She looked over her shoulder toward her house. “Well, there’s no stopping now. I’m in it for whatever is in store. I’ve got to know if she is a zombie or if she is actually alive. This means I’ll need to find a way to get close enough to check. I don’t have any of my equipment, though. Shit. What was I thinking not bringing at least a few things with me?” She thought about it a bit. The skin. The slime on the skin and the unmistakable stench of decay, she had to be dead. Didn’t she?
She sat down in the middle of her driveway, dropped the recorder in the dirt next to her, forgetting to turn it off and put her head in her hands. Her hair fell across her face, obscuring her grief. “Libitina! What is wrong with you? Why are you always such a fuck up? Is that the best you can do? You fuck everything up. Everything! Here’s your one shot at fulfilling your dream and you…” She sighed and then continued. “Just fuck it up. Every time.”
Cerberus circled her, wrapping her in the leash like a hug. Tears spilled from her blue eyes. She dashed them away, took a deep breath, and stood back up. After untangling herself from the leash, she said to nobody but herself, “Okay, get it together.” She scooped up the recorder and flicked it off. “You’ve got a great start, so just observe. That’s what you can do. I mean, it’s not like you can take tissue samples or anything.”
She continued following. “Maybe later you can find some supplies, but for now, just keep your distance and observe.” She realized she’d been babbling to herself, a habit she’d gotten into over the last few years living on her own. That’s why she’d gotten the dog, so that it wouldn’t feel so strange speaking out loud to no one. At least with Cerberus, she could pretend he was listening.
She pretended to smile. “That’s what we’ll do, baby,” she said to Cerberus. “We’ll just follow the scary lady and see where she goes and what she does. That should be enough for now.” After a few moments, the smiling facade began to look more natural. This just might work.
* * *
Camilla sobbed as she walked naked down the dirt road, paying no attention to the blood running down her legs, leaving red footprints in her wake. Her body shuddered with each breath, each labored step. Her limp arms hung at her sides, smacking against her legs. The last thing she remembered was going into the hospital for help. She needed help. And here she was, naked and alone. And someone was following her. She could feel it, could hear the person back there. Was it the same person who had kidnapped her or did it even matter? People might not stop for a beat up woman with no clothes on… well, there was obviously something wrong there, something that offended the laws of nature and would need to be addressed.
She had no idea where she was or where she wanted to go. She needed medical attention. She needed clothes. She needed to get away from whoever was following her.
The trees swayed in the wind. Her hair clung to her head, smoothing out around her face. “Help,” she moaned. “Someone, help me.” She looked around and could almost see the stillness permeating the air.
A twig snapped behind her. She stopped, turned slowly, saw the faintest glimpse of red that vanished behind some bushes. She widened her eyes, turned, and walked faster. The blood, cold and slippery between her thighs, continued its unending flow.
She cried but no tears fell. Her skin felt tingly and warm as if her entire body had gone to sleep. As she stumbled along the dirt path, she stole glances over her shoulder, into the trees, trying to see her follower without being noticed. Though she felt warm, her flesh was cold to the touch, growing slightly rigid, making it more and more difficult for her to continue.
“Help,” she cried, almost inaudible. “Help me, please. Help me.” This went on as she meandered along. Her blood was crusting in the dry places and clumping in the wet ones. She felt between her legs again, bringing her red fingers into view. Why was she still bleeding? She looked down at the crimson footprints stretching out behind her and saw a small dog fly backwards into some brush.
“Fuck.” The word came out in a whimper. “I’m an artist,” she insisted. “I’m supposed to be in San Francisco dammit!” Her voice rose in a high whine. She cringed at the sound, hands clenched at her sides. Then she sighed and muttered under her breath, “I’m not supposed to be here, wherever the fuck here is.” She thought about the art school she’d applied to, the school that told her to come on down, ‘be an artist, we think you’ve got talent, kid’. And then the cop had pulled her over, had asked her to step out of her car… she didn’t want to remember.
“Shit.” She continued on, eventually coming to a road with mailboxes lined up across from a driveway. She looked left. The road disappeared into the trees going uphill. She looked right. The road disappeared into the trees going downhill. She turned right, downhill being the easier path, and shuffled along, looking back up the graveled country road from which she’d just emerged.
A redheaded woman stood off to the side, staring with a shocked expression. She had the little black dog on a leash. Her followers. Just a couple of gawkers it seemed. But why the hell didn’t the redhead help? And if she was the one who’d brought her here, why didn’t she come and get her back? Nothing made sense. Camilla looked down at herself and continued around the corner, not waiting to see if the girl would dart into the bushes again. She ran her hands over her naked body and chuckled, a mirthless sound in the early morning.
Her follower was afraid. Camilla hated the mess her body was in. She hated the bruises that didn’t hurt, the blood that wouldn’t stop flowing. She no longer cared about the woman and her squeak toy masquerading as a pet. If she was going to do something, she would have done it already.
* * *
Aludra heard sobs and cries for help. She pulled the shirt from her face and blinked in the dim lighting, still far too bright for nightly vision. Once she was able to see without her eyes feeling like they would throb out of her skull, she sat up and poked her head through the dry prickly bushes.
She looked up and down the road for the source of the sound. She remembered the road-man and smiled, an image of his disheveled angry spirit flitting through her mind. Her stomach growled. She picked up her bag and rummaged through it, pulling out some type of pressed-bar food. She nibbled the morsel, continuing to look back and forth, down the road. Would there be another road-man?
She felt the spirit she hunted, the one who would bring the two worlds together, and grew alert, all of her focus in the spirit’s direction. Rubbing her hands together, swirling her tongue over her lips, she bounced into a crouched position, almost too excited to remain concealed.
“Soon,” she whispered through her grin.
As if materializing from the trees, a bloody and bruised woman with short, black hair appeared. Aludra stared at the spiky-haired girl. Her naked flesh seemed to glow in the early morning light.
“She’s beautiful,” Aludra whispered to herself. And more so because of the spirit, she thought. The girl lurched along as if it was difficult to move. “I’ll have you soon enough,” she whispered, waving her finger toward the meandering apparition. “In a few days, you’ll be mine.”
Aludra watched the naked woman walk downhill, waiting until she was a safe enough distance to follow. Just as she was ready to move, however, another girl emerged from the same path, a redhead with some small black animal on a rope.
“Oooh,” she said in a soft, high voice like a child’s sing song. “A new toy.” The girl seemed timid, too alert. She follows the spirit too, she thought. She must be the other one the High Priestess told me about… the third. “This is going to be fun,” she snickered, showing all her teeth with her fingers playing on her chin. “You’ll be mine, too.”
Once the pretty redhead went downhill a bit, Aludra followed, not too concerned with staying close since wherever the spirit went, she could follow. The pull was too strong to lose now. Before she’d been afraid she wouldn’t feel the right connection but now, it seemed everything would turn out well. Time was running short. She needed to capture t
he spirit, but she desired again to taste the elation she felt while throttling the road-man and cutting the Outside Woman’s neck. She felt a pull to this human, something stronger than the pull to Rory and couldn’t resist the urge to feel death. She followed the redhead while the redhead followed the spirit.
After a while she veered off course, heading towards other pleasures, always checking on her prey with her mind and body, feeling for the wandering spirit. She had to feel again, needed the elation in a way she couldn’t describe or understand. The need for slick blood on her fingertips—blood other than her own—was strong. Her stomach knotted just thinking about never having that again.
In the back of her mind she knew it was undisciplined, knew she’d be sent to the rope room for her detour, but she’d pay that price when she got back to the manor. She knew it would be painful, more torturous than she could bear. But then, maybe the High Priestess wouldn’t find out.
Who was she fooling? She knew they could see all.
As she fought with herself, she continued, blindly pulled to the human flesh. She just wanted to play one more time. And then she’d be good. She would be oh, so good.
* * *
The High Priestess paced, confined in the small room. Her long robes brushed the floor, and her hood hid her face. She appeared draped in blood. The room was furnished with nothing more than folded blankets in one corner and a hook on the wall next to the door. Alone, she clicked her fingernails in front of her, hands shaking. Three steps, turn, three steps, turn, three steps… She stopped, sighed, forced her hands down to her sides and straightened her back. He was here. She could feel it.
The door opened behind her and in stepped the High Priest, a looming man recognizable because of his midnight-blue robes. A silver amethyst amulet hung around his neck. The High Priestess turned to face him, pulling her hood back as she did so. He opened his hood in response.
Her facial features were much like his, her white hair as thick and long. Their eyes were the same shape, but the colors differed. Hers were deep gray, flashing like an ocean storm. She glanced away from the High Priest, swallowed, and then looked back after steadying herself. His pupils were like peppercorns in snow and they bored into her.
“You wanted to see me, Father?” She tried not to swallow again but didn’t succeed.
“You harbor doubt in your heart and mind.”
She moved as if to take a step back, but then stilled. “No. I don’t doubt.” Her strong voice rose an octave.
“I hear it in your voice.” His smile revealed pointed, straight teeth, as white as his hair and eyes.
“I am concerned. I don’t doubt.” Aludra wasn’t being drawn to Rory as it had been foretold and Rory wasn’t being drawn to her. The child strayed, distracted by fleshly pleasures. She could feel it. If she continued on this path, all they’d been working toward would be lost.
“Why do you lie? You know what happens with deceit. Concern is the same as doubt. You will go to the rope room when we are through here.”
“But that’s for children…” she whined. She hadn’t been to the rope room since she was a little girl.
“And you are sounding just as petulant. Lying, and now arguing.” He spoke in a calm voice which was somehow worse than if he’d yelled. “I think three turns ought to sufficiently reacquaint you with your lessons. Apparently it’s been too long. I’ve been too lenient.” His white eyes glistened with pleasure in the dim light.
The High Priestess hung her head, hair obscuring her pout.
“Do not sulk or I will make it four turns.”
“Yes, Father,” she said and looked directly at him, hatred burning in her heart as she strained to maintain a calm façade, to keep the anger from showing. Three turns would be bad enough. She couldn’t endure four. Some had died after four.
“Aludra was born for this purpose alone. Aludra will draw the chosen one. How this will happen, the Dark One has not revealed to me, but it is not for us to question. She will draw the spirit here and we will perform the ritual. That is all you need to know. It is not for you to doubt. She has been trained. She knows what she is doing, as do you. Your task is to prepare the altar room, cleanse it, protect it. When the time comes, you will be ready and so will the spirit.”
“Yes, High Priest.” She returned his glare, holding it. The ropes? How could he? After everything she’d been through for him.
“Tonight, you will perform another shielding around the half we have locked away. He grows restless and strong. It is your duty to keep him here…”
“I know this.”
“And keep him weak.”
“Yes.”
“And prepare the other containment room. The female half must not escape. We need the spirit whole.”
“Or all this preparation is for nothing. This I understand, Father.”
“I just want to be sure.” He stepped closer to her and bent down, his nose a mere inch from hers. “Do not doubt Him again. The Dark One watches all.” A hidden light danced in his pupils as he stared. She wanted to squirm under the heated gaze, wanted to shy away knowing the Dark One was there, looking at her behind the High Priest’s eyes, judging. What was he searching for?
“Yes.” She strained not to break her stare. The High Priest’s acrid breath filled her nose, the smell of a thousand deaths, but she held steady.
“Go to the rope room now. You are excused.” He stood straight again and waved her away.
The High Priestess utilized all her strength to prevent herself from slamming the door, worried the Dark One would think her defiant and exact upon her a punishment far worse than the rope room. Pulling her red hood over her head, she concealed her anger and marched down the candlelit hallway. The windowless manor swarmed around her, the shadows in the corners deep, having never been exposed to much light. Wax clumped under the sconces, small black piles on the hardwood floor. The lack of reflective surfaces added to the emptiness. She walked between the luminescent glowing pools, into shadow, out of shadow, past other hooded figures wearing the brown robes of the masochistic slaves, down the stairs, past the large black cross hanging upside down in the entryway. The cross continuously bled into a shallow pool at its base. She continued through a heavy, wooden door, never stopping.
She glided down twisting stairs to a cellar, the dirt floor dusting the hem of her robes and collecting between her toes. Normally at this point she would turn right and go through a large metal door hidden behind the stairs. This door led to the catacombs where the altar room remained hidden among other antechambers. This time, however, she turned slightly to the right and went through an opening in the rock wall, another cave entrance, but one that led away from the catacombs.
She stooped to go through the tiny slit in the wall, an opening so small she had to turn sideways to fit through. Having no room to spare for sconces, the passageway brooded in black but was surprisingly warm. The High Priestess felt her way along the tunnel, back pressed against the rocky surface, thinking about how much easier this had been when she was a child. It was like going through a birth canal in reverse. She came upon a heated area lit with only five candles stationed around a stone slab. The flickering flames revealed several heavy wooden poles. Thick rope wrapped the poles, trailing back to the stone slab in the center.
Without a word, The High Priestess untied her thin rope belt and set her curved dagger on top. She let her garment fall to her feet, pooling around her ankles like so much blood. In the dim light, she stepped naked from her clothing and moved toward the torturous bed. She rubbed old scars on her wrists as she walked. Matching badges of shame adorned her feet and neck. Thick and twisted scars, raised with age, the same width as the ropes around the poles.
Her breasts sagged, but not much considering her years. Her long hair hid a thin, puckered mark over her left breast, the badge she’d been given when she became the High Priest’s bride—the dagger had been run through her heart. She had died, only to live again with the soul of her mother,
now her soul, forever. The lower half of her belly rounded out just a bit, just enough to make the small stretch marks noticeable, just enough to show she was once pregnant
The old-woman-turned-child sighed and lay down on the hard surface. She never understood how it could be warm in here but it was. Water dripped from somewhere, a continuous, hypnotic plink-plink-plink. She closed her eyes and listened as two people entered. They came through tiny openings off to either side of the chamber, opposite the entryway. The three openings marked this room as a rough triangle.
She didn’t open her eyes as they tied her hands, wrists and neck. Once fastened, she relaxed and took a deep breath, knowing it would be the last whole breath she’d be able to take for a while. She listened as they positioned themselves behind two large stumps with one pole sticking out from each. One was at the foot, one at the head. The ropes wrapped around the five posts, back to the two poles.
“How many?” the one at her head asked.
“Three.” It never occurred to her to lie. The High Priest would know, and then it would be worse.
They grabbed the wooden levers jutting at right angles from the stumps at her foot and head, and walked in a circle, moving the stumps with them, tightening the ropes. The little bit of slack quickly lessened. One time around. She could still breathe but the pressure was there. The warning, and it continued.
They went around a second time. The five poles rotated with their movement, pulling tighter still. Her hands tingled. She could feel the fibers digging into her flesh. Pressure pushed at her eyes, making them bulge like they might explode, making it difficult to keep them shut. Air whistled through her throat as she sucked in what tiny breaths she could through her constricted windpipe. A vein popped out in her forehead.
Women Scorned Page 6
