Foundling

Joel exuded an arrogant confidence as he lounged behind the wheel of his sleek, black sports car, piloting it smoothly out of the city and onto a highway. But it was all a front - inside he was a mess of nerves...
      His uncle had summoned him to the 'country estate' in Wiltshire, for the weekend. He was to come on his own, none of his brute squad could travel up with him, something that made Joel very nervous though he'd acquiesced quickly enough. He detested meeting his uncle on his own – Ray Canly had an uncanny knack of making him feel young, gauche and useless, completely at odds with his usual view of himself. Sure he'd made a few mistakes but it wasn't his fault! None of it was his fault! Joel took a deep breath and consciously relaxed his grip on the steering wheel, no point getting worked up until he found out what Uncle Ray had to say. One good thing about the coming weekend though, he'd found out that Mimi and the brat were staying in London. Thank fuck the kid was out of his hair now – he'd be forever grateful to Ray and Mimi for adopting her. Well – Joel smirked – it wasn't so much adopting as reclaiming. His Uncle and Aunt were her legal parents after all, it wasn't his and Sandy's name that appeared on the birth certificate.

"Good drive up?" Uncle Ray was in his casual, 'country' clothes, Joel noted, and looking relaxed and cheery. Maybe he wasn't about to be bawled out.
       "Not bad," Joel flicked thick, black hair away from his eyes and grinned at his Uncle. "So, what's the occasion?"
       "Occasion?" the elder, grey-haired man lifted an eyebrow.
      "I don't get invited here –" Joel nodded at the expansive, and old, manor house, "- very often."
       The crime boss' smile was almost warm above grey eyes that glittered coldly.
       "Let's just say that for once I'm pleased with you."
       "Cheers." Joel didn't bother to mask his sarcasm.
       "No, really I am," Ray laid a friendly, avuncular arm across the younger man's shoulders, "not only have you provided a child for my darling wife but you've dealt with the mother." He stopped and regarded his nephew narrowly. "You have dealt with the little slag, haven't you? I'm going to be pissed off if she comes back to haunt us."
       "Yeah, I have." Joel scowled, "it's not going to be a problem." It'd better not be a problem - it'd cost him a fucking fortune already. But the goons he'd hired were efficient and skilled, or so he'd been assured by the associate who'd recommended them.
       "Good," his uncle's smile returned in full force, "Come inside and have a drink then you can have a look at what Fiona's sent me..."

Joel slouched irritably in the wide, leather lounge chair, the mention of his cousin having slapped his budding good mood firmly back down. Bloody Fiona! Of all the family that had survived the underworld blood-feud purges a few year ago, she was his least favourite. It galled him endlessly that Ray thought the miserable dyke would be a better choice to take over the family business than him. Not that Fiona was particularly interested in their UK dealings, she was supremely comfortable on the continent, thank you very much, making a fucking fortune dabbling her fingers in the pet industry. Joel stared moodily at the beautiful 18^th century tapestry gracing one of the walls. Fiona had always been lucky, things just seemed to fall in her lap. Bitch. She was over there in Italy, with everything she could ever want at her fingertips, surrounded by her 'secretaries'. Secretaries? Hah! Fucking harem, more like, or her fucking petting zoo! All of Fiona's girls had some sort of modification, fur or ears and tails...

"Finished?" Ray nodded at Joel's empty glass, "Good!" the grey-haired man almost bounced out of his chair. Joel eyed his uncle with amusement – he was like a kid who couldn't wait to show off what he got for Christmas.
       Joel trailed along as his uncle led him through the main body of the house and out through to one of the less-grand wings; the old servants' quarters, probably. The stairs they took up to the attic room were worn wood, narrow and step, and the railing wobbled slightly under the younger Canly's hand. Ray paused outside a squat, rough door and fished a bunch of keys out of his pocket. He chose a heavy, older style key from the bunch and, smirking back over his shoulder at his nephew, unlocked the door.
       The girl, naked of course, was huddled at the foot of an old iron bed, her head lowered, long shining grey locks of hair flopping over her face, elegant digitigrade legs folded gracefully beneath her. Finely tapered equine ears flickered and she lifted her head to gaze warily at the men. The girl's face had been elongated slightly and her dappled grey skin shone with the satiny sheen of a thoroughbred's coat.
       Ray Canly grinned at his nephew.
      "She doesn't speak English but she's been conditioned to follow some simple phrases." He turned to the girl, speaking sharply. "Stand up." The pony-girl lurched to her feet, awkwardly, as she couldn't use the soft hooves at the ends of her arms for purchase. Joel stared; she was beautiful but this was just fucked. The girl peered at the men through widely spaced, deep brown horse's eyes, shifting her weight nervously from side to side. Her long white and grey streaked tail switched against her legs in agitation and Joel noticed she was tethered somehow to the bed by a chain that disappeared up between her thighs.
      Ray arched a knowing eyebrow at Joel and tugged open a draw in the old bureau beside the door.
      "She responds well to the crop – so I've been told." he smirked, pulling out a supple, black example and handing it to his nephew. "Have fun, don't damage her too much – I'm entertaining tomorrow." Ray dropped the keys with a discordant jangle on the bureau top. "Lock up after me - and when you're done." He patted his nephew on the shoulder then left, the door snicking firmly shut behind him.
      Joel locked the door, put the keys back on the bureau then turned to study the pony-girl. He'd never found the idea of pets all that appealing but he wasn't about to refuse the chance to use one. He prowled towards her, absently running the crop through his fingers. It felt smooth, almost warm... and the girl couldn't take her eyes off it. Joel smirked and slapped it lightly against her cheek. She shuddered, nickering softly, liquid brown eyes closing in seeming ecstasy as she swayed on her horse's legs. Joel slowly trailed the crop down her neck to her chest, flicking the tip sharply across first one peaked nipple, then the other. The girl's head dropped back and she licked her lips, shifting her legs apart enough so that Joel could see the tether chain was attached to a large silver ring threaded through her prominent clitoral hood. The crime-lord's nephew experimentally ran the crop up and down the chain a few times, grinning broadly at the girl's reaction to the vibrations travelling to her groin then before she had a chance to realise what was happening, he smacked the crop sharply and fiercely between her thighs and up against her groin. The pony-girl gave a neighing shriek and convulsed abruptly, coming hard and fast. Joel smirked, impressed despite himself, and playfully tapped the crop against the chain as the girl was coming down, sending her into convulsive shivers. This could be fun...

Joel finished drying himself and shrugged into his shirt, looking dispassionately at the exhausted pony-girl slumped at the foot of the bed. Should he get her a drink? Nah, there'd be a groom or a keeper or something around to do that – he glanced in disgust at the trickle of mingled semen, blood and body-fluids dribbling thickly down her thighs – and to clean her up.
      He dressed quickly, almost relieved to be leaving. It had been interesting but there was something unsettling about the pet. She'd not responded at all to being fucked, even viciously hard, or taking him so deeply into her throat she gagged, the only time she showed any animation was when he'd used the crop. Joel grimaced at the dark welts marring the smoothness of her glossy hide. She'd obviously been tampered with - her physical responses - and while it'd been amusing at first to hit her, make her come, that had soon palled and he'd found himself hankering for a natural, human response from the creature.
      Joel carefully locked the door behind him then headed back down the stairs. The further away he got from the ponygirl the moodier, less happy, he became about the encounter but wasn't able to pin the reason down. Maybe he was just stressed? It'd been a trying few days, having to deal with his recent problem, and he felt raw and drained from the experience. Joel wondered if he could excuse himself from his Uncle's company and go back to London and the clubs, get stoned and find some pretty young thing to lose himself in. A hard smile curved over sensual lips. Yeah, that was what he needed, that always made him feel better...

The unremarkable, middle-aged woman diffidently approached the ward's nurses station.
       "Hello, Janet," a stocky, black female smiled at her. "You're here to see our mystery girl?"
      Aunty Janet, brothel keeper and sometime police informant, smiled back.
      "If I can. Has there been any change?"
       "No, not really," the nurse heaved a sigh, the seams of her uniform threatening to part under the strain, "the swelling's gone down but she's still unconscious, still unresponsive to stimuli."
      "Thanks, Trudy," Janet smiled her thanks then padded quietly down to the four bed ward at the end of the corridor.

There were precious few public hospitals left in London, those that would treat people without any identification or money, and as hard as the staff tried, these 'community hospitals' were nearly all grim, grey places run on shoestring budgets. A sizeable part of their funding came from public donations and Janet was one of the few who donated regularly. That fact more than anything was why the unknown assault victim she'd brought in over a week ago was still here instead of in one of the even worse hospice wards at a sister institution.
      Janet gently pulled aside the faded curtain surrounding the bed and peeked in at the battered, insensible figure lying there.
      "Hello, love, it's me again..."

Sophie, Janet's young helper and companion, was very squeamish; she'd noisily thrown up when she and the older woman had literally stumbled across the naked, bloodied and apparently lifeless figure down by the canal. Being far more practical in nature, Janet had sent the girl away to ring for help before taking a closer look at the body. The victim was female, and young, but other than that? Her face was pulped, her hair had been hacked off unevenly – there were long locks of it scattered all over the place - and she was covered in large, livid bruises, the type of which Janet knew indicated broken bones. It looked like she'd been kicked to death, poor little cow, and there seemed to be a lot of blood pooling around her lower body. Probably raped as well – Janet thought with a flare of anger – the horrors that humans were capable of never failed to sicken her.
      Sophie returned in a few minutes but didn't approach, calling down to the older woman from a safe distance.
      "Knuckles is on his way," her voice trembled, "he's bringing the car."
      Janet nodded approval; her 'security adviser' was very sensible. They couldn't leave the body here, and the police wouldn't venture this far into the slums - not that the cops would be that concerned about solving another murder in the no-go zone, but she could at least get the girl's remains somewhere more appropriate.
      Knuckles was big, and ugly, with a face indicative of too many brawls, but he was also strong and smart and Janet trusted him - he'd been with her for years.
      "Whatcher found?" Knuckles shambled down the shallow bank towards them. "Oh..." he stopped short at the sight of the body. "Shit."
      "We have to move her," Janet said quietly.
      "Yeah," Knuckles breathed out, "Fetch the blanket from the trunk willya, Soph?" he called back over his shoulder. The girl blanched but hastened to do as he asked.
      "She's not been dead long," Knuckles mused, "there's no smell."
      Janet blinked, then took a cautious sniff.
      "You're right, but it's been cold, that could've delayed the decomposition."
      Knuckles shrugged then glanced sharply at the body.
      "'ere, I don't think she's dead."
      "What?" Janet was aghast – she hadn't actually touched the girl's body.
      "I think I just saw her breath." Knuckles went down on one knee beside the body and touched his fingertips to her neck. "And she's not warm, exactly, but she's not corpse-cold, either."
      Janet held her breath and stared at the girl's battered rib-cage.
      It rose and fell infinitesimally, jerkily.
      "Holy shit, she's alive – Sophie! Get that blanket here now!"

They'd raced the girl to the nearest community hospital – St Jude's - and Knuckles had carefully carried her into the emergency ward while Janet bellowed for assistance. The girl was whisked away and the older woman settled herself in the bleak, surprisingly empty waiting room, sending Knuckles and Sophie back to the scene to see if they could find anything that might help identify their find.
      After a long couple of hours, a doctor Janet knew well came out to see her. He slumped into the hard plastic seat beside the madam and smiled grimly.
      "She's gone to theatre but I think she'll be all right, eventually. It's going to take time though, she's taken a real beating." Phillip Harding rubbed his hand tiredly over his eyes. "This wasn't a simple assault, Janet, she was meant to die."
      The older woman frowned.
      "How'd you work that out?"
      "She'd been given a medical drug – one that helps with blood clotting – but the amount of residue we found in her..." Dr Harding shook his head. "It didn't get there accidentally, it had to be injected, but – " he smiled wearily, " – it didn't work, or rather it didn't work they way her assailants thought it would."
      "How - ?"
      "The compound doesn't last for long, it breaks down within an hour, plenty of time though for the amount she'd been given to turn her blood to glue, but in this case – " Phillip grinned, " – the drug spent itself stopping her bleeding to death from internal injuries."
      Janet swore quietly.
      "If this was supposed to be murder... we can't let anyone know we've found her."
      Harding was solemn.
      "I'll keep her listed as an unknown drug-overdose then. You don't know who she is?"
      "No," Janet stood up, her joints creaking as she stretched, "but I might be able to find out, discreetly."

But she hadn't. The girl's fingerprints and retinal scans hadn't flagged any of the Met's records, or records from any other organisation that Janet was able to access through her wide net of contacts. Not that that was conclusive by any means, there were hundreds of thousands of people who'd managed to slip through the cracks in the social system, this girl could well be one of them. There was one place Janet hadn't tried yet and while she was uncomfortable dealing with the Agency – even through that little love, Lenore – she figured they owed her a favour for bringing Devon to their attention...

Janet gently stroked the dry skin on the back of the girl's hand where it lay lax on top of the thin, cotton blanket.
      "Dr Harding says you can wake up any time now, love, the swelling from the concussion's gone down." Janet waited, half-hopeful, but there was no response. "I'm going to ask a friend of mine to come and see you, see if we can find out who you are, all right?" The elder woman lifted her hand to softly touch the girl's misshapen cheek, being careful to avoid the stitches where basic surgery had pieced her face back together. Janet forced down the all too familiar surge of anger; she'd like to get her hands on the bastards who'd done this and... She took a deep breath, biting back her fury; she'd be no help to anyone if she let her temper override her practicality. Janet brushed a kiss over short, rough, dark-blonde hair and made the effort to smile.
      "I'll come back and see you again soon, love. Promise."

To anyone who didn't know her, Razor gave every appearance of icy indifference. The psi stood, silent, on one side of the victim's hospital bed while her partner questioned the old flat-scan woman on the other. Lenore, however, knew Razor very well, probably better than the 'path realised and what she was seeing now both pleased and bothered her. There was no doubt her relationship with Angel had softened the aloof and prickly telepath, allowed her to at least begin to develop more human emotions but... Lenore flicked another glance at her partner, noting the tension in her jaw and the way her fingers were clawed into tight fists, partially hidden beneath her arms where they were folded across her chest. Razor was coldly furious about something, but what, exactly?
      The Special Agents were here as a favour to Janet – this case, on the surface at least, had nothing to do with them.
      *Razor? Could you start, please? Gently.*
      *I know.* the 'path snapped, and after a moment's hesitation, spread her fingertips out over the unconscious girl's forehead. Razor's eyes fluttered closed as delved into the unresisting mind.
      "Her name's Sandy –" to Lenore's surprise, the 'path spoke out loud, rather than speaking to Lenore and leaving her to translate for the flatscan, " – she's American though she's been in London for a few years." Razor frowned distantly, "She has a child – a baby – a girl..." Icy bright blue-eyes snapped open and focused on Lenore. "Why is the name Canly familiar?"
      Janet and Lenore glanced at each other, disturbed.
      "They're a family of criminals." The agent answered. "Why?"
      "This girl, Sandy, is the girlfriend of one of them. Joel?"
      "Holy shit," Janet breathed, "I've heard something about this." She tapped a finger against her lips as she thought. "Joel Canly was supposed to have knocked up some stripper. This is her?"
      Razor dug a little deeper.
      "Yes. Stripper, prostitute – " she growled, " – inconvenience." *Her 'boyfriend' was the one who gave her to the bastards who did this!* Lenore shivered at the venom in her partner's *voice*.
      "Let me get this straight," the ex-cop said with slow emphasis, "Joel Canly arranged for this girl to be killed?"
      Razor nodded grimly and Lenore turned to stare at Janet, green eyes alight with an almost fierce triumph.
      "We have never been able to get anything major to stick to that family."
      Janet scowled.
      "You're not thinking of using this poor creature to nail the Canlys?"
      "She's the best – only – witness…"
      "You can't! She's in enough danger as it is! If they find out she's still alive – "
      "The Canlys are filth, you know that, we have to use any weapon we have – "
      Janet folded her arms tightly across her breasts and glared at the Agent.
      "Not this time."
      "You think you can give her better protection than we can?"
      "Possibly not but I'm not going to expose her to danger either. Besides," The older woman scowled, "Sandy doesn't come under the Agency's jurisdiction –"
      "Yes, she does." Razor's flat statement stopped the argument dead as the two woman turned as one to look at her. "She's psionic..."

© 2003 November 2^nd Lutra


Darkside

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© 2003 WordWrights