by Bryan Smith
Lazarus resumed speaking. “I do not promise an easy exodus. The tunnels will be an ordeal. The shapeshifters rule that realm, and the danger they present is considerable. Some of us will die on the path to freedom.”
He sighed.
His face was a study in solemnity.
“Friends, I ask you-are you willing to pay the ultimate price for the chance to be free again?”
The cheer this time was a roar of affirmation.
Lazarus, whose big voice critics had once ascribed god-like qualities to, bellowed loud enough to be heard above the crowd: “THEN FREE YOU SHALL BE!”
This time the crowd’s response was like a battle cry.
Fierce and determined, a voice of collective yearning.
Chad realized he was shaking again.
But it wasn’t fear causing the trembling.
It was battle fever.
The machete’s handle thrummed in his hand.
And then hands were on his back, urging him to the side of the stage-toward the stairs.
Toward the transport truck.
Toward, yes, destiny.
The Master emerged from the meditative trance he entered when he wanted to commune with the gods. For centuries this had been an effortless process, a thing he did with the unthinking ease of an opera maestro going through vocal warm-ups.
That had changed.
Oh, he could still enter the meditative state instantly, but what was different now was his relationship with the death spirits. Often they seemed reluctant to commune with him. There had been times in recent weeks when he’d feared they didn’t wish to communicate with him at all. He was afraid they were abandoning him, a possibility with ominous implications.
The gods were enamored of power. They fed on people, places, and things that were suffused with energy. The death spirits, his gods, loved dictators, the military-industrial complex, politicians, corporations bent on circumventing EPA rules, and the more prolific serial killers. They derived energy from the dark deeds of their hosts. He’d fed them well for most of a millennium. The swath of terror he’d cut through this world was impressive by any standard. His numbers didn’t quite match those produced by human genocides, but those were intensely concentrated outbursts of brutality that burned out after a few years. His strength was implacability, a steady slaughter maintained throughout the ages.
He was the death spirits’ most loyal servant.
And what was his reward?
Silence.
Hateful, maddening, terrifying silence. He alternately raged and despaired into the void as he beseeched the beings he’d once almost considered equals. Now they seemed unreachable. Uncaring. He knew the reason for their retreat, an awful truth he could no longer avoid. He’d been weakening for years. Perhaps even for decades. He had more than a hundred years remaining in his natural life cycle, but he suspected they would not be good years. The time left to him might well be a grim slide into senility and dementia. The illusions created by his power might morph beyond his ability to control, perhaps even become dangerous to him. The prospect of a descent into the indignity of advanced age and madness was more than he could bear.
These were the reasons the human woman’s dark invitation tempted him so. A premature ascendancy to paradise seemed infinitely preferable to a steady, sure decline on this wretched plane. It was the notion of time’s relentless progress-and the ravages it might wreak upon him-that decided him.
He wanted to die with Dream.
She was evolved so far beyond the rest of her race that he wondered whether she was really human at all. He theorized a sexual coupling between one of Dream’s long-ago ancestors and another of his own kind, a union resulting in a kind of human/Master hybrid. The important genes, the ones encoded with his kind’s power, remained dormant for reasons he couldn’t fathom. But there they lurked, awaiting discovery. No other possibility seemed feasible. He’d assumed genetic differences rendered conception between the species an impossibility, but he’d never put this to the test.
He tended to kill the women with whom he copulated.
He regretted that now.
He wished he’d met Dream-or at least a woman very much like Dream-hundreds of years earlier. A life spent in the company of such a creature would have been fascinating. He envisioned lost generations of babies. Human/Master babies. A family. A kingdom ruled by others of his own kind.
He grimaced at the cloak of melancholy that enveloped him.
He would have no family on this plane.
But he would have eternity with Dream.
He knew this because, after a silence of days, he’d finally established contact with one of the death spirits. Loth, one of the lesser death gods. It scarcely mattered that he was still being ignored by the supreme spirits of that realm. Any contact at all by this point was cause for rejoicing.
You wish to die? Loth asked him.
Yes.
And you expect passage to the plane of your choice?
Yes.
There was a pause as the god considered it.
You have served us well through time. We can do this for you. However, we desire a final sacrifice in exchange. Might you have something suitable in mind?
The Master didn’t hesitate.
The people of Below.
Loth, who resembled a bloated gargoyle in The Master’s mind, seemed almost to smile.
Why, yes, that is acceptable.
However, should you fail to deliver the banished people unto us, you will find yourself transported to a realm bearing no resemblance at all to the paradise you seek.
I will not fail.
And then Loth was gone.
The Master never sensed the rumble of revolution Below.
What remained of his powers was concentrated elsewhere.
And he had preparations to begin.
Alicia woke to pain like nothing she’d ever known. Her body was awash in it. Hundreds of little razor nicks dotted her flesh. That bitch had done this to her. That awful hag had done this unspeakable thing to her. Cutting and cutting her with the dispassionate manner of one slicing roast beef. And then pouring things into the wounds. Making her scream and thrash against her bonds. All while poor Karen was made to watch from the floor while that other apprentice stood over her with the gleaming broadax.
Karen.
Shit, she didn’t want to think about Karen.
But she was powerless against the hideous memories. They unreeled in her head like scenes from a depraved snuff film. She saw again what the shapeshifter did to her on the floor. Violating her. Then she saw what the broadax did. The blood. She saw that over and over.
Alicia cried.
The worst thing of all, the knowledge she wanted to somehow excise and cast forever out of her brain, was the memory of her own role in Karen’s death. That memory she just couldn’t abide. It made her want to die.
Which was ironic, since it was her own inability to endure pain and torture that had doomed her friend.
She saw Ms. Wickman’s leering face in her mind. Heard her asking, “Would you like a little more perfume in your wounds, dear?”
“NO!” A shriek.
“Just a little?”
“NO!”
“Not even to spare your friend a little pain?”
A long pause punctuated by her own whimpers.
Ms. Wickman tipped the little bottle toward one of the fresher razor nicks.
Alicia screamed.
A sound Ms. Wickman mocked.
She seized a handful of Alicia’s hair. “Answer me.”
Alicia was sobbing again by this point. “N-no …”
The utterance made her feel pitiful, pathetic, like a coward.
Ms. Wickman set the perfume bottle on the nightstand and retrieved the straight razor. She smiled as she unfolded it. “And this?” She held up the shiny, blood-flecked blade for Alicia to see. “Would you like another taste of this?”
Again, the same pathetic denial. “No.
”
Ms. Wickman clucked. “Not even to spare your friend?”
Alicia watched the madwoman twirl the blade, and she simply hadn’t been able to bear the thought of it piercing her flesh even one more time.
So, yet again, in a voice so small she could barely hear it, she said, “No.”
At which point Ms. Wickman got off the bed and took the broadax from the apprentice. She propped it over her shoulder and made sure Alicia was looking at her before she said, “This is the part of my work I really enjoy.”
Then she underwent a startling transformation. She snarled, her eyes bulged, and she hefted the broadax high above her head. She looked more like a savage beast than a human being. She brought the ax down in an arc that was straight and true.
And here, to taunt her again, was the result of that blow.
Karen’s blood-spackled face was her first sight upon awakening. Her friend’s head was on a tray propped on a folding stand next to the bed. The Asian girl’s once gorgeous long hair was sticky with coagulated blood. The vision filled Alicia with shame and grief beyond measure. Hot tears spilled down her face and moistened the dried blood on her pillow.
I did that, she thought.
I killed my friend.
There was no denying it.
She was a monster.
She didn’t deserve to fucking live.
Almost as if sensing her thoughts, Ms. Wickman opened the bedroom door and stepped into the room. Alicia looked at the gun in the woman’s hand with something close to relief. She prayed for a bullet to the brain. For a quick, violent, explosive end to this orgy of terror and loss.
Ms. Wickman smiled at her and set the gun on a bookshelf, then she came to the bed and picked up the straight razor. White teeth sparkled through grinning lips as she said, “I want you to know I’ve enjoyed our time together. I’ve had such great fun.”
Alicia managed a weak “Fuck you.”
The awful woman laughed.
Then she moved to the foot of the bed and slashed through the bonds at Alicia’s feet.
The howls of the shapeshifters grew louder and more frenzied as the convoy of transport trucks wended its way through the dark tunnels. The truck Chad was in was bringing up the rear. He sat on a bench with Lazarus and Jack Paradise in the vehicle’s rear compartment. The opposite bench was filled with guards stripped of their visorhelmets. Jake Barnes was riding up front with the driver. The old man was in communication with the driver of the lead vehicle via walkie-talkie, and he occasionally fed them updates through the small window at the back of the cab.
“The kid’s telling me there’s still no sign of the beasties,” the old man said. The “kid” in question was Todd Haynes, who was at the wheel of the lead vehicle. “He thinks maybe they’re in retreat.”
Chad shook his head. “Wishful thinking.”
Paradise said, “Yeah, they’re louder. Retreat, my ass.”
Chad sighed. “Yeah.”
They would not pass through this dark maze of horrors without first having to survive a brutal, decimating clash of some sort. Chad clutched the machete tighter in his hand, felt its unnatural power suffuse him, and somehow knew he would be safe as long as he possessed this weapon. Nobody had to tell him he’d been given this particular weapon for a reason. He suspected he was meant to use the long, curved blade on the being they called The Master. The suspicion exacerbated the hot lump of fear that sat inside him like the melting core of a destabilized nuclear reactor, making him sweat and twitch.
Jack Paradise nudged Chad with an elbow. “How’re you holding up?”
Chad shrugged. “Given the likelihood of dying in a few minutes, about as well as possible, I guess.”
The set of the ex-soldier’s features was grim. “Hey, Chad, I won’t lie to you. A lot of our people are about to die. The guys ahead of us will take the brunt of the assault and most of the casualties, and they volunteered for that duty. They’re gonna make sure we get you where you have to be.”
Chad sighed.
Another flicker of guilt twisted his insides.
And the howls of the shapeshifters grew louder still.
Dream stood again at the balcony railing, her face turned into a breeze that made her blond hair swirl about her head. The cool air felt good on her body, which was clothed only in a flimsy blue nightgown. The sheer material of the garment felt good, too, like a ghost lover’s wispy embrace. She ran her hands through her hair, sniffed air redolent of rain, and watched the last of the day’s light yield to night’s inexorable descent. Russet hues gave way to charcoal gray, then, finally the black canopy of night. The beauty of the progression made her shiver, and she wrapped her arms tight about her bosom. Her breath caught in her throat and tears welled in her eyes.
She’d just watched the last sunset of her life.
With a last shiver of regret, she turned away from the dark vista of the valley below and returned to the bedroom. King stood shirtless at the fireplace, his back turned to her as he stared at the dancing flames. She approached him and laid a hand between his shoulder blades. He turned into her embrace, wrapped his strong arms around her, and held her close.
“I love you, Dream.”
She felt the erection pushing against his trousers.
“I love you, too.”
But the words were like a blasphemy in her throat.
She was pledging love to a murderer. To a monster. She didn’t love this vile creature. She hated the goddamn thing. Her harrowing trip through the hallway and the humiliating encounter with Ms. Wickman had brought that reality home with a clarity no amount of sex magic could ever obscure.
But her hatred of him was irrelevant. She’d failed her friends, dooming them with her acquiescence to King’s desires. She couldn’t help them now. But she could honor their memory by making sure the same thing never again happened to anyone else. She wasn’t worried about Ms. Wickman or any of King’s other apprentices, sensing they would flounder without their Master around to guide and control them.
She reached into King’s trousers and curled her fingers around his cock, making him groan. She curled a leg around him and laid her head on his chest. His warm body felt good against her, comfortable and safe, a haven from life’s tribulations. She couldn’t imagine a more bitter irony. Despite the revulsion she felt for him, she began to feel aroused.
But that was okay.
She even welcomed it.
She would use sex the way he used it, as a method of control and manipulation. She would ravish him, make him feel so much pleasure he wouldn’t sense her deception until the moment of his death. She kissed him, tasting his tongue, biting his lip, and raking the hard flesh of his back with her nails. She pushed his trousers down and urged him to the floor, where he went without hesitation, lying flat on his back with his penis pointing up at her.
She smiled.
Lifted the hem of her nightgown.
And took control.
For a while.
Eddie’s eyes snapped open as he awoke from another startling dream.
Another dream that maybe wasn’t a dream at all. His eyes sought Giselle, who was sitting at the writing table.
His throat felt tight. “They’re coming,” he rasped. She smiled. “I know.”
The transport truck slammed to a halt, dislodging some of the rear compartment’s occupants from their seats. Chad felt a sense of deja vu as he pitched forward. The machete was jolted from his hand, clattering toward the end of the compartment. He scrambled after the weapon, closed a hand around its handle, and panted.
“What the fuck?”
The voice of Jack Paradise. Panicked, straining at a wirethin edge of tension. It was disconcerting to know that even a man as imposing and stolid as Paradise could experience such terror. Then again, terror was the only rational reaction to what they were hearing.
The howls of before had given way to growls and screams. And tearing sounds. Chad imagined lupine teeth shredding human flesh. He w
as shaking, his nuts were shriveling, and there was absolutely not a goddamn thing he could do to temper the terror that threatened to swallow him. The sound track of savage slaughter grew more dissonant, a rising crescendo of agony and fear. He wanted out of this truck, wanted to find some dark corner into which he could crawl and hide, then a hand seized the back of his shirt and yanked him to his feet.
He turned to stare into the blazing eyes of Jack Paradise.
“Out of the truck, boys and girls.” He pushed Chad toward the rear of the truck. “We’re on foot from this point on.”
So Chad went, leaping from the truck to the ground, managing to remain upright via some minor miracle. Paradise was next. Then Lazarus. Then the guards streamed out of the truck and took up defensive positions to either side of the vehicle. Lazarus produced a handgun from his waistband and joined them. There was a frozen moment of stillness, during which the surreal nature of the situation caused Chad to believe he was imagining all this. He glanced in the direction from which they’d come, knowing that somewhere back there was a rear guard of banished people making their way on foot through the tunnels, most of them armed only with sticks and knives. If the advance unit failed to overwhelm the howling monstrosities, those people were fucked.
Then the first shotgun blast roared in his ears.
The guards moved deeper into the tunnel, discharging their weapons at a furious rate, and now the tunnels reverberated with the sound of feral agony.
Paradise’s hand was at Chad’s back again.
But he needed no prompting now.
There was really no choice anymore.
He hefted the machete and went after the guards.
Dream screamed and fell against the huge bed.
The Master came up behind her, seized a handful of her hair, yanked her head back, and entered her. The position he’d conquered her with last night. But this experience had none of that encounter’s intoxicating erotic power. There was no subtlety. No gradual increase of ecstasy. This was pure, desperate frenzy, the act of a once-proud creature on the brink of losing control.
