CHAPTER 27: RUBY QUEEN

Dax’s body rattled with the metallic cart, each jolt a metallic shiver running up his spine, his frame jiggling with every gallop of the wheels over unseen stones.

Yet, strangely, he wasn’t shackled. No, he was ensconced rather comfortably inside, perched upon a foam-padded bench with his back eased against another cushion, almost like a criminal being chauffeured rather than transported.

The only thorn in this velvet comfort was the voice, which was ceaselessly, rasping echo into his skull.

"You couldn’t even fight your way out, asshole."

The hawk, of course. It never shut up long enough for him to concentrate.

He inhaled, ignoring the blabbing bird. He figured that the only thing that might hold answers was the runes that always displays his stats. Therefore focusing harder and ignoring the blabbing hawk he tapped into his mind’s eye.

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[Name: Stevon Jew]

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"What the...?" he muttered under his breath.

So this was serious—no hallucination.

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[Age: 24]

[Status: poor, orphan, pathetic]

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"Well isn’t that lovely," Dax thought bitterly, but there was more.

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Mission: Max the orgasm of the Ruby Queen

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At that last line, his gut twisted and a bitter memory rose. This was the reason he’d hung himself.

The queen had declared that anyone who could make her climax would inherit a quarter of her wealth.

He’d applied to sleep with her, was it greed or desperation, he couldn’t tell.

But then came the rumors: no one who entered her chamber returned.

Perhaps they were imprisoned, or perhaps it was something worse.

Well, He’d tried to resign, but once registered there was no turning back. The pressure became unbearable, the guards had been sent for him, and rather than rot in a dungeon he’d chosen the rope.

And yet here he was.... Daxon Smith, transmigrated into Stevon Jew, hurtling toward the very nightmare that had driven his host to suicide.

His sister had been so wrong; applying to bed the queen was not the best thing to happen to him, it was the worst mistake of his host’s life, now his own.

Worry gnawed at him. How did he even come to inhabit this body? He’d read enough reincarnation tales: the soul must be dead. But he didn’t remember dying. As his thoughts coiled tighter, another rune flared before his mind’s eye.

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[Daxon Smith: You are in a nightmare as Stevon Smith Poisoned with the Nightmare Bloom.

Mission must be completed before dawn in your reality time.]

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Daxon’s stomach dropped.

’Poisoned?’ Who on earth had....? No. His lips curled in a sneer. "Darling, you son of a bitch..." She had been the only one close enough to slip something into his drink or food.

And now he had to quite literally fuck his way out of this nightmare.

"Halt!"

A faint bellow thundered from outside as the cart skidded to a stop, jolting him forward.

Maybe they had arrived. He couldn’t be sure. the windows were swathed in thick, regal curtains of purple, rich as bruised velvet, girlish in hue but undeniably expensive, an indulgent courtesy of the queen herself.

He wasn’t wrong. The door swung open; before he could turn, a black bag was yanked over his head and hands lifted him bodily out of the cart.

Strong hands lifted him, his body swaying as he was carried through echoing halls, up stairways, down passages whose scents of stone and incense wrapped around him like ghostly fingers. He could not see, but he could feel the grandeur.

After what seemed like a long walk, his body was brought down, and his feet was gently set to stand on solid ground.

"My Queen," a deep voice intoned nearby.

The answer was a thunderclap of gunfire. Daxon’s soul nearly fled Stevon’s body from sheer fright. The bullet had not struck him; therefore he exhaled in relief, lungs trembling as he breathed down.

There was a gesture, and he felt it more than saw it, and the hood was whisked away. His rough, blue hair tumbled loose across his shoulders like disheveled silk.

At first his vision was dim, but slowly it sharpened. Before him, across the chamber, rose a vast door. No, an entire wall, rent open with shimmering violet light along its edges. Magic pulsed there, a living wound in stone, forming a portal to a balcony beyond.

On that balcony stood a woman with a gun, and beside her another lady manned a strange device. It resembled an archaic spring-arm ballista, the sort of siege contraption once used to launch stones or clay-plates, which was used as a shooting target.

This one, however, was smaller, polished, its gears and cords gleaming like a predator’s teeth.

The woman bellowed "Pull!" as her servant yanked a lever; the machine thrummed, snapped, and spat not a stone nor a clay-plate but a hand.... a severed human hand now arcing into the air.

Another gunshot cracked; and the bullet obliterated the hand mid-flight. It tumbled below the balcony where ravenous jaguars awaited.

They pounced at once, their growls a snarling blur of hunger. Their bodies were taut whips of muscle, fur bristling like storm-charged grass.

Saliva dripped from their fangs as they lunged over each other, claws scraping stone in their desperation to seize the falling morsel.

The moment the hand touched ground, they tore it to ribbons, the sound a wet, crunching symphony of hunger.

Dax swallowed at all this, somehow he was doing his best, holding himself from peeing his pants.

At least now he knew the origin of the earlier shot.

He dragged his eyes from the balcony to the chamber itself. Though ancient, it was remarkable, its very stones exhaled the scent of incense and old power. Golden sconces lined the walls, each clutching fat candles whose flames bent and swayed as if whispering secrets. From the ceiling hung a monstrous chandelier wrought of blackened gold, its dripping wax like frozen tears.

To the right, an ornate fireplace yawned, its mantle carved with weeping angels and snarling beasts, the fire inside licking upward with a hiss like mocking laughter. Beyond that, a colossal four-poster bed swathed in purple and crimson silk dominated the room.

Beside it stood a towering wardrobe of black oak, its doors inlaid with silver runes, and a curtained alcove served as the Queen’s private dressing space. Gilded mirrors reflected the flicker of flames, turning the room into an echo of a nightmare palace.

Dax’s gaze drifted back to her and his mouth fell open. If a fly had been on duty, it would have marched right in.

She was magnificent. Her hair, black as a midnight river, cascaded down to her generous hips. She wore an armor that clung to her form yet revealed more than it hid: her enormous breasts pushed against the metal, forming a cleavage so deep it nearly exposed the tender pink beneath.

The armor ended scandalously high on her thighs, leaving the soft base of her succulent ass visible like a promise of sin.

She sauntered toward Dax, the guards forcing him to his knees. Automatically forcing him to bow.

Only then did he notice the floor. Two remaining corpses sprawled like discarded dolls. Headless. He had been so busy eye-caressing the Queen he hadn’t seen them.

To show the high rate of cruelty, the headless bodies was position on the floor in a way that each of them was cradling their heads the way a mother cradled her sleeping little baby.

The sight hit him like ice water. His stomach lurched, a sour tide rising in his throat. His skin prickled, gooseflesh crawling up his arms. This was no idle rumor; this was the graveyard of failed lovers.

For a heartbeat he could almost feel himself lying there next, cradling his own severed head.

"So," the Queen murmured, lifting his chin by the cheek so her dark eyes locked into his.

"This is the so-called Stevon Jew."

"He is handsome, though," she added, her tone silk over steel.

Then she turned, lowering her gun onto the bed. With a snap of her fingers, the portal on the wall hissed shut like a beast swallowing its tongue.

"You see, Stevon," she said, her voice velvet, but the threat in it made Dax’s heart hammer like a snared drum.

"I wouldn’t say much. I believe you know why you’re here."

His gaze flicked back to the bodies.

The way Their heads had been severed and arranged grotesquely: each cradled in its own hand.

"Yes," the Queen purred, noting his stare.

"So," Dax rasped,

"I’ll be beheaded if I d-don’t make you...cum? Or if I... cum first?"

The Queen chuckled, low and delighted.

"I think I love you already. You talk nasty, and I love nasty."

She glided to her bed and reclined upon it.

"But beheading is cliché around here now," she mused.

"If you don’t get me to the Seven Heavens, I’ll make sure you suffer first. And then..." her smile curved like a blade.

"I won’t be beheading you. I’ll be be-dicking you."