House of Blood hob-1

by Bryan Smith

  Chad couldn’t believe it.

  A human being had been murdered right in front of him.

  His eyes widened behind his glasses. “Why? Why did you do that?”

  Sheena strolled over to him. She put her face right up against his-their noses touched. “Did that scare you?”

  Chad started in disbelief. A peal of humorless laughter wrenched free of his throat. “I’ve never been so goddamn scared. What’s wrong with you? You killed that guy for no reason.”

  “That was my stepfather.” Her face was expressionless, but Chad detected a deep well of anger and resentment, unknowable angst. “Last time I saw him, he was slitting my little girl’s throat. Three years ago, man.”

  Chad thought about that a moment.

  The emotional pendulum now seemed permanently anchored in the red zone of terror. “What the hell kind of place is this?”

  “He deserved to die.”

  She ignored his question. Or maybe she hadn’t heard it. She seemed intensely focused on making him believe what she said.

  Fine.

  “I believe you.” He swallowed a lump in his throat. “He deserved to die.”

  It wasn’t a lie.

  What else could you say about a child killer?

  The woman’s expression softened some, and she backed away from him, resumed her perpetual pacing of the cell.

  Chad could make no sense of this place. That thing, that shapeshifter, had brought him here, but why? There had to be some reason he was here instead of dead. The mystery of his circumstances bothered him, made him crave more information, something-anything-that might point to a way out of this insane dilemma.

  “Look-” he started.

  She slapped him. “Stop.”

  He stopped.

  Despite the burst of violence, there was something new in her expression, a hint of feeling he wouldn’t have expected. It took him a moment to recognize what it was, and when the realization came, he was surprised.

  It was compassion.

  “A few minutes ago, you asked if this was hell.” She gripped one of his hands, but not in an unfriendly way this time. “Well, Below’s not the hell of the Bible, but it is a hellish place. A suburb of hell, I guess you could say.” Her grip on his hand tightened, but, again, not in an aggressive way. “Forget all the rules of civilized society, they don’t apply here. Don’t trust anyone. Be prepared to kill. Sleep with one eye open, because someone is always out to get you.” Her eyes riveted on him. “Most of all, and I hope like hell you believe me, I’m the best friend you’ve got.”

  Chad sputtered, “But… but that’s absurd. You just kicked my ass and took my shit. If you’re my best friend, my worst enemy’s gotta be one charming son of a bitch.”

  Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I can’t tell you everything yet, but this much you can know-what I did to you was a case of keeping up appearances.”

  Chad showed her a baffled frown. “Say what?”

  Her voice dropped yet another notch, to the point where she was nearly inaudible. “An act. That’s all it was. I treated you the way banished people are expected to treat newcomers-mercilessly.”

  Chad’s voice was choked with incredulity. “Banished people? Banished from where?”

  “From Above.”

  Chad grunted. “Oh, thanks. That clears it up.”

  She ignored the sarcasm. “We’re getting out of here. You and I. See that dead fucker on the floor?”

  Said “dead fucker” twitched intermittently and oozed brain matter on the floor.

  “How could I miss him, Sheena?”

  She smiled, and there was a wicked gleam in her green eyes. “You don’t think his presence here, after all these years, was coincidence, do you?”

  Chad gave his head a weary shake. “I suppose not.”

  “Damn straight it wasn’t.” She glanced at the steaming corpse, and her smile faded. “That was a favor to me.” Her gaze returned to him, and there was something so haunted in the look she showed him that Chad had to fight an urge to avert his eyes. “A show of gratitude for agreeing to be here. Arranged by our benefactor Above.”

  Chad chewed his lower lip. Something about the circumstances was bothering him. “You keep hinting at an arrangement. A conspiracy. But I don’t get it. What are you trying to accomplish?” He glanced at the dead man. “Other than revenge, I mean.”

  “Accomplish?” But the interrogatory tone was rhetorical. “Revolution. The overthrow of The Master.”

  Chad’s brow furrowed. “The Master?” He shook his head in puzzlement. “Above, Below, The Master… all this means shit to me. What-“

  She shushed him again. “Shut up and listen. I’m about to tell you everything you need to know.”

  Chad considered this. There was something disquieting about the way she was suddenly opening up to him. Something he couldn’t quite pinpoint. “Why?”

  She began to smile again, just a small smile that barely turned up the corners of her mouth. “Can’t you guess?”

  An icy finger of dread scuttled along Chad’s spine. “Um…”

  “You’re coming Below with me.”

  Chad felt suddenly queasy.

  “I think it’s time we were properly introduced. My name’s Cindy.?

  She extended a hand.

  Chad took her hand, shook it numbly. “Chad.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Welcome to the revolution, Chad.” Her eyes and voice radiated intensity, a suppressed excitement. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  Chad felt faint.

  The Master stirred from a state of repose that wasn’t quite sleep but wasn’t full consciousness, either. The condition was more akin to a deep turning inward, a period of intensely focused introspection that sharpened his already keen senses and replenished his appetites. In these ways it approximated the sleeping state of humans and the lower animals; however, he remained aware of his surroundings at all times-albeit in the dim way one perceives background details in paintings or films-and possessed the ability to instantly return to full consciousness should circumstances compel it.

  This was one of those times.

  There had been an unusually high level of activity in his home tonight. There was the matter of the escapee from Below, a foolish man who likely believed he’d succeeded in evading his pursuers. This was not the case. The Master knew the man was in one of the rooms on the second floor. He even knew which room. He smiled, thinking of the wicked little girl with no voice.

  His most facile and talented apprentice.

  He was content to allow her to have her fun with him.

  The man was a gnat.

  Less than insignificant.

  As had been the case with tonight’s first new arrival, Mark Cody, whom he’d dispatched from this world simply because he’d been a dullard. The Master preferred lively torture sessions with interesting, intelligent humans. There was nothing as stimulating as an evening spent listening to smart people plead their cases between moments of intense agony.

  There were people of this sort en route even now. He could feel them out there, wandering, lost souls growing more desperate and afraid by the moment. Soon they would arrive at the false succor of his home. He could not read their minds, but he could sense things about them. There was one among them who radiated something special, an inner energy that hinted of gifts she likely didn’t know she possessed. A female. A charismatic figure adored by many. But he sensed a deep vein of vulnerability there, as well.

  He wanted to know more about her.

  He closed his eyes again, entered another meditative state, and focused the power in his mind, that living mass of energy that was almost like a separate organism existing within the shell of his physical body, an intimate symbiosis of unique beings. His mind thrummed with the power, and he felt the fine edge of electricity that always accompanied these moments sweep through him.

  His mind sent out energy pulses like psychic tendrils.

 
A radar that detected usually imperceptible brainwaves.

  And, sometimes, deciphered them.

  Dream, he thought.

  He had her name now, snagged like a firefly out of the air. He sensed more about her by the moment. She was getting closer and closer. Dream was a moral person. She was perceived by most people as a force for good. A truly decent human being. The strength of his perceptions about her was unusual, another indication of the rare gifts she didn’t comprehend.

  The Master’s eyes snapped open.

  He went to the bar and poured himself a drink. Old scotch over ice in a lightly frosted glass. Alcohol’s intoxicating effects were largely lost on him-his body processed the alcohol more efficiently than a human body-but it did have a soothing effect.

  He was surprised to find himself in need of the liquid comfort.

  Dream.

  He repeated the name silently several times, savoring it like a fine wine.

  He poured another drink.

  Something was happening in his domain. Something unusual and troubling. Troubling because none of his efforts to pinpoint its nature had been successful. His powers of perception had waned of late, flickering in and out like radio transmissions from a remote location. This insight into the woman’s psyche was the clearest signal he’d received in months.

  Even his gods, the death spirits, were silent.

  He called to them again, now.

  Beseeching them for guidance.

  Shivar!

  Mindragin!

  Nothing.

  Just the same aching celestial void.

  He poured yet another drink.

  Dream, he thought.

  The new obsession grew in his soul like a malignancy.

  Dream?

  What are you?

  How will I corrupt you?

  The Master’s assumption about Eddie King’s circumstances was correct. He was a prisoner again. A slave again. He was spread-eagled on his back on the mute girl’s plush bed, staring up at the velvet canopy. His arms were lashed to headboard rails, and the leather straps of a ballgag were affixed firmly about his face. His ankles were tied to the posts at the foot of the bed. His bonds grew tighter and more uncomfortable each time he struggled against them, so much so he was worried the circulation in his extremities would be cut off.

  He was fixated on the discomfort now. The circumstances that had brought him to this place had-at least temporarily-been rendered irrelevant, overwhelmed by the panic filling his mind, panic that cranked up another notch every time the knots about his wrists and ankles tightened a little more. And there was the lump of plastic in his mouth-the word “gag” was apt in more ways than one. He knew it was firmly attached to the device encircling his head, but he couldn’t suppress the growing fear he would swallow it and choke on it.

  Giselle was at the writing table, bent over the stationery pad. She’d been at it for nearly an hour now. The quill pen in her hand was a nonstop flurry of motion that ceased only when she paused to flip to a fresh page. Eddie had no idea what she could possibly be writing about. She couldn’t be going on and on about what she had done to him. There just wasn’t that much to tell. He’d misjudged her. Well, that was an understatement of epic proportions. She’d asserted her dominance over him with embarrassing ease. So perhaps she was writing about something else.

  The long velvet dress was gone. She was naked now, with the exception of a pair of lacy black panties and high-heeled shoes. Her legs were crossed at the knees, and the dangling foot jiggled like a teenage girl’s would during a boring math class. Physically, of course, she still was a teenager, frozen in time at the age of seventeen. Eddie, who was pushing forty, knew she was actually older than him by more than a decade. Knowing this on an intellectual level was one thing. But yet her body was still ripe with the perfections of youth.

  A perpetual Lolita.

  She put the tip of the pen to her chin in a contemplative pose. Her brow furrowed and the jiggling of her foot slowed. Miracle of miracles. The runaway prose train was at an impasse. She stared into the middle distance for a time before redirecting her gaze toward Eddie. The pensive look vanished and was replaced by an expression that was equal parts smirk and lascivious grin.

  He shuddered.

  And thought, Oh, no …

  A sound that was almost like a hideous laugh issued from Giselle’s mouth. She had seen the terror in Eddie’s eyes and been amused by it. She set the pen down, tore a page from the pad, then stood up and came to the bed.

  A dark, undeniable thought came to him.

  I should’ve killed her when I had the chance.

  He remembered how supple, how yielding, her flesh had felt beneath the pressure of the blade. Parting that flesh would be no more difficult than carving a Thanksgiving turkey. The idea repulsed him, the notion of murdering a woman, but now he wondered whether his ingrained chivalry might really desert him should he again have her at his mercy. Maybe things would happen another way.

  He thought about it some more.

  He also thought some more about the ballgag in his mouth.

  And he struck the “maybe” prevarication from the thought.

  Eddie’s heart lurched as she leaned over him. Her lips parted and she ran her tongue slowly along the edge of her teeth. Her nostrils flared. She looked more like a hungry lioness than something as mundane as a woman with a mean streak. She reached behind his head and the snaps fastening the leather straps about his head came away. Eddie experienced an absurd wave of gratitude toward her. He drew in deep lungfuls of air, suddenly, blessedly able to breathe properly again. Christ, he was practically ready to nominate her for sainthood for these things alone.

  Giselle showed him the piece of stationery from the pad.

  His heart went momentarily still at the words written there.

  I KNOW YOU BETTER THAN YOU KNOW YOURSELF it read.

  Now Eddie’s heart was racing.

  THIS IS WHAT YOU’VE ALWAYS WANTED.

  She cast the note aside.

  “No,” he breathed-and heard the lack of conviction in his voice.

  She smiled.

  And patted his cheek.

  Then she climbed onto the bed, got carefully to her feet, and leered down at Eddie.

  Jesus, he thought.

  Here we go again.

  His gaze shifted from the oddly sympathetic set of her features to her shoes. He didn’t like the way they deeply indented the mattress. At least they weren’t stiletto heels. She shifted a leg and placed the cold sole of one shoe on his chest. There was almost no pressure. She maintained perfect balance and a light touch for an amazing stretch of time.

  Then the pressure increased a little.

  And a little more.

  The heel gouged his flesh and Eddie cried out.

  She suddenly applied her full weight to him. His face contorted with agony. She was standing on him now with both feet.

  Then she was stepping forward.

  Walking on him.

  The flat sole of one shoe touched his left cheek and drove his head sideways, and the heel dug into the soft flesh at the base of his throat.

  Eddie saw the note on the floor, its message a condemnation.

  THIS IS WHAT YOU’VE ALWAYS WANTED.

  To his dismay, he found he couldn’t immediately answer the question that came to mind: Is it?

  Oh my God … is it?

  The pressure on his face increased again.

  Dream was scared. She marveled for a moment at the spectacular irony of the notion, but it was without doubt the absolute truth. Here she was, a person committed to ending her life before the next sunrise, and she was scared. Except that maybe “scared” didn’t quite convey the depth of what she was feeling. Scared was how you felt when you were sitting in a darkened movie theater watching a good horror movie. The word implied a degree of detachment from the source of the fear. Maybe the movie would wig you out a little, but it would end soon enough, the lights would come on, and
you would soon emerge into the warmth of the sun.

  No, this was a sick, creeping sensation of enervating terror. It drained every bit of remaining strength and left her feeling ill. She gripped the Accord’s steering wheel harder to still the trembling in her arms. “Guys, I’ve gotta stop.”

  Alicia’s eyes narrowed with concern. “You okay?”

  Dream gave her head an emphatic shake. She twisted the steering wheel and the Accord swerved to the shoulder. She parked the car, opened the door, and leaned over to be sick. Her stomach spasmed, and she retched up a thin stream of acid. There was nothing in her stomach to throw up, but she was helpless to quell the spasms for a time. When they at last subsided, she pulled the door shut and settled back into her seat.

  “Jesus, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry”

  Alicia was looking at her the way a nurse might regard a seriously ill patient. “Oh, hush.” She cupped a hand behind Dream’s neck. “It got to you, that’s all.”

  Meaning the image of Shane’s slashed body.

  Well, it was a feasible explanation. The memory was gruesome enough to trigger nausea. Still, it wasn’t the true reason for her sickness, and she was about to say so when Karen started talking.

  “Please.” There was an uncharacteristic caustic quality in her voice. “I love both of you, but don’t offend me with this shit. Neither of you were ever members of the Shane Wallace fan club.”

  Alicia protested. “The fuck does that have to do with it? Nada, that’s what. Not a goddamn thing. We’re human beings, girl, and our personal feelings go out the fucking window when something like that happens to another human being.”

  Karen huffed. “Whatever. I only bring it up now to make a point. Dream’s not upset by what happened back there-” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “She’s upset by what’s happening right now.”

  There was a long moment of silence. The tension was stifling. Dream’s only point of comparison to the atmosphere in the car was the first stilted conversation she had with Dan after finding him in the arms of that… man. The short exchange had been the most awkward moment of her life.

  But this moment ranked a close second.

  Dream sighed. “She’s right.”