Never Fear - The Tarot: Do You Really Want To Know?

by Heather Graham

  His face was obscured by a handsome, but cruel-looking mask. The nose was perfectly formed, aristocratic, yet not overly aquiline. The eyes, deep cisterns of obsidian, lay between sharply defined cheekbones and a coldly noble forehead. The impression it gave as a whole was enticing and beautiful, yet frightening. One would not want to caress such a face for fear their fingers might be bitten off.

  It was not until Julian spoke a second time that I realized that the alluring but strangely off-putting construction was not a mask at all. It was his actual face. Then I saw what Julian had bound, spread-eagled, to one of the glossy, black painted, wooden frames on the stage. And the thought of what that visage of haughty cruelty might be capable of doing sent a frisson of erotic anticipation surging through me. My dick stiffened to bronze hardness.

  The captive was probably in his late twenties and though, in comparison, few could compete with the Magician’s physical beauty, the youth was certainly well built enough to grace advertisements in any number of fashion or physical fitness magazines. He was nude, of course, and his body gleamed with the greasy sweat of terror. When Julian removed his gag, he began to cry and beg. Gently, the Magician stroked his face, murmuring soothing words that were too low for the audience to hear. Gradually, the young man’s blubbering subsided, and once it was reduced to low whimpers, Julian removed a thin wand from where he’d concealed it inside his cape.

  For a moment, I thought he would use it to somehow free the prisoner from his shackles, perhaps tapping it to the restraints to elicit some dramatic explosion or flash of light. Apparently, the young man did too because his face was hopeful and he sobbed with relief.

  The Magician waved the wand and the tip began to glow. And when he touched it, just barely, to the man’s naked chest, the reaction was... impressive. His back arched and a high, keening wail tore from his throat. Every muscle contracted and his body began to shake. At the same time, all of the watchers leaned forward to get a better look, me included, and we all uttered a collective moan.

  Though it was the first time the Magician forced a scream from his victim, it was hardly the last. For close to an hour, Julian used wands and steel rings, lengths of knotted handkerchiefs, knives and fire on the young man’s helpless body, in ways that would have made Houdini writhe in his grave. The gaily painted boxes and cabinets were put to fiendish use. When the Magician sealed the youth inside one and thrust swords through it, there was no trickery involved; when he briefly set it aflame, we could clearly smell the boy’s crisping skin and sizzling fat. Nor did he ignore the more traditional implements of torture; he made sure to vary his act and, in one case, demonstrated a truly innovative use for fishing line and pliers, that even I at my most creative, hadn’t thought was possible.

  Eventually, when the young man’s shrieks faded into moans, and the moans subsided into faint whimpers of agony, Julian delivered his own version of the coup de grace. To share the details would be to profane the most sacred of mysteries. Know only that my memory holds each spurt of blood, each nugget of flesh, like a treasure.

  Nor was he the only victim. The night held increasingly agonizing fates for three others, all male, all attractive enough to quicken my interest. Every scream set my penis to pulsing. Each second of writhing and straining was seared into my memory. Throughout, I sat as awed as any saint in religious ecstacy, as emotionally devastated as if I were viewing the very greatest work of art. By the time the Magician reached the climax of his show, his torn and scarred victims decorated the stage, and it was a miracle that I had not climaxed myself.

  Oh! Those handsome faces twisted by more pain than the human body was designed to withstand. The sweet, buttery smell of charred skin when it rose in waves into the gallery of spectators. And the sounds? My god! The delicious, devastating screams as pieces of the men were ripped or sliced or sawed or seared away!

  To have it happen right before my eyes, was the most exhilarating experience of my life. But more than that, those few hours were even more holier to me, rendered even more sacred, because of the knowledge that... it was possible!

  How Julian got away with it was still a mystery to me. But he had! And if the rumors I’d heard during the preceding long months held even a scintilla of truth, he’d been getting away with it for a long time. There was no question in my mind that I had to meet him, no doubt that I had found a kindred soul at last, and if I were to be so blessed, perhaps even a mentor.

  After Julian took his final bow and the lights in the gallery came up, while the others were gathering their things to leave, I barely restrained myself from leaping over the railing and onto the stage. I shouldered roughly past the surprised ushers and bolted from the room. There had to be a way down to the performance area hidden somewhere, and beyond it to the dressing room or wherever the Magician was relaxing in what I imagined was very close to a post-coital bliss.

  When the two ushers caught me roaming the halls, I found they were a lot beefier than I’d thought. Though I struggled and pleaded, I couldn’t break their grip when they “escorted” me out of the building. I was horrified at myself; I though that my brashness had ruined everything, that I’d never be invited back. I wept at the thought.

  Just before they showed me the door, the one who had asked for my invitation smiled and whispered, barely loud enough for me to hear, “A man must earn the right to become the Magician’s apprentice.”

  I went back the next night. And the night after. The mail slot was blocked and no one answered my timid knocks. I tried pounding on the door but the hard steel bruised my hands and I risked passing out from the pain. I sank to the concrete outside the warehouse, weeping.

  Am I crazy? Insane? No. But having Julian dangle what I so desperately desired just out of my reach, drove me very close to the brink. Once my roiling emotions settled so that I was able to think clearly, I saw the solution to my problem. The usher had said I must “earn the right.” How to do that was obvious.

  I found the young man on Craigslist. I was pleasantly surprised by how easy it was to cover my traces, and how well all those empty years of plotting paid off. Just as I’d envisioned, I was able to mask my trail with a bulwark of phony email accounts and by logging in from computers at different libraries.

  The S&M clubs promote check-in calls and advise meeting in public for a reason. Some even advise bringing along a friend for safety’s sake. Nevertheless, it’s astonishing how shame can induce people to keep their darker sexuality a deep secret. Even better for my purposes, most young men assume they are immune, and that horrible things happen only to others.

  My first potential victim was gorgeous, but an idiot. He had no problem meeting in the parking lot of a shopping center that had closed for the night. He even allowed me to drive us both back to my house; it never occurred to him that he might be in danger, that it would be easier for me to clean my car than to dispose of his. He failed to notice how carefully I kept a watch to make sure no one saw us together.

  The experience was... sublime.

  Several hours into it, I began to regret having to kill him. No matter how he pleaded and promised not to tell anyone, I knew he lied. If I was foolish enough to let him go, there would be police and lawyers and proverbial peasants with torches to deal with. Unfortunately, the reality of body disposal was far more gruesome and inconvenient than I’d anticipated.

  For weeks afterward I masturbated to the memory of that night, to every slice, every burn, every scream and whimper. Once again I felt the rasp of his body hair against my tongue when I lapped away the perspiration, and relived my surprise when I discovered that blood tasted even more salty than sweat. Within a few months, my memories were no longer able to sustain me and I longed to do it again.

  I picked up a hitchhiker next. After that, I met a young man in a wooded area that was notorious for what happened in the bushes. One of the highlights for me was an ex-military lad who, it turned out, had undergone training in resisting torture. It did him little good.

/>   All the while, I’d arrogantly convinced myself that I could do without the Magician. How dare he snub me? He was a tease, no better than a whore who flaunts herself while sneering at a client who she knows could never afford her price. I was perfectly capable of satisfying my own desires with no help from him!

  And yet...

  Julian was truly a master of his art. My acts of sadism, though they satisfied me at first, were those of a talented amateur by comparison. Watching the Magician perform had opened up new vistas of human pain, exotic lands of agony that I had only aspired to explore. When Julian inspired me to act, I hadn’t realized that assuaging one forbidden desire, I would find that I needed even more.

  I returned to the warehouse, many times. Though I tried to convince myself that Julian could rot in hell for all I cared, I still wound up slumped against the steel door, my hands swollen with futile pounding. One night, casting all of my dignity aside, I shouted into the little door slot, begging to be let in with a fervor that was unmatched by any of my victims. No one answered.

  I was left feeling jilted and spurned. To compensate for my the rejection, I threw myself into my own endeavors. Several victims later, I began to suspect that I was out of control. The intervals between my little liaisons had grown dangerously short. And though I knew I needed to pay careful attention to misdirecting the authorities and erasing the evidence, very often I had barely dispatched one playmate before I was preoccupied by devising new torments for the next one.

  I grew impatient and rushed the clean-up. I no longer took the necessary time to be absolutely certain that there was no connection between me and my victims. I was careless.

  When I saw on the news that the first body parts had been discovered, I knew my time was limited. Always, my best hope of avoiding capture had been to avoid becoming a suspect in the first place. But if I’d overlooked any clues—and in my fevered haste to try out new things on a fresh subject, I was almost positive that I had—the police had all sorts of technology to lead them to me.

  The old terrors returned. I could not—not!—return to an existence of unfulfilled longing. My darkest imaginings could never come close to the rush I got from the real thing. I no longer merely craved the satisfaction of causing pain, I was addicted to it. Incarcerated, with no outlet for the pressure building within my soul, the deprivation would push me over the brink into true insanity.

  How did the Magician do it? How had Julian gotten away with it for so long? How had he managed to control himself, to hide his traces, to entice his victims, to find his audiences without risking exposure? I agonized over dozens of questions like these, but above all, I wanted to know why he had taken the trouble to lure me in, only to abandon me.

  In despair, I returned to the warehouse for what would be the last time. I was so depressed that it was some time before I realized that the door had been left ajar; even then, it failed to cheer me. I entered and wandered aimlessly through the halls. I sat in the gallery for awhile, listless, unable to spark any enthusiasm for life even though I had never lived as intensely as I had the last time I was in this exact same spot. Later, I plodded down a flight of stairs and trudged down an arched corridor, until, through no intention of mine, I found myself on the stage.

  The Magician awaited me, sitting in silent judgment.

  “What did I do wrong?” I asked.

  He shook his head and his stern expression melted into a smile. His arms swept through the air in a grand gesture and the temperature dropped, as if he had summoned the chill. The objects around me seemed clearer, with sharper edges. When I peered more closely, I saw the flickering outlines of people strapped to the tables, sealed into the cabinets, spun on the wheels.

  Unless I was horribly mistaken, they were the very same men I had witnessed tortured to death. As I watched, they became corporeal, as real as they had been during the performance.

  “But... but...” I stammered. Then, a groan welled up from the bottom of my soul as I understood, at last. “I am insane after all.”

  Julian’s rich, deep chucking echoed from the gallery. Had he been mocking me, I would have crumbled. But he was merely amused at my naiveté. He opened his arms, and willingly, I entered into his embrace.

  Julian claims that there is as much magic, as much art, in enduring agony, as there is in causing it. He claims that sadism leads to power. In time, he says, I will master the skill, and once I do, I will become his full apprentice. I’m not sure I believe him, but I have little choice. Until then, he insists I pay my dues. At every performance, I stare up at the gallery and try not to scream.

  But it hurts.

  Oh God, it hurts.

  3

  the high priestess

  michael A. stackpole

  Upright: Secrets, mystery,the future as yet unrevealed, silence, tenacity, wisdom, science

  Reversed: Passion, moral or physical ardor, conceit, surface knowledge

  She used only the barest of nods to indicate assent, but the men cranked the wooden winch furiously, acting as if she’d cracked a burning whip across their broad backs. The block and tackle suspended from the ceiling above the oubliette rocked and clattered. Thick cable groaned as it wrapped around the winch’s barrel.

  A man hung limply at the end of the rope, suspended from a chain linked to manacles. Fine, silver mesh gloves sheathed his long-fingered hands and forearms. Filth sheeted off his naked body. Though she had not ordered his keepers to divert a sewage flow through his prison, nor had she disciplined them when she’d learned what they’d done. He slowly spun over the hole, fetid liquid replete with unidentifiable chunks dripping slowly from his slender body.

  She flicked a finger. Two men splashed buckets of water over him, exposing pale flesh. The pallid hue suggested he’d dwelled years in darkness. A third bucket, this one aimed by her lover, Marcus, caught the prisoner in the face. His head snapped back, but he did not sputter nor seem to notice as a long lock of white hair plastered itself across cheek and nose. A moment later, as his sharp chin again rested on his chest, his eyelids flickered and opened.

  Yes, yes, it is you. The eyes, so dark one could be forgiven to think they were nothing but pupil, had the tiniest hints of reds, golds, greens and blues. It was as if the irises had been seeded with fragments of black opal—though she knew the flecks to be something else entirely, and the product of a process far more painful than grinding pulverized gemstones into his eyes.

  She allowed herself to feel pleasure, but only manifested it as the faint twitching at the left corner of her mouth. “It is good to see you again, my friend.”

  The hanging man simply closed his eyes.

  Marcus backhanded the man across his lean belly. “You will show Countess Dyre respect. Answer her.”

  The countess spitted her lover with an arctic stare. He withdrew a step and lowered his eyes. She looked again at the prisoner. “Despite your circumstances, I do yet consider you a friend. A fondly remembered friend. I would address you as befits you, but the last name I had for you is old.”

  The prisoner remained silent.

  She looked at Marcus again. “Clean him up, feed him, then bring him to my Temple chambers. Use the Penitent’s stairway. You have an hour.”

  *

  Marcus dragged the prisoner into her chambers by the chains securing his wrists. “Here you are, my lady. He is clean. He refused to eat. He drank, but complained about the wine.”

  She smiled easily, ensconced in an oaken throne within the stone-walled chamber. “You never were temperate, were you, Idris? I may yet call you that, may I? Idris Rake.”

  The man’s head came up. His white mane had been gathered into a ponytail and secured with a black ribbon. “As the Countess desires.”

  Marcus raised a hand, but Rake stopped him with a sidelong glance. “‘ware, fool. These silver gloves will come off eventually.”

  “Wouldn’t matter if you could work magic.”

  Rake looked back at her. “I had supposed you chos
e intellectual lovers by preference, Ariadne.”

  “You’ll address her as Countess Dyre or…”

  “Marcus, please, come here. Attend me.” Ariadne gestured toward Rake. “No need to be jealous. Idris and I were friends in days long past. He will not hurt you.”

  Rake smiled coldly. “Take no heart in her assurances, boy. I find you boring and I owe her for killings past.”

  She stroked a finger along the scar that played over the right side of Marcus’ cheekbone. “I never slew your lovers, Idris, just your apprentices. Well, except, perhaps, for that special young man. He was both, was he not?”

  “Deimos?” Rake shrugged. “I doubt I am here to satisfy your curiosity about someone centuries in the grave.”

  Ariadne laughed lightly, and Rake’s eyes slitted in reflex. “You are here precisely concerning someone in the grave for many years.” She rose from the wooden throne in a rustle of black satin, and crossed to the large door set in the room’s interior wall. “When I was your student, you said I shouldn’t waste my time pursuing a particular area of study. I think you will find my time was far from wasted.”

  She opened the door, stepping through onto a balcony thirty feet above the temple floor below. Far to the left, nearest the tall entrance, lay a rectangular pool of a dark liquid. The surface undulated, revealing no discernible hue and remaining utterly silent. Beyond it, filling the largely open center, tables and chair of uniform but utilitarian manufacture oriented themselves toward the altar on the right. Varicolored marble floor inlays depicted symbols odd and arcane, from astrology and alchemy through passages writ in alphabets ancient and powerful.

  As she gazed upon the altar, pride swelled her heart. Black stone, fitted and trimmed with gold; it had been styled after the stepped pyramids found everywhere from Babylon to the Americas. Beside it rose a tower of skulls, their empty eye sockets staring intently in all directions. From that pulpit she shared the wisdom of her Lord and Master; as well as dispensed orders to her most ardent congregants.