Possessed as a Madman's Maid (3)
“That's certainly an unusual proposal.”
He likely never imagined I would step forward to personally aid his hobby with my own hands. Rihardt was a man who had objectified his own deeds thoroughly enough to judge them coldly, so his lukewarm reaction was only to be expected. I decided to pinch at the part of him that found this disappointing.
“I speak of your leisure activities, my lord. Don't you sometimes find yourself short of helping hands?”
Perhaps the topic struck a chord. He gave a shrug and nodded along.
“True of any endeavor. The more hands, the better.”
“Then allow me to be yours, Young Master Rihardt—your hands and feet.”
“You'd serve as my assistant?”
“With the utmost devotion, of course.”
This was no conclusion reached after long deliberation. If anything, it bordered on impulsive—there had hardly been time to catch my breath, let alone weigh the matter rationally. And yet I didn't think the decision to attach myself to Rihardt was a wrong one, for this was the only path I could see to keeping my life relatively tranquil.
Whether Rihardt had marked me as his next toy or not didn't matter. This situation alone had already caught his eye; from here on, his attention would follow me regardless. There's no slipping free of that bastard's grip. Not short of dying and becoming a corpse.
Becoming an accomplice. Crude as the bargain was, I considered it my one offer of escape from his clutches. Of course, I knew full well that serving as Rihardt's accomplice would be anything but easy. But the very danger it carried also promised a measure of safety—at the very least, he wouldn't slaughter his hunting dog in the middle of the hunt. Even if he might devour it once the hunt was over.
Best of all, I knew exactly what method Rihardt had used to bring women down to the basement. The model answer sat plainly in my head, and I wasn't so stupid as to leave it unused.
“I can prove my worth to you, Young Master Rihardt.”
“And for that, you want me to hold you dear?”
Was he out of his mind? I hadn't the faintest desire to receive your deep and ardent attention. Being regarded as a moderately useful tool, not quite worth discarding would be more than enough. So I waved the notion away at once.
“You honor me too much. I have no such intention whatsoever. I know my place. It would be plenty if you simply saw me as a convenient maid who takes the tedious chores off your hands.”
“A convenient maid. For instance?”
“Rather than having to procure your toys yourself each time, Young Master Rihardt, you need only name the target. I will take the appropriate measures and have them installed in the basement—so that no tedious, bothersome process ever wastes your precious hours.”
Had the offer whetted his appetite? Rihardt stroked his chin once more.
“Honestly? I'm only half convinced. Words are cheap—by talk alone, even a three-year-old could claim to be a knight. I myself leave the occasional trace behind. Could you really handle things as cleanly as I do?”
Then he began to clench and unclench his fist, over and over. Each time, the eerie crack of his knuckles drummed against my eardrums. This was several times more suffocating than any pressure interview back in my old life. Hedging here would mark me as a rank amateur. What I needed was confidence—the unshakable conviction that whatever he entrusted to me, I would deliver.
“If the day comes when you find yourself unsatisfied, then you may make me your toy.”
At my resolute tone, Rihardt laughed. Not a jeer or a sneer, but a great, hearty laugh of genuine delight he couldn't contain.
“My, aren't you confident. Will you truly be all right? You know full well what my toys endure.”
“I've prepared myself.”
In any case, if this negotiation fell through, it was self-evident that I would become his toy regardless. Torture was one thing—but would my mind survive the process intact? I could state this with certainty: I possessed the thoroughly ordinary mental fortitude of a twenty-first-century modern man. I would never endure the depths of Rihardt's play. I'd be broken into a husk.
“And I might pick a fight over nothing at all, you know?”
“I've prepared myself for that as well.”
Confronted with such unyielding resolve, Rihardt seemed to sink into thought and was slow to speak. How many minutes passed while his crimson eyes gleamed vividly in the dark? That brief silence stretched out for me like hours. At last, he opened his mouth.
“You're amusing. If I'd known Lucy was this entertaining, I should have struck up a conversation far sooner.”
That damned bastard—was that a yes or a no? Speak clearly!
I studied Rihardt with wary eyes, and before long they curved into a gentle arc.
“Well. At the very least, I find myself inclined to give you a chance.”
The Rihardt before me strode off somewhere and worked some manner of mechanism. Grrrriiiind. A noise less loud than I'd expected began to rumble. The fissure in the wall yawned wide, and before long a hidden staircase emerged.
The passage leading down to Rihardt's basement.
The thick reek of blood drifting up from that passage was no trick of my senses. That he would show me this must have been, in Rihardt's own reckoning, a decision of some weight. Or maybe it's just his scheme to work me as a toy.
He pressed his index finger to his lips, demanding silence.
“Follow quietly.”
...Um, is there any chance I don't have to go?
Most regrettably, I had no say in the matter.
“Yes.”
I gave a reluctant nod.
The passage was dark and cheerless, and narrow to boot—scarcely wide enough for a single grown man. The steps rose and fell unevenly; one careless footfall looked like a sprained ankle waiting to happen. Had it not been for the torches hung along the walls at intervals, I would surely have misstepped more than once.
“Mind your step. It's built so that a fall would break you badly.”
That was Rihardt, the moment I staggered. He was walking with his eyes fixed straight ahead—so how did he know I'd wobbled behind him? Does the man have eyes in the back of his head? I decided a surprise attack on that Rihardt would be pointless, and answered in a somewhat morose tone.
“Forgive me. I'll be careful.”
“‘Sorry,’ he says.”
He gave a dry little laugh at my apology. It wasn't a particularly harsh rebuke, and yet being barked at outright might have been easier on the heart. Because that sounded like points being docked. Even a flawless performance would scarcely be enough, and here I was fumbling—what was I playing at? It had all happened because I was trying to descend stairs in clothes I wasn't used to. I'd lived my whole life never once wearing a skirt or heels; what could I do? A maid's outfit—no, a woman's clothing in general—turned out to be far more inconvenient than I'd imagined. It was a fact I never wanted to learn.
How long did I descend in silence? At last, a torch and a door came into view. The door was solid iron through and through—which was precisely why Rihardt could boast that no trace of his comings and goings had ever been found.
Without warning, he reached out and gripped some point on the iron door. And it moved.
KRRRRUUUMBLE!
The massive iron door groaned as it slid—not by any special mechanism or pulley, but by pure human strength. Rihardt de Line was a man whose build better suited the word gaunt than brawny. Watching such a man casually shove aside a slab of solid iron, I felt my most basic common sense crumble to pieces. So this is the sight I was fated to see with my own eyes.
For the record: that iron door was a sliding door. Meaning anyone could open it, provided they had the raw strength—there was no intricate locking mechanism to speak of. The catch being that the strength required was monstrous. In the novel, I could chuckle and let it pass. Once it became my reality, laughing it off wasn't so simple—least of all when the man pushing that door was a lunatic who vented his sadistic appetites on anyone unfortunate enough to cross his path.
The moment the tightly sealed door gave way, the clammy air within stabbed at my nose. The stinging wave of blood-smell that spread through it was merely a bonus.
“You've gone pale. Something unpleasant on your mind, I take it?”
“I have a weak stomach.”
“You look remarkably composed for it.”
The basement was more spacious than I'd expected. There were no fewer than four barred cells for holding people, and beyond them, row upon row of sundry tools. Taken as a whole, the place still felt distinctly amateurish. Natural enough—Rihardt's hobby had only just begun to sprout.
Rihardt sent me a sidelong glance, as if expecting my verdict. Clumsy flattery would be seen through in an instant, so I would offer the honest truth.
“It's a mess.”
At my assessment, Rihardt shrugged.
“I was enjoying myself right up until a moment ago, so the tidying is a little wanting. See there?”
His index finger indicated one of the four barred cells. Inside, curled up naked like a worm winding in on itself, was a girl. Contrary to my expectation of a body riddled with wounds, hers was in remarkably pristine condition—I could hardly find even a scratch. Did he read the doubt in my gaze? Rihardt explained in a matter-of-fact tone.
“I once secured a capable priestess. Through her I obtained a generous supply of healing potions. Not that she had any idea they'd be spent in a place like this.”
He appended that remark with a sly grin. The meaningful glances he kept sending my way seemed to say, If you fail to handle things to my satisfaction, you'll end up just like that—and it made me shrink back without quite knowing why.
“Bianca—sorry to drop in on you again so soon. This here is Lucifer. You two are acquainted, aren't you?”
The girl called Bianca studied me with hollow eyes. No surprise, no horror—not the smallest flicker of feeling showed in them. Eyes of serene, absolute surrender. One might as well have called her mind broken. At the sight, my face crumpled before I could help it. It had been horrifying even on the page, but laid out live before me, it genuinely made me sick.
Clack.
Rihardt's large hand pressed something into my palm. A dagger, worn slick with use—which is to say, its bloody reek practically pulsed against my skin. I looked at Rihardt.
“What is this.”
“Now then—your initiation rite, Lucifer.”
So that was what pure evil meant—that bastard was what the term had been coined for.