Page 52 of Freak Camp (A Monster By Any Other Name #1)

Tobias had wondered distantly how the man had the balls to sneer at the Director.

Even guards who called him a teetotalling prude were careful to say it behind his back (so far behind his back that they wouldn’t even say it in front of Tobias anymore, afraid he might spill something during an interrogation that would get them a private session of their own)—but now the man’s head snapped to Tobias, and then he looked back at the Director.

“Did you tell him to do that?”

“I did. With some work, 89UI6703 has become reliable in several ways.”

“Make him . . . make him do something else.”

Tobias saw the come here flick, but not coupled with the slight raise that would mean get up first, so he crawled.

He crawled on his hands and knees and kept his head down until he was about two feet away from the Director and then stopped, sitting back on his heels.

That was as close as he could come toward a real without further permission.

He didn’t look at the stranger’s face, but he could hear the amazement and something more in his voice with his next words.

Tobias let his eyes flicker sideways to where Crusher stood, one hand holding a cutting whip, the other clenched at his side.

Crusher was, predictably, hard, and he had the familiar brutal lust in his eyes.

Maybe I can get a sandwich out of him later, Tobias thought idly, before returning his gaze to the Director’s hand.

“How are you doing that? When you said you were training the freaks to be useful, I thought you were either unhinged or bullshitting us, Jonah, but that . . . that was something. My wife’s dog doesn’t obey like that, and she’s taken it to more schools than a PhD dropout.”

“He’s a freak, Senator,” the Director answered dryly.

“Much as I hate to admit it, he’s quite a bit smarter than a dog.

I use gestures when I don’t want to bother vocalizing basic instructions.

Granted, this one has taken to the training rather better than most, but just kneeling and crawling is not that impressive.

He can do quite a bit more than that, can’t he, Mr. Sloan? ”

Crusher started to attention and nodded. “Yes, sir. Pre—the freak’s . . . good at a lot of things, sir.”

“What—” The senator put down his beer. “What kinds of things?”

Of all the men in the room, only the Director was completely calm, at ease. Tobias couldn’t stop his heart rate from picking up. He doubted the senator cared about the history of wendigos in North America.

The Director considered, eyes steady on him, before they flickered to Crusher, moved to Tobias, and then back to the senator. “By all reports, he’s quite skilled with his mouth. Would you like to see for yourself, Senator?”

“His . . . mouth? You mean . . . ?” The senator leaned back, wiping his greasy fingers on the napkin on his lap.

“Quite so,” the Director said. “Mr. Sloan can corroborate.”

“Yeah,” Crusher said. “He’s . . . yeah. I . . . yeah. Sir.”

“Would you be interested, Senator?” The Director lifted the pitcher and poured himself another glass.

The man stared.

“Sir,” Crusher said, stepping forward. “If Pr—if the freak’s sucking him off, can I—”

“No, Mr. Sloan.” The Director’s tone made Tobias wince, grateful it wasn’t directed toward him. “No, you may not.”

“But, sir—”

The Director turned in his chair to look directly at the guard. “You will control yourself and do your job, Mr. Sloan, or you will leave this room, do you understand?”

The guard retreated to the wall. “Yes, sir.”

“Well.” The senator coughed. Tobias could just see his fingers nervously twitching over his knees. “If you’re offering a, a demonstration—I’d better accept it myself, just so I know you aren’t blowing smoke—or, y’know what I mean.”

The Director gave a short, clipped laugh without humor. “Yes, I do.” He jerked his head at Tobias and made another gesture.

Tobias did as he was told. It was easier than usual, since the man never released his death grip on the arms of his chair and couldn’t seem to do anything but make sharp, high-pitched whines.

Afterward, as Tobias slid back the required two feet, the senator wheezed, “Holy shit.”

“I take it he performed well?” The Director sipped his tea.

“He, uh, you could say that.”

“You can help me, then, with your opinion. Did he perform well enough that I should waive the usual punishment for touching a real human without asking for permission?”

Tobias froze, unable to breathe, to feel anything beneath the pounding in his ears.

How could he have been so stupid? There was always a test, always more under the Director’s commands, and he should have fucking known better than to assume that it would be all right just because he was clearly not the only one the Director was training today.

Touching a real without explicit permission or orders, even when they had said yes to the blowjob, even when they clearly wanted it, or were touching him, was equivalent to hitting a guard.

Monsters routinely lost limbs or disappeared into Special Research for even implying that they might fight back.

It took all his self-control not to panic, not to throw himself on his stomach and beg and apologize, not to run and hope that Crusher accidentally killed him. Because this too was a test, and Crusher would never kill him, would never step that far out of line, unless the Director said he could.

And begging wouldn’t help. It never had helped unless that was what the Director had told him to do.

Then, sometimes, if he did it well enough, if he repeated enough of what the Director had told him about how worthless he was, about how much he deserved the pain, if he created new ways to say that he was sorry, then the Director would stop the pain, because Tobias understood his lessons.

But he had to truly understand. He couldn’t just say the words. The Director knew the difference.

“He . . . he had to ask permission?” the senator asked.

“Of course. He’s just a freak. You could have made him beg for the privilege, or told him exactly what he should do with his tongue.”

The senator took a hard breath. “Maybe . . . maybe next time?”

The Director smiled. “Yes, next time. I’m still waiting for your opinion on the punishment.”

“I think he was good enough that this time . . . this time . . .”

“This time only,” the Director said smoothly. “That sounds reasonable. But a bit too merciful. Would you mind if I altered that a bit, disciplined him lightly?”

The senator huffed a shaky laugh. “Well, you’re the boss here. You sure seem to know what you’re doing.”

“Thank you.” The Director looked at Tobias. “Tonight you will stay on your knees in the corner, remain silent unless I speak to you, as though you are bound and gagged. If you move, if you make any noise, you will be restrained and I will do what is necessary to educate you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

The Director nodded and turned back to the senator.

“The next time you want to threaten the ASC budget, Senator, I want you to remember two things. One”—he gestured at Tobias—“the good work we do here confining, controlling, and training supernaturals to useful tasks. And two”—he pointed toward the ceiling—“that I have video of you with your cock down a monster’s throat. ”

Every corner in Freak Camp had its own video camera. Tobias knew that the ones in the Director’s offices were strictly private.

Stupid man, even if he is a real , he thought as the senator gaped at the Director. Fighting only gets you hurt.

***

J ake turned south at Tucson, finally getting the sun out of his eyes, easing the dull ache in his head.

He was supposed to leave Roger’s that morning, but last night he’d gone into Las Cruces to, for lack of a better excuse, blow off steam.

He hadn’t made it back until close to noon, and Roger had bitched him out again about how he’d be no use to Tobias if he smashed up his car and himself on the side of the highway.

That was also why days ago Roger had locked up his own liquor and confiscated Jake’s hunting duffel, after the last disastrous attempt at a solo hunt nearly got Jake chewed up by the tiniest werewolf pup he’d ever seen.

Jake knew Roger was right. He was extremely fucked up, and two weeks at Roger’s hadn’t much helped him find his footing. None of that was Roger’s fault. He knew how to kick Jake’s ass better than anyone (well, not as good as—but Jake wasn’t going there).

Twenty minutes later down the highway, he took the exit for Sahuarita.

At a gas station, he asked for directions for Iglesia de Gracia y Fe.

He stood for a few extra minutes in front of the cooler section, wondering how Alejandra Rodriguez would react to him showing up with a six-pack—then shook himself and turned back to the Eldorado.

When he pulled into the single-story church’s parking lot, there were a few cars already parked.

He took the spot closest to the road and exit, then slowly got out of the car, taking an extra moment to stretch and roll his neck while studying the church.

It didn’t look like much with its sun-stained adobe walls, lined with scrubby bushes.

He and Leon had never been churchgoers, except to access whatever holy water and other equipment needed to take down whatever demonic ass was giving them trouble that week.

Jake only remembered going to a Sunday service a couple of times when Dad had left him with a babysitter whose grandkids were annoying as hell and inclined to snitch.

As he stood staring, a side door opened and a Hispanic woman appeared in the doorway, waving him closer. “You must be Jake.”

He winced, then nodded and slowly crossed the gravel lot to the church.

Alejandra was short and solidly built, a little over five feet, her long black hair pulled back in a smooth ponytail. She wore no makeup, and it was hard to tell her age, apart from the laugh lines creasing the corners of her eyes.