by B. C. James
Freya rested her chin on his shoulder, rolled her eyes and patiently waited for him to sort out the mechanics of her bra. She smiled slightly as she could feel his fingers moving across her back, it was beginning to tickle. She let this continue for a while, basically because she thought it was funny. Freya decided to put a stop to it when he began to panic and tried to pull her bra over the back of her head like it was a T-shirt.
“Honey…HONEY!!” she said as he gave the bra one or two last hard tugs. “Slow down, slow down. Let me help you some.”
Warren nervously froze, his hands still grasping the hooks that had barred his way to Nirvana. Freya ran her fingers down his shoulders and arms. Her touch left soothing streaks of warmth in their wake. His hands dropped away from her back as if he were dead. The synaptic function directing his hands had ceased. Were it not for the autopilot function of his brain stem, Warren probably would have forgotten to breathe.
Freya moved her lips close to his ear. “Don’t worry yourself about this. Powerful men usually have trouble with menial tasks. I’ll be right back.” Her lips brushed against his in a teasing way as she got up and walked to the bathroom. Freya was a consummate pro. She nearly gagged on the word “powerful,” but guys pay her for an experience, and part of that experience includes making them feel like a demigod. Regardless of how far that is from their personal reality. No matter how frustrated she was with a customer, she would never show any sign of impatience or irritation.
Warren sat on the edge of the bed and watched as she padded into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. “Oh, man!” He said giddily to himself as he rolled his eyes and lay back on the mattress, fantasizing about the feel of her tight, toned body against his.
Freya closed the door behind her and locked it. She turned the fan on so that the only noise audible in the bedroom was the sound of the blower echoing off the bathroom walls. She slumped down on the toilet and buried her face in her hands. Part of her wanted to laugh at this guy’s clumsy attempts to undress her while another part of her wondered if it wasn’t time to give up on the prostitution game and go to law school. She sat there pondering her career options, as she often did when a customer was particularly exasperating. She shuddered at the thought of leaving the safety of the bathroom for Warren’s ham-handed attempts at foreplay.
“Ugh, that Webster guy didn’t invent enough words to describe how much I hate virgins,” Freya said softly as she peeked out from behind her hands and spoke to her reflection in the mirror. Obviously, Warren was a first timer. She imagined that he had saved his allowance for months, maybe years, to be able to afford a night with her. Freya could appreciate the effort that went into squirreling away that much money, but virgins were such a pain. They always did things too slow…then too fast and they were always bumpy and awkward. Invariably when deciding between two points of entry, they would choose the wrong one eighty percent of the time. This was usually followed up by an apology along with the claim that it was a simple accident and not part of some deviant little plot. There was no point in fighting it, she would have to go out there and convince this guy he was a sexual locomotive. Even though that was simply what professionals did, she had the feeling she would deserve Oscar recognition before the evening was done.
Freya reached back to unhook her bra. There was no point in allowing this guy another go at it. To give him the opportunity in the first place was an exercise in complete optimism on her part. In truth, she would consider the night a success if he could unzip his pants without inflicting a near fatal wound upon himself.
She looked over to the bathroom door and something seemed amiss. There was smoke rising from under it. A sudden wave of panic came over her. Was he trying to light incense or a candle? If Warren couldn’t successfully figure out the mechanics of underwear, anything involving fire would be way beyond him. The moron was probably burning the place down in an attempt to be romantic. Freya flung the door open fully expecting to see the room ablaze.
To her relief and confusion, it was not. The hotel room was simply filled with a dense fog. The vapor was so thick that she could barely make out the bed or the silhouette of the figure that was sitting on it.
“Warren, what the hell are you doing!?” she yelled. “Whatever you think you’re planning, forget it. You didn’t pay for any extras, just the basic service, get it?”
The figure didn’t make sound or a movement. He just sat at the edge of the bed…still and silent.
“That’s it, this is just too weird,” Freya kept speaking as she felt around the floor for her clothes. “You’re an odd guy, Warren. And you’ve got the wrong girl for whatever kind of kinky nonsense you have planned. Maybe this kind of stuff flies with those Canadian tarts, but not me. And don’t think you’re getting your deposit back. Like my website says, it’s non-refundable.”
As she was busy shaking her finger at the foggy silhouette something wet struck her hand. Her first reaction was to wonder what this freak had thrown at her. In the darkness the blob of liquid that rested between her thumb and forefinger looked like chocolate syrup. If this guy thought he was going to bring her back to the bed by offering to include dessert toppings with the sex, he was sadly mistaken. Then again, she hadn’t seen him move a muscle. How could he have flung a Hershey product at her? She raised the hand to her lips and licked the drop. Freya fully expected to taste something that was cocoa in nature, but instead her mouth was treated to the salty metallic taste of blood. Her eyes grew wide with surprise, but before she could say anything, another drop hit her on the shoulder. Then another one struck just below her right eye, leaving a crimson trail as it rolled down her cheek. The drops began to come down on her like rain.
“What the…” Freya said as she stepped to the side and wiped the blood from her face. She looked up to the ceiling for the cause of the bleeding.
The fog momentarily parted to give her an unobstructed view of the source. Warren’s limp carcass hung from the ceiling. Heavy iron nails had been pounded into his wrists and ankles. His body position was similar to that of someone who was being crucified. Blood poured from the stigmata-like wounds. A large gash in his lower stomach was held together by three hastily applied safety pins. She could see the furrows of torn flesh at each end of the pins. The weight of Warren’s viscera was putting an awful strain on the clips as well as the dying skin that they connected. His face was pale from blood loss and contorted into a horrible death mask of pain. Something hung from his mouth and danced lazily in the open air, stirred only by the mild breeze that the room’s ceiling fan created.
At second glance it became clear that it was his penis. It had been cut off and stuffed into his mouth. His eyes were wide from shock and the pupils rolled back in his head, at least for a moment. To her horrified surprise, Warren’s eyes rolled forward and focused on her. Muffled, pleading screams began to come from his mouth as his body shook with convulsions and panic. The last scraps of skin that the safety pins held onto ruptured and his bowels spilled onto the floor. A high-pitched, stifled scream came from his mouth as he shuddered one final time.
Though no sound came from the figure on the bed, she could feel a deep sense of satisfaction radiating from the silhouette in the fog. Freya grabbed a pack of cigarettes from off of the dresser and wiped a bit of lower intestine from the box of Marlboro’s. She, the dresser, and the cigarettes were all unfortunately in the radius of splatter created by the falling entrails.
The Goddess of Love calmly lit one of the cigarettes and took a long pull. She exhaled the smoke in the direction of the shadow on the bed and spoke.
“The guts falling out when he woke up was a nice touch,” she mused. “Gruesome and visual, but this fog effect is a bit over the top for my taste. I do applaud you for originality, though. Most psycho killers don’t have a special effects budget. I would love to know where you have the dry ice hidden.”
She took another long drag on her cigarette and exhaled into the haze above her before continuing, �
�You must be a riot at parties, but that is none of my business.”
The figure remained silent and didn’t move. He didn’t seem like he was incredibly interested in making small talk with her. Nor did he react to her lack of fear. Freya felt safe in the knowledge that regardless of how creative this person was in the art of killing, he was still harmless to a goddess like herself. Seeing as he didn’t seem inclined to interrupt her, she kept right on talking.
“I don’t know why you killed Warren. Maybe he cut you off in traffic one day or outbid you on eBay. Or perhaps you just have a hard-on for guys who hire escorts. The problem here is that this particular guy had a hard-on for me, and you killed him before I could get paid in full. That was hardly polite of you.” Freya said this in a calm, measured tone that hopefully conveyed to her companion the right level of menace. She wanted her fee.
His lack of reaction to her indicated that he was about as threatened by her as she was by him. Of course, Freya knew something he did not. She was a very powerful and ancient deity. She felt that had he been privy to this information previous to the butchering of her client, he would have chosen some other prostitute’s customer to eviscerate. He made no gesture of attack or retreat. He just sat motionless, presumably staring at her. Her mind began to wonder what she was going to do to him as punishment for killing Warren. Not that she gave a damn about him, but his death cost her a couple thousand dollars. Also, it set a bad precedent as far as she was concerned. To let this guy get away with killing her John right out from under her may encourage others to try to take things away from her. There must be reparation in either blood or currency.
Before she could make her next move a brown leather billfold landed at her feet. She followed the little swirls of disturbed air in the fog that marked the path the wallet took as it had flown through the air. The trail led back to the dark figure on the bed.
Freya opened the billfold. Through the bloodstains she could see Warren’s smiling face staring back at her from his driver’s license. The wallet also contained her fee plus several hundred extra dollars. She would call this a tip. Whoever this killer was, he was not interested in stealing money or putting a crimp in her business ventures. It seemed he was just in it for the thrill. Judging by how he had killed Warren, he was an artist who just happened to work in the medium of death the same way other artists manipulate clay or paints.
She had been paid in full, plus tip. As an added bonus, she got the night off. For this she would let him live. There was a dark side of her that was disappointed by his generosity. She would have enjoyed seeing if she could match his savage creativity. “Well I guess we’re square.” She said as she thumbed through the dollar bills. “I’ll just be getting dressed now and leave you to do whatever it is you do in these situations.”
She fastened her bra, picked up her dress and purse and made a move toward the door. The way Freya saw things it was best just to leave before any law enforcement agency got involved. She had planned on walking out in her bra and panties. If anyone questioned her she would turn on the tears and claim that this psycho had raped her. That would take any suspicion off her for the murder that happened in the room. In her experience, crying rape was always more believable if she was not completely dressed. Before Freya could turn the doorknob a voice echoed in her ears.
“Where are you going, little goddess? Our fun has just begun.”
She didn’t hear the words so much as she felt them. She pulled at the door, and despite her vast strength it wouldn’t budge. She looked back over her shoulder through the fog and the figure was no longer on the bed. She turned around so that she could view the whole room and moved forward slowly. She could see no one. The bathroom was on her left. She glanced in there and saw nothing. This was not a large hotel room. Warren had booked it for only one purpose and for that he just needed a bed. Freya took two steps forward and was standing right by the dresser. From here she could see the whole room. There was nothing on or around the bed. And unless he was incredibly thin Freya was pretty sure he could not be hiding behind the lamp in the corner.
The fog didn’t allow her to see anything more than shadows. Even close by objects were only silhouettes. She reasoned that he could have gone out the window. If that was the direction he went, she would go the opposite way. This meant trying the door again. Fear had not yet settled into her, but she was uncertain about what she was dealing with. Uncertainties are better dealt with when the room is unlocked. Freya backed toward the door. If he was gone, perhaps his hold on the exit was gone as well. She theorized that if the door was still jammed, it meant that the only other way out of the room was the window, and that smelled like a trap to her. If the door were stuck, she would simply break it down or bust through the wall to the next room and leave from there. This guy had no idea who he was dealing with. At least Freya hoped he didn’t. Perhaps when he called her a goddess, he meant it simply in a mocking way, because he couldn’t have possibly known who she was, right? Freya was mentally beginning to grasp at straws in an effort to convince herself that she was still in control of the situation.
The goddess took another two steps toward the door. She was now walking past the bathroom again. At that point she began to feel cold. The icy feeling started in her chest and made her legs go numb. She looked back into the bathroom and through the fog, she saw a dark figure standing in the bathtub.
“Time to play, little goddess.”
His voice was not audible. His words pushed forcibly into Freya’s brain, violating her on a mental level. She had finally begun to be afraid.
Chapter 11
Freya stared into the blurred figure that stood only feet from her. The thick fog had obscured all discernible features and the shadow appeared only as a very tall man wrapped in black cloak...wrapped in a mist…shrouded in a nightmare. In her mind’s eye she could see glowing yellow pupils staring out from under the leathery skin of a wrinkled, grey brow. She hoped this was just her imagination at work. The fear that was growing inside her was beginning to distort her reality. For long moments she froze under its gaze. Much like a rabbit that is both paralyzed with fear and lost in the hypnotic eyes of a snake, Freya’s mind was blank.
The terror she felt had nearly shut down her ability to consciously think of an escape. She waited there for the creature to strike. Then, from her subconscious, one word hazily formed in her brain.
“Window.”
It took a moment for this to register with her. Freya’s mind began searching for the correct definition of the word. After what seemed like hours, her brain finally fought through the fear and reminded her that the window at the other end of the room was a means of escape. Freya’s limbs became unfrozen. The fear that had initially paralyzed her had now turned to a form of active panic, similar to the terror that drives an antelope to leap off a cliff to its death as its being pursued by a hungry lion.
Freya moved with the same speed and conviction of other terrified prey. Dropping both the cash and her dress, she bolted from the shadowy figure and moved across the room with astonishing speed. Just before contact, Freya covered her head with both arms to protect her face from the glass as she broke through the window of the 9th story hotel room.
The momentum of the leap carried her body over the fire escape that was just outside the windowpane. With flawless grace, she twisted her body in the air and grabbed the iron railing. The flimsy metal staircase shook violently as her body slammed into the outside of the rail, but her grip held. For a moment she hung there, hyperventilating. Blood flowed down her wrist from the splinters of rusted metal and old black enamel paint that had been driven into her palm. Sharp pain began to pulse and throb in her hand as she gasped in an effort to catch her breath.
The goddess looked up at the hand that was holding the rail. Besides the blood that dripping down it, she began to see little wisps of fog curling around her wrist. Words once again started to fill her mind. This time it was like a command.
“Let go, let go
, LET GO!”
It echoed in Freya’s head, each time louder than the last. If she covered her ears, she would fall. Tears began to roll down her cheeks as a deep feeling of despair started to wash over her. The grip that kept her from falling to the street below began to loosen with fatigue. If she just closed her eyes and let go, it would all be over in just a few seconds. Freya shook her head from side to side and tightened her grip. She had never before felt the urge to give up and she wasn’t about to start now. Muscles in her arms strained as she pulled her body up and flopped over the railing to the metal grate floor. Fog began to pour through the window. Freya got to her feet and started to run as fast as she could down the stairs of the fire escape. She had made her way quickly down eight stories of stairs to the place where a sliding ladder led to the street, or at least it was supposed to. The ladder that led to the pavement below was rusted into place. Freya let out a scream of frustration as she kicked at the ladder.
She looked above her and about three floors up she saw the ominous fog slowly descending. There seemed to be a faint blue glow to it, and, through the mist, she could see the shadow of a tall figure moving down upon her as he floated with the vapor. His black cloak seemed to drift and billow weightlessly as it blended into the vaporous clouds that surrounded him. It was difficult to tell where the fog ended, and the creature began. In a strange way they almost seemed to be one. Freya didn’t waste much time pondering this point. She heaved herself over the railing and dropped the last ten feet to the concrete.
