“What’s there to understand? From the sound of it, you were the only leader. They gave up when you did.”
“That was their choice.”
“I can’t believe your hypocrisy!”
“What did you say?” The priest’s brow furrowed with anger. He leaned forward and slammed down his coffee cup.
“Listen to yourself! You talk about how great it would have been to be a spiritual leader. Then, when it gets to be too much for you, you back down! If you’re a leader, then lead, damn it!”
Mike swung in his chair, turning his back on Tim. “It’s too late for that now.”
“Too late? You’re still sitting here, aren’t you? Who else is out there waiting for you to take up the leadership role again?”
“I’m too old. It’s just too damned late. We’ve lost.”
Tim stood up sharply, sending his chair skittering back across the floor. “Not for me it isn’t! If you want to sit here and rot, fine. Just tell me how to get out of here and I’ll get on with my life. Hell, maybe I’ll get some of these people out of here!”
The priest chuckled.
“What’s so funny?”
“I told you before, you don’t understand.” He spun back around. “These witches have total control over most of the men in town. Why else would they be sticking around?”
“How do you mean?”
“They’re witches, remember? They use their magic.”
Tim sat back in his chair. “Look, witches and Satanism in practice is one thing. Surely you’re not suggesting they have actual power?”
Mike nodded soberly. “As sure as there is life in my body, those women are practicing some bad magic, son. We’ve seen it often enough in these past few years to acknowledge its existence.”
“What about you, then? If you’ve been fighting them can’t you whip something up?”
The priest laughed. “I’m a mortal servant of God, Tim. And according to the Bible, magic is forbidden. I don’t have any more magical power than you do. Only my faith has carried me this far. Whether their power comes from Satan or Christ or some force of nature is irrelevant. The witches’ power is beyond prayer.”
Tim leaned forward onto his knees, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Don’t take it lightly. Some of us had to take steps to keep out of their control.” He paused and his eyes wandered over his desk for a moment. At last he took a deep breath and continued. “You see, one of their spells or rituals, or whatever, allows them to exert some limited control over the victim. I don’t know that they can control your actions from a distance, but they can influence your thoughts and emotions slightly. That’s why most of the men you will meet are like sheep. I think they can also inflict a degree of pain, like a voodoo doll.”
A grim realization dawned on Tim. “How do these spells work?”
“They used blood for a while. But they soon realized semen was far more powerful. And what man can resist the temptations of women? Especially their wives? Believe me, my vow of celibacy was challenged many times. Some of us took the next step, including Tanner. We…underwent voluntary castration. We knew only eunuchs would be impervious to their charms.”
Tim paled. His stomach churned. He considered the woman in the motel room, her mouth stroking him to ejaculation. Could she have been…collecting? Then he pictured himself in the bathroom with a straight razor, his balls draped over the edge of the sink. Feeling faint, pressing his face into his palms. Tears of fear, panic, and distress filled his eyes.
“Son, surely you haven’t…”
His implication was clear. Tim, in the simplest terms possible, told the priest what happened in the motel room.
“Dear Lord,” the priest muttered.
“What do I do?” His tears began to flow freely.
Mike reached forward and took Tim’s hand. He squeezed it reassuringly. “Get some rest for now. There’s nothing you can do tonight anyway. Tomorrow we’ll work it out. Until we do, though, you need to steer clear of all the women in this town. In fact, I would stay away from the men as well. It’s tough to tell which ones are the loyal ones and which are not.”
Tim nodded, wiping away the tears. He felt foolish as he struggled to regain his composure. “Is it possible to get out of here at all?”
“It’s happened a few times. A few families I managed to save are the ones who keep me fed.”
Tim felt a bit reassured. If families could get out, would they really miss one man?
“However,” he continued, “nobody’s gotten out for a couple of years. We’ve found the bodies of those that tried up in the pass, practically torn to pieces. We don’t know what did it, and the witches haven’t said a word.”
“Shit,” Tim muttered.
Mike opened a drawer and shuffled through his desk.
“What are you looking for?”
“My gun,” he replied.
“I took it from you. It’s upstairs.”
The priest removed a thin yellow box and tossed it to Tim. It was heavy with bullets. “Hang onto it. And those. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Tim nodded. He left the room and started up the stairs.
“Tim,” the priest called.
He paused on the sixth step, listening.
“I’m sorry if it seems like I gave up on my friends. I won’t allow the same to happen to you.”
Tim didn’t reply. He continued up the steps and into his bedroom. The revolver waited for him on the bed. He sat down and picked it up, hefted it idly. He hoped he would never have occasion to use it, but he replaced the spent cartridge just in case. Satisfied, he undressed and draped his jeans over the headboard. He dropped the revolver into one of the pockets where it would be in easy reach in the middle of the night.
Finally he crawled into bed and tried to force himself to fall asleep. He had a tough time of it, and spent a good portion of an hour staring at the ceiling.
* * *
Alexandra steered the sleek Camaro along a rough dirt and gravel trail winding through the wooded area on the west side of town. She came to a pair of trees that grew together into a makeshift arch and turned beneath them. In the glade beyond she killed the engine and headlights. The clear sky allowed the pale light of the waning moon to reduce the clearing to shades of silver and gray.
On the opposite side of the clearing rested the small, open air temple the witches erected years ago. A small altar sat in the center, carved from marble. All along its weather-smoothed surface they carved all manner of flora and fauna, common and rare, live and fabled. Barely visible in the grooves and shadows were stains of blood, wine, and more. A large dais loomed beyond the altar, etched into its surface a calendar of occult and astrological events. Twin statues flanked the altar, both modeled after nude men, their muscular arms held high to support iron braziers.
Alexandra stepped out of the car and sat down on the hood to wait. Sebastian would no doubt be along momentarily.
While she waited, she reached out with her mind to contact Gretchen and the twins. “Where is he now?” she asked.
The answer came a moment later. “He is in the rectory with the priest. They spent some time in the office talking. Wilder’s since gone upstairs, but the light is still on in the office.”
“What did they talk about?”
“Unknown.”
Alexandra nodded to herself. She knew from the bartender that Wilder met with that old thorn in their side, Bob Tanner. He told Wilder something of their presence. It was inevitable, of course, just sooner than she preferred. She looked forward to stringing the young man along. “Bob Tanner told Wilder about us. We can only assume he’s confronted the priest.”
“Tanner? That old son of a bitch. We warned him.”
“I’ve already taken care of that. I think the priest’s usefulness is at an end.” She fell the elation from Gretchen and the twins. Alexandra knew they had been looking forward to this day for a long time.
“And what of the newcomer?
” Cassandra asked.
“Deal with him as you wish.”
She heard a faint rustling beyond the temple and broke contact. She rose to her feet and tossed her hair, spreading it across her shoulders. Sebastian was here.
Father Mike listened to Tim’s footsteps on the hard wood floors upstairs until they ceased. He sat in silence for an indeterminate amount of time, then rose and retrieved the now full pot of coffee to bring to his desk. He drank rapidly, allowing the caffeine to slave back his alcohol-induced bleariness. He stared at nothing, idly swirling the coffee around the cup. He considered the conversation he just had with Tim, and his earlier conversation with Gus.
Had he truly abandoned these people?
He was getting old. What did they expect? His arthritis gave him a hard time fighting stairs, much less witches. Hell, in one instance years ago, even his gun proved useless. He figured only luck kept him alive.
He could not bring himself to tell Tim he felt they lost their little battle years ago, before Tanner and the others even began to think he gave up. The women ran everything. They owned a piece of every man in town, with the exception of a select few, which lacked the strength to do anything about it.
Yes, they lost.
Tim still has a chance.
The depths of his selfishness and ignorance struck home hard. Tim was a stranger to town, an unwitting victim of the witches. Within the first few hours they got their claws into him. It should have been obvious. Alexandra and her little gang of whores seemed to sniff out and conquer anything producing testosterone within fifty miles. And he never even warned the man. Instead, he denied the reality, the possibilities, thinking he could protect Tim. Thinking his church would be great again.
What did he expect? That God would take care of it for him? That He would send down an army of angels and cleanse the evil? Tierney always considered himself a very spiritual person of unshakeable faith, even in his youth. But he knew better than to expect God to intercede into the atrocities of man. Especially after what he went through in ’Nam.
The memories, both of then and now, washed over him and filled him with disgust with himself. He slammed back the remainder of the coffee, swallowing also the urge to burst into tears. So much for unshakeable faith. He failed to prevent the damnation of an entire town of people.
He would be damned before he let them have another.
He went over to the liquor cabinet and removed the last two bottles of brandy. He then carried them into the bathroom, pulled the caps off one at a time with his teeth, and upturned them over the toilet. The twin streams of gold liquid looked like nothing so much as urine, and he chuckled at the idea of being addicted to piss. Once the bottles emptied he hurled one into the trash can. The other followed, both shattering to pieces upon impact. He then went back to his chair and sat down. He leaned his elbow on the armrest, his chin in turn resting on his palm. He began to consider how to get Timothy out of this mess.
A knock at the door startled him. A sheen of cold sweat coated his face and neck as a chill ran down his spine. Please, not now. It was too soon.
He rose slowly and a second knock came, rapid and impatient.
He stood before the door, wondering if they would go away if he didn’t answer. The third knock gave way to pounding.
“Open the door, old man,” a woman’s voice said calmly. “Make it easier for us, and we’ll make it easier on you.”
With a resolute sigh, he decided to play along. He released the deadbolt and unlocked the door. He then walked back into the office. They only gave him a span of a few heartbeats to open the door before they tried the handle themselves. As he sat back down he heard the hinges squeak as they entered. Their footsteps clattered on the wood-paneled floor. He turned his chair toward them.
Gretchen, her red curls framing her plump face, stepped up to his desk. She wore a plain black t-shirt and tight black denim jeans that served to show off her (so she thought) sensual plumpness. The blonde twins stood on either side of her, their height dwarfing their companion. True identical twins, Cassandra could only be distinguished from Genevieve by a small, pale vertical scar on her lower lip. The priest put it there for that exact purpose ten years ago. They wore white shirts under thin, brown leather jackets. The thick-soled shoes they wore added to their already considerable height.
“So this is what it has come to, eh?” he asked them. His resignation to the inevitable prevented the fear from showing in his voice.
“And about time, too,” Gretchen responded. She draped one thigh on the front edge of the desk, leaning forward on one hand.
Mike leaned forward, his face close to hers. “Just get it over with, witch.”
She pulled a dagger from a sheath at her back, striking faster than the priest’s eye could follow. The point pushed easily through Mike’s left hand and bit deep into the surface of the desk, effectively nailing it there. He cried out sharply, but only for an instant before Gretchen’s left hand clamped tightly over his mouth.
“In due time,” she replied acidly. She turned to the twins and nodded sharply. Without responding they kicked off their shoes and moved up the stairs. Their bare feet made hardly a whisper on the wooden steps.
Gasping at the intensity of the pain, Mike snatched at the handle of the dagger.
“Ah ah!” Gretchen admonished him, hopping to her feet and taking hold of the priest’s free hand. She twisted it back upon his wrist viciously, producing another sharp outcry. “And be silent!” Again, she slapped a hand over his face, this time muttering something under her breath. He could not make out the words but assumed she put a spell of some kind on him. When she removed her hand he could not speak, or even open his mouth.
She released his wrist and moved around the side of the desk. “I’m going to enjoy killing you. But first, you’re going to watch us kill your young friend.” She kicked the chair back, the motion causing the edge of the dagger to bite into Mike’s hand. He tried hard to scream as she pushed herself up onto the desk to sit on the ink blotter beside the pool of blood spreading from his impaled hand, but the sound simply would not come.
He pulled himself closer to the desk, enduring the discomfort he felt sitting between her knees to relieve the pressure on the dagger. He glared at her, the sweat of pain and panic pouring over his brow. He hoped desperately that Tim heard them come in and was ready for them. With any luck he would put a bullet in each of the twins’ heads, then come down and finish off Gretchen.
Gretchen pushed a heavy foot into the priest’s groin. “It’s too bad you mutilated yourself. Maybe we could have had some fun before I killed you,” she said seductively. She reached over and stroked his cheek with a giggle.
He turned his face in disgust. The lamp bulb, peeking out beneath the hood of the lamp, shined in his eyes. Inspiration struck. He lunged forward, butting his forehead into Gretchen’s nose. With his left hand, he grasped the desk lamp by the neck and hurled it across the room. The power cord snapped taut, but the lamp continued to swing on its arc and connect with his target. It smashed into the glass doors of the liquor cabinet, shattering the panes with a tremendous crash followed by loud tinkling. If that didn’t wake Tim, nothing would.
Furious, blood flowing heavily from her nose, Gretchen kicked the priest across the face. She then ripped the dagger free and pounced on him, knocking him out of his chair and to the floor.
* * *
Tim only slept for a few moments before the pounding at the door roused him. He sat up quietly, listening intently. He heard footsteps in the downstairs hall. He dreaded the visitors that dared to come calling in the middle of the night in this town. For a moment silence fell over the house.
Then Mike cried out sharply.
Tim leapt out of bed and started to get dressed. The weight of the revolver in his pocket pleasantly reassured him. He opened the box of bullets and spilled them onto the bed. He snatched a double handful and stuffed them into his pockets. He just finished tying his boot laces whe
n he heard a creak down the hall. Thank God for loose floor panels he thought, stepping carefully across the room. He drew his pistol and stood behind the door.
He cocked an ear toward the hall and listening intently for any sound that would give away their presence. He heard a faint rustle just outside the door, and the door handle twisted silently. Slowly, quietly, the door swung inward. His heart pounded furiously as he gripped the pistol tightly. His Finger snaked its way around the trigger.
Seconds passed and nothing happened. He looked critically at the bed and saw nothing to indicate he came back from the bar this evening. He wore all his clothes, and though the sheets looked rumpled, the hard pillow showed no sign of an occupant. The folds in the sheets concealed the remaining bullets.
The door did not close, but soft footfalls in the hall told him the intruder(s?) moved away from the door. He peeked through the gap between the door and frame and saw two tall figures moving down the hall.
He heard a second cry from the priest downstairs, followed by a brief, hushed conversation in the hallway. As stealthily as possible, Tim moved around the door and stepped to the edge of the threshold. His palms went slick with sweat as he considered shooting the intruders. He never shot anyone before, of course, and always assumed it was a simple point-and-shoot deal. However, now that he faced having to do it for real, he found he could not.
He didn’t know for sure they were here to kill him, common sense made it a safe bet. Ultimately he decided when the women reached the last door, he would run down the steps and out the front door. If caught, he would shoot. He could come back for Mike later.
Provided, that is, that the priest lived through the ordeal.
He heard them open and close the linen closet down the hall and move on. Tim’s muscles tensed. Sweat tickled his forehead. His trigger finger began to ache.
A woman’s voice, her words inaudible, floated up the stairs.
A loud crash downstairs startled him half out of his wits.
“Shit!” one of the women down the hall cursed. He heard the sound of the two last doors being roughly thrown open, one after another.
Spurring himself to action, he lunged for the stairs and descended rapidly in a controlled fall. His boots made a lot of noise, but he didn’t care. The curses of the women followed him down. He didn’t dare look over his shoulder as he wrestled the door open and burst out onto the porch. He leapt down the steps and sprinted away to the left, around the corner of the house and toward the remains of the rectory.
Deadliest of the Species Page 10
