I've never really had much in the way of power, and to be honest, I've never really seen the appeal of it.  Having influence over people and events is just not something I generally desire.  I'm happy just living my own life to the fullest and enjoying experiences as they come.  My existence has on the whole been a simple one, but I've never minded that one bit.

This, though?  This I could get used to.

I'm making good on my threat to torture Khysmet, and he is putty in my hands from day one, when first thing in the morning at breakfast, I stride over and confidently take my seat in his lap.

He wraps one hand around my waist to steady me, and I slap it away, pointing an accusatory finger in his face and clearly enunciating the word "no".  The expression on his face is priceless.  He’s looking at me like I just fell out of the sky.  I feel him get hard underneath me so fast it’s not even funny.

I insist on feeding him, figuring since he liked it so much before, it would be excellent torture now.  I ask him to feed me, too, making a big show of sucking on his fingers, flashing bedroom eyes.  I giggle and kick my legs and lean against him and ghost my lips over his neck, totally shameless.  And every time he tries to touch me in the slightest when I didn’t expressly ask him to, I push his hands off me and deny, deny, deny.  By the time we finish eating, he’s breathing heavy and oh-so desperate.  Not begging yet, though.  I’m excited to learn how long he’ll hold out.

My onslaught is relentless.  Nearly every moment I spend in his presence, I’m touching him in some way.  I treat his lap like my personal throne.  When he wants to spend the afternoon in the library, I refuse to take my seat at the piano, instead having him sit on a couch so I can lay down and spread my legs across his, letting the hem of my dress ride up to an indecent point on my thighs, either playing my lute or just straight up refusing to provide musical accompaniment and reading a book myself.  I follow him into his office and drape myself over his shoulders while he works, mashing my breasts against his back and often reaching my arms down the front of his shirt to feel his bare chest.

One time he makes the mistake of suggesting we take a walk through the gardens, maybe figuring if I can’t sit on him, my powers will be diminished.  Unfortunately, he forgot to take into account that amidst the taller hedges, we are blocked from view from literally everyone, and I take the opportunity to execute a bolder move than usual.

Once we’re fully out of sight, I physically push him until he’s backed straight into one of the bushes.  I start tugging at his shirt, untucking it from his pants, and run my hands greedily underneath, feeling his scaled abs and lower back, then teasing my fingers underneath his waistband.

“Did you know,” I say conversationally, calling on information I learned from Portia months ago, “that regular snakes have two penises?”

Khysmet chokes on a breathy laugh, his hands twitching with the effort of not touching me.

“Is that a fact?” he asks.

“Mhmm,” I hum.

Then I openly put a palm against the bulge in his pants and rub circles against it, enjoying the throaty moan that the move earns me.

“I only feel one here, though,” I remark idly.

His head is thrown back in pleasure at the touch, his hips grinding into it a little, a move which I decide to allow.

“So sorry to disappoint,” he says, voice faltering.

I hum thoughtfully, making a big show of feeling the full length and girth of him, measuring it in my hand.

“I don’t think I’ll be disappointed, your majesty,” I purr.

He actually runs away from me for that one, abandoning me in the garden and making an excuse that there’s something he forgot to take care of.  I graciously allow him to make his retreat rather than attempting to follow.  He does not make this mistake again.

The effect that all this has on Khysmet is endlessly entertaining to me.  The usual calm, authoritative demeanor he maintains with everyone else but me is cracking.  At first he’s just distracted, spacing out and occasionally needing to ask others to repeat themselves.  Very quickly, my harp in the great hall is relocated to be in the back corner where I’m not in his field of vision.  I still have a way to torment him, though, playing instrumental renditions of the dirtiest Veilsung drinking songs I know, plus anything with an innuendo in the title or lyrics.  I enjoy watching his tail twitch and his fingers tap feverishly on the arms of his chair.

Eventually, he starts to become more and more on edge, especially with his ministers.  Where usually he would deny their requests or demands with calm, cool authority, he’s now started to snap at them when they push too hard.  Also, he’s spending more afternoons helping train the guards – that’s generally where he goes if he has to run away from me – and according to Rhys, he is much less forgiving of errors than he usually is.

I can’t hear as much gossip from my new position in the great hall, but I still catch some snippets.  Surprisingly, none of the nobility is talking about me, even though I know for a fact my public displays of affection have been witnessed by several of them.  They probably just view it as confirmation of what they’ve been saying about me all along.  They are, however, talking about Khysmet constantly.  Everyone seems to be mystified as to what’s wrong, and there’s a lot of speculation about what could be causing his irritation.  I don’t ever end up hearing one correct guess.

The castle staff is still pretty friendly with me on the whole, but there’s quite a few of them who won’t meet me in the eye now.  Before, I was eager to deny the allegations of public indecency, but now, they’re perfectly accurate.  So, I’m just going to wait and hope that over time Vizsla will be able to talk to me without blushing again.  Probably not until after Khysmet breaks, at which point I intend to dial it back.  That could take a while.

Though a lot of my time is taken up by inflicting pain on his royal majesty, I spend all my free time searching for any potential entrance to the catacombs.  Khysmet’s brother, Prince Akharos, writes back very quickly, and though he doesn’t have a definitive answer on whether or not there even is a tunnel leading to the catacombs that can be accessed from the castle, he suggests some good places to start, along with an even more helpful list of tunnels he’s found that definitely don’t connect to the catacombs, only going in circles or connecting to other parts of the castle.

I feel like the most promising place to check is the dungeons, and that's where I want to start.  Prince Akharos wrote that by the time he was old enough to be permitted in the dungeons unaccompanied, he was more or less over his exploring phase.  Khysmet, however, is less than enthused about my intention to visit a dark hole in the ground full of criminals.

“It’s not like I’m going to go into any cells that are already occupied,” I argue, curled up in Khysmet’s lap in the library.  “I want to ask the guards if there are any cells where prisoners have mysteriously disappeared or something.”

“Cat, I don’t want you running around down there,” Khysmet says.  “Right now we’re holding some prisoners that are awaiting trial for extremely heinous crimes.  I don’t want you even near them.”

I sigh and pout, petulantly tracing little circles on his chest with my fingers.

“I’m bringing Rhys with me,” I argue, “and he wouldn’t let anyone so much as look at me funny.  Plus there are guards down there already.  Also, all the prisoners are behind these things called bars, that prevent them from leaving their little rooms.”

He chuckles, but his tone is still grave.  “The thing about bars is that you can reach through them.  It would be all too easy for someone to take a swipe at you from their cell.”

“I’ll go in armed,” I say.  “The little knife belt you gave me hasn’t seen any use yet.  You know I can take care of myself.”

He sighs.  “I know that if I say no, you’ll just try to go anyway, but you do know that I can tell the guards down there not to let you in, right?”

I move so that I’m straddling his lap and give him big puppy dog eyes.

“Please?” I beg.  “I promise I’ll be careful.”

He looks at me for a long time, and I can see his will eroding before me.  It’s nice to witness how weak he becomes whenever I beg.

“Fine,” he eventually concedes.  “I’ll allow it.  Only because I know that if someone tries to grab at you, you’ll cut their hand off.”

I grin darkly.  “I wouldn’t hesitate.”

******

The dungeons are cold, dark, wet, and horrible-smelling, which from my understanding, is exactly what dungeons should be.  I’ve never seen the inside of one of these places, and my curiosity is off the charts, especially given that I'm also looking for a secret entrance to some secret tunnels.  Rhys doesn't seem to share or even understand my eagerness and reluctantly plods along close behind me.

They are located underneath the southeastern tower but disconnected from the rest of the castle, only accessible via a small door in the tower wall at the bottom of a narrow staircase that delves deep down into the earth.  Even just putting my foot down on the first step immediately makes me claustrophobic.  It sends a thrill up my spine.  I try to contain my excitement and stop myself from skipping gleefully down the creepy stairs.

I open the door and am greeted by a cacophony of foul odors, as well as two guards sitting around a table playing cards and a large rat cleaning itself in the corner of the room.

"Hi Sten.  Hi Poskhe," I say.  "How's it going?"

"Hey Cat," says Poskhe.  "His majesty mentioned you'd be coming down here.  Can't say I understand why."

"I'm just exploring," I say nonchalantly.  "I read somewhere that there are tunnels under the castle and I wondered if there's a secret entrance in the dungeons."

I figure this explanation in and of itself is innocuous enough and won't raise any red flags.  As expected, Sten and Poskhe both just look at me with amusement and don't question my motive to be anything other than idle curiosity.  I am well known to frequently be both idle and curious.

"Which cells are occupied, so I know not to get close to them?" I ask. 

"Every cell that's unoccupied has its door open," Sten explains.  "Should be easy to tell."

"Okay, thanks," I say.  "Do you know if there are any cells that prisoners have disappeared from before?"

"Not to my knowledge," Sten says with a chuckle. 

Damn.  Oh well, guess I'll just go cell by cell. 

I have absolutely no idea what I'm looking for, so it's slow going.  I hold my torch up and look close at every wall, checking for any sections that might be a different color of rock, or that have oddly deep grooves between stone bricks.  I push on them in every different spot, in every different direction.  I knock on walls with the hilt of Rhys's sword to see if there's some kind of hollow sound anywhere.  Cell after cell, wall after wall, every square inch of rock I investigate, I come up dry. 

After hours of searching, leading me all the way to the back of the dungeon's hallway.  I come to the conclusion that if there is an entrance to the catacombs here, it's too well hidden for me to find.  In a last ditch effort that has Rhys in knots, on the way back out, I start asking the prisoners if perchance they happened to notice some sort of secret door in their cell.  Predictably, most tell me to fuck off, if they answer at all.  I also get a couple shaky no's that pull at my heartstrings.  I know many here are just awaiting trial.  I wonder what the scared ones allegedly did to wind up in these cages.

As I get closer to the front door, I unwittingly start to get a little lax about my personal safety, knowing that Sten and Poskhe are so close by.  I must have walked too close to the bars of the cell next to me, because out of the corner of my eye, I see a hand shoot out and reach for a dagger on my belt.

My knife is through his bars and at his throat before he can even touch one.  Beside me, I hear Rhys draw his sword, but he’s about half a second behind.

I look the man at the end of my blade up and down, sizing him up.  He’s a wiry lizard with unusually long claws and an unstable glint in his eye.  He seems surprised and very displeased to be in his current situation.

"Cute," I say to the prisoner, "but what exactly were you planning on doing with that after taking it?  You know the guards here have swords and spears, right?"

He hisses and flashes his fangs at me, tail lashing, seemingly undeterred by the knife at his throat.

"I was planning on slitting your throat, you filthy cunt,” he snarls.

I snort.  "That's kind of pointless.  I feel like you're just lashing out because you got your hand caught in the cookie jar."

He sneers and chuckles dryly, then spits on me, catching me on the cheek.

"Fuck you.  And get this thing away from my neck.  You're no more a killer than I am a ham sandwich."

Well that was rude.  I was going to just walk away, since there’s not a lot he can really do from behind bars.  However, he’s really going to great lengths to piss me off here.  Threatening me, trying to steal from me, and spitting on me are all bad enough, but underestimating me is a cardinal sin.  I decide that if he’s going to try to play the tough guy, I can humor him and tough-guy back a little.

I smile sweetly and twist the knife into the skin of his throat.  He hisses in pain.

"Rhys, what cell is this?" I ask without looking away from the prisoner.

"Um,” Rhys says, then pauses to check the number carved in the stone wall above the cell.  “It’s cell eight."

"Hey Poskhe,” I shout loud enough that the guards in the front room can hear me, “what’s the guy in cell eight in for?"

Poskhe responds right away.

"He's suspected of torturing and killing a family of three in cold blood," he calls back.  “Being held here until his trial.”

My grin widens.  "Well what do you know, Cell Eight, I have a higher body count than you,” I inform him with delight.  “All self-defense of course, just like this would be.  I’d really prefer it if you don’t give me a reason to kill you, but if you do, I won’t lose a wink of sleep over it."

Cell Eight looks at me like I just grew a second head.

"Self-defense?” he says incredulously.  “I'm in a cage, moron."

"I have a witness who watched you lash out at me through the bars and the fucking king in my back pocket,” I say.  “If I say it's self-defense, that's what it is."

He tries to stare me down, searching my face as though still trying to determine if I would actually kill him.  I can see him hesitating, a tiny bit of uncertainty creeping into his expression.  The second I see him falter, with a flick of my wrist, I dig my knife into the bottom of his jaw and swipe it toward me, cutting a line from there to his chin.  He howls and recoils, and I use the opportunity to step away and head for the exit.

"You BITCH!" he screams at my receding back.

I wave at him without turning around.

“Nice meeting you, Cell Eight,” I call in a singsong voice.  “Good luck with the trial.”

A long string of expletives and threats follow me on my way out.  I stop by the guards’ table before I head out the door.

“Please tell me the evidence against that guy is strong,” I say as I sit down in an empty chair, wiping spittle off my face.

“A witness saw him leaving the house and ditching a bloody knife,” Sten tells me, shuffling cards while he talks, seemingly unbothered by the altercation.  “Only a matter of time before he hangs.”

I sigh in relief.  “Thank the gods.  It would be a pain in the ass to have him running around loose looking for vengeance.”

“Find anything interesting?” Poskhe asks, with a smirk that says he knows the answer to the question.

“Not here,” I reply, pouting at his lack of faith in me.  “I have many other places to check, though.  This is just stop number one.”

“I’m sure you’ll find something soon, Cat,” Sten says in a pacifying tone.  “In the meantime, want us to deal you and Rhys in for a round or two?”

I pause for a second and deliberately let the sound of Cell Eight’s screaming fill the silence with long, drawn out descriptions of all the ways he would torture me.  It's quite graphic, actually.  I'll give him points for creativity, though.

“I think I’d have a hard time concentrating,” I say.  “We’ll see you guys later.”