House of Blood hob-1

by Bryan Smith

  Giselle hoped not.

  It would mean the woman could follow her to this place.

  And everything would be ruined.

  She dropped to her knees, closed her eyes, and clasped her hands before her. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she strove to make contact with the gods. She focused her will, tried visualizations to transport her back to that wondrous realm they inhabited, but there was nothing. Just silence. A heartbreaking void. Giselle felt a ripple of panic. Had they abandoned her?

  She tried to calm down.

  The problem, of course, was this stew of emotions percolating in her head. It was ruining her concentration, making communication with that other realm impossible. So she drew in a deep breath and imagined the construction of a wall. Brick by brick. Layers of mortar hardening between rows of bricks. She didn’t rush the process. The wall slowly took shape, and as it did, the nervous tremors in her body stilled. Her breathing became regular. And she felt the physical world become insubstantial. When she opened her eyes, that world was gone.

  She was in the land of the gods now.

  She spoke with her mind: Azaroth, I beseech you.

  A swirl of black smoke parted, and a creature resembling an old man in a flowing robe appeared. She understood this wasn’t his true appearance. These creatures were composed of a different kind of matter-deity dust, you could call it-and the human eye wasn’t equipped to interpret the reality of the gods. So an illusion was created. They appeared to humans in a form they could understand. To Giselle, the god Azaroth looked exactly like a man who’d played Moses in a movie she’d seen long ago.

  Azaroth smiled.

  You called me?

  She returned the smile.

  She loved Azaroth.

  Yes.

  Why?

  Giselle’s physical body shuddered at the memory of Ms. Wickman’s eyes.

  I’m afraid I jeopardized everything. I was traveling. Through portals. I saw something in a room. That woman, Ms. Wickman. I’m afraid she saw me. I’m worried she knows what’s coming.

  The god’s mouth opened.

  And a sound as resonant as any oratorio filled her with delight. It was her favorite sound from any world, from any layer of existence.

  It was the sound of a god laughing.

  She knows nothing.

  “But-” More laughter.

  Dear Giselle, you overestimate this harridan. You should be careful of her, yes, but you need not be afraid of her. She possesses some psychic sensitivity, but it is feeble, not worthy of comparison to your extraordinary abilities. And she is loyal to The Master, but not at the expense of her own safety. She will not expend energy saving a sinking ship.

  Giselle felt some of that bright edge of fear fade.

  Azaroth sounded so sure of himself.

  Well, he always did.

  And he was usually right.

  Almost always.

  Still. But Azaroth sensed her lingering doubts: Giselle, all will be well. The other man from your vision is in place now. You will see him tonight. Be ready.

  Yes!

  Giselle felt a thrill of exultation.

  Eddie in her room.

  Chad Below.

  Just as she’d seen it so long ago.

  She addressed Azaroth: It’s really happening, isn’t it? We will win.

  The god’s answer was encouraging but evasive.

  You have an opportunity. The creature you call The Master is weaker than he has ever been. His gods have turned their backs on him.

  So you’ve told me.

  Azaroth continued: He is vulnerable, and the silence of the gods disturbs him. But you must not underestimate him. He is weakened, but he remains the most powerful living creature on earth. Be careful, Giselle. Be strong. Resolute.

  I will!

  Azaroth’s human guise began to break apart.

  Yes, I think you will. And now you must go.

  And then the image was gone.

  Giselle experienced the usual jolt that accompanied the transition from one plane to the next. She opened her eyes and was back in the antechamber behind her room. She got to her feet and stepped off the altar. She crossed the room, touched the knob that swiveled the wall, and returned to her bedroom.

  Eddie, of course, was waiting for her.

  He took her into his arms.

  Kissed her.

  And led her to the bed.

  Giselle went eagerly.

  She heard the echo of Azaroth’s words in her head.

  All will be well.

  She willed it to be true.

  Dream was dreaming.

  In her dream she felt light as a butterfly, soaring in the air, flitting from place to place with ease and grace. She flew through clouds, over mountains, buzzed a herd of cattle, and passed through an airplane. As she passed through the plane, alien thoughts buzzed in her brain. She seemed to exist as many people at once. She was a gay man named Jim. She was a boy named Alexander. She was a teenage girl named Sophia.

  Jim’s parents had disowned him, and he was depressed.

  Alexander wasn’t doing well in school.

  Sophia was fantasizing about a movie star.

  There were others.

  The madness of being all these people at the same time brought her out of the dream. The sensation of lightness was gone. She felt a jolt. That transitional jolt. She opened her eyes, gasped, and realized it hadn’t been a dream.

  Oh my God, she thought.

  It was real.

  All of it.

  The out-of-body experience. King. This house way the hell out here in the middle of nowhere. Shane’s death. Chad’s disappearance.

  And the sex.

  Let’s not forget about that.

  As if she could.

  Dream rolled onto her back, closed her eyes against the brilliant light of the sun, and stretched. She groaned, lifted her arms high above her, and stretched her legs to their limit, extending her toes horizontally. Then, when she could stretch no more, she let her muscles go slack and she settled back into the plush feather mattress. She blinked, squinted against the sunlight, and took in her surroundings.

  King’s room was, if anything, more impressive by daylight.

  The room was just huge, bigger even than she had perceived last night. A small family could live in this room and not worry about invading each other’s personal space. The rows and rows of floor-to-ceiling walnut bookshelves made her think of libraries at great universities. She thought maybe the books were just for show. How could anyone ever read this many books in a lifetime?

  Unless, she reminded herself, one’s lifetime encompassed several centuries.

  So, she thought, back to that again.

  Well, there was no avoiding the subject. Her new lover was a supernatural being with powers that both awed and frightened her. Absurd. But undeniable. The exhilaration of her flight through space and time was still fresh in her mind. But so was the memory of what she’d seen in that underground place in England. The slaves. The degradation. Death. And there was another place just like it somewhere beneath this house. While she luxuriated in this incredible bed-easily the most sensually decadent bed she’d ever slept or fucked on-somewhere below her people were suffering.

  She shifted ever so slightly on the bed.

  She still didn’t want to get up.

  Even the reflexive guilt she felt wasn’t sufficient enough to change that. The French doors stood open, allowing her a view of the balcony and green mountainside. The warm sunshine felt good on her nude body. It was like a lover’s lightest touch, fingertips gliding over trembling flesh. She ran a hand along an inner thigh, shuddered at a sense-memory of King’s caress, and touched herself.

  She remembered being perched at the edge of the bed.

  Her favorite position.

  Another shudder rippled through her. She could almost feel him inside her. She was often too shy with new lovers to broach the subject. When she was with someone new, she invari
ably put up with the standard alternations of boy on top and girl on top for weeks before working up the nerve to tell them what she wanted. They were always enthusiastic, which just made her feel silly for being so bashful. Of course, some of them were confused by her request, thinking she wanted it in the ass.

  Dan thought that.

  Of course—

  Well, she hadn’t made the connection until now.

  It made her giggle.

  This is just insane, she thought.

  Here she was, surrounded by madness, and she was giggling … and sort of lightly masturbating.

  What’s wrong with this picture?

  She knew she ought to be getting up, putting her clothes on, making preparations to get out of this place. No sane person, knowing what she knew, would hesitate. Somewhere on the floor was a tangle of clothes. She envisioned getting off the bed, sorting through them, and going out to look for Alicia and Karen. Her friends were somewhere in this house. She had to warn them.

  She didn’t move.

  The thought came again: What’s wrong with me?

  Had she been drugged? She didn’t have any of the familiar symptoms, and she knew them pretty damn well from her time in the hospital and the institution. That spaced-out, numb feeling wasn’t in evidence. Dissociation, they called it. No, this was nothing like that. She had never been more in touch with her senses and her feelings. In fact, she seemed hypersensitive. The hand at her sex felt like a warm, vibrating glove.

  Hmm … some weird libido drug?

  She jerked her hand away when she heard the sound of a doorknob turning. Dream’s head lolled to the left, and she saw Ms. Wickman enter bearing a tray. She set the tray on a folding stand next to the bed, folded her arms beneath her breasts, and said, “The Master wanted me to tell you he’ll be along shortly. He has some business to attend to.” Her gaze traveled the length of Dream’s exposed body before she added, “There’s a robe for you in the closet, should you find yourself feeling … modest.”

  She turned and exited the room before Dream could formulate an appropriate reply or inquire after her friends. The door clicked shut, and she was alone again. She perched herself on an elbow and examined the contents of the tray. A porcelain cup brimmed with steaming coffee, and there was a little plate with a cute arrangement of chocolate truffles. Dream’s stomach growled, and she realized how much time had passed since she’d eaten-not so much as a bite had passed through her lips since discovering Dan in flagrante delicto.

  She scooted to the edge of the bed, picked up a truffle, and nibbled. Crumbs tumbled from her mouth to the mattress. She brushed the crumbs off, got out of bed-finally!-and went to the closet. The large space was filled with expensive, tailored suits, things a modern bigwig would wear with pride, but there was a curious assortment of clothes from other eras. She saw vests, shirts with ruffles, Edwardian jackets, and tweed coats with arm patches. There was a shelf for hats. There were fedoras, bowlers, top hats, and a leather cowboy hat with a braided band around it. Some of it looked like stuff that belonged in the Smithsonian or some other museum. She wondered how long it had been since he’d worn some of these things. Why would he keep such old clothes?

  Could a thing like King feel sentiment?

  Dream pulled a terry-cloth robe from a hanger and slipped it on, shuddering at the way it felt on her skin. Her conviction that something was enhancing her senses grew a little stronger. She drew the sash tight across her waist, cinched it, and returned to the room. She picked up the tray and carefully carried it out onto the balcony. She set the tray on a table and moved to the edge of the balcony, where she gripped the railing with both hands.

  Her voice was a breathy whisper. “Oh … my. …”

  The view was spectacular. She had a greater appreciation now for the distance she and her friends had traveled the night before. And she must have been too tired to have a real sense of the size of King’s house, which appeared to be perched atop some high point, perhaps at the very peak of a tall mountain. It hadn’t seemed that way on their approach last night, but she was beyond questioning these inversions of reality. The rear of the house stretched for what seemed like a mile in either direction. Dozens of gabled windows overlooked the same breathtaking panorama of mountains and greenery. She saw a lowlying cloud roll lethargically through the slash of land below.

  It was gorgeous.

  Heartbreakingly so.

  She felt weak in the knees, so she made herself go to the table and sit down. She settled into the wicker chair, picked up the still-warm cup of coffee, and sipped from it. Delicious, as she’d somehow known it would be. She set the cup down, reclined in the chair, and stared in rapt awe at the scenery.

  What would it be like to wake up to this every morning for the rest of her life?

  She sensed that King wanted that.

  She smiled at the memory of his fairy-tale analogies.

  Me, she thought. A queen.

  Imagine that.

  She sensed other things about King, as well. Things gleaned from the unique bonding of the out-of-body experience. Insights few humans could ever perceive. The most readily apparent thing was the change under way inside him. He maintained a convincing facade of menace, but she had a notion his heart wasn’t in it anymore. He’d reveled in his nature for centuries, glorying in sadism and cruelty, but wasn’t it possible even truly evil beings could grow bored with their existence?

  It wasn’t as if she’d read his mind. But these things had been easy enough to intuit. In the altered state of incorporeal consciousness, feelings and thoughts possessed something close to form and substance. Subtle permutations of light and color, hot and cold. She’d detected the strongest indications of his changing mood during their tour of the long-vanished underground society in England. This she’d discerned as a darkening of her perceptions, like a lens with a filter over it, and a chill that penetrated to the core of her disembodied essence.

  A strangely appealing possibility resonated in the wounded regions of Dream’s battered psyche. She recognized deep depression when she encountered it, and the concept of a depressed demon or spirit was intriguing.

  Well.

  More than intriguing.

  She sighed.

  She also found it romantic. Romantic, that is, in the manner of gothic dramas and Shakespearean tragedies. She had always had a weakness for the doomed figures in plays and fiction. They spoke to her in ways the characters in modern trifles could not. The writers of old seemed more keenly attuned to true suffering, and they’d evoked that quality in timeless, compelling ways. Her favorite had always been Hamlet, with its incomparably dark climax of blood, poison, and treachery.

  She had to remind herself that King was not Hamlet. It was tempting to fall prey to such an analogy. A leap like that would make reconciling her knowledge of King’s brutal deeds with her desire for him too easy. But King possessed none of the prince’s haunted nobility. Oh, he was handsome and suave, and his home dazzled you with its beauty, but the pretty picture was rife with imperfections.

  He was a killer.

  More than that, he was a sadist who killed for pleasure.

  And he did it on a grand scale.

  So, then, how would it feel to wake up to this sweeping vista of pastoral beauty every morning?

  But she knew the answer to that question, didn’t she?

  It would be akin to waking up one morning to find you’d suddenly become the devil’s concubine. A favored whore allowed to wallow in all of the world’s most sensual pleasures while all around you time’s doomed souls cried out in the eternal torment of molten hellfire.

  Unacceptable.

  No part of her could fathom being a willing part of an existence like that. It went against her pacifist instincts, which were deeply ingrained. She’d even felt a twinge of regret at the sight of Dan’s vandalized Beetle. She’d long ago stopped caring much about her own well-being, but she would not give tacit approval to acts of subjugation and brutality by co
nsenting to be King’s mistress. Her self-esteem had taken a lot of hits in recent years, some quite crippling, but most of her more admirable traits had remained intact.

  Her benevolence, for instance.

  And her compassion.

  Her basic goodness.

  She would die before allowing King to destroy whatever good was left in her.

  Hell, if things had gone as she’d originally planned, she wouldn’t be alive right now. Her brains would be splattered all over the walls of some hotel room. Dream shifted in the wicker chair, recrossed her legs, and shuddered. The image lingered in her mind, alluring, Technicolor vivid. She saw herself with the Glock jammed like a big black cock in her wide-open mouth, the back of her head a ragged, bloody mess. The vision filled her not with horror but a sense of long-sought peace finally attained. The ruined body she imagined was an empty vessel, no longer home to the tortured soul that had inhabited it for nearly thirty years.

  It astonished her that something so grisly could be so beautiful.

  But, to her, it was.

  She was still deep in contemplation of the image when she heard footsteps behind her. King stepped out onto the balcony. He flashed her a small, knowing smile. A lover’s smile. She couldn’t help returning it. And seeing those dark, soulful eyes did something to her, triggered a spreading warmth that made her tingle in all the sensitive places he’d so deftly pleasured the night before.

  Right here.

  Right now.

  Amazing. She could know all the things she knew about him, even the dimly sensed plans for her friends, unspeakably vile things, and still she desired him.

  He went to the railing, grasped it the way Dream had moments earlier, arched his head to the sky, and inhaled deeply of the clean mountain air. Dream’s gaze, saturated with bald erotic need, studied the impressive figure his body cut against the gorgeous scenery. He wore khaki trousers with the cuffs rolled up over bare ankles and feet and a white button-up shirt open over his muscled torso. His sleep-tousled hair stirred in the gentle breeze, and he ran a hand through it, brushing it back from his brow.