One month later
The strange little girl in the yellow rain slicker was looking at her again. Laughing at her again. The girl made her nervous. She had a weird glint in her eyes. And there was something about the set of her features and the angle at which she was holding her head that made her expression look like a grown-up leer. A hint of lasciviousness one shouldn’t see in the eyes of one so young. Though Dream couldn’t hear the sound of the girl’s laughter over the wind and the rushing water below, she was certain it possessed a mocking tone.
She wasn’t positive the little girl was really there. Another apparition, maybe. She was glad of the dozen or so yards that separated them. If she moved any closer, Dream would bolt back across the bridge to the parking lot where they’d left Marcy’s van. The girl put a cupped hand to her mouth to cover a giggle.
Dream shifted her attention back to the natural wonder in the distance. The stiff breeze stirred her hair and the fine mist of rain made her flesh glisten as she leaned over the railing of the Rainbow Bridge and watched the distant churning foam of the water at the bottom of American Falls, the U.S. half of the famed Niagara Falls. The sky was overcast and the temperature had dropped into the thirties, with the stiffening wind adding an extra bite to the chill. It was late afternoon drifting toward evening, and the already bruised sky was growing darker by the moment. The nasty conditions had thinned the usual tourist crowds to nearly nothing. Dream had an eerie sense of standing alone at the very edge of the world as all of existence teetered on the brink of some unfathomable apocalypse.
Dream shivered as the swirling wind abruptly redirected and gusted across her wet face. She tucked her hands under her arms and wished for better protection against the elements than the light jacket she was wearing. She leaned further over the railing and looked at the rushing stream of water directly beneath the Rainbow Bridge. An image leapt unbidden to her mind then, one that stirred horror within her, but was not without a certain morbid appeal. She imagined herself climbing over the slick railing and leaping spread-eagled into the drink, her arms outstretched as she soared for one glorious moment before plunging into the cold, cold water and the darkness beyond.
“It’s tempting, isn’t it?”
Dream flinched at the sound of Marcy’s voice. The fragile-but achingly vivid-illusion of perfect aloneness was wrecked again. On the other hand, there was a measure of comfort to be derived from the proximity of an undeniably flesh-and-blood human being. Dream considered asking Marcy whether she could see the girl in the yellow rain slicker, but decided against it when she realized she wasn’t certain which would unsettle her more, a yes or no answer.
Marcy took up a position a few feet to her left and leaned over the railing. The wind blew her bottle-blonde hair wildly about her face, but she seemed oblivious to the conditions. She glanced down before looking at Dream again. “I kind of wish I had the guts to do it. Just climb over and…jump.” Her tone turned wistful as her gaze was drawn back to the water. “It would solve a lot of problems.”
Dream sighed and finally acknowledged her presence. “So do it. I won’t stop you, I promise.”
Marcy grunted. “If you hate me so much, why don’t you just kill me? Make my brain explode like you did to my friend. Or have your freaky zombie friend rip my head off or something.”
Anger stirred within Dream as she listened to Marcy rant. The girl had been nearly as silent as her meek little sister during their first days on the road, but in the last week she’d grown increasingly bold with her verbal jabs. Dream knew she was testing her, probing to see just how far she could push. She was treading a very thin line. The pressure building within Dream was immense. It wouldn’t take much to trigger an explosion. And she had a feeling her next explosion might wipe out anyone within range.
Dream shivered again and looked at Marcy. “That thing isn’t my friend. Not really.”
Marcy smirked. “That’s not what she says. She says-”
“I know what she says.” Dream turned away from the railing and leaned close to Marcy. She caught a glimpse of Alicia over Marcy’s shoulder. The black woman was standing at a spot some twenty yards to the left, her gaze trained on the waterfall. “And maybe she even believes it. But she’s not Alicia. She’s not even Alicia’s ghost. There may be some little strand of Alicia’s essence inside her, something some part of my subconscious always carries with me. If anything, she’s some kind of fucked-up clone or copy. There’s a lot of what I remember about Alicia in that…thing, but it’s all distorted.” She frowned. “I don’t know how to put it exactly.”
Marcy’s brow furrowed. “Like a garbled data transmission, then? Static or interference causing some information to be left out and other bits of it scrambled all to hell.”
Dream shrugged. “Something like that, I guess.”
Marcy nodded. “Yeah. The supernatural gumbo inside you created a shell based on your last memories of Alicia, then downloaded a faulty blueprint of her psyche to her regenerated brain.” She laughed and shook her head. “It’s all very late night Z-movie. Not sure I believe it, but I guess it makes at least as much sense as the idea of a genuine walking corpse.”
Dream didn’t respond to that. She looked over Marcy’s shoulder again at Alicia. The slinky cocktail dress had been traded in for jeans, a long-sleeved thermal shirt, and a light jacket similar to the one worn by Dream. She looked almost normal now. And it wasn’t just because of the clothes. The wounds and corpse bloat were still there, if you looked close enough, but these things were fading, the open, weeping razor incisions closing and becoming scars. Every day she looked a little better, and Dream suspected she would soon be fully restored. Her improvement was disconcerting, although it wasn’t as unsettling as the realization that other people could see the dead woman now. It reduced the likelihood that she was hallucinating or losing her mind, a scenario that bothered her far less than the idea of having actually conjured Alicia into being through some unconscious use of raw magic. A vision of the girl in the yellow rain slicker formed in her mind then, and Dream was again made to consider the possibility that if she could perform the feat of creation once, then she could surely do it again.
She thought about that. She assumed the dead woman was feeding off the power lurking within Dream, drawing some of that energy out to make herself more real. That they were tethered together in some way was clear, but Dream had no way of knowing the depth of that connection. But she wondered just how much Alicia still needed her now that she had form and substance in the physical world. She had a feeling the creature would’ve ceased to exist had those idiot kids killed her outright that night instead of abducting her, either blinking out immediately or continuing in a fuzzy state of semi-existence for a brief time before fading away.
But now…
Now she was here to stay. Dream could take a swan dive off the Rainbow Bridge and Alicia would remain up here behind the railing. She would watch the water take Dream and sweep her away. Then she would leave this place, taking Marcy and Ellen with her as she resumed her meandering search for Ms. Wickman.
Which, of course, was crazy. The thing that resembled her dead friend might not actually be Alicia Jackson, but she certainly bore her grudges as tenaciously as the real thing. She meant to see Ms. Wickman dead, preferably at the business end of a straight razor. Dream was not bothered by the idea of being made to participate in the murder of that woman. She deserved death and worse. What did bother her was the obvious impossiblity of making this happen. There was a whole wide world into which Ms. Wickman could have disappeared. They could never hope to find her.
Except that…
Well.
Except that Alicia believed Ms. Wickman had already established a new kingdom similar to the one formerly ruled over by the Master. She also believed Ms. Wickman had scores of operatives scouring the country for Dream even now. She wouldn’t say why she believed this, but the strength of her conviction was clear. Alicia hoped to somehow draw the attention of these agents, induce them to capture them and transport them back to this supposed new kingdom. Which would eliminate the necessity for all this endless, aimless hunting. Dream figured it was the only remotely plausible way Alicia might get what she wanted. And even the remote possibility of again gazing into the awful Ms. Wickman’s cold, dead eyes chilled her to the bone.
Marcy noted Dream’s continued scrutiny of Alicia and smiled. “Hey, at least the maggots are gone.”
Dream laughed. “Yeah. There’s that.”
“So it’s not all bad.”
“Right. Now it’s only 99.98 percent bad.”
Dream watched the dark form of a bird swoop through her field of vision before disappearing into the gathering darkness on the horizon. The rain grew harder, falling in silver-white sheets across the sky. The temperature seemed to have fallen another five degrees in just the last twenty minutes. Though it had been her idea to come to this place, she was beginning to regret it. It was one of a number of places she’d always wanted to visit, and when she’d realized they were wandering close to this area, she’d insisted on a slight course change to bring them here. Niagara Falls was as beautiful as she’d always imagined, and the sight of all that rushing water inspired the expected sense of awe. And that overwhelming beauty was enhanced now with the advent of twilight. The spotlights behind the falls had been switched on, adding a lovely soft green tint to the pouring water. The problem was that it was too beautiful a thing to share with her current company. She should be seeing this in the company of a lover, here or on one of the closer observation platforms, holding hands and leaning against each other, enjoying a classic romantic moment.
The train of thought plunged her into a sudden depression. For the first time in a while she thought of Chad and the life she’d left behind. Scenes and aural snippets from their screaming arguments came back to her then. Arguments that nearly always centered around the same thing-her deepening booze and pill dependence. Chad railed endlessly against this “self-medication,” insisting that she needed professional help to deal with her guilt over the deaths of her friends. This was followed by Dream’s usual litany of bitter recriminations, unfairly blaming him for everything that was wrong with her. Even then she’d known how unfair she was being, but she hadn’t cared. She would not be denied her only real solace, the numbing effects of her chosen poisons. Things came to a head the time Dream whizzed an empty bottle past Chad ’s head, barely missing him before it exploded on the living room wall. And then she’d hit him. And that’d been the end of it. She moved out the next day and never returned.
Tears stung Dream’s eyes and she was glad for the obscuring effects of the rain. A flicker of movement to her right drew her out of the painful reverie. She glanced in that direction and saw the girl in the yellow rain slicker again. Only now she was closer than before, the distance between them nearly halved. The rain slicker flapped in the wind and the hood blew back a bit, revealing long wet strands of blonde hair. The girl’s eyes were a brilliant shade of blue that sparkled even in the gloom. She was a pretty young thing, one might even say adorable but for that insidious grin and that strange, mocking laughter Dream realized she could actually hear now.
Dream cast her gaze about for any sign of the child’s parents, but there was no one nearby who obviously fit the bill. A few other people were present, but they were mostly dark, indistinct forms in the distance. And surely no parent of any worth would allow a child so young to wander from sight on a place like Rainbow Bridge. She didn’t want to believe the girl was another apparition or magical construct, but the sense that she was wouldn’t go away. The idea that the power she possessed was so far beyond her control terrified Dream.
But there was another thing to consider. From which submerged corner of Dream’s psyche had she emerged? There was nothing instantly familiar about the girl. Except for the blonde hair, she didn’t much resemble Dream as a young girl. Nor did she much look like any of the childhood friends she could recall. Then something occurred to Dream, a flash of insight so stark and compelling she couldn’t help but believe it. Perhaps, on a subconscious level, the girl was Dream’s idea of how her own daughter might look. She was a woman, and perhaps on some primal level lurked a need unfulfilled, a biological imperative that combined with what Marcy called the “supernatural gumbo” inside her to produce this leering manifestation.
Her eyes still locked on Dream, the girl laughed harder, her little body rocking with the force of her mirth.
Dream shivered and moved back a step.
The girl was closer by half again, maybe ten feet away now, and Dream had not seen her move. It was almost as if the physical distance between them was shrinking of its own accord, the fabric of existence retracting or disappearing to draw them closer. Which was an insane, impossible thing, but Dream had seen and experienced enough not to discount a thing merely because it shouldn’t be possible.
She moved back another step and said, “Stay away.” She bumped against Marcy and her voice rose in pitch as tears flowed freely down her face. “Stay the fuck away! Leave me alone!”
Marcy shuffled away with a startled grunt and said, “Who are you talking to, Dream?”
The little girl was five feet away and looking straight at her now. She raised a hand and pointed a slender forefinger at her. The pale digit looked ghostly in the gloom. Like something only half-formed or incomplete. This impression, combined with Marcy’s question, formed the impetus for what happened next.
Dream ceased her retreat. The terror was still rising inside her, an inferno that threatened to scorch what precious little remained of her sanity. But there was another emotion now, as well. Anger. Raw, burning hatred. Hatred for a part of herself she couldn’t control. A thing she feared might consume her.
She loosed a cry of rage and dashed forward. The girl’s hand fell to her side and her evil little grin gave way to a look of shocked surprise. Dream seized her by the shoulders and began to lift her up. A scream of terror ripped from the girl’s lungs, but Dream ignored it, knowing only she could hear the sound. She would not be swayed from doing what had to be done, would not allow this awful thing to feed from her and grow stronger, become a part of the real world. The girl’s body was quaking as Dream lifted her higher and moved toward the railing. She sobbed and pleaded, but Dream blanked it out and focused only on the task at hand, moving the light little body out over the railing.
Marcy was yelling at her: “Dream, what the hell are you doing? Have you lost your fucking mind!?”
Other people were yelling, too. Shouts and exhortations, desperate words that failed to penetrate the roaring in her ears. She also failed to hear the sound of several pairs of feet pounding across concrete toward her, but she did feel the grappling hands of the wouldbe rescuers a moment later, felt them pulling at her arms, tugging at her hair and clothes, desperately digging for any hold at all to pull her back from the brink. But Dream was resolute and would not be moved. The dormant core of power within her switched on and filled her entire body with a strength several times greater than that of all the people assailing her combined. Though she didn’t think it consciously, there was an underlying sense that these people were attempting to pull her back from an apparent suicide leap.
She leaned even further over the railing, effortlessly shrugging loose all those grasping hands as she lowered the girl and prepared to drop her. The girl abruptly stopped thrashing and looked up at Dream with wide, pleading eyes. Then her mouth was moving. Dream couldn’t hear what the apparition was saying, as the roaring in her ears continued to obliterate all external sounds.
This was it. All Dream had to do was relax her hold on the girl and let her slip away, and this one little phase of the ongoing nightmare that was her life would be over. But Dream hesitated. She stared at those thin, chapped lips as they moved. Saw the girl’s crooked white teeth and the pink wedge of tongue behind them.
The roaring in her ears ceased.
The rush of the water below returned. Then she heard the screams and the words of the people grabbing at her, words too frantic and intercut to make any sense. Dream focused on the motion of the girl’s lips and was at last able to hear her voice, its soft timbre somehow rising above the cacophony of sound from the bridge. The girl’s actual words were channeled in another direction as something alien pushed these words through her vocal cords: “The Master awaits you in hell, slut.”
She let go of the girl and jerked backward. The bodies of all the people behind her prevented a full retreat and she watched the little body drop and tumble, the rain slicker flapping up and briefly lifting her arms like a tiny sail. Then she hit the water and sliced through its surface like a scalpel cutting flesh. In the next moment she disappeared from view and the people behind her went running toward the other side of the bridge. Staggering, Dream turned around and watched their retreating backs as a frown began to work its way across her stunned features.
Someone grabbed her by the arm and she shrieked. Something inside her reflexively lashed out and she was aware of a sensation like fire blazing through her body, its sizzle banishing the cold as a wave of heat pulsed outward from her center.
Marcy screamed and jerked her hand away, shaking it like a person who has touched a scalding surface. “Dream, that was fucked up. We have to get out of here before the mob comes back for you.”
Too late for that.
Several people were still leaning over the railing on the opposite side of the bridge. One woman was slumped against the concrete barrier and wailing like a grief-stricken mourner at a funeral. The impression formed like a cold fist around her heart and the heat pulse abruptly fizzled out.
Dream swallowed a lump in her throat and thought, Oh, no…
Three men were striding rapidly back across the bridge toward her. The man in the lead was thirtyish, tall and muscular with a thick mop of curly brown hair and a beard. His eyes were dark with a bottomless rage. Every aspect of his bearing unmistakably conveyed murderous intent. The rigid set of his features. The huge, curled fists that looked capable of slamming holes through layers of steel.
Dream shook her head.
Oh no. Ohnoohnoohno…
The girl had been real.
And this man was her father.
Dream’s eyes filled with tears as she took an unconscious step backward. Her back met the railing. She briefly considered letting herself fall backward into the water. It was what she deserved. Christ, how could she have been so wrong? She’d known her long-tenuous hold on reality had been slipping for some time, but she’d never imagined such tragic consequences. She’d murdered a child, sacrificed her on the altar of her crumbling sanity.
Yes, she deserved to die. She even felt ready to meet that fate at last.
Then the man was closing in on her, eyes blazing and teeth bared as he raised one of those big fists high in the air. Then something inside Dream flexed and the man froze. A surge of energy so strong it was nearly visible pushed outward and slammed into the man’s chest like a freight train, lifting him off his feet and blasting him back across the bridge. Dream saw his eyes go wide with shock before the surge carried him away. And then he was gone, flying over the railing on the opposite side and hanging suspended in midair for a moment before dropping to the water below.
Marcy let out a breath and said, “Holy shit. Holyholy-holy fucking shit!”
The men who’d followed the father across the bridge were lying flat on their backs, blown off their feet by the energy surge. They looked up at Dream with twin expressions of horror and began to scoot backward, scrambling to put as much distance between themselves and the monster as possible. That’s what they saw when they looked at her. A monster. Not a woman. Not a human being. But an incomprehensible abomination. A thing. And they were right.
The people on the other side of the bridge were looking at her and cringing, crouching down against the concrete barrier as they huddled together and awaited the monster’s wrath. A few of them were armed men of some authority in uniforms. But they were as helpless and terrified as the wailing woman Dream assumed was the dead girl’s mother. Dream stared at them for a long moment and felt the awakened energy burning inside her, aching to be utilized again. And it would be so easy. She could flatten them all and walk away from this place unscathed.
A weak, frightened voice next to her:“Dream…seriously…we have to leave.”
A peculiar smile contorted the corners of her mouth as Dream turned to look at Marcy. “I’m a monster, Marcy.”
Marcy put a hand to her mouth as her eyes filled with tears. “Dream. I-”
“Shhh.” Dream touched the girl’s shoulder and felt her body go still. She was every bit as terrifed of her as the strangers huddled on the other side of the bridge. And who could blame her? “Don’t say anything. It’s funny. A minute ago I felt so much guilt, but this thing inside me burns that away when it’s working.” She lowered her voice a bit and leaned closer to Marcy. “I could kill all those people over there just by thinking about it. Part of me really wants to. I shouldn’t do that, should I?”
Marcy’s face twisted with a mixture of sudden grief and black humor. She laughed once, a small, empty sound. “Look who you’re asking. I’m a monster, too.”
Dream smiled. She released Marcy’s arm and touched her face. “Yes. Yes, I suppose you are. And I’ll tell you something, Marcy. I don’t think I hate you anymore.” She looked past Marcy at Alicia, who remained in the same spot she’d been throughout the episode. The dead woman watched them in a remotely curious way, a small smile playing at the edges of her mouth. Dream met and held Alicia’s gaze for a moment, then looked Marcy in the eye again. “I’m going to leave you now, but I’ll see you again.”
Marcy frowned. “Where are you going?”
“Into the water.”
Marcy’s expression abruptly sobered. “But-”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay.” She gently stroked Marcy’s face and the gir l covered the hand with one of her own. “You’ve seen how strong I am. The river will take me away, but it won’t kill me. It’s the only way out of this for you. Too many eyes will be on me. You and Alicia go back to the van and your sister. Get away from here. I’ll find you again. I promise.”
She moved away from Marcy and threw one leg over the rail. She looked at the black water below and tried to decide whether she believed everything she’d just said. Then the energy swelled within her again and a shroud of warmth enveloped her.
She smiled again and said, “Go, Marcy. Now.”
Marcy stared numbly at her before nodding and beginning a retreat. “Okay…and, Dream?”
“Yeah?”
Marcy’s expression was somber as she said, “I don’t think I hate you anymore, either.”
Then she turned away and began a hurried retreat back down the bridge toward the parking lot. A moment later Alicia turned to follow without so much as a backward glance. Dream watched their backs until they dwindled to barely perceptible specks in the darkness.
Until they were gone.
Dream shot one more look at the people huddled at the other side of the bridge. One of the armed men was fumbling for his sidearm. Dream reached out with her power and made his hand freeze. She was getting better at controlling this thing by the moment. The knowledge was at once terrifying and exhilarating.
Dream swung her other leg over the railing.
Then she stood up and leaped, her arms spread before her as she’d envisioned earlier. She hung suspended in the air, flying for a single, incandescently glorious moment.
Next came the slap of the water against her body, harder than she expected.
Then the world was blackness and a cold deeper than anything she’d ever imagined as the water carried her away.
The axe handle felt good in his hands. The muscles in his arms ached from the strain of his physical exertions, but it was a good ache. Chad was a man used to cool, air-conditioned offices and the soft comforts of a home in the suburbs. Physical labor in the so-called great outdoors had occurred only on rare occasions over the course of his thirty-four years on the planet. His thrice-weekly workouts had been confined to hip gyms filled with other trendy and pretty young professionals. Trim and toned bluebloods clad in fashionable workout outfits, iPods affixed to their bronzed biceps as they power-walked on treadmills that hummed with quiet efficiency. And always there had been the relaxing sauna afterward, not strictly necessary but an enjoyable reward for forty-five minutes worth of light maintenance working out.
Chad swung the axe and watched with satisfaction as the blade chopped the log cleanly in half down the middle. He added the halves to the steadily growing cord of firewood before propping another log atop the big stump he was using for a chopping block. The screen door screeched open and flapped shut behind him. He turned and saw Allyson emerge from the rear of the building Jack Paradise referred to as the “mess hall.” She came bearing two brown bottles of beer, one of which Chad accepted with a grateful nod. They were enjoying an unseasonably warm patch of fall weather here in the mountain country of east Tennessee, and the dripping bottle of beer looked like the nectar of the gods as the glass reflected the shining afternoon sun.
He gulped Budweiser and looked at Allyson. Clad in cutoff denim shorts and a dirty white blouse tied off at her sleek midriff, she bore little resemblance to the trendy suburbanite she’d been a month ago. Chad felt a stir of lust as he looked at her long and slender legs. Then, as was nearly always the case lately, he thought of the sheer number of people-men and women-who had been between those legs during Allyson’s time in the adult film industry and his ardor waned. They’d had sex exactly once during their month at the compound, a brief and awkward coupling that easily ranked among the most unsatisfying encounters of Chad ’s life. They hadn’t talked about it much, but it was obvious Chad had developed a mental block in the aftermath of Allyson’s tawdry revelations.
She noticed his scrutiny of her body and smiled. “Got something on your mind, Chad?”
Chad frowned and looked away. A huge red ant crawled across the dry ground at his feet. “Not really.”
Allyson moved closer, sidling up against him to whisper in his ear: “Is there anything you ever wanted to do to a woman but didn’t have the guts to ask?” Her breath was hot against his ear. Her soft lips brushed the lobe and sent a pleasant tingle through his body. “Anything you want, you can have. Anything.”
The tip of her tongue flicked lightly against his ear, and Chad ’s cock twitched as she moved a soft palm over his bare, sweat-covered torso. These physical ministrations were exquisitely pleasurable. The heat of her body and the feel of her silken flesh against his made his heart pound. Allyson was so very skilled at making a man feel good. Too good, maybe.
Chad pushed away from her and said, “Maybe later,” the words emerging as a halfhearted mumble. “Got work to do.”
He set the bottle down and raised the axe again. Allyson watched him in silence as he split several more logs. Then she departed without a word. Chad kept working as he listened to the sound of her retreating footsteps, not stopping until he heard the screen door flap shut again. When he was sure she was gone, Chad slammed the axe blade into the old stump and pic ked up the beer bottle. He retrieved his flannel shirt, pulled it on, and left it hanging unbuttoned. Then he walked away from the mess hall and moved across the sloping, green grounds of the compound toward the little cluster of cabins where most of the inhabitants of “ Camp Whiskey ” had their quarters.
Men attired in green camos patrolled the wooded perimeter of the compound, some out in the open, others lurking behind the line of tall trees. They carried machine guns and had walkie-talkies clipped to their belts. These were serious, stern-faced men. Many of them were former U.S. military. Recruited and commanded by Jack Paradise, they were the compound’s main line of defense against the enemy Jim seemed so certain would come for them one day.
He approached the door of the nearest and largest cabin and the armed-and heavily armored-guard stationed there stepped aside to allow him entry, acknowledging his exalted status at Camp Whiskey with a single, terse nod.
Chad remained a hero to the other survivors of Below. They all remembered well the instrumental role he’d played in the House of Blood revolt. Which was fine. But the deference with which they treated him made him uncomfortable.
This was the only place he ever felt truly at ease anymore.
So Chad knocked on the wooden door once and loudly announced himself. Then he opened the door and stepped inside. It was dark inside, the windows covered with a heavy dark canvas material. The only illumination was courtesy of the glow from a red bulb in a wrought iron floor lamp and a handful of flickering candles. Little wisps of smoke were visible around the heads of the people seated at the table in the center of the room. Chad smelled cannabis, tobacco, and bourbon. Soft sitar music emanated from the tinny speakers of a small boombox propped atop a crate containing rifles.
Jim acknowledged his arrival with a lazy wave. “ Chad. Join us.”
Chad nodded and approached the table, pulling out a wicker chair opposite Jim. “I see you’re deep into the day’s meditations.” He settled into the creaky chair and set his beer bottle on the dusty wooden table.“Uncovering any new universal truths today?”
Jim’s eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses, but a lazy smile slowly formed at the corners of his mouth. “What we’re doing, Chad, is engaging in the ancient ritual known as getting fucked up beyond all recognition.
You should join us.”
Jack Paradise lifted a glass containing two fingers of brown liquid and chuckled before taking a drink. “Jim’s getting fucked up. Me, I always indulge at a slow maintenance level.” He stared at the glass cupped between his large hands. His eyes had a haunted look. “After all, the shit could hit the fan at any time.”
Jack was seated next to Jim on the opposite side of the table. Directly opposite Jack was Wanda Lewis, formerly known as “Wicked Wanda” during her time Below. Wanda’s dark hair was drawn back in a ponytail. She wore form-fitting dark clothes. A thin brown cigarette smoldered between two fingers of her right hand. She looked at Chad with a soft, druggy smile and said, “And I wouldn’t exactly say I’m fucked up, but I ain’t quite sober either.” She laughed and leaned back in her chair, bringing her hand to her mouth to puff at the brown cigarette. “Could be me and ‘fucked up’ will be having a rendezvous sometime in the near future.”
Chad noticed a simple plastic bong at the center of the table. It was the sort of thing a frat boy might buy for fifteen bucks at a campus head shop. Next to it was a.45 automatic, a clip for the.45, and an open box of ammunition. As Chad watched, Jim picked up the empty clip and fed bullets into it. He did this slowly and with much deliberation, clearly determined to perform this task with precision despite his high level of inebriation. Then he flipped the safety on and set the gun back on the table.
Jim removed his sunglasses and tucked them in his shirt’s front pocket. He leaned across the table and regarded Chad with eyes that were bloodshot but somber. “So what’s on your mind, friend?”
Chad picked up the Budweiser bottle and twir led the long neck slowly between his fingers without taking a drink. “Things are still weird between Allyson and me. I don’t know what to do about it. And I keep wondering whether bringing her to this place was the right thing to do. Maybe I was wrong about that. A girl like Allyson was made for life in the city. I can sense her getting restless already.”
Jim’s expression grew more intent even as he reached for the bong. “You need to have a serious talk with that girl, Chad, regardless of whether things are ‘weird’ between you.”
Chad leaned back in his chair and let the Bud bottle hang by his side. “Yeah, I know, okay?” He watched Jim fire up the bong and wondered whether a hit or two of the potent weed might improve his mood.
He was reaching for the bong when Wanda said, “Maybe I should have a talk with her.” She shrugged when Chad showed her a puzzled look. “Hey, why not? She might feel more comfortable talking this shit out with a woman.”
Jim passed the bong to Chad and said, “I agree. Let Wanda talk to her. Open up some new channels of communication and see what happens.”
Chad accepted the bong. He put the lighter to the bowl, covered the carb with a fingertip, and inhaled a lungful of smoke. He held the smoke inside for a full twenty seconds before blowing a white stream at the ceiling. A few moments later he felt some of the tension go out of his body. He did a few more hits and felt even better. At some fuzzy point the sitar music gave way to the Velvet Underground. Chad was aware of laughter, but his sense of the ongoing conversation became garbled and disjointed. He hardly noticed when Wanda stood up from the table and left the cabin.
Allyson’s fingers were starting to cramp from all the hours she’d spent chopping vegetables for Camp Whiskey ’s cooking crew. A big feast was in the works for the evening and all day long the mess hall’s kitchen had been a bustle of activity. But now it was late in the afternoon and the other women she’d been working with had knocked off for a final break before the last big pre-dinner push. They hadn’t invited her to join them outside, which was typical of the way she’d been shunned from the beginning. Though Chad denied it, she suspected the thinly disguised ill will toward her was a result of Jim’s lingering distrust of her.
Allyson’s life prior to arriving at Camp Whiskey had not been an easy one, but she was pretty and personable and so had always managed to find a way to fit in wherever she went. This ostracism was something new. Being surrounded by people who would barely talk to her or look at her was worse by far than merely being alone. It hurt her in a fundamental way that she’d never truly experienced before. And, of course, they all knew of her past in the porn industry. Someone-
Jim, she thought, her blood boiling.
– had decided to share this bit of information with his inner circle. And the juicy tidbit had filtered down through the grapevine until everyone knew about it. Chad ’s apparent unwillingness to stand up for her made it worse. It was almost as frustrating as her several failed attempts at seducing him. He didn’t seem at all interested in her physically anymore, and Allyson was beginning to feel it was pointless to keep trying.
Thinking about it caused her to grit her teeth and start chopping the carrots faster. She wielded the gleaming blade in her hand with a swift efficiency. Something about the task made her recall how easily the axe blade had punched through the flesh of the men sent to retrieve Chad and Jim. She imagined the blade in her hand pressed to Jim’s throat. Saw his eyes go wide as she eased the sharp wedge of steel into his flesh and drew blood, his pleas for mercy going unanswered as she made him pay dearly for the humiliation she’d suffered. But the fantasy brought no real satisfaction. Her wounded pride aside, she ached to fit in and be accepted. Ached to have Chad like and respect her again.
She didn’t realize her eyes had filled with tears until she heard the sound of boot heels on the kitchen floor. She wiped her eyes with the back of a hand and looked up to see Wanda Lewis entering the kitchen from the mess hall. The woman was tall and slender, and possessed of a striking prettiness that made Allyson want to touch her. Which was just odd. Allyson had performed sexual acts with women before, but never outside the context of porn films. Hetero was her default orientation and she was happy with it, so it was a strange thing to feel that little tingle of arousal every time she saw Wanda’s face.
There was a small, enigmatic smile teasing the corners of the woman’s mouth as she approached Allyson and placed a hand on her arm. “Come for a walk with me, Allyson. I’d like to talk with you about some things.”
Allyson looked into the taller woman’s luminous green eyes and felt something melt inside her. Maybe Wanda had approached her as a peacemaker. Perhaps she’d even been sent by Jim for that very purpose. The prospect of being accepted at last by the inner circle made her heart skip a beat. She felt like crying again, but she managed to keep the tears at bay. She dared not get her hopes up too soon.
She let go of the knife and wiped her hands on the dirty apron tied about her waist. “Okay.” She untied the apron and tossed it over the back of a chair. “I’m about sick of this women’s work bullshit anyway.”
Wanda smiled again and moved toward the screen door at the rear of the kitchen. Allyson followed her outside and noted at once the mixture of disdain and curiosity playing across the faces of her co-workers. Most of them puffed at cigarettes and pretended not to notice her, but one man, a soldier who’d moved away from the nearby woods to talk to the gathered women, looked her in the eye for a moment. A flicker of some unreadable emotion passed over his face and disappeared.
Allyson hurried to catch up to Wanda, whose long strides had nearly carried her to the edge of the woods in the time Allyson had paused to study the soldier’s expression. She stepped through the line of trees and put an extra spring in her step as she glimpsed Wanda’s back in intermittent flashes through the maze of trees. They were moving along a winding, ill-defined path. She moved quickly along lengths of bare ground, then had to take her time negotiating areas covered with thick bramble and blocked by low-hanging branches.
She was nearly out of breath by the time she emerged into a small clearing. Wanda was standing in the center of the clearing with her back turned. She moved closer to the other woman and said, “It’s…kind of…nice out here.” She laughed once, a sound rendered brittle by her live-wire nerves. “If you’re into the whole back-to-nature thing, I mean. I’m not, really, but I’m trying to get used to it.”
Wanda laughed. “I wouldn’t worry about that, Allyson.”
She turned around and Allyson gasped at the sight of the gun pointed at her chest. Her knees went weak and her stomach did a slow roll. “Wh-what…is this?”
Wanda moved closer. “Get on your knees, Allyson.”
Allyson knew she should turn and run. A mad dash back into the woods was her only chance of escape. But the sight of that looming gun barrel was so intimidating. The strength drained from her legs and she dropped to her knees. Wanda’s smile broadened as she approached Allyson and placed the warm gun barrel against the center of her forehead.
She laughed at the sight of tears spilling down Allyson’s cheeks. “Poor little thing. Did you really think I brought you here for some heart-to-heart, girl-to-girl talk?”
Allyson was shaking uncontrollably by now. The steel biting into her flesh felt like the cold finger of God, the Almighty laying His judgment down on her. She’d done a lot of bad things in the past and now the time of reckoning had come.
Wanda pressed the gun harder against Allyson’s forehead, making her look up into her leering face. “I’ve been assigned by my Mistress to act as your executioner. You shouldn’t never have fucked us over, bitch.”
Allyson’s eyes blinked in confusion. “Wh…?”
Wanda’s forefinger began to exert pressure on the 9mm’s trigger. Allyson knew she was an instant away from dying. She should be praying to God for forgiveness in hopes that He might show her some mercy once she crossed to the other side. But instinct sent her mind scrambling to make sense of w hat Wanda had said.
It almost seemed as if…
BLAM!
Allyson screamed as the shot rang out, the blast echoing in the clearing as Wanda toppled backward and fell hard to the ground. Allyson remained frozen for a moment, unable at first to comprehend that she was still alive and that the person who’d meant to kill her had been struck down. Then she gasped as she heard heavy footsteps moving past her toward the fallen woman.
The soldier she’d glimpsed outside the mess hall knelt next to the woman he’d shot and felt for a pulse. Then he showed Allyson a grim expression and said, “She’s dead.”
Allyson nodded.
Then the world went fuzzy and she fell into unconsciousness.
The view from the balcony pleased her more with each passing day. A small, ramshackle community was rapidly taking shape out there in that alien desert, with numerous primitive huts and a handful of prefab buildings and trailers dotting the landscape. The huts functioned as the new living quarters for the slaves. The prefab buildings and trailers-which were surrounded by a chain-link fence tipped with barbed wire-housed the Black Brigade compound. Plans for the near future included the establishment of a large, open-air marketplace, drinking halls, and places of entertainment, where the live sex and torture shows once enjoyed by the Overlords of Below would be resurrected.
Giselle’s intent was to fashion the incipient city into a bustling center of filth and decadence, of tawdry spectacle and ultimate corruption. She imagined the new community several months hence. A fully realized city of the damned. Used-up prostitutes bleeding to death in alleys, razor-wielding psychopaths prowling dark streets, murderers and petty criminals alike strung up from public gallows, children ripped from the arms of their parents and made to watch as mommy and daddy were raped and slaughtered in the streets by Black Brigade soldiers, and all-night fetish/torture sessions in a lounge reserved exclusively for an elite few in the Brigade’s power structure.
The vividly imagined atrocities brought a smile to her face.
Beyond the embryonic city, hundreds of slaves clad only in loincloths and sandals continued to work at hauling huge slabs of stone toward the steadily rising structure just visible at the edge of the horizon. The technology and machinery necessary to greatly speed up the construction process was available, but, as with so many other things, Giselle preferred to do the job the old-fashioned way. She liked watching the slaves toil. But there was a purpose to the method beyond the simple joys of casual cruelty. The human misery honored the death gods, who drew sustenance from pain and gave power to those who appeased them. The city taking shape beneath her would also honor the death gods. Giselle would provide the old ones with a veritable feast of suffering and death, a nonstop carnivale of depravity unlike anything they’d seen before, eclipsing anything from Medieval times or modern war. Her forces were working continually to cull thousands of sacrifices from normal human communities, mostly the marginalized people no one in authority cared much about. Poor people. Prostitutes, runaways and drug addicts. This in addition to the handful of societal castaways who managed to find their way here by accident every year. Ms. Wickman had largely contented herself with the random strays who happened into her territory, but Giselle had no interest in conservatism. She was determined to be bold. To do big things, bigger even than the Master had ever envisioned.
She heard a click of heels behind her. A moment later Ursula was standing to her right, leaning over the balcony railing to stare intently at the bustling, busy forms a half mile below. “Wow, Razor City is really coming along.”
Giselle glanced at her lover and smiled. “Yes. I enjoy watching it grow.”
Ursula was wearing a long, cream-colored backless dress woven from a thin, clingy fabric. It adhered to the pronounced curves of her long, slender body in a way that made Giselle’s breath quicken. Her hair was an almost white shade of blonde. It was long and straight and fell in a brilliant spray across the pale expanse of her back. Her flesh was the incandescent white of one who has spent nearly all her life indoors. That and her fine, regal features made her look like an ice queen from a fairy tale. Ursula turned her head to look at Giselle and the spray of hair across her back rippled and shifted, revealing a small birthmark on her left shoulder.
Ursula lifted an eyebrow. “Are you having naughty thoughts, Mistress?”
Giselle moved closer and laid a hand on her lover’s back, enjoying the way Ursula shuddered slightly at her touch. “Perhaps.” She moved her hand slowly over Ursula’s back. “Are you in a mood to tempt me?”
Ursula licked her lips and said, “Always.”
Giselle pulled the woman into a sudden embrace and kissed her with vigor. Ursula matched her hunger and grabbed at her hair, pulled her head back to kiss her throat and the hollow between her breasts. Then Giselle grabbed her by the hand and led her back into her quarters and the huge, plush bed they’d shared so many times over the last month. They disrobed quickly and fell upon each other in the bed, rolling over the soft sheets, limbs shifting and intertwining, mouths warm and seeking, hands rubbing and probing. A little later, when they lay sated and still in each other’s arms, Giselle said, “I feel like giving you a present.”
Ursula squealed with delight and sat up suddenly, bouncing up and down for a moment before exclaiming, “I love presents!”
Giselle smiled. “Would you like to play tonight?”
Ursula’s eyes opened wide and an eager grin made her pale flesh almost glow. “We haven’t played in days! Oh! Do I get to do whatever I want to our playmate?”
“Anything your heart desires.”
“Anything? Seriously? Even…”
Giselle laughed. “Even that.”
Ursula moved to the side of the bed and lifted a bell off a marble end table. “Should I ring for Mr. Schreck?” She shook the bell by its black handle (though not hard enough to produce a tone) and grinned. “Have him fetch one of the fresher arrivals, perhaps?”
Giselle pulled Ursula close again and stroked the girl’s long, shimmering hair. Hair the color of sunshine. “You’ve wanted a playmate and you’ll have one. But I want to properly show my affection for you. No mere slave will do.”
Ursula gasped. “You can’t mean…no, you can’t, surely not. Do you mean…” She made a sound of exasperation. “Oh, I can’t make myself say it.”
Giselle clasped hands with Ursula. The younger girl’s chest was heaving as she struggled to control a burgeoning euphoria. It was a lovely, delicious thing to see. “Darling, is there any one person you hate more than anything else in the world?”
Ursula’s eyes blazed with a degree of intense excitement Giselle normally only glimpsed in the deepest throes of passion. “Gwendolyn.”
Giselle smiled. “I thought as much. Which is why I’ve taken the liberty of planning ahead.”
Ursula clapped her hands together and squealed.“Yes!”
Giselle got off the bed and strode quickly to a nearby wardrobe. She opened the wardrobe and withdrew a pink satin bathrobe, which she shrugged into and closed by loosely knotting the white sash at the waist. Then she crooked a finger at Ursula and said, “Follow me.”
Ursula hopped off the bed and hurried to catch up with Giselle, who had just come to a stop at a blank patch of wall. “Why are we staring at this wall?” Ursula crossed slim arms beneath her breasts and frowned. “I want Gwendolyn.”
“This is no ordinary wall, dear.”
Ursula’s frown deepened. “Stop teasing me and get on with it.”
The girl’s impatience made Giselle pause a moment longer. She wanted to spoil Ursula. Wanted to pamper her, give her everything she desired. But her behavior at the moment was a shade shy of outright insolence. She considered delaying gratification for Ursula a while longer, even briefly thought of withdrawing the gift altogether.
But Ursula must have sensed her anger because she suddenly smiled and said, “Please.”
Most of Giselle’s anger melted at the sight of that smile. She decided not to withhold the promised gift. She would discipline Ursula later.
“Very well.”
She looked at the wall and focused her will. A dim, door-shaped outline formed in an instant, then quickly became more defined. She directed energy at the door and it began to move inward, revealing a wedge of darkness so black it seemed like a living thing, an unfathomable predator waiting with infinite patience to draw the unsuspecting into its sticky embrace. Giselle had a reflexive shudder of fear at the sight of it, but the sensation passed quickly. That strange dark energy was hers to command at will now. Once the door was fully open, she grasped one of Ursula’s hands and was unsurprised to find it cold and trembling.
Ursula let out a shuddery breath. “I don’t know if I want to go in there.”
Giselle chuckled. “Nonsense.”
Then she tightened her grasp on Ursula’s hand and led her into that deep darkness. Despite the reassurances, the girl clutched at her as they moved further into the room, a helpless, barely audible whine issuing from the back of her throat. She shrieked when the heavy stone door behind them slammed shut with an echoing boom.
Giselle decided to show a measure of mercy and released a small energy pulse. An array of candles and torches sparked to life, columns of flame driving back the oppressive darkness in places.
Ursula cupped a hand over her eyes and blinked against the sudden glare. Then she glimpsed the small form huddled in a corner of the suspended cage and grinned. She let go of Giselle and moved to a spot almost directly beneath the slowly swinging cage. Her mouth opened wide as she stared in rapt awe at the sight of her imprisoned rival’s nude-and only slightly bruised-body.
“So…beautiful.” Her voice was low and reverent. “I can’t believe she’s really mine.”
Giselle smiled.“Believe it. Nothing’s too good for you.”
Ursula abruptly came away from the cage and pulled Giselle into a rough embrace. “Thank you so much.” She kissed her hard on the mouth, then beamed at her again. “I love you for this.”
“You deserve it, Ursula.” Giselle smiled. “I would do almost anything for you.”
Ursula touched her face. “I know. You spoil me.”
Then she stepped out of the embrace and moved back to her previous position under the cage. Giselle felt a small pang at her departure, craved the return of that special warmth. A troubled look crossed her face. She had become one of the most powerful creatures on earth. Nothing should trouble her. She should be able to do as she pleased with impunity, with absolutely no concern for consequences. But she did worry about her deepening feelings for Ursula. In the immediate aftermath of killing Eddie, she’d believed herself to be cleansed of the capacity to feel things like love for other creatures. And in the beginning, she’d been able to believe that all she felt for Ursula was a simple animal lust.
Then a week passed and Ursula was still sharing her bed. A week after that it was apparent a real bond of some sort was forming between them, something beyond the obvious balance-of-power connection between Mistress and slave. And now, a full month after their first night together, they had progressed to a stage that could only be construed as romance. Given the way her heart seemed to swell against her chest wall every time Ursula so much as looked at her with a certain glint in her eyes, no other label for what was transpiring could be appropriate.
Yes, there could be little doubt now.
I’m falling in love with her, Giselle thought. How stupid.
Stupid because the very act of falling in love with a person carried with it an implicit vulnerability. It meant the other person in the relationship possessed the ability to hurt you more than any other person possibly could. The potential was there-albeit slight-for someone else to influence the girl against her. She was relatively certain that, despite being firmly under her thumb, every person in her employ was satisfied with their position here. One of the first things she’d done after assuming power was to identify potential troublemakers and purge them from the ranks. But it was just possible that someone who sought to avenge Ms. Wickman’s death remained, and Giselle would be a fool to assume such a person would not at least entertain the notion of recruiting Ursula as an assassin. She doubted very much that the girl could be swayed to an enemy’s side, given her newly exalted position, but one could not afford to be complacent about such things.
Ursula had retrieved a torch from one of the wall sconces and was raising it toward the unconscious form in the cage. The leading edge of the billowing flame licked at Gwendolyn’s body, and Giselle cringed at the memory of the acetylene torch applied to her mutilated flesh in the back of a limo. Gwendolyn awoke with a shriek and jumped away from the searing heat, making the thick metal chain that held the cage suspended above the floor groan as the cage swayed wildly. Ursula laughed and shifted position beneath the cage, raising the flame again. There was a faint sizzle of burning meat as Gwendolyn danced away from the flame and began to plead for mercy. Giselle felt a tiny flicker of sympathy. Not so long ago she’d been in the same position. Desperate, her spirit broken, her dignity gone.
An intense sense of déjà vu made Giselle want to leave the concealed dungeon at once. Ursula danced beneath the swaying cage, raising the torch again and again as she grinned and giggled at Gwendolyn’s tears and cries of pain. The delight she took in her adversary’s pain made Giselle think about vulnerability again.
The smart thing to do would be to eliminate the potential threat engendered by her feelings for Ursula. Kill her. Or cast her out to the slave city, which might be even worse for her. But even as she considered these ideas Giselle knew she would not harm her lover. There were other, less lethal precautions she could take. They weren’t as foolproof as death, granted, but they would be better than nothing.
“Ursula.”
“Yes, Mistress?”
Giselle kept her voice even and her face expression less as she said, “There are some things I must attend to. In the meantime, I’ll leave you to play with your toy. I’ll leave the door open in case you need to leave, okay?”
Ursula nodded.“Okay.” She smiled. “Thank you again. I can’t tell you how much this means to me. I…love you.”
Giselle’s heart raced. “I love you, too.”
Then she turned away from Urusla and strode out of the dark place. Back in her quarters, she hesitated a moment, considering whether she should simply close the door and seal Ursula inside forever.
But the girl’s words came floating back to her: I…love you.
And Giselle again was unsurprised to find she still lacked the will to implement an obvious solution to her dilemma. She would instead summon Schreck and have some simple restraints affixed to the big bed.
But something else caused her to delay summoning Schreck. It was the other thing that worried her and which she strove not to think about. An inexplicable thing. She approached the full-length oval mirror that stood next to her wardrobe and stared at her reflection for a long moment, her hands clasped tightly just below the sash. The pink bathrobe didn’t look good on her. She was meant for darker shades. But that, of course, wasn’t the thing that was bothering her.
She sighed. Oh, just do it!
She untied the sash with fingers that trembled slightly and pulled the front of the robe open. She stared for a moment at her full breasts and flat stomach, then she turned to her side and allowed the robe to slide down her arms to her elbows.
It was still there.
A month ago her back had been a smooth expanse of pure white. But now much of that flesh was covered with a large and intricate tattoo of a dragon. The same tattoo she’d seen on Ms. Wickman’s back. She’d seen it the morning after Ms. Wickman’s death, glimpsing it in a mirror after her bath. The sight of it, unexpected as it was, had almost stopped her heart then. And it still scared her. She had no idea what the tattoo’s appearance on her flesh might mean. It didn’t seem to be affecting her in any obvious way, but, as always, it wasn’t the obvious things that worried Giselle.
She abruptly pulled the robe back over her shoulders and tied the sash. There was nothing to be done about it. It was probably a harmless consequence of having devoured the dead woman’s magic when she ate her heart.
She turned away from the mirror and summoned Schreck.
Somewhere on the other side of the world, a slim woman wearing a black shirt and black slacks entered a dimly lit room. Her bare feet whispered across carpet as she approached a man who sat cross-legged on the floor. The man’s eyes were closed. He was meditating. The woman waited in respectful silence until the man’s eyes opened and he acknowledged her presence.
She bowed her head and presented him with an envelope, which he accepted with finely wrinkled fingers as dry as crepe paper. The man flipped the envelope over and saw that it bore the seal of the Order of the Dragon. He winced slightly at the sight of it. The Order normally preferred to conduct its business in more subtle ways. The arrival of this letter could only be a portent of darker, more dangerous times to come. He didn’t need to read the letter to know this.
He nonetheless tore the envelope open, unfolded the single crisp sheet of paper it contained, and read the two paragraphs with mounting fury. The intent of the letter was twofold-to serve as a summons and to inform him of the passing of a member of the Order. The old man stood and moved to a table upon which was an ornate sword in a scabbard and a single flickering candle in a silver holder. He fed both letter and envelope to the flame, watched as they turned to black ash and fell to the table’s polished surface. Then he removed the sword from the scabbard and held the blade upright before him. He ran the ball of a thumb along the edge of the blade. The sharp edge nicked his flesh and a thin stream of scarlet ran down the blade.
The anger coursing through his body invigorated him, made him feel like a much younger man. He turned away from the table and quickly crossed the room. The other man in the room cringed at his approach, but he could not get out of the way of the doom bearing down on him. This other man was tied to the only chair in the room. The rubber ball in his mouth muffled his screams as he watched the long, flashing blade arc toward him. And then he felt nothing as the blade separated his head from his body.
The old man watched blood erupt from the neck stump and felt nothing. The anger that had possessed him a moment ago had deserted him. Nor did he feel remorse for the life he’d taken, which was only the latest of hundreds. He summoned servants to dispose of the body. The slim woman in black returned and asked if he had any orders for her.
He did.
Beginning with the scheduling of his first trip to North America since World War I.
The lighting in the dingy gas station bathroom left something to be desired. The single low-wattage bulb in the exposed ceiling socket flickered and buzzed. Marcy leaned over a sink covered with mildew and studied the dye job Ellen had helped her with in a fleabag motel outside of Newark the night before. The jet-black shade made her vaguely resemble Dream. She didn’t have the supermodel face and figure Dream possessed, but she didn’t look bad. She could almost pass for Dream’s slightly less-blessed younger sister. The important thing was she bore little resemblance to the high school era pictures of herself that had appeared on CNN and the front pages of newspapers across the country.
Now she touched up her eyeshadow and applied a dark red lipstick. She returned the lipstick and eye-shadow to her purse. Then she moved to the bathroom’s single toilet, dropped her jeans, and squatted on the cold seat. As she relieved herself, a fat cockroach moved across the blue-and-white floor tiles. The place was a pit, but she’d become inured to unsanitary conditions during her month and a half on the run. You couldn’t very well stay at the Hyatt when you were trying to fly under the radar.
Alicia was waiting outside when she exited the bathroom a moment later, shifting her weight from foot to foot. She glared at Marcy as she barged past her. “What were you doing in there? Counting the fucking tiles?”
Then she was gone, the gray metal door slamming shut behind her. Marcy sighed and shook her head as she moved across the parking lot toward the old van. Alicia’s progress from freakshow walking corpse to fully functioning living woman still wigged her out. The formerly dead woman hadn’t required drink or food for weeks. Then, as she began to “heal,” normal human appetites reasserted themselves. At first she’d only nibbled on fries and sipped at fast-food sodas. But now she consumed full, regular meals and guzzled jugs of Red Bull and vodka like a nightclub slut. Very little visible evidence of her original corpselike appearance remained. There was one faint little scar just above her collarbone, but Marcy suspected even that would be gone soon.
Marcy stepped through the van’s open side door and slid into the seat next to Dream, who sat slumped against the window on her side. She clutched a bottle of Boone’s Farm wine in her hands, holding it tightly against her chest. Her eyes were bloodshot and an odor of alcohol clung to her like a second skin. She smiled weakly as she glimpsed Marcy sitting next to her. “Hey, girl.” She offered the bottle. “Have a drink.”
Marcy accepted the bottle from Dream’s shaking hands and put it to her mouth. She tilted her head back and let the warm wine wash down her throat. Then she passed the bottle back to Dream and wiped her mouth. “Thanks.”
Dream sipped from the bottle and leaned her head against the window again. She looked through the window at the gray sky and the cars passing by on the wet street beyond the gas station parking lot. “Where are we now?”
“Back in New York. Near Rochester.”
Dream grunted. “We ought to go south.”
“That’s where you’re from, right?”
Dream nodded without shifting her gaze from the dreary view. “Yeah. Good ol’ Tennessee. But anywhere in the South would be good. It’s so cold and dark and nasty here all the fucking time.” Her tone was laced with melancholy. It was how she always sounded these days. “I wanna go where I can feel the warm sun on my skin. And smell flowers…”
Marcy watched Dream’s eyes flutter closed as her voice drifted. She gently pried the wine bottle from Dream’s numb fingers to keep it from falling to the floor. The van’s interior already smelled enough like an accident at a liquor store. She put the bottle to her lips again and drank as she watched Dream drowse. She was even more beautiful in repose. In sleep the demons haunting her weren’t so apparent, and in these moments Marcy fancied she was seeing Dream as she’d been years ago, back before her life had turned into a perpetual horror show. She looked at her closely now and tried to imagine her with the longer blonde hair she remembered from the old newspaper pictures. It was easy to picture and part of her ached for Dream, for what she’d lost. Yes, she was still pretty now, but she was harder inside than she’d been and that showed in the lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. The hard living was taking its toll.
“Has she passed out again?”
Marcy watched the gentle rise and fall of Dream’s chest. “Yeah.” She held the bottle toward the front seat. “You want a hit of this?”
Ellen was ensconced behind the wheel of the van. Early on in their quixotic quest she’d assumed the role of driver. It gave her something to do. And Ellen having a defined role in the scheme of things was good. This lit tle bit of structure helped keep her balanced in the midst of the insanity swirling around her. She’d also changed her hair, letting it grow out some and dropping the mix of blonde and black in favor of a dark shade of auburn. The new look brought out her features and made her more attractive, which had also served to boost her confidence. Marcy liked that. Little sister was a mousy doormat no more.
She’d only relinquished her position as driver once in recent weeks. That being when Alicia had briefly taken over in the aftermath of the Rainbow Bridge incident. Alicia remained behind the wheel as they followed the course of the river, tracking Dream’s downstream progress via some internal means Marcy couldn’t comprehend. Marcy remembered how she’d fretted over the course of that grim hour, worrying that Dream’s confidence in her ability to negotiate the rapids had been unfounded, that she’d drowned out there in those cold depths. But Alicia kept going, staying as close to the water as possible. And then they’d seen her, sopping wet and sitting cross-legged in the grass by the side of the road. Shivering and smiling in a vacant way as she waited for them.
Ellen turned from the steering wheel and stared through the gap between the front seats. “We should get out of here.”
Marcy frowned as Ellen took the bottle. “What?”
Ellen sipped some wine. “You heard me. We should toss Dream out while she’s unconscious and that freaky bitch is away.”
Marcy shot a nervous glance back toward the gas station. No sign of Alicia. And the bathroom door was still shut. She frowned and looked at Ellen again. “Why would we do that?”
Ellen rolled her eyes. “Because something bad will happen if we don’t. Duh. We might even get ourselves killed trying to find these people Alicia is after.”
Marcy’s frown deepened. “So…you want to ditch our friends and step out of the line of fire? That’s kind of a shitty thing to do. Cowardly, even.”
“They’re not our friends.” Ellen’s tone was thick with exasperation. “You seem to have forgotten that somewhere along the way. We had some real friends, but you fucking killed them all. Remember?”
Marcy’s expression hardened. “They would have gone to the police. They would have ruined everything.” Her hands curled into tight fists. She didn’t like talking about this, and Ellen fucking well knew it. “And anyway, I’m really only talking about Dream. I don’t care what you think about her. She’s my friend. I won’t abandon her. I sure as shit won’t leave her alone with Alicia.”
Ellen scowled. “I can’t believe you. How anyone can go from wanting to kill a person to being their best pal is beyond me.”
“I’m not asking you to understand it. Just accept it.”
“Unfuckingbelievable.” Ellen passed the nearly empty wine bottle back to Marcy. “Take this shit. It’s awful.”
Marcy took the bottle and drank from it again. She wouldn’t admit it out loud, but she knew her sister had a point. They were well out of their league. Yes, the impulsive murders she’d committed at the farmhouse constituted a spectacular lapse of sanity. But anyone could snap and go off like that. It happened several times every year. Regular, everyday people who suddenly lose it and shoot up a schoolroom or workplace, with images of the aftermath beamed into your living room courtesy of CNN and Fox News. But these were tragedies rooted in the real world. They were almost mundane, despite the immense horror and grief suffered by the survivors and loved ones. There was nothing the least mundane about Dream Weaver and Alicia Jackson.
She looked at Dream and thought about that night on Rainbow Bridge. That was when it had all changed for Marcy. In many ways it had been an awful and tragic evening, but for Marcy it had also possessed a kind of strange and dark beauty. She recalled with a shiver the frisson of that moment just before Dream had taken her dive into the river, a sudden shock of recognition that had passed between them, an awareness that beneath the hate and their differences they were kindred souls. Marcy couldn’t explain it to Ellen in any way that didn’t make it sound like she had some kind of dippy girlcrush on Dream. That wasn’t the case. Rather, she understood Dream and her compulsions. She’d come to feel more closely bonded to Dream than she ever had to her own flesh-and-blood sister. So, no, she would not abandon Dream. If necessary, she would follow her to the ends of the earth. With or without Ellen.
Dream stirred and lifted her head off the frosty window. She looked at Marcy through bleary eyes and smiled. “Have I told you how good your hair looks like that?”
Marcy blushed. “Yeah. A few times. But thanks again.”
Dream took the bottle from her and knocked back a belt. She looked at the bottle and shook it. “We’re gonna need more booze soon.”
“I saw a liquor store back down that way.” Marcy nodded at the road. “We could stock up before heading out to the highway again.”
Dream yawned and stretched. “Sounds good.”
Ellen sighed. “Wonderful.”
Marcy felt her anger come back in a rush. She leaned forward in her seat and thumped the back of the driver’s seat. “Something you want to say, Ellen?”
Ellen met her sister’s gaze in the tilted rearview mirror. “Yes. You’re all drinking too much. It’s not a moral fucking judgment or anything. I’m just worried someone will get sloppy and somehow make a cop look at us a little too hard.”
Dream drained the rest of the Boone’s Farm and flung the empty bottle through the gap between seats. It exploded on the dash, making Ellen shriek and jump in her seat.
Then Dream was laughing. “Sloppy like that, you mean?”
Ellen sat very still for a moment. Marcy’s heart pounded as she waited to see how her sister would react to the sudden violence. Then Ellen undid her seat belt and reached for the door handle. “Fuck this, I’m out of here.”
The humor drained from Dream’s face at once. “Stay.”
Ellen’s hand froze on the handle. “Please. I can’t do this anymore.”
“You can and you will.” Dream’s voice was cold. Devoid of compassion. “I don’t want to hurt you, Ellen. So put your seat belt back on. Please.”
Marcy let out a relieved breath as Ellen relinquished her hold on the door handle and did as instructed. Though her loyalties had shifted somewhat, she didn’t want to see her sister suffer. And Ellen would damn well suffer if she resisted Dream’s will.
“That’s better.” Dream pushed up out of her seat and moved into the gap between the front seats. Marcy couldn’t see Ellen now, but she heard the other girl gasp. Then Dream went to her knees between the seats and laid a hand on Ellen’s arm. “Listen up. I know you don’t like me and I guess I can’t blame you for that. But you’re gonna have to work at putting all that shit behind you, because we’re a family now.”
“Right.” Ellen’s tone dripped sarcasm.
“Yes, a family, goddammit.” Marcy hadn’t heard Dream speak with such conviction in weeks, if ever. Okay, we were forced together by circumstance. It’s a fate thing, you see. And so we’re like any other clan-we don’t get to choose family. And you don’t run out on family. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”
Marcy blinked tears from her eyes. “I do.”
“I know you do, Marcy. I’m proud of you. We’re sisters, all of us. I love you like I would a birth sibling.” Dream moved further into the gap between seats. “So I want to feel the same commitment from you, Ellen, and know you’re in it to the end, too.”
Ellen didn’t respond at first. Marcy leaned forward and saw that her hands were locked in a death grip on the steering wheel. Then her sister’s head dipped forward and touched the hard molded plastic. She sniffled once, her shoulders heaving. Then the floodgates opened and her body quaked with a series of sobs. Dream stroked her back and made sounds of reassurance. Marcy wiped hot moisture from her cheeks. Nothing had ever moved her as strongly as Dream’s speech. Never had anyone so plainly expressed love for her. She swiped at her eyes again, then a flicker of something in her peripheral vision made her head snap to the right.
Alicia was there, standing just outside the open side door. Her mouth was twisted in a smirk. “Sheesh, I go away for ten minutes and you fuckers start writin’ your own motherfuckin’ Lifetime movie.”
Marcy turned up a middle finger and extended it.
Alicia’s smirk deepened. “Crying fits and obscene gestures.” She opened the front passenger door and began to pull herself inside. “Time for the Estrogen Express to hit the road before one of you bitches starts quoting lines from Thelma and Louise or some dumb thing.”
She paused at the sight of the glass shards sprayed across the front seat area. “I missed some kind of drama, I guess.” She looked hard at Dream, her dark eyes flat and unreadable. “Anything I need to be worried about, Dream?”
Dream did not wilt beneath that unforgiving gaze. Her lips curved upward. “Of course not. Just having an old-fashioned heart-to-heart with Ellen. I think we’ve come to an understanding.” Her eyes flicked toward the still-sniffling girl. “Haven’t we, Ellen?”
Ellen at last managed to compose herself. She lifted her head off the steering wheel and wiped her face dry with a sleeve. Then she did something that astonished Marcy-she looked Alicia in the eye as steadily as Dream had a moment ago and said, “That’s right. I had a weak moment.”
Alicia’s trademark smirk returned. “Latest in a long, long series, I’d say.”
“That’s right.” Ellen reached for Dream and clasped hands with her. “And Dream called me on it. Think what you want, but I see things differently now. Wherever this road takes us, I want to be there. I want to see what’s at the end of it.”
Alicia picked glass shards off the passenger seat and tossed them on the parkling lot asphalt. “Whatever, Dorothy.” A small piece of glass nicked the ball of her thumb and drew blood. She popped it in her mouth and sucked on it. “Mmm.” She withdrew the glistening digit and stared at it. “I don’t know exactly what’s at the end of our yellow brick road, but I know it’s a bad place, a place like the one where I died.”
Marcy said, “The House of Blood.”
Alicia wiped her thumb on her jeans and climbed into the van. She pulled the door shut and turned in her seat to look at Marcy. “That’s right, girl. And I know one more thing. There’ll definitely be a wicked witch waiting for us when we get there.”
Marcy shoved her hands into the pockets of her brown hoodie and slumped further down in her seat. “Ms. Wickman.”
“Damn straight.”
Marcy’s brow furrowed. “And you’re sure you can kill her.”
“Ain’t sure about shit. But I’ll either kill the bitch or die trying.”
Marcy’s mouth twisted in a humorless smile. “That’d have to be a real kick in the ass. Dying twice at the hands of the same person.”
Alicia scowled. “I don’t-”
“Any a you ladies spare some change?”
Marcy jumped at the sound of the gravelly voice and turned to look at the homeless guy standing outside the van. He smelled like a sewer and Marcy was surprised he’d gotten this close undetected. He had limp brown hair tucked under a ratty New Jersey Devils cap. His face was seamed and his nose sat like a swollen red ball in the center of his face. He wore a heavily stained yellow windbreaker over raggedy clothes.
He leaned in through the open door and sniffed. “Smells like wine in here. Good stuff. ’Spose I could get a taste?”
Ellen piped up from the driver’s seat. “Fuck off.”
“We don’t have anything for you, bum.” Alicia directed her eerily intense gaze at the old drunk. “I’d advise you to leave before you stir up trouble you can’t handle.”
The man sneered at her, displaying a mouth missing most of its teeth. “Whaaaaat?” He drew out the syllable and laughed. “You ladies don’ wanna tussle wit’ the likes a me. Tell ya that much.” He leaned further into the van and his rheumy eyes roamed over its interior. “Aw shit, just gimme a bit of pocket change and I’ll be on my way.”
Marcy shifted in her seat and turned slightly to the right. The bum’s aggressiveness stirred an old memory. That night in Overton Park. The homeless guy. The bottle. The first time she’d taken a life. Her fists clenched at the edges of the seat.
“Say, you bitches look kinda familiar.” The bum scratched at a cheek with long nails turned brown with infection. “Yeah.” He waved in the general direction of the convenience store. “Over there at the paper boxes, last week I think it was.” He looked at Marcy and squinted. “I seen you staring out at me. You the one killed all those kids. Maybe I oughta go to the cops, huh?”
The atmosphere in the van turned frigid. Marcy’s heart raced as a paralyzing sense of panic began to set in. This was it, then. The end of the road. But it wasn’t right. Their journey wasn’t over. Not even close. Anger rose inside her.
The old guy sneered again and said, “Or maybe I’ll keep my mouth shut if that one-” He nodded at Dream. “She gives my pecker a good suck and I’ll keep quiet. Come on, bitch. Whatcha say?”
Dream surged past Marcy, seized the bum by the front of his black sweatshirt, lifted him off his feet, and pulled him inside the van. He yelped and flailed a little until Dream slammed the top of his head against the closed door on her side. The man went limp and Dream cradled him in her arms like a child. Her eyes pulsed with cold energy as she looked at Marcy. “Close the door.”
Marcy swallowed a lump in her throat and nodded, then shut the door.
And then she watched in horrified fascination as Dream closed her hands around the unconscious man’s neck and began to twist.
A man in a powder blue 1970s Plymouth set his paper coffee mug in the plastic cup holder he’d purchased at a truck stop the previous night. The cup holder was clipped inside the ash tray and dipped precariously as it accepted the mug’s weight. He hated the old jalopy, but the people in charge said it was better for tailing people than something new and flashy. The man disagreed. He thought the old piece of shit stuck out like a sore, infected thumb, but what did he know, he was just a goon with a gun.
A creepy three-fingered kid named Dean sat in the passenger seat. He kept playing with his favorite knife, running the edge of the blade over the fabric of his jeans, up and down his inner thigh, over and over. The kid was a world-class geek, but he was stone psycho and a merciless killer.
“What do you reckon the odds are we just got ol’ Ducky killed?”
The corners of the kid’s mouth lifted slightly. It had been his idea to send the old bum over to check things out. Ostensibly, the plan had been for “Ducky,” as he called himself, to report back to them with his findings, but that looked to be out the window. “He’s dead. I can feel it.”
The man nodded and removed a pack of smokes from his shirt pocket. He tapped a Winston out and wedged it in a corner of his mouth. “I reckon you’re right, boy. So what do you think? Seems pretty certain these are the ones the Mistress wants.”
The boy licked his dry lips. “Yeah.”
The van’s tail lights came on and the van began to glide out toward the street just as the man was applying a lighter flame to his cigarette. “Oh, shit.”
He flipped the lighter shut and tossed it onto the dashboard. Then he twisted the key in the ignition and listened to the engine groan. He twisted it again and got a rattle. He looked up and saw the van cross the intersection and pick up speed.
“Fuck!”
The kid was looking at him now. The big knife was pointed vaguely in his direction. “It better start.”
The man spoke around the cigarette:“No shit.”
He was trying hard not to sound afraid, but inside he was coming apart. He couldn’t afford to blow this. Not when they were so close. He knew the kid was just looking for an excuse to gut him and resume the chase on his own. So he sent out a silent prayer and twisted the key again.
The engine sputtered, caught, and roared to life.
He let out a big breath and grinned at the kid. “Have faith, kid. They ain’t gettin’ away.”
He gunned the engine and the car lurched forward.
The night was cold, the chill cutting easily through her sweater and the shirt beneath. Allyson scooted closer to the crackling campfire and rubbed her hands together. The warmth from the fire helped, but all in all she’d rather be back inside, huddled beneath a blanket with Chad’s naked body spooned against her back. But Camp Whiskey’s inhabitants had warmed to her somewhat in the aftermath of her close call in the woods. This was the first time she’d been invited to hang out at one of these little gatherings of what she still thought of as the “inner circle,” and she was determined to make the best of the rare social outing. She wanted them to see that she was a good person, a friendly and warm person, and that none of them had anything to fear from her.
Hell, she just wanted to fit in.
Someone on the opposite side of the campfire strummed an acoustic guitar and the low babble of conversation abruptly ceased. The man with the guitar was sitting cross-legged and was wearing a heavy denim-and-wool coat. Jim was stretched out on the ground next to him, but now he sat up and withdrew a harmonica from a pocket of his brown shirt. Firelight glinted on the polished silver surface of the instrument as Jim brought it to his mouth and began to blow. The guitar player intensified his strumming and the two soon found a bluesy rhythm that made Allyson bob her head as she listened. The jam went on for a few minutes. Then Jim lowered the harmonica and began to sing.
A shiver went up her spine at the sound of his voice. Chad returned from his trip to the outhouse and sat next to her, draping an arm around her shoulders. She snuggled closer and laid her head on his shoulder.
Jim paused in his singing to blow a few more bluesy notes on the harmonica. Then the old singer surged to his feet and belted out the song’s chorus with a passion that was exhilarating to see:
“Devil come a’ risin’
Devil gonna come
Devil on the highwaaaaaaaaay
Devil on the way”
Jim’s whole body was moving. Or at least that’s the way it looked to Allyson from the other side of the campfire. He was doing a kind of Ray Charles headroll while the rest of his body rocked to the beat the guitarist was now thumping out on the body of his guitar. Jim looked like a man possessed as that beat intensified, his facial features twisting and twitching, his hands held out before him in a kind of supplication. Allyson watched the performance with mounting awe. There was an undeniable electricity in the air. And no wonder. The man was a legend for good reason.
The beat slowed but grew heavier, the other guy slapping the guitar’s body with the flat of his palms as Jim resumed singing:
“Devil come a’ risin’
Devil gonna come
Devil at the crossroads
Think I might explode”
Jim abruptly raised a clenched fist high in the air and struck a rigid pose. The guitar player ceased his thumping, shifted the guitar in his lap, and began picking out a subdued, haunting melody, a series of wistful notes that felt like a cold breeze rolling across an open plain.
Jim slowly lowered his fist and finished the song in an equally subdued manner:
“Reckon time has come to pay that bill
Devil comin’ up that hill
Lord, I always knew this day would come
Time to get…gone.”
The last word was spoken rather than sung. Jim lowered his head and held his hands clasped before him as the guy with the guitar plucked a few final notes, the last of which seemed to hang suspended in the air for a long, achingly lovely moment. Then it was gone and there was just the sound of the campfire and the ambient noises of the wilderness at night.
Allyson released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
A young woman to her left said, “That was incredible. What was that?”
Chad craned his head to look past Allyson. “That was ‘Pay The Devil,’ an old blues standard.”
Jim was still standing on the other side of the fire. He put the harmonica away and tapped a cigarette from a pack. “Man’s correct. Blind Cat Jones’s version from the 1930s is probably the best known.” He lit the cigarette and rolled it into a corner of his mouth. “Used to have it on an old 78.” He smiled around the cigarette and blew out a puff of smoke. “Long gone now, like most things from my past.”
Allyson surprised herself by speaking up. “I’ve heard that.” She met Jim’s gaze across the campfire and felt goose bumps form on her flesh as the corners of his mouth lifted in a small smile. “Years ago I saw a PBS documentary about delta blues. Blind Cat’s version was beautiful, but yours was just amazing.”
Jim exhaled more smoke. “My humble thanks to you, Allyson. And now, if you good people don’t mind, I’ll be retiring for the evening.”
He flipped the cigarette butt into the fire and began to move back in the direction of the cabins. A pair of machine-gun-toting men in camos fell in behind him and trailed him down the slope. Some of the others seated around the fire gathered their things and began to make their exits as well. Allyson stayed where she was, watching Jim and his guards move in and out of shadows as they moved downhill. He disappeared through a door when they reached their destination and the guards moved to flanking positions at each side of the little cabin. She wondered what his inner life must be like. Did he live wholly in the present, or did he spend a lot of time thinking about the lost glories of his past? Did he ever regret the strange path he’d embarked upon in the early part of the 1970s? She hoped to talk to him about these things at some point. She suspected there was much he could teach her about coping with regret.
Allyson and Chad eventually joined the slow-motion exodus, rising to their feet and walking hand-in-hand toward their own cabin.
The bottle of Beam was calling to him again. Jim dropped the cigarettes and harmonica on a table and picked the bottle up by the neck. He looked at the brown liquid inside the bottle. The stuff didn’t control him as completely as it had in his youth-he’d be dead for real otherwise-but booze remained a significant factor in his life. He’d reduced his daily intake to a small fraction of what it had once been, both to improve his health and prepare for the struggle he knew was on the horizon. But sweet lady alcohol was always there in the background. He drank at a measured pace throughout the day, careful to never get too intoxicated. At night he would indulge a little more deeply, but even then he remained cognizant of his responsibilities.
He was a leader now. But more than that, a symbol of a past victory for the refugees from Below. They would naturally look to him for inspiration and guidance. It was a role in which he still felt some discomfort. Within him there yet lurked a faint spark of the wild spirit that had driven him to such reckless extremes in the past. That part of him wanted to down the whole bottle of Beam, consequences be damned.
He spun the cap off the bottle and brought the neck to his lips. The booze filled his mouth and he savored the sweet taste for a moment before swallowing. A little shiver of pleasure rippled through him. Then he took another little sip, screwed the cap back on, and returned the bottle to the table.
A faint sound from the other side of the room made him turn around. There was no one there. But he’d heard it, of that he was certain. A woman’s voice. He sighed. He occasionally heard voices when he was alone. Sometimes he could even make out words. Once in a great while the voice was distinct enough to recognize. And always it was someone who could not actually be there, at least not in a physical form. These were people from his distant past he knew to be long dead, ghosts he supposed he would carry with him until his final days.
But this was different. He wasn’t certain why, but he felt it on a level that resonated in his bones. A little tingle of fear started at the base of his spine and worked its way up. Instinct drove him to pick up the bottle again. This time when he screwed the cap off, he tossed it on the table and drank deeply from the bottle. The influx of booze settled him and drove back the chill. He carried the bottle by the neck as he paced the width and length of the small room, paranoia driving him to conduct a search, even though there was plainly no place for an intruder to hide.
Except…
He dropped to his knees, grunting as the old joints creaked. He lifted the edge of a b lanket and peered beneath the small bed. No one was there, of course, with the exception of a few crawly bugs and his personal effects. The tattered old backpack he’d carried on his travels through Europe and Africa in the 70s. Two boxes, a small one and a somewhat larger one filled with some of his favorite books. He sighed and stood again. He moved to the other side of the bed and sat down. He swigged from the bottle one more time before setting it on the floor. Then he reached beneath the bed and withdrew the smaller of the two boxes, an old cigar box with a length of twine tied around it. He untied the loose knot and flipped the lid open.
The box contained an assortment of faded pictures and other mementos of the life he’d left behind so long ago. He’d carried it with him everywhere for decades, even Below, where most of the banished people were stripped of their personal belongings. But though the box was important to him, only in his most melancholy moments did he remove its contents to examine and reflect upon. The last time had been more than a year ago, when he’d first heard rumblings of the threat that was out there.
In the time since then, he’d worked hard to prepare for the coming confrontation, and the heavily fortified Camp Whiskey was the fruit of those labors. The goal had been to establish a haven impenetrable by any enemy. Thanks to the resources and contacts of Jack Paradise, the community enjoyed the protection of a small but world-class army. The camp should undeniably be the safest place for the survivors of Below. And yet there remained intangibles that might yet make them vulnerable, things they couldn’t anticipate.
Things like the treachery of Wanda Lewis, who had once been a significant player in the plot that ended the Master’s reign of terror. Jim could not imagine how so strong a woman had been swayed to the other side. He had taken her loyalty for granted and bringing her into the fold had been a priority. But she’d been unusually difficult to locate, even given the slippery nature of many House of Blood survivors. She resurfaced a month before her attempt on Allyson Vanover’s life, explaining that she’d been busy eluding a particularly tenacious group of would-be assassins. Which seemed a believable enough cover story. But Jim began to hear reports of some strange behavior on Wanda’s part. She was seen talking to herself, appearing to have animated conversations with people who weren’t there. Once she was spotted engaging in a paganistic prayer ritual in the woods. There was nothing worthy of condemnation in these behaviors, but they were far enough removed from the Wanda Lewis he’d known to be troubling. And so Jack Paradise had passed along instruction to the soldiers to keep a watchful eye on her. Which had turned out to be a good thing for Allyson Vanover.
He was thankful Allyson was still with them. He had a strong feeling there was more to her story than she was willing to share. The question of why Wanda had attempted to kill her remained unanswered and presented a host of bothersome questions. Allyson’s account of things had been too vague to provide any real answers. But his gut told him Allyson was not a threat. She clearly loved Chad, and Jim sensed she was struggling toward an inner change for the better. He could appreciate that.
As he sorted through the stack of mementos-mostly age-yellowed photographs-Jim reflected on the uncountable number of mistakes he’d made in his life. At the top of that list, as ever, was the impetuous decision to “kill” his public persona. He’d felt so overwhelmed then, with the press and their lies, with evading an American court system determined to make him serve hard time for a supposed act of public indecency, and with the pressure to record a new album that could never live up to ludicrously high expectations. And, of course, his judgment had been clouded by the drugs, enough so that faking his death and going underground had seemed a perfectly reasonable way out. He’d like to go back to that time and force his younger self not to go down that road. In the first few years after his “death,” he’d occasionally entertained notions of resurfacing. But something always held him back. Then, as the years stretched into decades, he began to realize he would never return to public life. For better or worse, this twilight existence was his lot.
He came to a picture of Pam, his old love, and his eyes misted. The picture showed her seated outside a cafe in Paris, not long before the end of his old life. She was looking away, not wanting to be photographed. She had just learned of the crazy thing he was planning and was unhappy about it. He wanted so much to talk to her again, tell her she’d been right, that he’d made a horrible mistake. But she was dead and beyond reach now. He touched the photo with the tip of a shaking finger and imagined he could feel the softness of her flesh again. The photo slipped from his fingers and tumbled to the dusty cabin floor. He was reaching to retrieve it when he caught sight of the photograph that had been beneath it.
His heart lurched.
And now the entire stack of old photos and mementos slipped from his suddenly numb fingers and fluttered across the floor. The new photo-the one he knew had never been there before-landed upright amidst a sea of white. He felt a tightness in his chest as he looked at it again. The picture showed a nude woman on a plush bed. Her eyes were glassy and her face was twisted in a frozen expression of agony. She had been disemboweled by some means not immediately apparent. Blood was everywhere and a small loop of intestine was visible. Jim forced himself to look beyond the gore for some hint as to why an interloper had seen fit to insert the gruesome photograph in the middle of a stack of older pictures he looked at so rarely. At first no obvious solution presented itself. But then he realized there was something familiar about the dead woman…
His stomach knotted as the realization hit him: “Ms.Wickman-”
The wicked witch was dead. The proof was at his feet. This should be cause for celebration. Surely there was no longer anything to fear now that she was gone. Why, then, did he not f eel like celebrating? But he knew why, really. It was the inexplicable appearance of the picture. That and simple instinct. Something very wrong was happening and he didn’t have the first clue what it might be. An unacceptable state of affairs. The thing to do now was summon Jack Paradise and begin an investigation.
But first…
He was reaching for the bottle of Beam when he felt a weight settle on the bed behind him. He tensed, expecting to feel the blade of an assassin slide beneath his rib cage at any moment. It should have been impossible, even for the stealthiest of assassins. The windows were boarded up. The front door, flanked by heavily armed guards, was the only way in or out of the little cabin. Logic dictated this was someone who’d been here all along. He could only assume the intruder had employed some magical means of cloaking their presence.
The intruder was closer now. He could feel her breath on the back of his neck. That the intruder was a woman was a thing he sensed on a primitive level. He knew he should leap to his feet and make a break for the door, but his feet felt nailed to the floor. He was as incapable of movement as a statue-and would remain so until the intruder released him from this paralyzed state.
Anger flared inside him. “Stop fucking around and do it.”
Then he felt the cold sting of a large blade laid flat across his throat and closed his eyes. No need to wonder how it would feel. He’d had a would-be assassin’s blade in his body before, back during his time Below. He’d survived that attempt on his life, but he sensed this would be different. And less clumsy. This blade would open his carotid and his blood would splash across the spilled evidence of his formerly exalted place in the world.
The intruder leaned against him. A pair of soft lips pressed against his ear. And a voice, wholly unfamiliar, whispered the following:“Don’t you want to live?”
Jim swallowed hard. “Why are you toying with me?”
The woman turned the blade, pressed the sharp side to his trembling flesh. “Answer my question.” Her free hand slithered like a snake around his midsection and moved to his crotch, where it grasped and squeezed. “Answer…Jim. Or I’ll cut this off and feed it to you.”
“Honest answer…I don’t know.”
The woman slid off the bed to stand before him. Jim’s brow knitted in confusion at the sight of the stranger. She was wearing a black gi. She was slim and small, maybe two or three inches over five feet. Her features were Asian, though her voice had been smooth and inflectionless.
“Who the hell are you?”
She knelt before him and snatched up the picture of Ms. Wickman’s gutted body. “I am of the Order of the Dragon. My name is not important.” She waved the picture at him. “I am here to speak to you about this. And to make a proposition.”
Jim realized the woman had relinquished her psychic grip on him. He grabbed the Jim Beam bottle and chugged from it. Then he sighed and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. “Does this proposition involve any sort of threat to my people?”
“It involves the removal of a threat. For my organization, it is a matter of vengeance. This may mean sacrifices. You will have to decide how high a price the removal of this threat is worth.”
An ache began behind Jim’s eyes as a familiar spiritual pain lanced him. For maybe the millionth time, he wished he’d not chosen to assume a position of leadership. He loathed being the man who had to make life and death decisions for a larger body of people. His father had been such a man. Alas, such regrets were useless at this juncture. The die had been cast for him long, long ago.
He looked at her and spoke evenly:“Speak to me. Tell me your proposition. And then we’ll see just how much I feel like living or dying.”
Giselle awoke to the sound of birdsong. She opened her eyes and saw a large and multicolored creature perched at the foot of the bed. It was a strange synthesis of parrot and vulture, with brightly colored feathers, a long, black beak, and large and very sharp talons. The creature stared at her through glassy black eyes. She found its scrutiny unnerving and wondered for a moment how the thing had gained entry to her quarters.
Then she recalled the previous evening’s festivities in a series of flashing images. She and Ursula had consumed large quantities of a very expensive wine imported from France. There had been music, a girl playing a guitar. A large number of Apprentices gathered in her quarters at her invitation. Slaves were brought in and put to use in various ways as entertainment. Clothes were discarded and the party devolved to pure orgy. Giselle had partnered with several different men and women through the course of the evening, exploring every possible sexual combination and position with Apprentices and slaves alike.
It had been, she recalled with a tired smile, the most purely debauched evening of her entire life. There had been interludes during which slaves she’d fucked were then tortured and humiliated. Then things would shift back to party mode, with the consumption of still more wine and numerous more carnal indulgences. As evening progressed toward dawn, the wine flowing through her system caught up to her and things became a blur. She vaguely remembered accosting Ursula, violently removing the young Apprentice perched atop the girl and then dragging her out to the balcony. Here her memories became even blurrier. She recalled some frenzied moments of passion. But she’d been rough with the girl, maybe too rough, and there’d been anger. And then…
a sound, the loud crack of her fist across Ursula’s jaw…the girl’s eyes rolling back in her head as her body topples backward, falls against the balcony railing…
Giselle’s head snapped to her right and let out a sigh of relief as she saw Ursula lying beside her. The girl was unconscious, her mouth hanging slack against the silk pillowcase. Her jaw sported a deep brown bruise and her flesh was gouged in other places where Giselle had struck her. But she otherwise seemed okay. Giselle listened to her racing heart and felt her eyes moisten as she realized how close she’d come to killing her lover.
She wiped the tears away at once. They were a sign of emotion. And emotion equaled weakness. She could not afford to be seen as weak. Also, Ursula was not in the restraints Giselle normally put her in at bedtime. The lapse angered Giselle. She’d left herself vulnerable, another thing she couldn’t allow to happen, a thing she’d worked hard to prevent.
Until last night.
She sat up in bed and surveyed the aftermath of the orgy. The physical effort amplified a dull ache in her head. Her mouth felt as dry as parchment. She had a hangover, her first in more years than she could recall. She felt a touch of nausea at the back of her throat, a sensation exacerbated by the pungent scents of piss, semen, and blood. This annoyed her, but not nearly so much as the sight of unconscious bodies lounging everywhere. The crashed-out revelers were all nude or nearly nude, some of them with their limbs still intwined, having passed out after sex. They were on the floor and in chairs. A young male slave was lying atop a table in the library section of her quarters. A male Apprentice, nude, lay next to him, an arm draped across the slave’s waist.
There was a lot of blood. Big splashes on the floor and the furniture. The decapitated head of a female slave sat impaled on the tip of a spear, which was propped against the wall opposite the bed. Giselle couldn’t imagine where anyone had gotten a spear. But that minor bit of mystery was forgotten as she noted the dark entrance to the secret torture chamber. Her heart thudded. She couldn’t remember opening the door. The unnatural cold from the chamber was seeping into the air in her living quarters. There was something insinuating about the chill, a hint of something alive and malignant, and her first instinct was to seal the door at once. But she restrained herself, knowing she would first have to check the chamber for signs of anything amiss.
The missing bits of her memory stirred the self-directed anger again. She had been sloppy. Unforgivably so. The party-cum-orgy had been Ursula’s idea. She had become petulant of late, resentful even, chafing under the new restrictions imposed upon her. She especially disliked being restrained in the evening, rebuffing Giselle’s initial attempts to soften the loss of her total freedom by turning it into a kind of kinky game. Worst of all, from Giselle’s point of view, she’d become more subdued during sex, feigning passion and being quite unsubtle about the fakery.
At first Giselle told herself she didn’t care.
But she did.
And the longer the situation went on the less she enjoyed lovemaking with Ursula. She missed that feeling of unquenchable erotic hunger. The sex had become a rote act in recent days, a matter of going through the motions. She ached to feel that fire again. The need bothered her, though. It was weakness. She could have her pick of lovers. Yet she only wanted Ursula. Wanted her completely again. And so when Ursula begged for permission to throw the ultimate decadent party-along with an unsubtle hint that she would show her gratitude in the way Giselle most desired-she’d acquiesced, had even allowed herself to believe it might be a good idea to get loose and liven things up. She saw clearly now how wrong she had been. She thought of the Master and the relentlessly merciless way he’d exerted authority. He’d managed to survive that way for centuries before he was finally killed. Giselle had loathed the Master, but she decided she could yet learn some valuable lessons from him.
The strange vulture/parrot hybrid opened its beak and trilled another bit of song at her. It peered at her with simple animal curiosity. Giselle smiled and held out an arm. The gentlest of mental nudges caused the creature to flap its wings and move from the foot of the bed to Giselle’s extended forearm. She cooed at the creature and gently stroked the back of its head. It tilted its head again and trilled another lovely burst of birdsong.
Giselle wrapped her fingers around its neck. Its eyes bulged a little and it emitted a little chirp as Giselle cooed reassurance. Then it squawked as she tightened her grip and began to twist. Panic set in and it raised talons to slash at her, but another mental nudge stilled the act of self-defense. And Giselle stared into the creature’s bulging eyes as she snapped its neck with excruciating slowness.
There, she thought.
Something relaxed inside her and she studied the dead bird’s limp body with grim satisfaction, puzzling over why she felt so good about killing so helpless a creature. An impulse caused her to look at Ursula. She imagined taking Ursula’s neck in her hands and doing to her what she’d done to the bird. She licked her lips and felt her nipples stiffen. Then the girl stirred in her sleep, groaning and stretching out her body.
Giselle stared at the tender, exposed flesh of the girl’s slender neck. So pale. So lovely. She watched the rise and fall of her breasts and thought of how they felt in her mouth, in her hands. And she sighed, knowing she still could not kill Ursula. The girl would require a still greater level of discipline, that’s all.
She got out of the bed and carried the dead bird out to the balcony. The other world’s sun bathed her body in heat, dispelling the cold that had seeped into her bones from the open torture chamber. She peered over the railing at the bustle of activity in the rapidly expanding slave community everyone called Razor City. Here was something of which she could be proud. Her vision for the community far exceeded in scope and daring anything the Master had accomplished with Below. There were many more hovels along the perimeter of the community now, with more being erected every day to accomodate the steady influx of new slaves. The large marketplace was open for business. Numerous other buildings were under construction. It was becoming a real city, albeit a primitive one, like something from a twisted version of the Middle Ages. The community’s name derived from the high, razor-tipped fences that defined its borders. Giselle loved the sound of it. Razor City. It sounded like a place where nightmares would go to live. So apt. The endless suffering of its pitiful denizens would exceed the suffering of any oppressed group in human history, honoring the death gods enough to make her powerful almost beyond reckoning.
She tossed the dead bird over the railing and returned to her quarters. The nude revelers remained unconscious and for a moment Giselle considered killing every one of them, such was her distress at the tainted condition of her quarters. She picked up the spear and pried the dead slave’s head from its tip. She tossed the head aside, examined the sharp and blood-coated tip, and imagined plunging it through the hearts of all present. The brutality would afford her a few moments of cold satisfaction, but she decided against it. Several of the sleeping Apprentices were very good at what they did, and capable Apprentices were significantly harder to replace than slaves.
And anyway, she knew she was only delaying the inevitable.
She braced herself with an intake of breath and stepped through the open entrance to the darkened torture chamber. The cold seeped into her bones again. She muttered a spell and the ranks of candles grew flames. Her gaze was drawn immediately to the limp figure splayed across the bottom of the dangling cage. No one else was in the room and there was nothing obviously amiss. She still couldn’t recall opening the chamber, but she guessed Ursula had coerced her into doing it somehow.
Giselle moved deeper into the chamber and the figure at the bottom of the cage stirred and turned toward the sound of her approach. Gwendolyn lifted her head and several tangled golden locks fell across her face. She smiled weakly through lips puffy and coated with dried blood.
“Why, it’s the great usurper. What a privilege it is to be in your presence, Mistress.” She laughed, a ragged sound followed by a deep, hacking cough. “Come to finish me off, have you? Where’s your kept girl, then? I’d think she’d want to be here for this.”
Gwendolyn’s flesh was covered with bruises and livid scars, many of which pulsed with active infections. Patches of abraded skin leaked blood and pus. She was missing an ear, a nipple, and several toes and fingers. There were multiple burn marks on her abdomen and thighs. And her pussy had been sewn partially shut. Giselle had not participated in any of these tortures, but she had been present for most of them, observing in a detached manner as Ursula enjoyed herself. But her lover’s endless abuse of the prisoner had become tiresome, having dragged on for weeks beyond the point at which the former Apprentice should’ve been put out of her misery.
Giselle smiled and moved closer to the cage, adjusting her grip on the spear as she worked to decide on the best possible angle for a kill thrust. “Your tormentor is passed out on my bed. A touch too much wine last night, I’m afraid.”
Something flickered in Gwendolyn’s eyes as she watched the bloody spear tip move closer. The instinctive fear of one who senses impending death, perhaps. But that impression was belied by the small smile that dimpled the corners of her puffy lips. And she didn’t retreat as the spear tip passed through cage bars and touched a spot between her breasts. Giselle’s body tensed as her hands tightened on the spear shaft. The girl was making it easy for her, almost offering herself up for sacrifice. Which should not have been surprising. She had suffered immensely. Almost anyone in her position would welcome the release of death.
And yet…
That smile.
Giselle frowned. “Something is wrong.”
Gwendolyn’s smile broadened, displaying bloody gums and cracked and chipped teeth. “You don’t know the half of it, Mistress.” Another ragged laugh, followed by another whooping cough. She spat blood. Then she spoke in a singsong tone: “I know something you don’t.”
Instinct told her to ignore the doomed girl’s vague insinuations. This was likely nothing more than one last mind-fuck, an empty game designed to delay the impending end of her life a few minutes more. She pressed the tip of the spear forward a millimeter or two, piercing pale flesh and drawing forth a trickle of blood that spilled along the girl’s protruding rib cage before dripping through cage bars to splash the stone floor below. Gwendolyn winced as the spear tip entered her flesh, but that damnable smile barely faltered.
“I don’t think you know anything.” Giselle twisted the spear tip, widening the gash between Gwendolyn’s breasts. A thicker stream of blood flowed over the tip, fresh gore commingling with dried red flakes. “This is just a last-ditch shot at saving your ass.”
Gwendolyn winced again and gritted her teeth as the spear tip continued to twist and delve deeper. “You fucked up when you killed Ms. Wickman.”
Giselle arched an eyebrow. “Oh? How so?”
“The tattoo on your back is lovely. It’s funny. Usually the only tattoos you can’t remember getting involve massive amounts of tequila and a road trip to Tijuana.” Gwendolyn smiled again as the spear tip stopped twisting. “Got your attention, did I?”
Giselle’s heart pounded. “What do you know about the tattoo?”
“Oh, a lot. I wonder if Ursula told you I was Ms. Wickman’s favorite, hmm?” Gwendolyn pushed the spear away and sat up, making the stout chain groan as the cage swayed slightly. She pressed her face between cage bars and leered at Giselle. “She told me things. Secrets. Tell me, Giselle, what do you know of the Order of the Dragon?”
Giselle swallowed a lump in her throat. She’d heard of the organization. Vague whispers of an ancient and powerful order founded on principles of extreme self-discipline. But that was the extent of her knowledge. The Order, to her mind, was like the Masons or the Illuminati. Formless phantoms lurking in shadowy, unknowable segments of society. They served as fodder for popular fiction and gave conspiracy theory crackpots something to obsess over.
“Are you implying Ms. Wickman was a member of the Order?”
Gwendolyn licked her puffy lips. “I’m not implying it. I’m flat-out saying it. And that tattoo on your back makes you a marked woman.” She laughed. “Every Order tattoo is unique in some way. The Order is coming for you, Giselle. One look at your back and they’ll know I was telling the truth.”
Giselle tightened her grip on the spear shaft again. She was genuinely rattled now, but she didn’t want Gwendolyn to see that. “They’ll never get to me. They can’t. I’m too well-protected.”
Gwendolyn smirked. “Do you really believe that, Giselle?”
“Stop addressing me by my first name!” Giselle pressed the spear tip against Gwendolyn’s stomach. “I’ll not tolerate insolence.”
“Fuck you. The true Mistress of this house is gone. You’re just a pretender.” She flexed her torso, made the spear tip cut into her flesh again. “And I’ll call you whatever I want, Giselle. You bitch. You fucking cunt. You’ll pay for what you’ve done.”
Giselle’s shoulder muscles tensed again. Anger overwhelmed fear. “Time to die, Gwendolyn.”
Gwendolyn smiled. “Yes. But one more thing.”
Giselle knew she shouldn’t listen.
Kill her, she thought.
Poke this fucking thing through her and be done with it.
But again she hesitated. Fear reasserted itself. She imagined black-clad Order assassins coming to her in the middle of the night, could almost feel the killing blade at her throat, and her helpless to prevent it despite all her power. She was possessed by a sudden conviction that only a greater depth of knowledge would keep her alive.
She lowered the spear again. “Tell me.”
“You’re afraid. Good. I hope you spend the few nights left to you consumed by your fear. And while you’re lying awake at night waiting for them to come for you, please think of me. I sent them the photo of Ms. Wickman’s body. I tipped them off, Giselle. I’m the reason all your grand schemes are about to collapse.” Gwendolyn’s smile faded and her voice was laced with a more sober tone. “But I didn’t do it alone.”
“I don’t believe you.” Giselle swallowed with difficulty. “What are you saying?”
“There are traitors in your midst, Giselle. Other people burned by your fucking coup d’etat. Here’s a question you’ll no doubt ponder over those long, sleepless nights-who took the picture I sent to the Order?”
Giselle jabbed at her with the spear. The tip of it plunged into a spot beneath her sternum. Gwendolyn gasped and fell backward, rattling the cage. The heavy chain groaned and twisted. But then the girl was laughing again, a maddening display of mirth that assailed Giselle’s ears like a swarm of buzzing locusts.
“Tell me who the traitors are!” Giselle jabbed with the spear again, opening a long gash along the back of a thigh. More blood spattered the stone floor beneath the cage. Another savage jab pierced a buttock. Still more blood sprayed the floor.
Gwendolyn sat up, lurched toward the side of the cage again, and sneered at Giselle. “You’ll never know, cunt. Not until it’s too late. But I have one more surprise for you. One of them left me a present.”
She uncurled a fist and revealed a shiny razor blade.
Giselle’s eyes widened. “No.”
Gwendolyn laughed one last time and drew the blade across her throat in a flash. Her flesh opened like a zipper and blood fountained from the wound. Then she fell backward and the razor slipped from the remaining fingers of her right hand. Her body jerked once and went still. Giselle stared at the unmoving form in open-mouthed shock for several moments. The turn of events seemed unreal. In a few brief moments, her deepest fears had been revealed as truth. People in her employ were actively working against her. For a moment she found it difficult to breathe. The cloying darkness lurking just beyond the candles seemed to reach for her…
Giselle hurried out of the chamber and sealed it. She was shaking as she turned to survey the damage to her quarters one more time. Most of the hungover revelers were still unconscious, but a young male slumped in a recliner yawned and began to rise.
Giselle slammed the spear through his chest. His eyes went wide and he had a fraction of a second to realize what was happening to him. Then the spear tip passed through his back and impaled him briefly on the recliner. A bottomless rage sizzled through her as she yanked the spear out of the dead boy and moved to a sleeping couple entwined on the floor. The spear penetrated their bodies with equal ease, magic fueling her body with strength even as it sent bursts of wild energy darting through the room. More of the sleeping people began to wake up, only to find their bodies on the business end of a spear already coated with blood and lumps of viscera. Some tried to flee, but froze in their tracks, their bodies and minds paralyzed by a single small flex of Giselle’s raging magic.
And the slaughter continued until they were all dead.
All of them, that is, with a single exception.
Ursula was sitting up in the bed, a sheet pulled up over her bosom. The pointless modesty might have made Giselle laugh under other circumstances.
She pointed the spear at her lover. “Don’t ever betray me.” The tip of the spear touched the hollow of Ursula’s throat. “Ever. Not fucking ever.”
Ursula swallowed carefully and gave a slight nod. “I wouldn’t.” Tears trickled from the corners of her eyes. “I…love you.”
And I love you, Giselle thought. Which probably makes me an idiot.
She tossed the spear aside and climbed up on the bed. She yanked the sheet out of Ursula’s hands and forced the girl onto her back.
“Prove how much you love me.”
Ursula just stared at her for a long moment, her eyes still bright with residual fear. Then, at last, that gleam faded and she reached for Giselle.
And here it was, that thing she’d been missing for so long.
The hunger.
The need.
It was glorious.
And, for a time, it allowed her to forget the things that troubled her.
“Are we gonna kill this fucker or not?”
Dream didn’t reply to Marcy’s question right away.
She had two fingers wedged between slats of a window blind and was peering through the small opening at the motel parking lot. The place was a moldy dump on the outskirts of Columbus, Ohio. They’d been holed up here for two days, lying low after a robbery gone bad in Cleveland. A cop was dead and surveillance video of the crime had made the national news. Some genius with the FBI had connected the dots, linking the bloody convenience store holdup with a string of other brazen crimes, including the murder of a young girl at Niagara Falls and a mass murder at a New England farmhouse. The common denominator being a group of young women traveling together, three whites and one black.
The female gang angle made the story a sexy one and thus a natural for the chattering talking heads on the twenty-four-hour news networks. But the whole thing really blew up when Dream was identified from her appearance in the surveillance tape. Now the reportage was virtually non-stop, and Dream found herself wishing for a major ter rorist strike or something, anything to divert the media’s attention in another direction.
The parking lot was somewhere just shy of half-full. Most of the cars she could see were old and in shabby condition. A nearby Caddy sported a leopard-print steering-wheel cover. A pair of fuzzy dice dangled from the tilted rearview mirror of a Plymouth Duster. The Starlite Inn did not attract an upwardly mobile class of clientele. But that didn’t bother Dream. Among other things, it meant their old Dodge van didn’t look out of place.
She turned away from the window and looked at the balding, middle-aged man cuffed to the headboard of the queen-sized bed. Blood leaked from his nose and trickled over the strip of duct tape covering his mouth. He wore rumpled black slacks and a blue polo shirt that was at least a size too small. His bloated belly stretched the fabric of the shirt and made him look pregnant. Marcy was pointing her Glock at his head. Two nights ago a bullet fired from the same gun had ended the life of a Cleveland officer on routine patrol. It was an ugly weapon. A brutal, merciless thing. And the sight of it pointed at another likely victim made Dream’s stomach churn.
Despite everything, it was still hard to deal with all this killing.
But it was getting easier. Some. And that was maybe the worst thing of all.
She sighed. “You can’t shoot him. Too much noise.”
Alicia cackled. “Ooh, this should be good.” She sat at a little table at the far side of the room. She aimed a remote control at the television and hit the mute button. She turned in her seat to get a better view of the bed. “So what’s it gonna be, Dream? Gonna reach inside his brain, make the motherfucker hemorrhage?”
A toilet flushed and Ellen returned from the bathroom. “No, that’s boring. Make his head explode, like that dude in Scanners.”
Marcy laughed. “That would rock.”
Ellen’s eyes were wide and she was blinking rapidly. She kept licking her lips and wiping her mouth with the back of a hand. Snot dripped from her nose and Dream could see little white specks above her upper lip. Marcy was just as twitchy. The two had spent much of the evening snorting the cuffed man’s cocaine off the back of a Gideon Bible. The stuff had turned up during a search of his belongings, several white Baggies hidden in the lining of a scuffed and dented old suitcase. Turned out the guy was some low-level middleman in the drug trade, information he’d coughed up after a pistol-whipping from Marcy.
Dream sat at the edge of the bed and looked the man in the eye. A muffled whimper issued from beneath the frayed edges of the duct tape. She’d given him a thrashing earlier in the evening, back in those first moments following their invasion of his room. He’d opened his door to step out for some reason. And the moment the door was open Dream and her companions swarmed out of the van and bludgeoned their way into the room. He’d been full of bluster at first, hurling threats and a barrage of sexist epithets. So Dream had been rough with him, surprising him with her strength. She remembered the feel of his nose breaking beneath the force of her fist. She’d pulled the punch. Otherwise the man’s head would’ve come right off his shoulders. She was that strong now. And getting stronger all the time, the power inside her growing by leaps and bounds every day. And full of a fury that had nothing to do with the man’s apparent misogyny. It was only an extension of the darkness that had taken root in her soul, a sickness of the spirit she could only assuage with violence.
Dream pinched the man’s nostrils shut and watched his eyes go wide. He thrashed and managed to dislodge her fingers, sucking in air through the narrow passages. Dream climbed up on the bed and straddled him. Marcy let out a whoop that made her sound like a drunken sorority girl at a kegger.
Ellen dropped to her knees at the side of the bed.“Do it.” Her hands were clasped in a way that was almost prayerful. “Suffocate the pig.”
Dream ignored it all as the man continued to buck beneath her. Her body rolled with the motion of his struggles. She thought of the time she’d ridden a mechanical bull in a bar in Florida. That had been fun. So was this, in a deeply twisted way. There was something distinctly sexual about it, in fact. She hadn’t been with a man in months. A mad impulse to rip the fat man’s pants off and suck his cock to hardness flashed through her. She pictured herself riding the man’s dick and felt a dampness between her legs. She could kill him while he was still inside her, rip his throat out with her bare hands.
Then Ellen’s breathy whisper: “Hey…this is kind of…hot.”
The words broke the spell. Dream would not sate her needs with this man. He wasn’t worthy. And she wasn’t quite debased enough to relish the notion of playing the starring role in a live sex act for her friends. Not yet. So she exerted her strength and pinned the man firmly to the bed. He still thrashed with all his might. Useless. Dream felt that darkness rise inside her again, that sickness aching to feed. She raised her fists and brought them crashing down on his face. She felt bones and cartilage splinter and yield beneath her hands. His head whipped side to side, the motion a blur, like a punching bag in a gym. His face was a bloody, pulpy mess by the time she broke off the beating.
But he was still alive.
Still breathing.
A blood-red snot bubble welled from the end of a crushed nostril and popped. Dream stared at the man’s ruined face and felt the same numb disconnect she always experienced in the immediate aftermath of her violent outbursts. The pillow cushioning the man’s head was flecked with blood. More dark red droplets dotted the backs of his flabby arms. His hands had gone limp, the metal handcuff bracelets having slid down to a spot directly behind the crown of his skull. Looking at him triggered the same muted repulsion she sometimes felt when watching an especially gruesome horror flick. Then the numbness was gone, completely, and she owned this again, this twisted reality that was sicker by far than any cheap bit of celluloid exploitation.
Now you finish it, she thought. This guy’s an asshole, but he’s a human being. End his suffering.
The strip of duct tape had loosened during the beating. She pressed it down and pinched the man’s nostrils shut again. It didn’t take long. He regained consciousness for a brief moment. His hands jerked once against the brass headboard slats. Then he went still. His eyes glazed over and he was gone.
Dream’s shoulders slumped and her chin dipped toward her chest. And here was the next necessary stage she’d come to expect. This abrupt agony of remorse. The tears came, hot and plentiful, spilling in rivulets down her cheeks to moisten the collar of her T-shirt. No one said anything. They were used to this by now. Her friends. She’d started out hating them all. Not anymore. She belonged with them. They understood her. Accepted her. She’d told Ellen she thought of them as family. And it was true enough. Sort of an all-girl version of the Manson family, yes, but family nonetheless.
She sighed and the tears abruptly stopped. The remorse was gone. And now the dead man beneath her was just a slab of meat. A thing to be dealt with, no more significant than a bag of garbage.
She swiped moisture from her nose. “Let’s get this bag of shit out of here.”
Alicia leaned across the bed and unlocked the cuffs. She removed them from the dead man’s limp wrists and tossed them onto the table. Dream climbed off the bed, slid her arms beneath the big body, and lifted him as easily as she’d lift a small child. There was a distant ache in her knuckles as she turned and carried him toward the bathroom. The slight pain was nothing. A normal person’s knuckles would be broken and useless.
Ellen raced ahead of her and threw the bathroom door open. Dream turned sideways and moved through the opening. Ellen followed her in and opened the shower’s sliding glass door. Dream dumped the body inside. It landed awkwardly on the gleaming white tile, one leg tucked beneath a fat buttock, the other splayed across the edge of the tub. The strip of duct tape had come off again and his plump lower lip looked like a rancid sausage. Dream closed the glass door and turned away from the ugliness.
Ellen continued to stare at the dead man. “Look at him. Pathetic. He deserved that.”
Dream shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t really give a shit.”
Ellen followed her back out to the main room, skipping across the beige carpet like a child on a playground. Dream shot her a look of mild rebuke, but the girl didn’t notice. She was bouncing off the walls. That damn cocaine. And now Marcy was chopping fresh lines on the back of the Gideon Bible. The sisters took turns kneeling over the table, inhaling white lines through a clipped fast-food straw. Ellen did the last line and tossed her head back, loosing a manic shriek of exultation.
Dream frowned. “Too loud.”
“You need to loosen up, Dream.” Marcy shook the last bit of white powder from the Baggie and went to work with the razor blade again. “Little Miss Gloomy all the time.” She grinned. “Haven’t you had enough of feeling on the verge of doom every waking moment? I know I have.”
“Yeah!” Ellen leaped into the air and clapped her hands. Then she dashed over to the nightstand next to the bed and started fiddling with the little alarm clock radio. “Let’s have a fucking party!”
The radio’s tinny speaker emitted a long buzz of static as the red dial indicator moved all the way to the left before at last hitting a surprisingly strong signal that turned out to be a college radio station. A student DJ spoke in a monotone before introducing a Violent Femmes song. Ellen shrieked again as the first herky-jerky notes of “Blister In The Sun” rattled the little speaker. Then she leapt up on the bed and began a manic dance that made her look like a person having an extraordinarily violent seizure. Marcy hopped up on the bed and mimic ked her sister’s spastic moves. The mattress springs squeaked in loud protest and the headboard slammed against the wall over and over.
Dream shook her head. “You guys weren’t even born when that song came out.”
The sisters didn’t hear her. They sang along loudly, the combined volume of their voices overwhelming the meager capability of the radio-clock speaker. Dream experienced a reflexive bit of annoyance, but it felt halfhearted. The beginnings of a smile tugged at the edges of her mouth. How strange. Circumstances dictated the exercising of caution at every turn. Otherwise they could wind up cornered by half the cops in Ohio, the last moments of their wild spree playing out on television screens across the country, providing vicarious entertainment for millions of disapproving good citizens in safe suburban homes.
But as Dream watched the sisters some of their enthusiasm began to infect her. “Blister In The Sun” ended and a more modern tune she didn’t recognize began. The girls evidently recognized it, as they let out identical shrieks and continued to torture the mattress springs.
She moved to the table and sat down. She pulled the Bible close and stared at the little mound of powder.
Alicia chuckled. “Go ahead. Have a toot.”
Dream picked up the clipped straw. “I’ve never done this before.”
Alicia braced her elbows on the edge of the table and leaned toward her. “Dream, you just killed a man. That’s five motherfuckers you’ve knocked off since we hit the road. Every John Law in the whole goddamned country is looking for your ass. Most people would be shitting themselves just about now, maybe be ready to swallow a bullet rather than face the music. But not you. Uh-uh.” She made a clucking sound and shook her head, grinning broadly. “Because you’ve got these super freaky powers. On some level you feel invincible. Am I right?”
A corner of Dream’s mouth turned up. “Could be.”
“Damn straight.” Alicia slapped the table and laughed. “Ain’t nobody takin’ you down and you know it. You’re the baddest bitch ever lived, bar none. And you’re telling me you’re afraid of a little powder.” She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms beneath her ample breasts, shaking her head. “Well, shit.”
Dream sighed. “Okay. Stop giving me static.”
She picked up the razor blade-another thing pilfered from the dead man’s belongings-and scraped the powder into a thin white line. Then she wedged the straw into her right nostril, pressed the other nostril shut with a finger, and bent toward the cocaine. She inhaled hard. The stuff hit her nasal passage and she almost sneezed. She didn’t care for the physical sensation at all. But she inhaled again and finished off the line.
She dropped the straw and rubbed at her nose. “Goddamn.”
Alicia cackled. “Kinda grabs you by the short and curlies, don’t it?”
Ellen shrieked and pointed at Dream. “Ohmigod! Ohmigod!” She grabbed a still-bouncing Marcy by the shoulder and made her look at Dream. “Dream’s gone crazy! She’s got white-line fever!”
The girl flopped onto her back, making the bed springs squeal again. Then she rolled onto her side and pressed her face into the pillow, kicking her feet and convulsing with hysterical laughter. Marcy hopped off the bed and made a beeline for Dream. There was a wild gleam in her eyes, a hint of something wicked. She slid onto Dream’s lap and pushed her tongue between her lips. Dream’s initial reaction was shock bordering on revulsion. This wasn’t her thing at all. But the cocaine was working on her now. She felt wild and up for anything. So she let Marcy kiss her, even started kissing her back.
Then she heard something.
A click.
She broke the liplock with Marcy and turned her gaze to the hotel room’s front door. The brass doorknob moved. The motion was slight, careful. She heard another click and knew someone was breaking in. She pushed Marcy off her lap and got to her feet as the door swung open and two men rushed into the room. One was a middle-aged man in a cheap suit. The other was a wiry, black-clad kid with scraggly hair that hung in his face. The older man had a.38 clutched in a beefy fist. The kid brandished a large and quite lethal-looking knife.
The older one kicked the door shut with the heel of his shoe and leered at them. He dropped a lockpicking tool into a suit poc ket. “Party’s over, bitches.”
Dream opened her mouth to tell the intruders they were messing with the wrong people. But the words never made it past the tip of her tongue. Things started happening. She saw it develop like a slow-motion scene from a cheesy ’70s cop movie. But the impression was a false one. It was happening fast. Too fast. She felt a hot surge of panic as Ellen rolled off the bed and made a grab for Marcy’s Glock, which was on the nightstand now. The wiry kid flipped the blade in his hand and snapped his arm back. His arm came forward as Ellen brought the gun around. A scream filled the room. Marcy. The knife was a blur as it spun through the air. The blade buried itself in Ellen’s side. Her finger jerked on the Glock’s trigger, squeezing off a reflexive shot that sent a bullet whizzing by Dream’s head. The bullet punched a hole through the television and Ellen dropped to the floor.
Marcy screamed again and rushed to her sister’s side. The man in the suit aimed his gun at her back. He was going to kill her. Dream understood this in a flash. Anyone close to the Glock was a threat. She saw his finger begin to exert pressure on the trigger. A thought formed in her head. Heat. The gun glowed red. The man’s flesh started to sizzle. He yelped and dropped the gun. It hit the floor and the carpet ignited. Dream looked at it and another thought filled her mind. Ice. The temperature in the room plummeted and the incipient fire fizzled. Dream felt a mixture of astonishment and exhilaration. She’d never so precisely controlled and directed the power inside her. She felt capable of anything. The feeling was at least partially attributable to the cocaine rush, but a larger factor was this sudden epiphany-the impression that she had at last become the thing she was meant to be from the beginning. Not a human being, but a thing. A supernatural monster of some sort, just as the Master had been. And Alicia’s words rang truer now-she did feel invincible.
The man in the suit edged close to the door and reached for the doorknob. Dream focused her will again and the doorknob turned hot in the man’s hand. He shrieked and let go. The scraggly-haired boy’s fingers were moving toward another concealed weapon, something tucked in the waistband of his pants. The grasping hand was missing two fingers. It was the same hand that had sent the knife on its lethal trajectory toward Ellen. A grin that hinted at madness spread across the boy’s face as his fingers slipped beneath the dangling tail of his shirt and emerged with another knife.
The switchblade snapped open.
Dream looked into his eyes and felt his pain. He’d suffered immensely in the past. But any good he might once have harbored had been eradicated through torture and brutalization. This impression formed in less than the space of a second. She knew, then, that the interlopers were no ordinary predators.
Another wail of anguish spiraled out of Marcy’s tortured lungs.
Dream rushed the boy and seized him by the wrist. She pried the knife from his fingers with ease. And she thought of Ellen as she slammed the blade into his abdomen. Poor Ellen. The girl she’d once victimized and whom she’d come to regard as a friend. She’d blossomed in the two months they’d spent on the road, becoming stronger and more confident. And now she was crumpled on the floor. Maybe already dead.
The boy’s only reaction to the pain was a wince. His grin remained in place as the fingers of his other hand came around to claw at her face, grasping for the soft tissue of her eyes. Dream swatted the hand away and slammed him against the dresser, rattling the mirror mounted on the wall behind it. She yanked the knife out of his stomach and punched it in again. And again. The mirror’s reflection showed her a black-haired, wild eyed woman in the grip of a murderous frenzy. A woman who had embraced madness and had no desire to turn back. Not anymore.
She threw the boy to the ground and straddled him. His eyes turned glassy. But still there was no fear reflected there. He grinned. A soft burble of laughter emerged between pale pink lips.
The man in the suit made another move toward the door, but Alicia intercepted him. The gun he’d discarded was in her hand now. She whipped it across the man’s face and blood leaped from his smashed nose. She dragged him further into the room and threw him down at the foot of the bed.
Dream shifted her attention back to the boy. His grin broadened and he even stuck his tongue out at her. Dream forced his mouth open and plunged the knife inside. The pain at last took its toll on the boy. He tried to jerk his head out of her grip, but he failed to budge her at all. Blood bubbled from his mouth, along with a mewling, inarticulate plea. Dream turned his head carefully to one side, allowing the blood to flow out rather than letting him choke on it. Then she pushed the blade into each of his eyes, penetrating just enough to blind him. More mewling. More inarticulate pleas. She worked on him with the knife for a long time, molten rage driving her to mutilate the body of her friend’s murderer in the most obscene ways possible.
And finally he was dead.
Dream stood up and looked at her reflection again. Her thrift-store clothes were covered with blood. Blood was everywhere. She turned away from her reflection and saw Marcy sitting on the floor against the side of the bed, her sister’s motionless body cradled in her arms. She looked up at Dream, her face shiny with tears.
Marcy’s anguish melted some of the hardness that had seized her soul.
“Is she-”
Marcy nodded and sniffed. “Yes.”
Dream felt her own anguish rising up, but she clamped it down. A member of her adopted family was dead and there would be real grief to deal with, but for the moment there were more pressing matters at hand. She yanked the man in the suit to his feet and leaned in close, their faces separated by no more than an inch.
“Who sent you?” Her voice was low, her tone even, but the ruthlessness beneath came through clear as a bell. “Was it Ms. Wickman? It was, wasn’t it? I saw it in that boy’s eyes before I blinded him.”
The man swallowed with difficulty. His bloodshot eyes danced in their sockets. His breath reeked of cheap beer and cheaper cigarettes. He licked blood from lis lower lip and swallowed again. He sensed her implacable determination and understood there was no room for anything but the truth.
“Not Ms. Wickman. She’s gone. Dead.” He licked his lips again and shivered. He was afraid of Dream, yes, but he also clearly feared whoever had sent him. “Another has taken her place. Mistress Giselle.”
Alicia was on her feet again. “The bitch is dead? For real?”
The man nodded. “Yes. And she’s worse than Ms. Wickman. The old broad sent her people after House of Blood survivors. I figured that’d be off with her dead, but no, the new Mistress wants you, too. I don’t know why and that’s the whole fucking truth.”
Dream smiled. “I believe you. What’s your name?”
The man coughed. “Harlan Dempsey. People call me Dempsey.”
Dream heard sirens rising in the night. A lot of them. Drawing closer by the moment. Then a sound of tires squealing in the parking lot. She let go of the man’s shirt and pushed him away. He stumbled over the edge of the bed and flopped down on the mattress. She heard voices in the parking lot. Shouts and commands. Flashing red and blue strobe lights were visible at the edges of the window blinds.
Alicia shot her a worried look. “Dream?”
“It’s okay, Alicia. I’ll deal with it. And after I’ve taken care of things, Harlan here will take us to whatever pit of hell this Giselle cunt is holed up in. Isn’t that right, Harlan?”
Harlan’s gaze flicked from the windows to Dream and back again. He swallowed hard and nodded. “Sure. Yeah. Whatever.”
Dream looked at Alicia. “The quest isn’t over. Ms. Wickman’s dead, but we still have a destiny to meet, okay?”
Alicia nodded slowly. “Yeah. I hear you, Dream. And I’m with you all the way.” She glanced at the front door. The level of frantic activity outside was increasing by the moment. “But are you sure you can get us out of this?”
Dream’s eyes glittered. “Yes.”
Marcy was on her feet now, the Glock in her hand again. “I’ll help you.”
Dream smiled at her. “Thank you. But that won’t be necessary. Just stand back and watch the show.”
She went to the front door and grasped the knob, which had cooled again. Then she steeled herself with a deep breath and opened the door.
More shouts.
A voice squawked through a megaphone, issuing commands she ignored. Dream stepped outside and moved fearlessly toward the array of raised handguns and rifles. She smiled and spread her hands wide. Someone yelled at her to get down on the ground. Then there was a pop from behind her. Marcy at the door, firing the Glock and ignoring her instructions to hang back. Driven by rage over her sister’s death to lash out at any enemy. Fire erupted from the barrels of the guns pointed at the motel room. Dream flexed her will and the bullets went astray.
Then the real fireworks began.
When it was over, the cops were all dead, their cars smoking ruins.
And Dream and her companions vanished into the night before reinforcements could arrive.
The cabin in which Camp Whiskey’s leaders conducted business was twice the size of the next largest cabin. Chad had jokingly referred to the large main room as an echo chamber. But now it felt too small, the air stale and the walls too close. The problem was all the extra people in the room-three Order of the Dragon representatives and several rifle-toting Camp Whiskey guards. The Order people sat at one end of the long wooden table that occupied the room’s center. Jim sat alone at the opposite end of the table, his arms crossed over the front of a thick wool sweater. He and the old man who was the obvious leader of the Order delegation glared at each other across the length of the table. The tension between them made Chad jittery.
So he abandoned his front-row seat at the staredown of the ages, rising from the table to wander over to the fireplace at the rear of the cabin. A fire crackled in the stone recess, a small pile of logs shifting as the flickering orange flames consumed them. Logs Chad might well have cut himself. He examined his palms as he held his hands out to receive the fire’s warmth. Calluses formed over the course of two and a half months of hard physical labor made them look like a stranger’s hands. How strange now to look at these work-roughened hands and feel so good about the deceptively simple things he’d accomplished in his time at Camp Whiskey. He’d built new cabins with the other men, becoming skilled in the basics of construction and rudimentary plumbing. At some point he’d begun to genuinely enjoy the hard physical work, taking more pride in the things he’d built with his hands than he ever had in his ability to skillfully push around numbers in a cushy white-collar environment.
Which partly explained why he felt an instinctive hatred and distrust of the Order people. What they were proposing would mean an end to the new lifestyle he’d come to love. It also reeked of a suicide mission, with the people of Camp Whiskey serving as a kind of cannon fodder. Chad wasn’t a coward. He had proven that during the House of Blood revolt. But the circumstances here were different. The people at Camp Whiskey didn’t live each day at the mercy of brutal overlords. No one’s life was being sacrificed in the name of obscure ancient deities. But now these mysterious emissaries from some arcane organization were working to convince them to give up the safety and comfort of the camp in favor of a headlong march into a lion’s den. Essentially asking them to give up their lives to help avenge the death of a woman they had all despised.
The fire crackled and the silence lengthened. Chad picked up the fire poker and prodded the dwindling logs. The flames grew higher as he imagined sinking the hooked end of the poker through one of the Order leader’s eyes.
The back of his neck tingled in a weird way and he turned away from the fire. The female Order representative was eyeing him closely. She was seated to the old man’s left. Her eyes narrowed, projecting an intensity that made Chad gulp. She had very fine Asian features, with high cheekbones and a small, sensual mouth. Her hair was thick and dark, glossy like that of a model in a perfume ad. Unable to bear the withering stare a moment longer, Chad forced his eyes in another direction. He had the disturbing sense that she could see his thoughts and it made him want to bolt from the cabin.
Jack Paradise stalked the room like a caged beast. The big ex-marine’s jaw was a tight line of tension. He circled the table with his hands clasped behind his back, as if he didn’t trust what he might do with them if he didn’t keep them there. Halfway through yet another circuit around the table, he came to an abrupt stop and his hands came away from the small of his back. He leveled an index finger at the old man.
“Fuck this and fuck the lot of you. Your bullshit plan is a nonstarter on every level.” He pounded a fist into an open palm. The palm an obvious substitute for the old man’s face. “Basically we’re the Northern Alliance and you’re the U.S. Army. But this ain’t Afghanistan, mother-fucker. It ain’t our grudge and it’s not gonna be our fucking war. No way I’m getting ninety-plus percent of my people killed so you fuckers can prance in afterwards and take this bitch out.”
Jack’s jawline quivered. The big man was fighting to maintain any semblance of control. Chad had never seen the man in the grip of such fury. Jack Paradise had always seemed the embodiment of a Marine Corps lifer-a resolute and extremely self-disciplined hard-case, a man who wouldn’t rattle easily, if ever. But he was rattled now and it was clear the Order people appreciated the full range of possibilities this implied. The woman pushed her chair backward several inches and placed a small hand on the hilt of her sword. The young man seated across from her did the same. The swords were in black scabbards, but Chad had a feeling they could be drawn and put to lethal use in the blink of an eye. The Camp Whiskey guards shifted their feet and repositioned their weapons, pointing in the general direction of the Order representatives.
Chad’s heart felt ready to leap into his throat. Blood was in the air. But his people were the ones with the guns. Firepower trumped old-fashioned steel. Or did it? The Order people were an unusual lot. An understatement. They seemed from another world altogether, some place wholly alien, and whatever purpose or cause they served was as inscrutable as the face of God. They were dangerous and not to be underestimated.
Chad took a deliberate step backward. He wanted to feel the fireplace poker’s solid heft in his hands again. It would be no match against Order steel, but it was better than nothing. The woman looked at him again and did something that made his balls shrivel. She smiled. Her eyes remained cold, but the smile seemed to promise she would be coming for him if the tension in the room did escalate to actual conflict.
Jim’s audible sigh defused some of the tension. He leaned forward and propped his elbows on the edge of the table. “There’s no need for this. Jack, have your men leave the room.”
Jack wheeled on him. “What? Have you gone insane? We can’t trust these people. No. My men are staying put.”
Jim stared into the old Asian man’s eyes for another moment. Then he smiled and rose from his seat. “Pardon me. I’ll be just a moment.” He moved away from the table and headed for the front door, throwing a glance in Jack’s direction on the way. “A word, please. Outside.”
Jack glared at Jim’s retreating back a moment longer.
Then he sighed and spoke to a black man positioned next to the door. “Keep things under control, goddammit. Anything hinky happens…you know what to do.”
The guard nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Then Jack was gone. The door flapped shut and Chad was alone with the guards and the Order people. He felt abandoned. The strange people in black sat silent and unmoving. To Chad they looked like incredibly precise and lifelike sculptures of human beings. The unsettling impression lasted until the woman again sensed his scrutiny and turned her head to observe him.
And she smiled in that utterly humorless way again. “You must convince your superiors of the wisdom of our plan.”
Chad blinked in surprise. It was the first time any of them had spoken to him. “Um…ok ay, one, they’re not my superiors. Two, I’m not personally convinced of the wisdom of your plan. In fact, I think it’s pretty half-assed and want nothing to do with it.”
The woman shrugged. “Your comments are fueled by emotion and not informed by rational thought. Our proposal is your only true path to salvation. In the end, you will set emotion aside and do as we say.”
Chad sneered. The woman’s smug words rankled. “In the end, we’ll do whatever the hell we want, and if that turns out to be a choice you deem ‘irrational,’ well whoopty-fucking-do, too bad.”
A corner of the woman’s mouth turned slightly upward, indicating only mild amusement at Chad’s speech. It was a little thing, but it was just enough to send Chad over the edge. Offense shifted to anger. His hands curled into fists. But he couldn’t lose his cool in front of them.
That would lend the “emotion” comment more credence than it deserved. So he turned away from them and stalked out of the cabin, banging the door open with the base of a clenched fist.
The sharp chill of the early December evening made him shiver. Jim and Jack stood near a picnic table some twenty yards away. They stood close to each other, their heads bent as they spoke in muted tones. Wisps of fog drifted from their mouths. Chad zipped up his jacket and set off in their direction. The other men glanced his way as he neared them.
Jim smiled. “Chad.”
“Fuck this, I’m done with them.” Chad was shaking and he realized as he spoke it wasn’t solely from the cold temperature. “I say we reject their suicide mission and send those assholes packing. We’ve got a good thing going here and there’s no reason to throw it all away. Okay, so our location isn’t a secret anymore. Our supposed enemy knows where we are. Great. Let them bring the fight to us if there’s to be one. We’ll kick their fucking asses.”
Jack nodded throughout Chad’s speech. He struck a wooden match with his teeth and applied the flame to a hand-rolled cigarette. “Exactly what I’ve been saying.” He blew a stream of smoke at the dark sky and looked Jim in the eye. “Let’s say everything they’ve said about Giselle is the truth. So what? If there’s to be a fight, it should be on our own ground and our own terms. If she’s stupid enough to send a force after us, they’ll be in a universe of fucking hurt.”
Jim pursed his lips and slowly stroked the beard he’d been growing for the last few weeks. “I see the sense in what each of you says. I’ll admit I found the notion of eradicating the remaining threat against us a tempting one. And I might have been swayed if not for the passion you’ve displayed. So we will reject their proposal.”
A grim smile etched a tight curve across Chad’s face. “Good.”
But Jim’s expression remained thoughtful. “But we can’t be complacent. If we’re to believe the Order, Giselle has a formidable paramilitary unit at her disposal as well. We’ll need to beef up our own forces and rethink our defensive strategies.”
Jack grinned. “I’ll take care of that.”
Jim managed a small smile of his own. “I’m sure you’re up to the task.” He sighed and rubbed his hands together. “Let’s get back inside and break the news.”
Jack pinched the end of his cigarette and snuffed the flame. He dropped it in a pocket and said, “Yeah, let’s do it. Can’t wait to see the looks on their fucking faces.”
Chad shook his head. “Go without me. I don’t want to see any of them ever fucking again. If you guys don’t mind, I’m gonna head home and let you take care of it.”
Jack shrugged. “Cool with me.”
Jim nodded. “And with me. Evening, Chad.”
“Night, guys.”
Chad turned away from them and started up the hill toward the cabin he shared with Allyson. But an impulse carried him past the cabin, sparing it only a quick glance as he hurried by. The lights were out, so Allyson was probably asleep anyway. He still felt agitated and was not yet ready to join her in bed. The steep ground began to level out and he soon arrived at the site that functioned as an informal communal gathering place for the denizens of Camp Whiskey. He sat on the ground near the large campfire pit and crossed his legs beneath him. There was no fire tonight, but the pit contained a few blackened logs left over from earlier in the evening. Chad pushed his hands into his ja cket pockets and hunched his shoulders forward. He peered beyond the pit at the rows of cabins down the hill. A few soft lights still glowed in some of the windows.
He’d initially found it strange that the founders of Camp Whiskey had decided to establish their compound in the mountain country of east Tennessee, so near the Master’s former territory. But the feeling had diminished with time. Really, it was kind of perfect. Once they had been prisoners here. And now they had returned to the country of their nightmares, transforming it into something fresh and life-affirming. The Order had no right to be here. They were intruders. Interlopers. Their presence tainted the good things everyone here had worked so hard to accomplish.
He sat there thinking about these things for an indeterminate period of time. Perhaps a half hour. Perhaps only as long as ten or fifteen minutes. But it had been a long day. At some point physical exhaustion caused his eyes to close and he began to drowse. Then the crunch of a twig caused his eyes to snap open. He sensed movement to his left and turned his head in that direction. Then a hand seized him from behind, gripping the collar of his jacket and yanking him roughly to his feet. He let out a startled yelp as the same hand spun him around. He tottered for a moment on the edge of the pit. Then the Order woman grabbed the front of his jacket and pulled him away from the hole.
Chad let out a gasp. “Jesus fucking Christ! Where did you come from?”
“I am schooled in methods of stealth.”
“No kidding.” Chad’s heart was pounding. “What are you doing here? You pissed that we rejected your stupid-ass proposal?”
“The plan will go forward. Your master, Mr. Jim, has been made to see the wisdom of our intentions.”
Chad frowned. He didn’t like the sound of that at all. He noticed the Order woman had one hand tuc ked behind her back and realized she was concealing something.
“What are you-”
Her right hand curled into a fist and delivered a brutal jab to a spot just beneath his sternum. Chad cried out and bent over at the waist. He tried to say something, but could only manage a wheeze. Then the woman showed him the thing she’d been hiding behind her back and bile flooded his throat. Her fingers clutched the severed head of Jack Paradise by strands of blood-slickened hair.
Anger overwhelmed his fear. Chad forced himself up right and threw a wild punch the Order woman easily avoided. She jabbed him in the stomach again, harder, blasting the breath from him and driving him to his knees. Then she kicked him in the gut and he flopped over onto his back. A white-hot center of pain expanded and rendered further resistance at least temporarily impossible. The Order woman tossed Jack’s head into the pit and again seized handfuls of Chad’s jacket. She began to pull him away from the campsite toward the nearby line of trees. A part of Chad’s psyche marveled over the small woman’s strength, impressed despite the peril he was in.
The evening darkness deepened as they entered the woods. The woman yanked him to his feet and stood him against the thick base of a tall tree. The narrow slits of her eyes seemed darker and harder now, like the eyes of a demoness. She removed the scabbard containing her sword and set it carefully on the ground. Then she moved in close and peppered Chad’s midsection with a series of high-power jabs. Yet each was delivered with just enough force to maintain a steady level of pain. Chad tried to collapse several times, but the woman wouldn’t allow it, forcing him to remain upright as she continued to punish him. And he knew that was precisely what was happening. She’d judged him guilty of insolence and was putting him in his place. At some point a part of his mind became disconnected from the pain and the beating. He thought of Jack Paradise, how brave the man had been, and he weeped.
Then the woman stopped punching him and said, “I have something else to tell you.”
Chad sniffled. “What?”
“Your woman is an agent of your enemy. She has betrayed you and laughs at you whenever your back is turned.”
Chad stood up straighter and tried to get his breathing under control. “I…k now. I figured…that out…a long time ago.” He swallowed hard. “But she’s with us now.”
The Order woman smirked. “You are an idiot.”
She slapped him.
Chad put a hand to his stinging cheek. “Fuck. Why don’t you just kill me and be done with it?”
Her smirk gave way to a small smile. “Because I have another use for you. The Order rules this place now. And I have decided to claim you as my property.”
Chad’s brow furrowed. “What?”
The Order woman slapped him again. “Be quiet and do as I say.”
“Fuck you.”
The woman’s nostrils flared. Here eyes widened with rage. She punched him in the abdomen again, a blow harder by far than any of the previous blows. Chad dropped to his knees and she kicked him in the stomach again. On his back, now, he stared up at her and watched in disbelief as she began to disrobe. In a moment she was standing naked over him, a small foot planted to either side of his head. Chad stared up at her slender, sleek body, which was rendered ghostly pale by the sliver of moonlight that peeked through the treetops.
She licked her lips. “It is time for you to begin your life of servitude.”
Chad had time to draw in a breath.
Then she lowered herself to him.
The girl bent over the edge of the bed was a white prostitute with lank blonde hair and track marks on her arms. She was a new arrival, fresh from the streets of Los Angeles, where she’d been swept up by Black Brigade scouts. In the ordinary course of things a creature already so damaged would have been banished to Razor City. But Gwendolyn’s suicide had changed things. Upon learning of the loss of her plaything, Ursula had become despondent and withdrawn. Giselle attempted to appease her by allowing her to decide the fate of the new meat, a privilege she relished. Some Ursula deemed as clearly unworthy of her attention and these were sent to Razor City. Others she killed on the spot, with no apparent rhyme or reason. And every week she selected an unlucky few upon which she vented the rage and frustration consuming her.
The prostitute’s mouth had been stitched shut with a needle and thread. Her wrists were bound by a length of rusty barbed wire. Ursula stood behind her, nude except for black platform heels and a strap-on dildo. A cigarette in a plastic holder dangled from a corner of her mouth as she pounded the dildo into the prostitute’s bleeding anus.
Giselle lay on her side on the other side of the bed, her head propped in an upraised hand. The prostitute stared a desperate plea at her with wide, misty eyes. Giselle felt a mild arousal at the obscene thing her lover was doing to the pitiful creature. But it was a reflex. There was no real fire behind it. She still loved Ursula, but the bond between them had weakened, a steady, drip-drip erosion she feared would continue until there was nothing left. She watched the bounce of Ursula’s breasts and the sway of her long blonde hair as she ass-fucked the prostitute and tried to feel more than mild arousal.
And the result was the same.
Nothing.
So she was glad for the diversion when she heard the clack of jackboot heels.
She rose from the bed to greet Schreck.
The commander’s sleek black uniform was crisp and immaculate, his boots polished and gleaming. His eyes were a cold blue-gray and his hair was cut close to the scalp. His lips were thin and his features had a cruel cast, fitting for one in his position. He doffed his hat and clacked his heels. Giselle was amused. The man was an admirer of the arch militarism of Third Reich fascists, and there were times when he seemed like a particularly demented little boy playing the role of concentration camp commandant.
He bowed stiffly and said, “Mistress, there is a matter requiring your immediate attention.”
Giselle smiled and moved to her wardrobe. She selected a green silk robe and pulled it on. It was short, the hem reaching the mid-thigh level. She cinched it shut with the sash and turned back to the commander, the smile still on her face.
She smoothed the fabric down over her thighs and said, “How does this look?”
A corner of the man’s mouth quirked as he struggled to contain frustration. “Madam, this is a matter of the highest importance. I hardly think ”
Giselle’s smile faded. “I asked you a question. Answer it.”
Schreck was a coolly efficient man who didn’t stay flustered long. It was what made him so perfectly suited for his role in the scheme of things. “It looks lovely on you, Mistress.”
“Of course it does. Now tell me about this supposedly dire development.”
She moved to the vanity next to the wardrobe and sat in the chair there, pulling at the hem of her robe as she crossed her legs. Schreck turned to face her directly and drew in a breath. A slight frown creased Giselle’s forehead. Something had rattled the man. A faint alarm sounded at the back of her mind. She’d never known Schreck to be nervous, not even in the immediate aftermath of Ms. Wickman’s assassination.
Her interest piqued, she sat up straighter and leaned forward. “Come on, man. Out with it. What has the likes of you in such a tizzy?”
Schreck heaved a sigh. “Madam…we have new arrivals. Three women. One of them is Dream Weaver, who was-”
“I know who she is.” Giselle frowned and glanced toward the bed. Ursula was still pounding away at the prostitute. The backs of her long, shapely legs flexed with each thrust. The mild arousal she’d felt earlier gained a bit more heat. She had to force her gaze back to Schreck’s subtly troubled expression. “She’s a prize catch. You should be giddy. So why the concern?”
Schreck tugged at the stiff collar of his uniform shirt with an index finger. Giselle’s frown deepened. The man was more than a little nervous. There was even a very thin sheen of sweat along his forehead. “We did not bring Ms. Weaver in. She and her companions are here of their own accord.”
“But that’s absurd. Why would they come here of their own free will?”
Schreck’s shoulders lifted in a small shrug.“I know little of their intentions. Ms. Weaver has actually caused quite a stir in the larger world of late. She and her friends have been on a crime spree of epic proportions, with a trail of victims and robberies across several northeastern and midwestern states.”
Giselle settled back in the chair and crossed her fingers at her waist. “How odd. It’s not a fate I would have imagined for that woman.” Her eyes narrowed. “And it still doesn’t explain why they’re here.”
“Indeed.” Schreck glanced briefly in the direction of the large double doors that stood open at the far end of the big room. He seemed anxious and his voice dropped to a whisper as he said, “But if I may venture a guess?”
Giselle frowned. “Please do.”
Schreck moved closer to Giselle, kneeling slightly at the waist as he again spoke in a whisper: “I believe they’ve come here seeking refuge. They’re weary of dodging the law and need a place to hunker down, perhaps indefinitely.” A malignant smile darkened the corners of his thin lips. “Desperation brought them to our door, Mistress. They are broken. Beaten. They are at our mercy.”
“My mercy, you mean.”
Schreck blinked. “Of course.”
Giselle frowned again. “If they are, as you say, ‘beaten,’ then why are you so afraid?”
Schreck straightened at once, indignation flaring in his eyes. “I am not afraid.”
Giselle uncrossed her legs and rose from the chair. She approached Schreck, enjoying the way his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly as she neared him. “You are so very afraid,” she said, still smiling as she put a hand on his shoulder. Her nose twitched. “I smell the stink of it on you.”
Schreck swallowed. “Madam, I-”
“Shush.” Giselle squeezed his shoulder, her fingers digging into muscle, finding a tender spot. She held his gaze a moment and allowed him to feel how easily she could tear him apart. “Your fear is a good thing, Schreck. You’ve always been so unflappable, even in the moments after I slaughtered your original Mistress. So this tells me something. Our guests are not to be underestimated. You believe they present a genuine threat.”
Schreck drew in a sharp breath as Giselle relaxed the pressure on his shoulder. He wiped moisture from his forehead with a uniform sleeve. “Madam…it’s true. My time in their presence left me feeling…unnerved. It was a subtle thing, a sense of something being…not right.”
Giselle nodded. “Take me to them. Now.”
“Are you sure, Mistress? Perhaps you should grant us time to arrange a more secure-”
Impatience flared in Giselle’s eyes. “Now.”
Shreck returned his hat to his head and snapped his heels together. “As you wish.”
Giselle considered taking a moment to change out of the flimsy robe into something more formal, but she was too anxious to see her guests to waste time selecting something appropriate. She glanced toward the bed, where Ursula was still positioned behind the whimpering prostitute. The girl evinced no sign of having heard her conversation with Schreck. She was too lost in her own world. A part of her wanted to order Ursula to finish with the prostitute and accompany her downstairs, but the prospect of yet another spat with the girl made her weary.
So she looked at Schreck and said, “Lead the way.”
The commander spun on his heels and strode away at a brisk rate, which Giselle hurried to match. They passed through the open double doors and moved rapidly down the long, candlelit corridor. Muffled but nonetheless distinct sounds emerged from behind the closed doors that lined either side of the hallway. Moans of ecstasy and the strangled sobs and whimpers of those in agony, laced with incongruous bursts of mad laughter. Similar sounds drifted from the hallways of each floor as they descended the spiral staircase to ground level. Schreck’s boot heels struck a loud, discordant accompaniment on the marble stairs. Giselle was struck by the impression that this was how the echoing chambers of hell must sound. She was not displeased by the notion.
They reached the bottom and passed through the foyer into a large living room filled with lots of expensive oak furniture. Giselle followed Schreck through the living room as he continued toward an archway that led to the main dining hall. As they neared the dining hall, Giselle began to hear voices. Female voices. The timbre of one was instantly familiar. Dream Weaver. Though she’d never met the woman in person, she’d heard her voice on television numerous times. A little shiver rippled down the length of her spine. The instinctive fear made her angry. This was her domain. Her castle. She had all the power here. And yet the feeling persisted.
She detected no fear in the woman’s voice. Not the slightest iota. Which was just insane. Regardless of whatever mischief she’d gotten up to in the normal world, she was now on dangerous and very hostile territory. Her every word should pulse with anxiety.
But it just wasn’t there.
Giselle tensed as they passed through the archway into the dining hall. More than a dozen heavily armed Black Brigade soldiers lined each side of the room. These were hard, brutal men. Sadists guilty of countless atrocities. The collective scent of fear was almost overpowering. Some of the men fidgeted. Others were sweating and trying not to shake in their boots. Giselle was overcome with disgust and disdain. This was her elite force. Her professional killers. The ones she entrusted with the security of her realm. But right now they looked about as fearsome as a troop of Cub Scouts wielding Wiffle Ball bats. She decided then that none of these men would survive to see another sunrise.
Schreck included.
But these pitiless thoughts were forgotten as she looked at the four women seated in relaxed poses at the far end of the table. There were two women who looked to be in their midthirties. One black and one white. The other two were younger, in their very early twenties at the most. The younger women possessed a certain similarity of features. One, slightly older and sporting choppy, jet-black hair was markedly prettier than the other. Yet they had the same thin lips, wide eyes, and slightly upturned nose. They were sisters or close cousins. There was something not quite right about the younger one. Her mouth was hanging open. Droplets of drool depended from the corners of her lips and her dark eyes possessed a flat, dead look.
A half-empty bottle sat on the table between the women-and three glasses filled with varying levels of dark liquid. The thirtysomething white woman also had choppy, jet-black hair. It looked better on her than it did on the younger girl. She was extraordinarily attractive, the kind of woman who could adopt any look and instantly make it her own. She wore a pink baby-doll T-shirt, which was emblazoned with the word SLUT in large glittering letters. On any other woman her age the shirt would look ridiculous, but…
Then it clicked.
Giselle forced a smile. “Hello, Dream.”
Dream’s smile was surprisingly feral, nothing at all like what Giselle remembered from television coverage after the fall of the House of Blood. “Hello, cunt.”
Giselle blinked rapidly for several moments. “How dare you-”
“Oh, shut up.” Dream eyed her up and down, a mocking glint in her eyes. “I’d tell you not to get your panties in a knot, but you’re not wearing any, are you?”
The younger black-haired girl cackled. “Yeah, that’s some robe, baby. Shit, it’s like she’s the female Hugh Hefner and this is the house of horrors version of the Playboy Mansion.”
The comment enraged Giselle even as it evoked a round of laughter from the girl’s companions. Even the drooling, slack-jawed girl made a chuffing sound that might have been mirth. She continued making the sound for several moments after the laughter of her friends faded. Giselle put her rage on hold as she stared in helpless fascination at the pathetic creature. She looked outwardly normal, but it was apparent her mind was functioning only at the most basic level.
Giselle scowled. “What’s wrong with that one? The ugly, drooling idiot, I mean.” She lifted an arm to point at the girl with the slack jaw and glassy eyes, who turned her head slowly to stare blankly in Giselle’s direction. “That one, I mean.”
Dream’s smile remained in place, but her eyes turned cold. “Oh, that’s Ellen. She’s a work in progress.”
Giselle frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Dream drained her wine glass and filled it again. “Oh, nothing much. She died recently. Was murdered, actually. By one of your men, the late Harlan Dempsey.”
Giselle shrugged. “I don’t know the name. Many of our field operatives are still working under orders issued by the woman I…replaced.”
“Yeah, okay, whatever. Doesn’t matter. He’s fucking dead now.”
The younger dark-haired girl grinned and the fingers of her right hand assumed the shape of a gun. “Pow. Right between the eyes.”
Dream chuckled. “That was right at your doorstep, as soon as we were sure ol’ Harlan had guided us to the right place. Anyway, I brought our dead sister back to life. Actually, I created a whole new Ellen. We had to leave the original body behind. Physically, she’s perfect. The trick is getting her mind to work again. It’s slow work, but I’m getting there. Marcy is the key.” She nodded at the other young girl, who was still aiming the finger-gun in Giselle’s direction. “She’s bound to Ellen by blood and carries a touch of her sister’s essence with her. I’m drawing on that to restore her personality and memories.”
Giselle nodded. “Uh-huh. Right.”
She knew what was happening now. It was a little unnerving, but the mere knowing made her feel somewhat better. She had lived amongst sadists and practitioners of dark magic for so long it had taken her a while to recognize simple madness when she saw it. It was a fine distinction, the line between deliberate indulgence of dark desires and the helplessness of lunacy. Dream and her friends were dangerous, yes, but only in the manner of any other roaming pack of maniacs. And she just didn’t have the time or patience to deal with babbling lunatics.
So she marched further into the room and yanked a submachine gun from the shaking hands of a startled Black Brigade soldier. She broke the trembling man’s neck with a hard chop of her left hand and he fell dead to the floor. Then she got a proper grip on the gun, slipped a finger through the trigger guard, and aimed the weapon at the crazy women sitting at her table.
“I’ve enjoyed our visit, but I’m very busy, so I’ll be killing you now.”
Her finger squeezed the trigger. Fire erupted from the muzzle. The weapon chugged and spit shell casings as the barrel tilted toward the ceiling. Bullets slashed through a chandelier and a rain of glittering white shards spattered the table like crystalline rain. Giselle eased her finger off the trigger and stared at the weapon with an expression that made her look like a befuddled child. Her first instinct was to blame the weapon itself. Recoil. The gun had a strong kick and she was not used to handling firearms.
But then she saw Dream’s devilish grin.
Her eyes went wide and her breath caught in her throat. She felt a moment of fear. Then she shoved the fear down and a snarl transformed her face, animal fury twisting her natural prettiness and turning it into something almost ugly. She brought the weapon to bear again, aiming it straight at Dream’s face. She squeezed the trigger again and waited for the thing she ached to see more than anything else, Dream’s pretty face blowing apart beneath the onslaught of a hail of high-velocity steel.
The barrel tipped toward the ceiling again and the bullets etched a jittery pattern of holes in the wood. She kept her finger down on the trigger this time and struggled to bring the barrel down, the muscles in her arms and neck bulging with the strain. But her arms seemed frozen, as if held in place by the hands of some invisible puppet master. The gun’s magazine clicked empty and only then did Giselle become aware of the mad, continuous roar emerging from her open mouth. The force holding her hands in place retreated, and she threw the useless weapon across the room with a cry of helpless rage. The gun’s stock struck a long, wall-mounted mirror and shattered it.
Dream’s black friend-who seemed vaguely familiar-laughed. “Look at that. Seven years bad luck. You done fucked up, bitch.”
The one called Marcy laughed.
The drooling lobotomy case made that unsettling chuffing sound again.
And Dream just kept on smiling, utterly unfazed by all the gunfire and drama.
Giselle’s teeth were clenched and her hands were curled into tight fists at her side. From the corners of her eyes, she could see the faces of the soldiers. Here and there she was able to discern tell-tale hints of smugness. Of a grim satisfaction. There, they were thinking. Now the bitch knows why the hard men are afraid.
And they were right, damn them to hell.
She exerted a considerable effort of will and slowly composed herself. In a few moments she was able to regulate her breathing. The flush faded from her face. Her fists uncurled and her jaw relaxed.
She forced a smile. “Okay, Dream. I know that was your doing. I can feel it.” She moved a few slow, deliberate steps toward the seated women. “Why don’t you tell me how you did it?”
Dream chuckled. “Oh, you know. If you think about it hard enough, that is.”
Giselle moved another step closer. And another. Slow. Casual. As sublimely cool and confident as a stoned surfer riding the crest of an early morning wave. Her eyes were locked on Dream’s. The rest of the world faded. There was only the two of them now. There was a sweet tension in the air that was almost sexual. She was putting herself out in the open, making herself as vulnerable as she’d ever been, clearing the channels to allow only pure truth to flow between them. In those moments she learned all she needed to know about Dream, and Dream saw the extent of Giselle’s own formidable powers.
Yet another step closer.
“The Master. Of course.” Giselle’s smile was almost radiant now. He showed you some things, awakened a dormant power within you. A power that grew beyond your ability to control and direct.” She laughed. “You’re not really human. Not purely. Somewhere in the distant past one of his kind mated with one of your ancestors. This is why you have become so strong without schooling yourself in the dark arts.”
Dream’s smile became a smirk. “Interesting theory. Might even be the fuckin’ truth. Thing is, I don’t really give a fuck. Not anymore.”
Giselle was within six feet of them now. Close to striking distance. Certain muscles began to subtly coil. “Is that so?” She arched an eyebrow, a faintly mocking expression. “Or are you just too much of a drunken mess to wrap your stupid head around any idea more complex than a knock-knock joke?”
Dream’s face turned hard. “Stop right there.”
And Giselle felt that force rise up against her again. It was impressive, the sheer ease with which Dream wielded her ability. But Giselle had been expecting it this time. And she was not without ability of her own. She threw up a psychic shield that repelled Dream’s energy pulse and knocked the woman back in her own chair. Dream gaped at her. Shock radiated from her every pore.
NOW.
Giselle loosed a shriek of fury and dove across the surface of the table, her right hand extended, long, sharp nails seeking Dream’s sky-blue eyes. Dream’s friends tried to intercept her, but another blast of energy sent them tumbling to the floor. Giselle slid across the table at high speed, her body knocking aside the wine bottle and glasses. Then she was on Dream, her left hand closing on the woman’s slender throat as the fingers of her other hand shot toward those gaping, stupid eyes. And for a flashing instant, Giselle felt her own smug satisfaction, thinking, stupid cow.
Then Dream’s hand snapped up and seized Giselle’s outstretched wrist. Giselle’s momentum alone should have been enough to finish the job anyway, and the power flowing through her should have sealed the deal.
But Dream’s strength blunted her momentum. The woman’s hand moved backward perhaps half a centimeter. Then stopped. Giselle’s wrist was frozen in place, but the rest of her body kept moving. Dream leaped to her feet and moved with the direction of that energy. She shifted her grip on Giselle’s wrist and exerted some force of her own. Then Giselle was airborne and flying toward the wall with no way to stop the impending crash. The top of her head smacked the wall, and an instant later she hit the floor with a hard, undignified thud. The pain was immense. Before she could even begin to consider her next move, she was yanked to her feet and slammed against the wall.
Dream put a hand around her throat and slammed her against the wall again. “How’s that feel, bitch! How’s that fucking feel!” Dream’s eyes were wide and bulging, pulsing with insanity and unmitigated fury. “Does it fucking hurt! Does it fucking hurt!”
Giselle’s vision blurred and she realized with shame that she had tears in her eyes. She didn’t bother to answer the crazy woman’s question. Of course it hurt. But the pain wasn’t the worst of it. The thing that really got to her was how powerless she was to stop this abuse. And she almost felt like laughing, despite everything, because now she had the gift of clarity and could see how arrogant she had been. Had she really felt like a god? As if nothing or no one could ever hurt her again?
She bit her lip. Hard. Tasted her own blood.
And called out to the void.
Azaroth! Help me!
No answer from the void.
Just the sound of her head banging repeatedly off the wall as the world turned fuzzy. She wondered if she was about to die and felt a moment’s perplexion at how little she cared. As she neared unconsciousness, she thought of the essential ways in which the blood sacrifice of Eddie King had changed her. Maybe she’d really died back then, the real Giselle, and the thing she was now was just some magical construct, a joke played on her by a malicious god. Azaroth. The silent one. Her former coconspirator against the Master. Her restored hands. A body, whole again.
Construct.
Giselle’s laughter approached madness. Now who was the crazy one? Dream continued to scream at her, the words losing any meaning now.
Then, just as she thought death might take her, she glanced over her shoulder and saw a new shape enter the room. She blinked hard. Dream wasn’t banging her against the wall anymore. Just screaming. Raging. Her hand squeezing. The shape came into focus as it moved closer.
Giselle’s heart lurched.
Ursula.
Still nude. So beautiful. So tall in those ridiculous platform heels. The jut of her mouth so insolent. In that moment Giselle felt a rush of love and desire. It was all still there, the purity of all she’d felt for the girl over these months. It hadn’t really faded at all. And seeing the fright and concern in her lover’s eyes only intensified the feeling.
Ursula locked eyes with her and Giselle saw the same depth of emotion within her.
It was a beautiful, aching, glorious moment.
And it passed in a nanosecond.
Ursula screamed and came running toward her, ridiculous big heels clomping on the marble floor.
And the young girl with the black-as-night hair-Marcy-rose up and strode purposefully forward, a real gun, a gleaming, nickel-plated 9mm pistol, in her hands now. She aimed the barrel point blank at Ursula’s face and fired once. The bullet hit her between the eyes. An explosion of red bloomed behind her head even as her body flew backward. Giselle squealed anguish and tried to flex her power one last time, reached down deep inside herself and tried to kickstart the core of that power. But it was unreachable. Something was in the way. Still she kept reaching, kept straining…
Dream grinned and said, “No.”
Giselle’s vision blurred again. “Kill me. Please. Finish it…”
Dream laughed. “No.” She increased the pressure around Giselle’s neck, reducing her air passage to perhaps the width of a straw. “You’re not getting off that easy.”
Of course not.
Giselle’s fading gaze went to the trembling soldiers. No smugness on their faces now. Just terror. Disbelief.
Helplessness. Trembling hands unable to wield their weapons. Giselle wasn’t sure they’d choose to use them if they could.
And there, just inside the archway, good old Schreck. As afraid as the rest of them, but with a hint of a smirk playing at the edges of his mouth. She had another insight then. Another bit of truth she’d been too stupid and arrogant to discern. He was the traitor. The Order of the Dragon plant alluded to by Gwendolyn in her last moments. And he must have seen the recognition in her fading vision, because now he was baring his teeth. Cackling, the jackal exposed at last.
Giselle sucked more blood from her torn lip into her mouth.
Called out one last time.
Azaroth…why have you forsaken me?
And this time she received a response.
Disembodied, mocking laughter that boomed in her head like thunder.
Thunder that rolled on and on as the world faded away at last.