1
Deal with the Devil
“Sit down. Shut up.”
The prison guard barked rough orders at his charge, as if an authoritative snarl could somehow tame the beast he had in his cuffs. A curse was thrown back in his direction. There was a bang and the sound of flesh contacting metal reverberated through the room, like a fanfare of prison trumpets heralding a very particular kind of angel.
The boy made his appearance through the cell door as a wild and wounded creature brooding through pale eyes. There was a bruise under his right eye, and a cut on his lip which made it swell in a way that made the waiting man want to suck and bite it all the more.
The moment Maddox saw the boy, he fell in love.
It was not a romantic love. He was not capable of anything so wholesome, or so pedestrian.
It was something wilder. Something deeper. Something far more primal and self serving. Something that wanted to hurt as much as it wanted to nurture. Something that wanted to command as well as degrade. Twisted needs flashed through the very core of him from the moment the prospect was brought in. He was hunting, not for prey as he usually would, but for something more akin to an accomplice or perhaps an apprentice.
Maddox watched his newest potential charge with a professional detachment tinged with intense personal interest. He had not picked this young ruffian out of the general prison population at random. This meeting was the culmination of more than a year of research, observation, and the culling of unsuitable candidates, until this one, the one who stood before him with messy hair and sweet features worn on a face of cold, masculine fury. He would be charming when he laughed, if he laughed.
The guard pushed him down into the chair with unnecessary force which made absolutely no impression on the boy. The guard then grasped his wrists and hooked the chain between them to the secure point on the metal table. Maddox waited patiently, staying silent through all the little brutalities and humiliations being heaped upon the boy. Now was not a time to show compassion or mercy. Now was a time to observe, to match the facts he had collected over time with the person before him.
William Brown had been convicted of a particularly nasty murder three years ago, and for the last three years he had served time for it in this maximum-security prison which smelled like disinfectant and urine. He insisted on his innocence, like every guilty man here. These were the basic facts of his existence. They were nothing compared to what Maddox suspected lay at his core.
“Leave us,” Maddox said, breaking his silence in order to dismiss the guard.
The guard left and then it was just the two of them together in the room. The boy smelled strongly, but not badly. It was an intense masculinity, a near animal musk which made Maddox run the tip of his tongue under the top row of his teeth. He could feel excitement running over him, electric conduits of need which could not be contained and skittered over his skin, making each and every hair on his arms and the back of his neck lift.
The prospect looked at him with a clear and focused expression which nearly bordered on recognition. They were strangers to one another, but there was an immediate knowing in their shared gaze.
“My name is Maddox,” Mad introduced himself. “I’m here to help you, if you choose to accept it.”
William’s expression remained guarded. He had abandoned hope as a survival mechanism. A life sentence would do that, even to a young man. Hope was a luxury the long-term incarcerated could not possibly afford to indulge in. Better to accept life within thick concrete walls than imagine anything outside it.
The caveat which Mad added, if you choose to accept it, came from a statistical knowledge of Will’s recent misdemeanors. The boy did not accept help readily. He did not accept anything. Not good advice, or well-intentioned help. He was a feral thing in a human suit.
“You’ve been a bad boy,” Maddox purred.
Will’s expression did not change. He kept that clear, disinterested gaze focused somewhere between Maddox’s eyes.
Maddox waited for William to say something. Anything. But he didn’t. He stayed sullen. Maddox used the time to observe what he hoped would be his final selection. There had been several before Will, each of them promising in their own way, but ultimately disappointing. Mad had a different feeling about this one.
Will was a well-built young man. Muscular without being overly broad. Powerful without being obvious. His knuckles were reddened and callused, but not bruised or bloodied. That indicated he used them often for the purposes of fighting, to the extent the skin no longer broke easily. Though obviously capable of great violence, he sat in the chair across from Mad without the slightest aggression. He was self-contained. He was smart.