins and needles sensation of her occupying her flesh dulled to an ache. That ache became more prominent while

she

slipped into the little spaces, and assigned parts of her focus to pushing things around again; she animated her body one function at a time while her mistress paced.

It took a few seconds for light and color to seep back into her vision, and Glys was pretty sure the basement hadn't always smelled so acrid, but that was working again too. All good signs. Pleased, Glys stretched her wings out wide again until they brushed over the racks and saddlery used in the 'rituals' the cult performed for the glory of their Fate. They were rough hewn and sloppy appliances with thick ropes oiled smooth from years of sweat and submission. They were fit for common use by the Mistress's playthings, but they were a far cry from the masterwork that graced Glys's skin

when

she was cared for.

Now wasn't going to be one of those times. She looked up at the blurry outline of her Mistress, she could sense she was being stared down but the shadows made it hard to tell for sure.

"How did you let that happen?" the old woman asked sharply.

There would be no 'are you all right?', no 'thank you'. Glys would have to pull it out of her: "What do you mean?"

She huffed indignantly. "We've talked about this, you

cannot

show yourself to these people, they wouldn't understand."

Glysless drew one of her cap and ball revolvers and began reloading it- a simple, mindless task that helped her refine her motor control. Her fingers were trembling from lack of blood, causing her to spill powder on her lap. It took another couple tries and things started to feel more natural. "Mhm. . ."

"Don't sass me, you broke your cover."

"I didn't break my Glamour, even when there was a

silver sword

in my back. The way I figure, I deserve an acting credit for that. The fact that your enemies

thought

to use silver should concern you, not what your little cult thinks of your bodyguard doing her job." Glys met what she thought was the Mistress's gaze, she wasn't quite sure- everything was a little blurry.

She held the woman's gaze, then, as if she didn't exist at all, Glys punched the first of the balls down into the cylinder using the rod on the gun.

The Mistress pinched her nose with both hands as if in prayer. "I could have smoothed this over. We're going to lose-- I could have explained away a lot before you broke that man's arm!"

"Like how I did it after being run through by a longsword?" Glys asked plaintively.

"I

could

have made something up, but then you shoved the bone into his brain. How the

fuck

am I supposed to cover that up?"

Glys stared at her. "Typically when someone saves your life you say 'thank you'."

It took her a full beat to process what Glys had said. Maybe if she was lucky, her Mistress would internalize what had happened and just how close she'd come to being assassinated. In the wake of whatever went on behind her eyes, all the Mistress had for was some mealy mouthed bullshit: "You're right. Thank you. . . .I'm sorry."

She wasn't. They both knew it. Glys slid the final percussion cap onto her gun's cylinder and punched the heavy iron back into its holster. Getting up was an exercise in patience and pain management. The old woman might not have been sorry, but her heart was thrumming in Glys's ears- she'd realized that she was so

dreadfully

alone with Glysless. Her body

radiated

fear.

Glys cut into her space. She was half expecting the woman to draw back, but she had enough good sense to hold her ground. She even smiled and ran her hand over Glys's bloodied shirt in that special way she had since she was a teenager. "Thank you." With those words their Play continued. She was wearing her Sincerity mask, but she couldn't hide the trembling in her fingers or the intoxicating draw of her terror.

She had such a slender neck.

It fit so neatly into Glys's palm.

So delicate.

So

fragile

. . .

Glys slid her fingers upward, drawing in a breath and cradling her Mistress's skull. "I told you it was a bad idea, I told you those jackals wouldn't listen to reason. You don't play with organized crime no matter how rich you are. . ." Glys ruffled her wings to shake out the last bit of nervous energy. She needed to stay composed, she needed to

focus.

"I should have listened," the woman whispered, turning into Glys's palm with closed eyes. A greying strand of hair slid over to hide part of her face. She kissed Glys's wrist. "Forgive me, my pet. . ."

"Why should I?" Glys hoisted her off her feet, crushed her into a hug. "Smell my sweat and my blood? None of it is

your

doing, you've tarnished your prized toy with the blades of your enemies." Despite herself, a growl boiled in her throat. It wasn't like this was the first time she'd been stabbed and shot, not even the first time they'd happened together. Maybe she was finally becoming sentimental. "Time keeps stealing you from me. . ."

"It does," she whispered weakly.

Nothing more? No admission of understanding? No shame? Maybe it was too much to expect from someone who'd taken every lesson Glys had given and turned it to their own gain. Contrition was a big ask at this point, but people had died unnecessarily so she could attempt to have her way.

"Are you going to kill me now? Have I finally pushed you that far?"

It would've been a cosmic good. In her old world they'd have called it Karma or Right Action; destroy the woman and her cult to keep her from achieving her ends, then scatter the ashes. But would it

really

make her feel any better? Wouldn't it have been better to wait until the Mistress was at the cusp of victory to snatch it away from her?

Did that make Glysless any less culpable for what went on?

Maybe more to the point: was Glys

required

to give a shit?

The woman was looking at her. A response was expected. Glys set her down, cupped her cheek with a tender smile. "I will never kill you. . . .we have a deal, have you forgotten?"

The Mistress returned the smile. It slowly faded, morphed into an ugly, angry thing. Corrupted by hubris and smoldering hatred that her plans hadn't gone the way she envisioned them. "I'll see to it the rest of those

thugs

pay for what they've done to you. We will see this tarnish wiped clean. . ."

Glysless stepped back. She knew what she wanted to say, she knew how she wanted to scream at this ingrate for all the trouble she'd caused and how damn close she'd come to getting Glys's heart cut out of her chest. Instead, she smiled placidly.

Then she flicked the first domino in the line to getting her revenge for this cluster fuck. "Thank you, Mistress. I'm going to get cleaned up and offer my thanks to the Fates that we both saw this night through. If I may be excused?"

As she'd hoped, her Mistress's eyes widened slightly. It just dawned on the little twit that she'd entered the shrine without due prayers. She pushed past and Glys once more became a background feature. "Yes, go clean up. I'll have Sebi make you breakfast."

"Thank you."

*

Early morning light painted the mansion's walnut sprawl in shades of peach and indigo; Glys welcomed it as a quiet invitation by this world's Fates to enact her plans. She prowled like a jaguar through the house to the Mistress's study from where she pulled a piece of paper with her measurements written upon it.

It was old news, one forgotten promise among many. It fit neatly among the splatters of old books. Glys tucked it strategically between the cushion and pillow of the favorite arm chair- she already knew this would be the Mistress's second stop. It was always the second stop when times were difficult and she needed to think; habits were funny things.

She rearranged the stacks of books to face away from the chair with the least interesting titles in the collection on the top to prevent any distraction. The paperwork on the desk was similarly buried among more pedestrian financial reports from the brothels. And, just because Glys wanted to make sure there were no distractions, she set up the logs in the fire place and tinder close at hand. None of it was obvious, all of it purely subconscious to a human mind; this room was boring and uninteresting and so easy to sink into. She wouldn't

let

her Mistress miss what she was meant to see.

Upstairs in her room she went through perfunctory ritual of bathing- the water was, as ever, too cold. Trying to get anything up to near boiling was too time consuming for what she had in mind and it wasn't like her mood could get any worse.

As she dried off her gaze wandered the room looking for her favorite robe- the one that she was told smelled like orchids and vanilla. The one that'd help her

forget

some asshole had figured out her secret and went through the effort of finding a silver coated blade to stab her with.

Sebi had been through earlier in the evening and cleaned everything up. She hadn't even noticed. The dioramas were clean and dust free, the bed was made, and all her clothes were probably in the dresser. He'd left out a cotton robe for her to sleep in. Ever the gentleman.

The only thing untouched in the room were the appliances.

The four post bed she could care less about, she'd slept on plenty of dirt floors in her time- but the mahogany throne? The riding horse? These things deserved to be cleaned, not languishing under a layer of dust. They were her Mistress's tools left to rust.

She ran her finger over the wood of the throne, tracing the memories she'd written into the furniture with her sweat. Maybe she

was

getting sentimental. One year after another, one step down the road to the next; the girl that'd built this throne and the mansion that it resided in was never coming back. She needed to stop hoping.

She'd be free of that stupid notion soon enough, she'd been laying these dominoes for years- they'd been waiting for the excuse, for that little push. She needed to ditch the sentimentality and get back to basics- she was a demon; Fifth Serigar of the Lord of Pious Wrath and all that happy horse shit. . . .she was

her own

demon. She could do it.

Glysless swallowed. She could do it. She could find her way without a Mistress or a Master. She'd done it for centuries! This didn't change anything, some short lived human who got way too full of themselves and forgot their agreement? No, she was who she was. She just needed to

commit

to the change. Glys slipped into the robe and threw on a house coat so she could look as casual as possible and rebuilt her Glamour to take the shape of the black haired girl the rest of the house knew.

She

could still obey protocols.

Her Mistress was in the study with a cup of cold tea and a book. A twinge of irritation struck Glys; she'd missed the note.

"How are you feeling?" her Mistress closed the book and looked up when she knocked.

"Troubled."

"Oh? Why don't you come tell me about it?" She patted the edge of the chair.

Playing the good sport, Glys curled up against her legs with her chin on her Mistress's knee as she'd done a million times before. They went through their ritual of strength and weakness. Fingers raked through Glys's mane caressing each of her four horns in turn- this was allowed because it was the Mistress's right, not because it felt good. Not because it tickled those erotic parts of either of them, certainly not because it made Glysless almost instantly wet.

"Mmmm? What's on your mind, surely not those cretins. They were dispatched handily."

Glys closed her eyes relishing the touch. Seemed they weren't going to address the members of her cult that were killed in the fight? So be it, one more check off the list. "You work me too hard."

"I don't think that's true. . ."

"Had I had time to sleep I wouldn't have been so sluggish to act- he very nearly got the blade through me and into you." She stroked the woman's ankle with her tail and kissed her knee. "It was so

very

close."

The words had their intended effect, a slight tremble, a shift in posture. Then she was back to stroking Glys's horns with false confidence. "You desire your freedom, Glysless?"

"Did I say that?"

"Did you say

what

?" Her voice hardened with thin bravado. The years had sapped her vigor for this part of their Play. She couldn't stage direct any more, her voice had gone reedy and wary.

Glys looked up, nuzzled into the fabric of her night gown. "My Mistress asks more of me for the security of her future. Again and again and again. . . .it's tiring."

"Hmph. You call what you do 'resting' when I barely see you four hours a day. No I think. . ." She seemed to catch herself before she said something too dangerous.

With an exasperated sigh the Mistress slumped back in her chair, eying her. "You're right," she admitted quietly. "I push you hard-- I. . . .yes. We'll put the plans for the gallery on hold until these thugs are sorted out. Our people need proper armor. In the meantime, I think. . ."

"Hmm?" Glys asked with wide eyed innocence.

"I think you deserve a reward."

"Oh?" The demon perked, chin atop both hands now as she took her place properly at her Mistress's feet. "Is it sleep?"

The Mistress scoffed. "Yes, yes. Fine. I'll have Vellmullod attend me." She stroked Glys's horns.

"Don't ask too much of them and you might not be let down."