Legacy

That night as she slept, Dakota was assaulted by images. She couldn't say whether it was a dream or a nightmare, but it was unrelenting, and it was horrifying, and it was... She didn't know.

She awoke a little before sunrise with those images still echoing in her head. They were so vivid and so terrifying that the first thing she had to do was bite down on her tongue to be sure it was still there, because in her dream it had been torn out. So had her ovaries, and so had her teeth—but only after her master cut off her nipples and fed them to her. Only after she had thanked him for it.

Sir Alan Sturgis. The name was still burned into her mind—the way it was still burned into Riley's flesh. Dakota breathed a sigh and tried to lay back down, but Riley was stirring. The slave shivered and pulled away, perhaps afraid that she had done something wrong. Dakota held her tightly in place, an arm about her waist.

"Shhh," she breathed.

Riley stilled. They lay against one another for a little while. They were both a mess, but it wasn't urgent. The last thing Dakota wanted was for Riley to feel un-wanted, so she moved slowly.

"I usually work out in the morning," she whispered. "Want to come?"

The slave whispered something. Dakota took that for yes.

They ran around the edge of the estate. At least there were plenty of shoes for that—even if there weren't enough work shoes for mucking out stalls. Dakota wasn't sure on the distance; she'd have guessed about four miles? The last mile and a half were much, much slower than usual, but probably a little too fast for Riley. The scarred slave stopped and vomited, and they walked the last little bit together. Dakota told her how well she'd done—that it was probably a better idea to start a little more gently and work her way up—but Riley beamed. She had that beatific look in her eyes again. Dakota almost laughed.

"Think you're suffering from what they call a runner's high," said Dakota when they made it back.

"Or subspace," said Riley, her voice already back to its usual crackly, chipper, whispery self.

Anne, however, was not so cheerful. When she met Dakota and Riley at the door, it was immediately obvious that she'd seen everything: the belt, the dildo, the stool, and the blood. Especially the blood. Her face was white with rage, and yet somehow she kept her voice under control. "This behavior is unacceptable, Dakota!" Well, mostly under control. "Go to your room. I'll be along to talk about this. Go! Now!"

Riley kept herself between Anne and Dakota the whole while. She started to follow Dakota upstairs, but Anne took her by the arm and pulled her away, tut-tutting as Dakota mounted the steps.

Yes: the most misfit toy on the island.

Dakota waited for most of the day. She got tired of sitting around doing nothing after a while and at least took a shower and then a nap. Her stomach rumbled, but at least she had a bottle of water in her room. She was asleep when someone knocked on the door. "It's open," she called, her stomach doing a forward flip inside her.

A man entered. He wasn't familiar to her. Dakota was starting to feel a little like Ebenezer Scrooge. She almost asked if he was the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, but she had a feeling that he was another of the Masters, and that definitely wasn't how she wanted to greet him if that were the case. Instead of saying anything stupid, she slipped to the floor beside her bed, accidentally pulling the sheet down with her. She untangled herself without any particular grace and was still. "Sorry, Master," she whispered.

"Mm," he rumbled.

He reached for the light switch, and Dakota realized that the sun had already gone down. This was like being grounded. She winced at the light and he turned it off with a mumbled apology.

"Would you mind getting the lamp?" he said, and there being no other place to sit he made himself comfortable on her bed. She knelt beside it after turning on the lamp, looking at his feet. "My name is Lofton. And, yes, Master Hardin already told me that you're onto our little game."

A flutter unsettled Dakota's belly, but by now she had almost come to enjoy that sensation, even if she couldn't say why. She felt largely at peace in his presence, even if this was one of the Masters of the Elm, so much so that she almost forgot to acknowledge what he'd said. "Yes, Master," she whispered.

"Anne told me that she feels you're being too harsh with the other slaves."

Other slaves.

How long had she been dancing around those words? That truth? How long had she been doing without recognition of her own being—without admitting the role she had taken for herself? This was her calling. Submissive or not didn't matter. Dominant or not didn't matter. She was called to serve, which was something else. And what was Dakota's word for one who serves?

Slave.

"This slave has not been too harsh, Master," she said. Then she bowed her head in supplication and added, "But the slave has disappointed Anne, and so it should be punished."

"Punished," he said. His eyes tightened in consideration. "What you did was truly beneficial to Riley. It's clear that she won't improve as long as she stays here; the Court of Blooms cannot help her. She needs a heavy hand on her, to feel loved and needed."

"Yes, Master."

"Why then, should you be punished?"

"Because this slave's actions caused distress for Anne. Even if the slave's intentions were good, and even if her actions were effective, the slave's choices caused Anne distress. Therefore the slave still deserves punishment, Master."

Lofton bent forward, elbows on knees, and gazed at her for a quiet moment. He nodded, perhaps a silent acceptance of her judgment. But then he picked up the bear from the bed and held it at arm's length, examining it through the lower portion of his bifocals. "Were you sleeping with this?"

"His name is Horton, Master," she whispered.

"I thought Horton was an elephant."

"It's a common name, Master."

"Did you cry yourself to sleep with a stuffed animal because you felt bad about what you did to Anne?"

Dakota's breath caught. She bit down—hard—on her bottom lip. She swallowed and realized that she was curling in on herself, unintentionally concealing her body from Master Lofton, and she straightened her posture at once and forced herself to answer. "A little, Master." Her voice cracked once or twice.

"Here. Hang onto Horton for me."

She squeezed the stuffed bear to her chest and swayed a little as she hugged him, and then she looked curiously up at Master Lofton.

"It would have been better had Anne actually punished you," he said. "But I've spoken with her. Riley is leaving for someplace better suited to care for her. As for you..."

Dakota swallowed and squeezed Horton a little harder.

"How would you like to meet your father?"

Sir Richard insisted that he speak with her before allowing the meeting to proceed. If he had been troubled by the incident with Riley last night, it didn't show on his face; his only concern appeared to be for Dakota and for this meeting with her father. He brought her down to the terrace but stopped her at the door.

"No matter what he tells you, there's one thing you have to remember," Richard began. "The dominant who welcomes you into the Elm does not own you. He is responsible for you—whatever you do is on his head—but you do not belong to him. Those are completely separate matters. Do you understand?"

Dakota's answer caught in her throat. She ought to have said no, but she didn't. She just nodded her head.

Sir Richard looked relieved. "I'll be right outside," he said. "If Preston does anything... If he tries anything, I've got you. All right?"

"Preston?"

"Sorry. That's his name. Your father."

His name was Preston Wittaker. He might have been fifty, but he looked younger. Just like Jolley said, he was tall and blond, well-built and handsome, with the kind of good looks that always aged well. This was the man from Bitter Creek, from that party with the wannabe submissive, and maybe from the seance in the woods. And now Dakota understood the reason his eyes looked so familiar to her: she'd been seeing them in the mirror for as long as she could remember.

Preston was seated by a brazier where a little fire crackled. The late summer night wasn't cold, but it wasn't warm, either. Dakota joined him, sitting opposite him near the fire, cross-legged on a chaise lounge with the teddy bear still in her arms. She must have been quiet, because he looked startled. He sat up at once and faced her.

"Dakota?" he said. She nodded. "That was a dumb question. Who else would they send, right?" He gave her a halfhearted smile.

"Right," she said. She didn't add sir or master onto the end. She didn't know how to talk to him. She didn't even know why he was here.

"You know I'm not here to take you home," he said. "That was never the arrangement between Sara and me. She wanted my seed—and she wanted the pain. She never wanted a father. I guess she had one picked out."

He paused. Dakota knew she was supposed to say something, but she couldn't really think of anything to say. She made herself a little smaller on the lounge, as if she could hide more of herself behind the bear. It was the first time she'd felt naked since landing at Innsbruck.

"I'm here because Evangeline asked me to come," he continued after a moment. "She said that you need an introduction. You have to be welcomed into the Elm, and there are risks that go with that. She says that I owe you that much, at least—she wanted me to offer to be your sponsor." He paused again, but not as long this time. "I have to say, I think she's worrying too much. I imagine there are men lined up to act as your sponsor."

"What's that mean?" she asked. It was the question she should have asked Richard, really.

"Your sponsor—the one who 'welcomes' you—takes responsibility for your behavior. If you screw up—"

"Like threatening to call the cops?" she said.

"Jesus. Yes, like that. You didn't, did you?"

"No." But she thought that Mara might've.

"Well, don't," he muttered. "Especially if I'm the one who introduces you, because then it's my ass." He sounded very American. The way he talked made her a little homesick.

Dakota nodded. "I won't." She chewed on her lip. Then, "I didn't think they'd let you come here. Aren't you from the Court of Thorns?"

He blinked at her. "I'm a member," he said. "I'm not from there. I'm from..." His voice trailed off.

"What?"

"South Dakota," he said.

She couldn't help smiling.

"Anyway, it's not like we're fae creatures or something—it's not the Seelie and the Unseelie. Anyone can visit here; you just have to obey the rules."

"Could I visit the Court of Thorns?"

"No. You'd have to be invited."

"Why?"

"Because they wanted it that way. The founding members—Sara and Ash and Briar—they all wanted strict control over who got in. Only people they trusted."

Dakota frowned. "Sara? As in my mom?"

He nodded.

"But she was a slave."

"All three of them were. The Court of Thorns was founded by slaves."

Dakota blinked. She wanted to ask more, but that idea was too big to take in at the moment. She needed time to think about what it meant, and she could feel her time slipping away. This wasn't a reunion—it was a courtesy. She asked the only thing that made sense to ask.

"Why you?" she said. "I mean, if she had a dad picked out... Why did she want your seed?"

Preston winced, and he wore a pained smile as he buried his head in his hands. "I knew you were going to ask that," he muttered. "I don't know why I opened my big mouth."

"What? What is it?" she said, frowning and almost getting pulled into his laughter. "Just say it."

"She knew about my mother. My mom was—like her. She was a wand slave." He shook his head again. "I know how ridiculous it sounds, but if you knew Sara the way I did, it would make sense—it's like she was trying to breed a perfect piece of fuckmeat."

Dakota's cheeks burned, but she pretended not to notice. She kept her voice perfectly level as she asked, "Do you think I'm perfect fuckmeat?"

He looked at her and then looked away. "Fuck..."

She allowed herself a little smile, and she sat up straighter. She set the teddy bear aside, keeping him close by but in a place where he could no longer hide her bared cunt.

"You are too much like her," he muttered. "Listen, after your initiation, you're going to have a choice. You can dedicate your service to the Bitter Elm and its membership, or you can be auctioned off to an individual."

"I can be shared or I can belong to one person?"

"No, it's not like being shared—it's like you get to have your own life, make your own choices. The way Sara did."

"And if I'm auctioned?"

"If you're auctioned, you become someone's body slave. You no longer have any choice. You belong to them."

There was a strange pull in her stomach, as if someone had hooked her soul with a fishing rod and was reeling her in. She pushed her shoulders back and arched her spine a little, refusing to hide the way her nipples reacted to the idea. Her eyes fell naturally to the fire between them, no longer looking at him.

"Would you buy me?"

"A girl like you is out of my price range," he said. "Even if you weren't my own flesh and blood." He cleared his throat and started to rise. "Anyway... I just wanted to warn you. Do not ask them to auction you. No matter what. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," she said, but not the way she'd have said it to a dominant. It was more the other way.

"Hey. Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Start treating me like your dad."

"Ok." Dakota grinned a wicked little grin. "Good night, Dad."

In the morning, Dakota learned that she, too, would be leaving the Court of Blooms. It surprised her to learn that this was not because she had broken the rules. In fact, Anne apologized to her. The apology made Dakota squirm with discomfort, and Dakota begged more than once to be punished, but Anne brushed off the idea. Instead she suggested that they might both one day visit the Court of Thorns and, in so doing, broaden their horizons. This, at least, helped Dakota feel a modicum of peace. She shared breakfast with Mara—cold cereal with sugary marshmallows—and they said their farewells.

"You can't stay here forever, you know," said Dakota.

"I didn't ask them to bring me here."

"But you did. You asked for all of this. You signed up for—"

"Just go, Dakota."

So it was that Dakota came to be waiting on the docks all alone. She had her bag with her. And the teddy bear. She scritched his ears as she waited; she was told that a boat was coming to pick her up and carry her across the water. They said it was a shortcut: the way by car was much longer. Dakota certainly remembered it being long, and so she didn't argue. A boat sounded fine to her.

The boat, when it arrived, wasn't quite what she was expecting.

"Hallo!" called the lone figure aboard from far out on the water still. He had stopped rowing and let one oar drag in the water in order to spin the little craft about. He had to; otherwise, he would have been forced to shout over his shoulder. "Are you Dakota?"

"Yes?" she said. She didn't mean it to sound like a question, but her surprise made that inevitable.

"Good, good. I'll be with you in a minute." He sounded very British, and not the upper-crust variety. The way he spoke made her grin, but she tried not to show it. "Ah, there," he said as he came alongside the dock. He threw her a line. "Not too much luggage, I hope?"

"No, Sir," she said. Then, "Wait. Are you another one of those?"

"You're getting downright suspicious, you know that?" he said, fanning himself with his broad-brimmed hat. "Just for that! Just for that, I'm going to make you row all the way back."

"Thank you, Master," she said. She'd never actually rowed a boat before—just the canoes here at the Court of Blooms. It sounded fun, and she was eager to try.

He took her luggage and settled himself at the stern of the little boat, and Dakota occupied the seat in the middle. On Anne's suggestion, she was wearing a pair of cargo shorts and a tank top, and she felt like she ought to be digging for dinosaur bones rather than leaving a slave sanctuary, but her life had been a little strange lately. She smiled at the Master as she began to row, her bare arms tensing against the oars, her shoulders knotting and pulling, her back and buttocks providing all the power. It felt good.

"My name is Greely," he said. "I have to think you've already forgotten the others. We won't be important to you in the rest of your life. I don't know why we insist on giving you our names."

"You don't think you're important, Master?"

"What men do is important. Not our names. Men do; women are."

"Do you think this slave is important, Master?"

He grinned at her and didn't answer. He returned his hat to his head, and he watched her row for a little while. The sun was warm; the water was bright; the exercise felt good, and Dakota savored being watched.

"Your mother was impaled."

Dakota stopped rowing.

"The stake was inserted into her rectum," he continued. "Most of her vital organs were avoided, as were the largest blood vessels. The stake was then fitted with blades of increasing size; these were forced deeper inside her as weights were added to her bonds. Her death did not come quickly—it was, I can assure you, excruciating. She lingered for thirty-one hours."

Water dripped from the oars. Somewhere high up, an eagle cried. In the water below, fish went about their lives, their silver bodies flashing in the sunlight that filtered down through the lake. The eagle plunged.

Dakota's throat closed.

Master Greely watched her still.

"Evangeline said that she gave herself willingly."

"She did."

"But..."

The eagle shattered the water, talons impaling its prey before it surged back to the surface and into the light. Droplets sprayed and the bird winged skyward once more.

"How is that possible?"

"That is what you have to ask yourself, if you're thinking of following in her footsteps." Master Greely paused, turning his eyes toward the eagle. "Beautiful bird," he said. "They were extinct here for a long while—ospreys like that one."

"Ospreys?"

"Yes. A lot of people think it's an eagle. They see big wings and long talons and a curved beak and think eagle. But it's not that simple. The whole world is like that. Nothing is that simple."

Dakota swallowed. She forced herself to breathe. To ignore her upset stomach and the images of blood running down an impaling spike that simply wouldn't leave her mind.

"But I mean," she began. "I mean, how can..." Her words broke once more. Her lips trembled. She sighed.

"How can anyone face something like that?" he said. She shrugged. She wasn't sure if that was the sentence she was trying to finish or not. "Thirty-one hours of life-ending torture is a lot to face. I think you face it one minute—one second, and one heartbeat at a time. One decision at a time. Just like with anything."

She nodded. She looked at the oars, their blades still moist and shining, still poised above the water. She immersed the blades in the lake again. One decision. One step at a time.

"But why?" she asked.

"If I gave you a reason for what she did, it would diminish the gift of her sacrifice."

"How?"

"If I told you that she was a body slave and her master had died before her, then it was no longer a gift. Her death was a door instead."

"Is that true?"

"Maybe. Does it matter?"

Dakota pulled at the oars. The lean muscle in her forearms tightened and corded, glowing golden beneath the warm sun. The water curled and bent before her strength, pushing back against her and thrusting the boat forward. One decision. One more step.

"Do you enjoy pain, Dakota?"

What a question. It was a lie unto itself—the answer had so many layers. It was loaded. She hated pain. It was pain, after all. She didn't seek pain for its own sake. She couldn't just cum from hurting herself. She pulled at the oars again and lifted them, turning the blades so that they skimmed the water. It was a stupid question. The boat didn't drift far. She wasn't going to answer it. She pulled again. And again. And again.

"Yes, Master."

"A woman does not surrender her life for the love of pain."

"No, Master."

"And yet the pain slave learns to be calm in the face of agony. Her experiences—a lifetime of suffering—can serve to strengthen her in extremis. The sight can be truly inspiring."

She rowed. She looked at him. She met his eyes.

"Did you watch her die?"

"I did."

One decision at a time.

"Did she die well?"

"Exceptionally."

Somewhere, an osprey had his breakfast. Dakota rowed. She pulled harder and faster than she needed to; she wanted to sweat, to feel the ache in her muscles.

"Is it too early for me to decide?" she said.

"We prefer that a candidate decide early. People too often regret decisions made in moments of ecstasy."

Dakota nodded. The oars dripped for a moment.

"If you are sold, there is a waiting period during which you will serve the club as a whole. Détente. You may have heard of it."

She shook her head. "But after that—I'll be his? Completely?"

"After that, your fate will be in your owner's hands. No matter what. Even if he decides to torture you to death on the very first night."

She shivered. She breathed. She decided.

"I want to be auctioned."