by Ciana Stone
Silently he followed Mr. Black around the house and into the pasture. They hadn’t walked far before Mr. Black stopped and pointed to a pile of loose hay beneath a tin roof that jutted out from the side of an old barn.
“See! It was right there!”
Michael walked over and examined the ground. Among the numerous hoof prints and indentions from Mr. Black’s old boots, one other distinct print stood out. Reaching in his jacket Michael pulled out a small camera and snapped a couple of pictures.
“There’s plenty more of them down by the fence. Them gawl-danged hoodlums! They coulda took any other ‘cept my white one.”
“What was so special about the white one?” Michael could see that the old man was really upset.
“You’d think people would leave folks alone. Give’em some kinda respect. A man works hard all his life and what does he get? I was going to win me a blue ribbon. Never done that, you know. All them years I always wanted to.”
Michael figured the old man was talking about the county fair. It made him feel sorry for the old fellow. He thought about how the old man must feel as he followed him across the pasture. When they reached the fence, he took a few more pictures of the cut wire and then spotted something unexpected.
On the opposite side of the fence, a patch of ground had been scraped clean of all growth. A circle of white powder had been drawn on the ground. Inside the center, a pentagram had been fashioned from neatly stripped and carved sticks of wood and in the center of the pentagram was the severed head of a goat. Its eyes bulged and its tongue protruded from its mouth. The wide-eyed terror frozen in the eyes made Michael pause and stare as a cold chill raced down his spine.
“Oh! Them dang thangs.” Mr. Black waved his hand at the sight. “They been showing up all over the gawl-dang place. I found more of em back over in the woods where you used to play.”
Michael turned and looked at the man, surprised that he had remembered him and shocked over what he had found. “You want to show me the others?”
Mr. Black grumbled but stepped through the cut fence. “Always knowed you’d show up here again someday. Felt it in my bones. Well, come on, boy! Day’s a fadin’ and I ain’t got no hankering to be out here after dark with them crazy hooligans a wandering around.”
Michael could understand his feelings and walked a little faster.
St. Simons Island
“Why are we coming here?” Lyra asked as Nick pulled into the parking lot of one of the more fashionable shopping areas. “Everything’s closed.”
“I work here,” he said as he got out and opened her door.
“You do?” She followed him to the door of a photography studio. “Doing what?”
“Taking pictures, making prints, the usual.” He unlocked the door and turned on a lamp on the reception desk. “Come on.”
He led her into the back room. One side of the room was designated for the cameras, where the photographs were actually taken. On the other side was a long, lighted mirror mounted above a counter lined with cosmetics and hair products. On both sides of the counter were racks of clothes, ranging from bathing suits and shorts to evening wear, for both men and women.
“Why’re we here?”
“I want to show you something.” He took her hand and started to pull her toward the makeup area. She stopped dead in her tracks.
“Come on. It’ll be fun.”
She gave him a suspicious look then let him pull her along. He stopped at one of the clothes rack and plucked a floppy hat from on top. Turning, he put it on her head then pulled the brim down over her face and tilted her chin up. “Nope, definitely not you.”
Lyra laughed and took the hat off, handing it back to him. He pulled a soft aqua-colored dress from the rack and held it up in front of her. “Yeah, this is great. There’s a dressing room right over there. Go put this on.”
Lyra made no move to take the dress. “Come on, trust me,” he said with a smile. “Just think of it as playing dress-up.”
“I don’t know. I don’t think I…”
“Please?”
She sighed and took the dress. Going into the dressing room, she pulled off her T-shirt and jeans and slipped the dress over her head. It had a scooped neckline that was loose, hanging off the tops of her shoulders. A wide belt cinched her narrow waist. She kicked off her sandals and turned to look at her reflection.
“Hey! You dressed?” Nick called out.
Lyra frowned at what she saw in the mirror. He called to her again and with a grimace, she opened the door.
Nick’s eyes widened as he saw her. Without the baggy clothes he could see that she had a great figure. Her waist was very tiny, but her breasts were firm and full and her legs were spectacular.
He smiled as she walked over to him. “My lady.” He swept his hand in the direction of the makeup chair.
“What are you going to do?” She took a seat, looking at him in the mirror.
“Magic,” he whispered in her ear then turned her to face him.
She drew back as he picked up an eye-shadow brush. “Just close your eyes. I won’t hurt you.”
“Hold on. You’re going to put make-up on me?”
“Yeah, why?”
Lyra shrugged. “Just kind of an odd talent for someone who spent most of his adult life in the military.”
“Well, you know the campaign slogan. Be all you can be.”
“Including a make-up artist?”
“You going to make fun or me or have fun with me?
“Fine.” She sighed and did as he said. He ran the makeup brush lightly over her eyelids and after a moment had her open her eyes. Next, he applied a tiny bit of mascara to her long lashes, dabbed a smoky color of shadow along the outside corners of her eyelids then put a pale gloss on her lips.
“Now, don’t look,” he said as he loosened the elastic band from her hair. It fell free in a shining wave. Brushing it out, he let it fall loose around her face then stepped back to inspect his handiwork. With her hair loose and a hint of color around her eyes, she looked like something out of a beauty magazine.
“Okay, Lyra Seville. Look.”
Lyra looked in the mirror as he turned her around. Her eyes widened, resting on her reflection for a moment before looking at him in the mirror.
“Look at yourself. Do you see a plain, ugly woman in that mirror? No, what you see is you—the woman you’re afraid to let anyone else see. But you don’t see anything ugly. You see a startlingly beautiful woman with a terrific body.”
“That can’t be me! What did you do?”
Nick turned her around to face him. “I didn’t do anything. I just took down the wall you’ve been hiding behind.”
She looked down and he gently tilted her face up and smiled at her. “I saw who you were behind that wall the other night when I was on stage. I looked into those remarkable eyes and saw how beautiful you were, even though you tried so hard to hide it. There’s no reason for you to hide, you know. You don’t have to worry about not measuring up to your mother. She could never hope to be as beautiful as you. Just look at yourself. Women would kill to have your beauty, to be able to look the way you do without spending hours in front of their mirrors. And men would stop in their tracks, happy to just get a smile from you.”
She swallowed nervously and clenched her hands together tightly in her lap. “I…I’ve never felt…I mean, I…”
Nick leaned down and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “I know, but it’s time you did. Will you at least try?”
A long moment passed then she looked up into his eyes and nodded. She felt as if she were Cinderella, one moment the plain maid and the next a princess. And at that moment, Nick seemed every inch the handsome prince.
He smiled at her again and leaned down close to her face. She could feel his breath mingling with hers and her heart raced. His lips touched hers lightly for a moment then withdrew.
“Now, how about we have some fun?” He twirled her chair around.
“Doing what?”
“Playing dress-up. What should we be first?”
Lyra laughed and let him pull her up. “This is your idea. You choose.”
He grinned and pulled out a cowboy’s outfit and saloon girl’s dress. “Meet you at the saloon, ma’am. Gotta get my duds changed and set up the cameras.”
Lyra chuckled and took the dress.
Chapter Three
Bloody Marsh - St. Simons Island
In the year 1742, General James E. Oglethorpe commanded a small English force in what was to be one of the most decisive battles fought on the small island of St. Simons. He met the Spanish in battle and emerged from the bloodshed victorious. Today a monument is all that stands testimony to that victory. As with all places that have seen blood spilled, a certain aura remains. In the still of night, mixed in with the sounds of the wind blowing across the marsh and frogs singing a serenade, one can almost hear the ghostly voices of those brave men as they fought and died, their blood becoming part of the marsh.
It is to the places of bloodshed and death that certain people are drawn. Those seeking to capture the unearthly energy. To add new blood to the earth. To the area that became known as Bloody Marsh over two hundred and fifty years ago, another group came. A group dedicated to the slaughter of the innocent, one consecrated in blood.
In silence they came, alone or in pairs, until at last they waited in the night for the moment they had long been promised. None gathered had ever looked upon the countenance of the god they worshiped. None could imagine how he would appear in human form. There were none old enough to remember the first time he had come to the island. All that remained of that time were legends.
This night there was no fire in the center of the circle. In its place was a crude altar. It was fashioned from a length of old oak. The trunk had been skinned free of bark and limbs, sawed down its length in an odd manner. The ends were lower than the middle, giving it a rounded top. The cut surface had been sanded and polished to a smooth, bright shine. It rested three feet off the ground on two pedestals; stout, round posts crossed in the shaped of an ‘X’ on each end. The rounded bottom of the altar rested neatly in the tops of the crossed posts.
As was demanded, a circle had been inscribed in the ground with the appropriate arcane symbols drawn along its inner perimeter. A pentagram with more obscure markings had been drawn around the altar. At each point of the pentagram, a torch had been planted into the earth. Made of heavy black iron, they rose seven feet into the air, their flames flickering in the slight breeze.
The assembly waited in expectant silence, having been instructed that no one was to speak until commanded to do so. They stood like evil specters in their long white robes, the drawn hoods shrouding their features.
As the moon reached its apex in the night sky, the Seneschal appeared out of the darkness. Walking to stand in front of the altar, he raised his arms up and addressed the assembly.
“Long have we awaited this night. The night when our Lord and Master would return to bless us with his presence. This night we gather to pay homage to Him whom we serve. This night we will stand witness to His power. Let all here give thanks.”
Murmurs rose from around the circle. The Seneschal broke through their ranks and disappeared into the darkness. The chants from the assembly grew in volume, carrying on the night air like a hum, spreading out in a wave to silence the night creatures.
Appearing once more at the edge of the circle, the Seneschal held a limp woman in his arms. About twenty years of age, she had long brown hair and was quite pretty. She was naked except for black ropes that encircled her wrists and ankles. On her forehead, a symbol had been carved. Dried blood crusted the cuts.
The Seneschal placed the girl facedown on the altar. Her head rolled limply but her eyes were alert and terrified. He smiled down at her. Stalking and capturing her had been a challenge and a thrill. He tied her arms together beneath the altar, making her breasts press painfully into the wood as he pulled the binding tight. Then he moved to the other end and spread her legs, tying her knees and ankles together beneath the wooden altar, so that she straddled it, the rounded top of the altar raising her hips.
Her eyes rolled wildly, silently beseeching him to release her. He smiled and stepped back to address the assembly. “It is time. Bow before your Master.”
He knelt on one knee, lowering his head as did all those present. For a few moments, there was total silence. Even the wind died down, leaving a total absence of sound. When a voice cut through the stillness, it made chills run down more than one back and hair stand on end.
Nick stopped before the altar. Dressed in a loose black robe with gold stitching, his eyes gleamed in the light of the torches.
“Arise my faithful servants.”
As one the followers stood, their eyes taking in his appearance. He allowed them to look at him for a moment then raised his hands. Blue fire shot from his fingertips, disappearing into the darkness.
Without a word, he turned and looked down at the girl tied to the altar. Her throat convulsed as she tried desperately to scream, but the drugs she had been given had rendered her muscles useless. She could not even turn her head. All she could do was stare into the eyes of the people who watched, and pray that somehow she would be saved from whatever they had planned.
Nick smiled and ran his hand down her body. She would do. The ritual was not for his benefit, but for his followers. They were as so many before them, needing the ceremony and trappings in order to sustain their zeal. All the arcane symbology and sacrificial rituals were merely window dressings for their benefit, like so many others of man’s belief systems. It meant nothing to him. He could take what he needed from his victims without such juvenile rituals. He encouraged the rites only to strengthen his control over his followers.
The singing of the young woman’s life force called to him. Her soul would sustain him nicely for a time. The hunger took hold of him. Throwing off his robe, he displayed himself to her and all of his followers. Strangled gurgles emerged from her throat, spittle dribbling from the corners of her mouth as she watched him move closer.
Mounting the altar, he stabbed inside her, feeling flesh tear and blood run. The smell of her fear was like an aphrodisiac to him, fueling his lust. He felt his followers’ excitement as they watched his rape, knowing that they were inflamed with bloodlust of their own.
His climax drew near and he stretched his body over the girls, still deep within her. Grabbing a handful of her hair, he pulled her head back and looked into her eyes. The Seneschal approached, holding a gold-handled knife. Nick took it from him without breaking eye contact with the girl. Slowly he turned the blade in front of her eyes, hearing her voice cry silently in his mind.
Just as he could hold back no longer, he stabbed the knife into her throat, just below the left ear, severing the artery. Blood fountained out and he lowered his mouth to her neck, sucking at the warm liquid like a baby at its mother’s breast. Her blood was sweet, but it was not the blood he craved. It was not the blood that sustained him. That, too, was part of the show for his followers, to blind them with what they wanted to see and thereby hide the truth from their ignorant eyes.
He felt the weakening of her heart, savoring her terror and the essence of her life force as it poured from her into him. This was the elixir of life. All that was her spirit was becoming his.
As her heart stopped, he drove brutally inside her, shuddering in ecstasy as his climax matched in perfect timing with her death. Her life force merged with his. For a moment, he allowed the bliss to take him, floating in a sea of perfect contentment. Then he rose and stood before his followers, his body awash with the still-warm blood.
“She is yours.”
Like a pack of wolves, the assembly surged forward, tearing at the body with knives and fingernails, ripping clunks of flesh and filling their mouths with the sweet taste of her flesh. Within moments, her body was mutilated. After that, the orgy began.
Like rutting animals in heat, they pawed at one another, giving no care to what partner they chose. There was no discrimination in color or sex. Nick watched in amusement, and then saw one lone figure standing apart from the others. He raised his hand and the figure moved toward him. The robe dropped to the ground and the luscious body was displayed. She was not the woman he lusted for, but she was certainly seductive and willing.
For the moment, that would do.
The Next Morning—Sea Island
Lyra returned from her morning run feeling the happiest she could remember being in a long time. Her date with Nick had not turned out anything like she had expected. Instead of ending up a disaster like so many others, it had been fun. They had stayed at the photography studio, trying on clothes and taking one picture after another.
He let her help in the dark room, developing the negatives. Once the negatives were developed, they left them to dry and he brought her home. She could still feel the touch of his lips against hers as he gently kissed her goodnight. It was the first time she could ever remember wishing a kiss hadn’t ended.
But Nick had not pushed for anything more than a chaste kiss and a brief hug. They made plans to take her catamaran out the next afternoon. She was going to teach him to sail. He was going to go back to the studio before he picked her up and make prints of all the pictures.
There was no sign of Lexi or Leopold. Lexi’s car had been gone when Lyra got in last night and she hadn’t heard them come in. She grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and went upstairs to shower.
After drying off she wrapped a towel around her head, turban-style and walked into her room. She gasped and jerked the towel off her head, trying to cover her body as she saw Leopold sitting on the bed, sipping a Bloody Mary.
