Rise of the Dom

by Brenna Zinn

  Emma bucked and kicked to break the grip of whatever held her ankles. The bond was unshakable. Arms flailing, she found a handhold on the dungeon doorjamb and prevented her face from pounding against the wood stairs. A guttural roar sounded from the black gloom, followed by a superhuman tug. Like a rag doll, she flew down the flight of stairs and landed on the basement floor. A sharp crack echoed in the dank space as her head hit concrete. Dozens of bright stars floated before her eyes before her world was swallowed up by absolute pitch black.

  * * * * *

  She moaned. White-hot streaks of pain shot through her skull. Every bone in her body ached, especially her arms, which throbbed as though they were being pulled from their sockets. With dim awareness, Emma realized she was vertical. Her wrists were bound and anchored high above her head. She yanked against the restraints then groaned as metal bit into her already chafed skin.

  Someone had moved her across the room and tethered her to the O-ring in the dungeon wall.

  “You stupid, stupid woman. How easily you were fooled this afternoon into believing your Master had betrayed you. In actuality, he was trying to protect you.”

  “Whuh?” With an effort, Emma fully opened her eyelids to see where the odd-sounding voice had come from. A strange, wavering mixture of male and female, the voice almost sounded electronic. Otherworldly.

  Dozens of lit candles were placed on the floor, the Y-table and the wood steps. The cast of their flames danced to an unheard melody on the cinder block walls.

  “You failed to trust in your Master, believe in what he said over the word of known liars,” the voice said. “You deserve what you shall receive tonight.”

  From out of a dark corner, a tall shape slowly materialized. Bit by bit, two long, shapely legs emerged from the shadows, topped by a short white dress. Emma choked back a gasp as realization hit.

  Trish.

  The raven-haired beauty crept into the light, tapping the handle of a flogger in the palm of her open hand.

  Although there was no doubt it was Trish walking toward Emma, everything about Chet’s former submissive seemed off. Different. Even as she moved closer, it was easy to see Trish’s eyes were not their usual ice blue. Nothing about her eyes was normal at all. The whites were completely gone. Only watery black filled the orbital holes.

  Trish stepped nearer and her face shimmered. For a split second, the face of the man from Emma’s nightmare blended with Trish’s.

  Emma shook her head, causing an explosion of pain. Her vision swam, twisting and blurring Trish’s approaching form until it looked more like a man’s.

  I have to have a concussion. There’s no other possible explanation for what I’m seeing.

  The odor of Polo mixed with the foul stench of death grew stronger with each of Trish’s steps until it permeated the air. Emma tensed and her stomach convulsed. This was the lingering scent in her bedroom after she and Chet had discovered the message gouged in the wall. This was the smell from her nightmare.

  Fear gripped her, seizing her muscles with paralyzing vigor. “Trish, I don’t care about what happened this afternoon. Let me go and we can talk it all out.” Her voice gritted against her dry throat.

  “You will call me Master.”

  There was no mistaking the autocratic tone coming from Trish’s mouth. But the bizarre-sounding voice was not hers.

  Emma fought against the handcuffs, pulling with all her might. Excruciating pain radiated from her wrists as steel sliced through her flesh. Something wet and warm trickled down her arms.

  Blood. It has to be blood.

  “Trish,” Emma screamed. “For the love of God, let me go. I promise I won’t say anything to anyone if you’ll just let me go.”

  “Tonight you will learn how to be a real submissive. You will learn that a Master’s word is law and should never be questioned.”

  Trish whipped the Y-table with the flogger. Small tears appeared where the metal tips ripped through the red leather.

  “Each time you disobey me, you will be punished. After each punishment, you will thank me for the lesson.” Trish’s black-liquid eyes locked with Emma’s. “Do you understand?”

  Emma swallowed, tasting bile. “Unlock these handcuffs, I’ll do whatever you ask.”

  “The correct response is ‘Yes, Master’.” Standing not more than two feet away, Trish swung down. The tips of the flogger tore through Emma’s jeans and cut into her thighs.

  Blinding pain flared from Emma’s leg as a scream tore from her mouth.

  “Now thank me for your punishment,” Trish instructed in her odd voice.

  Once again, Trish’s image shimmered like a poorly spliced movie clip, altering her appearance to the man from Emma’s nightmare.

  Bone-chilling terror replaced the pain racking Emma’s body. “What the hell are you?”

  * * * * *

  “It’s too quiet out here.” Mason Burke made another sweep of Emma’s house with his night-vision binoculars before letting them fall to his chest. “The cicadas are usually going nuts by now.”

  “I know. Last night I could barely make out what the police were saying for all the racket those bugs and the tree frogs were making.” Chet shifted his position and leaned against a nearby tree. He glanced at the handcuffs dangling from the former Marine’s black fatigues and the Desert Eagle .44 Magnum strapped to his thick thigh. Just having that kind of firepower nearby helped Chet relax. As long as he and G.I. Joe were patrolling these woods, no one could hurt Emma. Until things were squared away with her and they were certain she was no longer in harm’s way, he’d gladly sleep during the day and stay up all night.

  “Thanks again for helping me watch Emma’s place.” Chet unscrewed the lid to his thermos and poured himself a cup of coffee. “Seeing as how the police were little use, I appreciate all the help I can get. Even if I end up going broke to have it. Want a cup?” He raised the thermos.

  “Sure.” Mason nodded his bald head. “It’s going to be a long night.”

  After tossing back the coffee, Mason picked up the binoculars again and scanned the area. “I don’t mind telling you, I don’t exactly enjoy being here. This place brings back too many bad memories. Nearly twenty years may have come and gone, but I remember every detail of what happened in that basement like—” He stopped mid-sentence. “What the hell?”

  “What?”

  “Get your night goggles and check out the kitchen window. Tell me what you see.”

  Chet put down his cup and grabbed the binoculars hanging from his neck. He adjusted the lenses, then focused on the window. The hairs on his arms stood on end. “The glass looks frosted over.” He sat up straight and his blood turned to ice. “Is that word ‘run’?”

  A second later all the lights in the house turned off.

  “Yes! Let’s move,” Mason ordered.

  Both men ran through the thick timber and brush, their progress hampered by a shallow creek and unseen rotting logs hidden beneath a thick layer of leaves. When they reached Emma’s yard, Mason motioned to the edge of the house near the kitchen door.

  “We’re just going in for a better look,” the older man directed in a low voice. “No John Wayne heroics if there’s nothing going on. Understood?”

  “Got it.”

  Chet and Mason flattened themselves against the siding and shimmied their way to the door. At the same time, they turned their faces to look into the door’s small, paned windows.

  Their vision was blocked. A thick layer of frost covered each panel.

  “Ice?” Mason whispered, his voice incredulous.

  “I don’t know what to make of it.” Chet touched the door. Even the solid wood felt impossibly cold. “It’s like the entire kitchen has turned into a Popsicle.”

  Mason placed his hand on the glass before looking through it again. “I can’t see a damned thing. All the frost is coming from the inside. I can’t scrape it from the glass.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Check the win
dows in the living room and the front entry. Maybe we can make some sense of what’s going on from there.”

  Chet flashed a thumbs-up.

  They quietly crept around the side of the house, Mason leading the way. When they reached the living room, Mason gestured for Chet to stay put. The big man peeked through the large picture-frame window. Suddenly Mason yelped and staggered back from the glass, his hand over his heart. A look of wide-eyed horror covered his face.

  “What?” Chet asked aloud, then glanced into the window. Inside the room was empty. A dozen or so lit candles burned in various holders throughout the space. Other than that, nothing seemed out of place.

  Chet turned back to Mason, who had taken a seat on the grass. In the gray glow of the moon, the former Marine’s skin looked thin and pale.

  “Trina,” he replied, placing his head in his hands. “I saw Trina in the living room.”

  “That’s impossible. She’s—” Chet paused, recognizing how insensitive the next word out of his mouth would be.

  “She’s dead,” Mason finished. The big man pulled himself up and ran his hand around the nape of his neck. “I know it sounds crazy, but I swear Trina was in there. She looked right at me.”

  A faint scream shrilled from somewhere in the house. The sound triggered a pang of panic in Chet’s chest. “That’s Emma.”

  “That’s all we need.” In one swift move, Mason pulled the pistol from its holster and clicked off the safety. “Time to rock and roll.”

  Chapter Eight

  Blood continued to stream from Emma’s cuffed wrists down her arms onto her armpits and torso. The sharp tang of iron competed with the permeating odor of Polo and death. She was already unsteady on her feet from the blow to her head, and the loss of blood and the strong, nauseating smells filling the basement made her lightheaded.

  Trish continued to shift her appearance. One second, she looked like Chet’s former sub. The next, a man who had haunted her in a nightmare and nearly scared the life out of her.

  Her mind was playing head games, distorting reality with fantasy.

  Maybe this is all still a dream. A nightmare I can’t wake from.

  “I said, thank me for your punishment.” Trish again raised the flogger high and held it there. The shiny metal tips glinted in the dim light of the candles.

  Emma lifted her chin in defiance. She stiffened her back and locked her knees, preparing to absorb the coming pain. “I’ll never submit to you, you crazy bitch,” she spat. “Never.”

  A loud crash of cracking wood and breaking glass pierced the air. Something in the kitchen had literally come smashing down.

  “Emma?” Chet’s wavering voice rang down from upstairs, followed by the stomping of boots.

  Emma’s breath hitched and overwhelming relief careened through her body. “Chet?”

  Oh my God, you’re here.

  Trish’s black eyes narrowed and she dropped the flogger. In a blur of incredible speed, she retrieved something from a shelf on the other side of the room and returned. The entire process required less time than a heartbeat.

  The crazed woman stood in front of Emma, her hand held high again. But this time instead of a flogger, she gripped a knife.

  An evil smile pulled at Trish’s lips. “I had hoped we would have more time together this evening. But like all good things, it must come to an end.”

  Candlelight flashed on the blade when Trish swung down.

  A report of a gun sounded from the stairs. In an instant, the knife flew from Trish’s grip and pinged against the cinder block wall. A light shower of blood covered Emma’s face as a bullet found its target. Trish screamed in her otherworldly voice and fell to the floor, cradling her hand.

  A thick black mist rose from Trish’s chest. Momentarily hovering above her prostrate body, the smokelike blob swirled and twisted into itself before shooting off. It ringed around the ceiling of the dungeon several times, then swooped down and knocked over the lit candles. As it passed by Chet and the man with the pistol on the stairs, a maniacal laugh reverberated throughout the house and shook the walls.

  The man in black holstered his gun. “Quick, unlock her.” He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and tossed them toward Chet, who was already at the bottom step. “Don’t worry about the other girl. I’ll get her.”

  Chet nodded. Without a sideway glance to Trish, he ran to Emma. He brushed gentle hands over her face, removing some of Trish’s blood, then took in the gash in Emma’s leg. “Are you okay? How bad is it?”

  Tears rolled down Emma’s cheek. “I’m fine. I’m just so glad you’re here.” Having Chet there caused the intense spike of shock and adrenaline thrumming in Emma’s blood to ebb, leaving her muscles weak and rubbery. Even though he was covered in mud, leaves and heaven only knew what else, Emma thought Chet had never looked so good. “I’m so sorry. How could I ever have doubted you?”

  “Shh. It’s okay. Let’s get you out of here,” Chet said, unlocking the handcuffs.

  The faint smell of smoke caught Emma’s attention. Her gaze traveled from the tipped-over candles on the Y-table to the wood stairs. The small flames were starting to catch and spread. They hadn’t started smoking yet.

  Apparently the baldheaded big man caught a whiff of fire as well. While bent to lift Trish off the floor, he raised his nose. A deep furrow formed in between his thick brows. “We gotta hustle. I think that flying black thing must have tossed over the candles upstairs too. The whole place is probably lit up like a torch.”

  With a final click of the lock, Emma pulled her arms down from the handcuffs and rubbed her throbbing muscles. Chet stepped back, taking her in from head to toe.

  “I’m good. I’m good.” Emma put her hand in his. “Let’s go.”

  Rolling black clouds of smoke met them when they scrambled through the pantry into the kitchen, filling their lungs with acrid heat. Suddenly the oven door opened itself and banged closed in rapid-fire succession. The refrigerator and freezer doors followed suit. Food shot out from the various bins and a half-full gallon of milk flew from the top shelf, landing near the table.

  Cabinet doors and drawers popped open and slammed shut. One by one, plates and bowls fell to the floor, shattering to pieces.

  The entire kitchen had gone mad.

  “Keep moving!” The man in fatigues slid past Chet, Trish tucked safely in his arms. When he stepped onto the kitchen floor, pots and pans blasted from their resting places. They whizzed past the man’s head, missing him by inches.

  “Holy shit,” Emma gasped then coughed. She watched in amazement as the silverware lifted en masse from a side drawer.

  “Damn it, Emma. Let’s go.” Chet pulled her the short distance between the pantry and the kitchen door as forks, knives and spoons shot from their floating positions and embedded themselves in the back wall.

  Chet continued to drag Emma along until they met the man holding Trish in the middle of the backyard. Her leg and head exploding with pain, Emma buckled and fell to the ground. The cool grass was a welcome respite from the intense heat leaping from the house.

  The house cracked and popped as the fire roared out of control, consuming Emma’s home with yellow and red flames. Eerie, high-pitched screams of women rose from the burning building.

  Emma lifted her head and her blood turned to ice. Young women, gray and almost transparent, appeared in all the windows. Huge flames grew on the walls behind them and extended out as if they were misshapen hands trying to grab the girls. The poor women banged on the glass with their fists. Their faces contorted in a horrible mask of agony.

  “We have to go in there,” Emma wheezed. “Save them.”

  She stood, but the big man in black placed a large hand on her shoulder, stopping her. “They’re already dead.”

  * * * * *

  “Yes, we’re both going to be okay.” Chet locked his apartment door, then made his way to the living room. “And thanks for the information, Mason. I appreciate the heads-up. Let’s keep in t
ouch.” The bright-green screen of his cell phone went black.

  “Trish is out of the emergency room and going to be okay.” He slipped the device in his pocket and joined Emma on his couch. “Thanks to Mason’s sharpshooting, the wound in her hand was clean. She’s going to need therapy to get full use of it again, but it could be much worse.”

  “I think she needs therapy for more than just her hand.” Emma pulled the edges of Chet’s blanket closer as a memory of Trish’s crazed black eyes flashed in her head. The strange image of his former sub blurring back and forth between her normal gorgeous self and the Dungeon Master played over and over in her mind as though it were a bad song.

  How did that man appear in my dream when I’d never seen or heard of him before? Why was his image morphing with Trish’s?

  Maybe I’m the one who needs therapy.

  “Don’t worry. Trish is going to get it.” Chet snuggled close and wrapped his arms around Emma’s cocooned form. “They’re keeping her under observation in the hospital’s psych ward for a week or two. Most likely she’ll be in jail soon after.”

  “Good. I hope they lock up that insane bitch for life.” She placed her head on his shoulder, relieved to have the comfort of his presence. Both mentally and physically, he was a better balm than anything the paramedics had provided when they treated her at the house.

  Luckily, after determining she probably had only a mild concussion, then wrapping up her wrists and leg, the two emergency techs released her to Chet. Of course it helped when she flat-out refused to go to the hospital. Still, she couldn’t deny his overprotectiveness and being put under his care made her feel safe and loved. Not even when she was married to Rick had she known such reassurance and inner peace.

  “I think she’s telling the truth when she said she didn’t know how she got there and didn’t remember a thing that happened.” An involuntary spasm shot down Emma’s spine. “Trish might be a few ants shy of a picnic, but I saw too many things tonight I can’t explain to not believe her. I mean, my God, my kitchen froze over. Things opened and closed by themselves. Dishes and silverware flew through the air. Dead girls stared at me through my windows. My poor bruised mind is about to blow a gasket with trying to rationalize everything.”