by Bryan Smith
And that was the real jewel at the heart of the game. A creature of such longevity needed amusements, and he enjoyed the games he played with the humans. Like bugs mired in a spider’s web, they didn’t realize they’d entered the devil’s den until it was too late to get away. He loved to taunt them, to strip away their layers of false civility and pride, to torment them until they were just broken, sniveling shells. Some he would kill, preferably as their friends and loved ones were made to watch, others he would banish Below, where they would do the work that honored his own dark gods and allowed him to exist in this haunted corridor of the world, a darkly enchanted place that was simultaneously of the natural world and beyond it.
He stared at the reflection of his human mask in a mirror in his chambers. He saw a handsome, distinguished face, an artfully crafted facade. He knew what he would see should he choose to lift the mask. In neither instance would he see the visage of a deity. His kind was flesh and blood. Like all the other creatures of the world. In the end, his special abilities would not save him. The knowledge he possessed of his own nature was limited to what little he was able to glean from ancient texts he knew to have been penned by his forebears. He knew his natural life cycle was approximately a thousand years, an arc he was three quarters of the way through. The two to three hundred years remaining to him would seem an eternity to lesser beings, but to a creature that had already lived so long this stretch of time seemed terribly finite.
Two hundred years.
Maybe three.
A drop in the celestial bucket.
He tilted his head to one side then the other, focused his concentration, and deepened the shade of gray around his temples. He examined this final touch, smiled, and found it satisfactory. He pulled on a tweed jacket he’d removed from the corpse of an Englishman in the 1930s, slid on an Oxford class ring (from another Englishman of the same approximate vintage), and left his chambers.
For the time being, he shunted aside disquieting thoughts of mortality.
There was much to do tonight.
He stepped into the darkened hallway, grinned like a Halloween ghoul, and went downstairs to meet the newest arrival.
Mark Cody fiddled with his Zippo lighter, flipping the top up and down, up and down, and stared nervously about the room. It was a large den, anchored by a suitably impressive fireplace and lined with bookshelves. He was sitting at the edge of a plush sofa, his knees inches from an oak coffee table. There was an ashtray on it, but there was something off-putting about its pristine appearance-it looked never to have been touched by falling ash.
Mark sighed. He was in desperate need of a soothing brace of nicotine, but he wasn’t sure whether he should light up. There was something not right about this place. Oh, he’d been happy to see the woman in her black Bentley, that Ms. Wickman, when she’d shown up next to his deceased Volvo.
Strange thing, that.
The car was barely a year old and it was down for the count. The engine didn’t even attempt to turn over when he twisted the key in the ignition. There was only that annoying click. He supposed the battery was dead, even though he’d always been careful about not doing anything dumb to run it down, like leaving the headlights on when he went into work.
So it was just dead. And he’d been in the probably pointless process of locking it up when the Bentley’s headlights came into view up the road. He remembered the sigh of relief that shuddered through him. He sure hadn’t been looking forward to that hike into town, whichever town it was, and he’d initially been effusive in his gratitude when the Bentley slowed and the driver’s-side window slid down.
Then he got a look at Ms. Wickman.
An attractive woman in a way, but there was something oh so cold about her.
Still, he got into the Bentley and rode with her up the winding stretch of rural highway until they arrived at the place she called “The Master’s home.” She’d mentioned this person during each of her terse contributions to the en route conversation.
The Master.
Sheesh.
Mark shook his head. The term conjured images of counts in castles in old black-and-white movies. But the place could hardly be called imposing, at least from outside. It was big enough, the kind of home that would go for half a mill in the suburbs, but it hardly seemed the proper residence for a person whose employees addressed him as “The Master.”
He stopped scoffing the moment he was inside the house.
There were no bodies hanging from meat hooks. He hadn’t wandered onto the set of a Wes Craven movie. But there was something undeniably… off… in the house. The atmosphere inside was charged with a palpable sense of danger. He jumped at every flicker of shadow. When Ms. Wickman asked him if something was wrong, he tried not to notice the hint of a smirk tugging at one corner of her mouth.
She’d instructed him to have a seat in the den, perhaps pour himself a drink from the bar, and await The Master’s arrival. He’d feigned a lighthearted tone and asked for The Master’s real name, but she’d only stared at him with the stoniest expression this side of Mt. Rushmore.
So here he was.
Still waiting.
Flipping the Zippo top up and down.
Up and down.
Then, the hell with it, a flicker of flame, and the Marlboro wedged into the corner of his mouth flared to life. He sucked in a deep lungful of smoke, savored it for one very sweet moment, then slowly expelled it. He immediately felt better. But only a little. A grandfather clock ticked away in a corner. Click. Click. Like the tocking of a clock in the death chamber as it approached midnight.
He thought about this person, The Master.
Whatever else he was, he had to be one pompous son of a bitch.
He started to draw in another lungful of smoke as he heard the slap of loafers on the hardwood floor. He took the cigarette out of his mouth, wedged it into a notch of the ashtray, and stood up.
He frowned.
This was The Master?
He tried to suppress a smirk but didn’t altogether succeed. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but this wasn’t it. He’d been prepared for someone imposing, maybe a combination of old-time plantation owner and present-day cracker businessman. But this guy wasn’t anything like that. Shit, this old duffer looked like his classics professor back at Southern Florida State.
Then he opened his mouth. “Mr. Cody, I presume?”
Mark extended a hand. “That’s me.” He made the smirk morph into a smile that oozed false sincerity. “Pleased to meet ya.”
The old man smiled. “Likewise.”
Mark cleared his throat. “Say… would I be out of line by asking your real name? Ms. Wickman wouldn’t tell me.”
The man pursed his lips and gave a professorial nod. “Ms. Wickman is a devoted … employee.”
Mark cranked the smile up another notch. “Yeah, well, we ain’t strangers here anymore, eh? Now that we’ve introduced ourselves, I mean.”
The man regarded him with a faintly bemused smile, started to say something, then inclined his head toward the doorway through which he’d entered. Mark frowned, glanced in the same direction, and saw nothing.
“Um…” Mark cleared his throat again. “As I was saying …”
The man shifted his gaze back to Mark. His smile was broader now, more genuinely amused-by what Mark didn’t know, but the expression was unnerving. “My name is irrelevant. You wouldn’t be able to pronounce it. It’s from a language with only one living practitioner.”
The old man laughed, a sound that was surprisingly hearty. Mark found it disturbing in the extreme. “Now, I have a question for you.”
Mark grunted. “Oookay…” He threw up his arms. “You didn’t answer my question, not really, just kind of in a doublespeak, politician kind of way, but what the hell, I guess I’m just a more gracious guy” His smile was completely sincere now. “So fire away, pops.”
Something flared in the old man’s eyes now. Something vaguely predatory. “You’re
aware, aren’t you, that your country’s surgeon general has deemed smoking hazardous to your health?”
Mark laughed. “Sure.” He picked up the smoldering cigarette, puffed on it until the end flared back to life. “What about it?”
The old man indicated his cigarette with a nod. “A vice I rarely indulge these days, but I wonder if I might have one of yours?”
Mark shrugged in a magnanimous way, extracted the pack of Marlboros from his coat pocket, and tossed it over to the old man. “Have at ‘em, pops.”
The old man turned the pack over and over in his hands, studying it. Then he again fixed his gaze on Mark. The predatory gleam in his eyes burned brighter now. He extracted a single cigarette from the pack and approached Mark, who, thinking the old man wanted a light, extended the Zippo. The man swatted the lighter away with a flick of his wrist and it went flying over the sofa.
A wave of terror surged through Mark. The whole of his consciousness was occupied by a single concept: Get away from the crazy man right now!
He heard the front door open.
Then voices.
He lurched in that direction. But the old man seized him about the throat and pushed him down onto the sofa. Mark wheezed, struggled desperately for air. He felt like he was drowning. The old man showed him the package of cigarettes. The crinkled cellophane wrapping reflected the crackling light from the fireplace.
His nostrils flared. Something about his face seemed to be changing. Mark would have screamed had he been capable of it.
“These things will be the death of you, boy!” He showed Mark a death’s-head grin, a rictus of cruel humor. “Don’t you know that?”
The Master forced Mark’s mouth open.
And fed him the cigarette he’d removed from the package.
Then the rest of them, one after another.
Until he choked on them.
The Accord swooped around the curving exit ramp, and its passengers cried out in surprise. Dream experienced a flash of guilt, but scaring her warring friends seemed the only way to get them to cease hostilities. The Accord hugged the turn until the ramp straightened out. Then they were on a two-lane road even narrower and darker than the interstate. This stretch of road seemed devoid of streetlamps, which was worrisome, but it was the last thing Dream gave a damn about at the moment.
She pushed the brake pedal to the floor, brought the car to a stop on the road’s shoulder, wrenched the gear to neutral, and got out, slamming the door behind her. She stalked away from the car, came to a stop a few dozen feet away, turned her head to the sky, and let out a piercing cry of frustration. Then every muscle in her body went slack, and she sank to her knees. Warm asphalt scuffed her bare flesh, but she hardly noticed. She was too weary to feel pain. She crossed her legs beneath her, cupped her face in her hands, and finally shed the tears she’d been holding back.
A few moments passed while she sat there at the edge of the cone of light projected by the Accord’s headlights. Then a door opened. Someone got out. She heard the solid thunk of the door being thrown shut, followed by the slap of sandals on asphalt. Dream didn’t bother to peek through her fingers to see who it was.
There was no need.
Alicia Jackson sat down beside her on the asphalt, draped a slim brown arm around her friend’s shoulders, and said, “You okay, sweetheart?”
Dream released one more shuddery sob, sniffled, and wiped tears from her face. “Yeah …” She cleared her throat. “Sorry.”
“Good.” Alicia gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “In a minute I’d like you to tell me why you did this, but first I think we ought to get up and move farther away from the road.”
Dream looked past her knees and realized for the first time how close she was to the yellow line separating the road from the shoulder. “I guess this is a little dangerous.”
Alicia got up with her, keeping a hand on one of Dream’s elbows. Dream wobbled a bit as she got to her feet, but Alicia managed to keep her upright. Then they clasped hands and walked slowly back to the Accord. The rest of its passengers were still inside, watching them with what Dream imagined was a new understanding of her boundaries. Perhaps they would be more sensitive now, less willing to tamper with her already fragile sense of emotional stability.
Or maybe it was just fear she was sensing.
Or anger.
She experienced a flash of guilt, became aware of a gray cloud gathering in her brain, a vague numbness that normally preceded the onset of a bad depressive episode. She was seized by a sudden impulse to apologize. Never mind that her abrupt deviation from the interstate might well have prevented a catastrophic highway accident. She’d done the right thing, something she recognized intellectually-but that didn’t matter.
She’d frightened her friends.
They were probably upset with her.
Could be they even hated her. Why not? There was a lot of hate going around. Hell, she had plenty to spare, most of it self-directed.
It was stupid.
Senseless.
But there you go.
The Accord’s dome light was on, and Dream saw that its remaining occupants were still arguing, albeit in a somewhat less heated manner. Dream wanted to shake them all, make them come to their senses, see that they ought to treat each other better and with more respect. Yeah, right. She’d have an easier time preaching tolerance at a white supremacy rally.
They reached the Accord and Dream slumped down on its hood. Alicia stood in front of her, her arms crossed over her chest. “Now we should talk, girl.”
Dream sighed. “How could Dan have done this to me, Alicia?” Her eyes moistened again. “Why do these terrible things keep happening to me? All I want is a normal life. All I want is somebody to love me. Why can’t I have that?”
Now it was Alicia’s turn to sigh. “Honey, I know you’ve had a rough time. Trust me, though, this really isn’t the time to deal with this.” She paused. “And I think I ought to do any driving there might be left to do tonight.”
But Dream couldn’t let the question go. Not yet. “Why, Alicia?”
Alicia shook her head. “Shit, you’re really going to make me do this, aren’t you?” She took a deep breath. “This keeps happening to you because you’ve never gotten over that insufferable little asshole in the backseat.” She raised a hand to stifle Dream’s protest. “Don’t insult me with your denials. I know you, girl. Here’s a hard truth, sweetie, and I want you to take this to heart. Whatever you saw in him originally is gone. He lost his humanity the moment that World Lit frump popped his cherry. He became like every other loser you’ve ever attached yourself to-obnoxious and full of himself.” She released a big breath. “It’s time you moved on, Dream.”
Dream pouted, breathed a petulant sigh. “Why can’t I attract a real man?”
Alicia’s voice was thick with frustration. “Goddamn, Dream. The only real man is one who’ll treat you with respect and dignity. It’s high time you got clued in to that.”
Dream flinched. “Oh …”
“Sorry.” Alicia continued in a softer tone. “Try to really listen to me and stop being such a little drama queen. I know you, Dream. You’re better than that.”
Dream looked away from her friend and didn’t say anything.
The discourse on Dream’s failed romantic life was brought to a merciful end by the sound of the others getting out of the Accord. Chad Robbins, hands in his pockets, sauntered over to where Alicia was standing. “She okay?”
Dream gasped at the sight of Alicia’s hand snapping hard across Chad’s startled face. “No, motherfucker, she’s not okay. Now go away!”
Chad adjusted his glasses, rubbed his stinging flesh, and said, “Well, so much for the caring, sensitive approach. Fuck both of you.”
Shane Wallace shook his head at all of them, swung his legs over the guardrail, and disappeared into a stand of trees. Karen Hidecki reached the gathering at the front of the car and staggered to a slow halt. “Shane’s taking a
leak. I would, too, but I don’t wanna go in the woods.”
Chad snorted. “The toxic twosome. One day pictures of your livers will be shown to middle-school students as a warning on the dangers of alcohol abuse.”
Karen frowned. “How’d you get to be so mean, Chad?”
Alicia looked at him. “I’d like to know the answer to that myself.”
Chad smirked. “Lots of people would like to know what makes me tick. I’m just a fascinating guy. But I have a few questions of my own I’d like answered, starting with where the hell are we and why are we here?”
Dream said, “Somewhere a little east of Chattanooga. And we’re here because a few of my friends stopped acting like civilized human beings.”
“And once again the unassailable Dream Weaver, she of the single stupidest name in recorded history, laughably attempts to place herself on the moral high road.” The mocking tone, a stable of Chad’s verbal arsenal, had long ago lost its ability to sting. What was shocking to Dream was the unadulterated anger in his voice. This was something new, these outward displays of hatefulness. “Allow me to remind you of a few key things, your highness. One, tricky maneuvers involving automobiles and hairpin curves are best left to professional racers. They certainly should not be performed by unmedicated manic-depressives, especially not by PMS-ing manic-depressives. Two, and I think I should emphasize this as dramatically as possible…” Here his voice rose drastically in pitch. “YOU ALMOST GOT US FUCKING KILLED, YOU STUPID FUCKING BLOND BIMBO BITCH!”
Karen Hidecki said, “Whoa … oh, wow …”
“Chad,” Alicia said, calmer than Dream would ever have imagined her friend being under circumstances such as these, “I know you don’t give a damn about anybody’s feelings but your own, but I’m telling you to keep a lid on your bullshit. Otherwise I’ll have to hurt you. That’s not a threat, it’s a promise.”
