Wildest Dreams

by Norman Partridge

  I pulled the trigger.

  A bullet clipped the dog’s ear.

  Yelping, it slammed into me like a bag of cement.

  I fell back, still firing, and the dog’s ribs became a red hole, its heart a shredded mess scorched by muzzle flash.

  The dog was so much dead weight now, but it carried momentum, momentum that drove me backward.

  I lost my balance and the third dog hit me, teeth grinding against my right biceps as its jaws clamped down, hot exhalations blasting my mutilated shoulder as I pumped lead into its belly and we went back, back, back—

  And I crashed against the staircase, and my skull cracked against the wrought-iron bars, and my breath exploded from my lungs as if I’d never draw another, and the wounded dog’s weight carried it down but I could not go with it.

  I was pinned to the twisted staircase.

  Impaled on the spiked bars like an insect on display.

  A dagger of wrought iron burrowed deep in my right shoulder. Another spike bit lower, a thick brutal shaft trapped by my ribs, my bones scissored around it so that the wrought-iron spear sliced my guts every time I drew a breath. But I had to breathe. As long as I was alive, I had to—I dropped both pistols.

  The dying dog panted at my feet in a puddle of its own blood, and then it breathed its last.

  Silence closed around me like a shadow. A black silence, broken only by black sounds.

  The buzzing of flies.

  And inside that sound—almost lost in its icy shiver—another.

  A siren’s call.

  A call I had already answered.

  * * *

  The lights came on. Circe slapped my cheek.

  The undertaker’s cheek. She fingered gashed eyelids and pulled the flesh mask from my face. Flies took to it as if it were honey, and she tossed it away.

  The undertaker’s face smacked wetly on the floor, twisted and deflated, and flies peppered it until it was black.

  Nothing but dead meat. But at least the face was good for something. So few things in this world are.

  Circe agreed, but for a different reason. “I’ve got to hand it to you—using old Albert’s face was a smart move. You certainly fooled my guards. You didn’t fool me, though. But don’t feel bad about that—I’ve worn a mask or two in my time. I know all the tricks.”

  She smiled, cold and dark and beautiful in jeans and a black crushed velvet top that clung to her like a second skin. I wondered if she’d worn the velvet just for me. Just to make me pay for my insolence.

  “I think you’ll take a long time to die,” she said.

  Her black nails scraped torn flesh as she brushed flies away from my wounded shoulder. I sucked a shallow breath, and brittle pain shot through me like a bullet.

  My blood pattered against the hardwood floor.

  The flies took to my shoulder as soon as Circe’s hand slipped away, but she didn’t notice. She was transfixed by the dead man’s face on the floor, a face as empty as Diabolos Whistler’s dream.

  “My father’s not coming back, of course,” she said. “He never was. But then, you knew that, didn’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “I really like you,” she said. “That’s the funny thing. You’re a rock. No last minute conversions, no begging, no prayers. You’re down to counting your breaths the way an old man counts his birthdays, and you still don’t believe in anything. Do you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Not God?”

  I shook it again.

  “Not Satan?”

  Circe’s blue eyes flashed before I could respond.

  She opened her mouth, opened it wider than before, but she did not speak a word.

  Fat flies crawled from the dark pit of her throat, crawled over her pink tongue, and took wing on air that stank of blood.

  “I think I could change your mind, Clay. Not about God. But about Satan…Lord of the Flies.”

  I drew another breath, counting it the way an old man counts another birthday, and when I let it go it was gone and there was no getting it back again.

  “If there’s something you want to tell me,” I whispered, “you’d better make it fast.”

  “Oh, we’ve got a little time yet,” Circe said. “Enough for a bedtime story.”

  I closed my eyes and listened.

  “Once upon a time, there was a little girl,” Circe began. “She had a whore for a mother and a charlatan for a father, but she was special all the same. Her name was Circe, and she was a child of prophecy, born to hear a siren’s call.

  “One day her mother left her all alone on a bridge. The little girl sat there and waited for her father. She waited very patiently, staring down at the clear water rushing in the creek below, watching fish as they swam upstream to die.

  “The fish were so pretty, strong and sleek as they hurried toward death. The creek was pretty too, like liquid glass. The little girl noticed that no matter how fast the water moved, it held her shadow like a mirror holds a reflection. At least she thought it was her shadow that the water held. Soon enough the little girl started to wonder. Because the shadow on the water called to her—”

  “A siren’s call,” I said.

  “The girl answered it, of course. She was a child of prophecy. What else could she do? She strained toward the shadow…”

  Twin memories of the bridge intertwined in my mind—the little girl leaning forward to watch the fish, and Janice Ravenwood staring down at the water as if hypnotized during the strange séance.

  “…and the shadow’s voice begged her to come closer…”

  I caught Janice Ravenwood before she fell into that cold, clear water.

  But no one caught Circe Whistler.

  “…and the little girl fell off the bridge and the shadows pulled her under the surface like liquid glass and the creek took her under the bridge and over rocks that never saw the sun…oh, so many rocks…and what those rocks did to her….”

  Circe slapped me again. My eyelids fluttered open. “Don’t sleep yet, darling,” she said. “Stay with me a little while longer. There’s not much more to tell.”

  Another breath rattled down my throat. Another old man’s birthday. I’d lost count, but I knew there wasn’t any point in starting again.

  Circe said, “The rocks hurt her horribly. The little girl died, of course. But her wounds did not matter, for they would pass as she had passed. She was a child of prophecy, a husk to be emptied and repaired by Satan.” Circe leaned close and whispered in my ear as if we were in church. “And the ruin of Whistler’s corpse shall be Satan’s cradle, and Satan will be reborn in flesh and blood to walk the earth once more—”

  “Circe was Satan’s vessel,” I whispered. “She was the chosen one. Not Diabolos—”

  “Yes,” she said. “A little girl was Satan’s cradle, and He walks the earth as a woman.”

  I coughed blood.

  The thing that had once been Circe Whistler ran a long slim finger over my lower lip and silenced me.

  She slipped that finger between black lips and sucked it hungrily. A dark buzzing filled her throat, and her words were like a misplaced echo. “Diabolos Whistler’s prophecy was fulfilled a long time ago. The funny thing is, no one seemed to notice.”

  Blood pooled in my mouth. Rich and salty and hot, pumped by my heart. Like life itself…like—

  She leaned toward me.

  Opened her mouth.

  Kissed me deeply.

  Drinking my blood like sustenance. Feeding the dark things that hid in the hollow of her throat—

  I screamed.

  She broke off the kiss. “Mortality.” She laughed. “It’s been a real tradeoff. Of course, everything is. I wouldn’t want to carry the whole load, though. I wouldn’t want to grow old, or give up certain advantages I’ve always enjoyed. But it’s like they say—sometimes you’ve got to bring it to get it. I paid a high price to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh. Higher than you would ever believe.”

  But I did be
lieve. I had to. Satan had shown me the proof.

  I believed every word.

  I blinked and tried to focus. I looked for the woman who had drawn me to her bed. I looked for her in the shadows. She was with them now. A thing that wore a woman as a mask. A dark ripple on water. A siren calling from the heart of my wildest dream—

  My wildest nightmare.

  “It’s past your bedtime,” said the thing that lived in Circe Whistler’s skin.

  I sucked down one last breath.

  Her palm closed over my face, dammed my nostrils and my mouth.

  That last breath burned in my lungs. I knew I’d never draw another. I drew my K-bar instead. Drew it from behind my back.

  The blade sliced crushed velvet, tore flesh, skittered between ribs.

  And dug a grave in Satan’s black heart.

  * * *

  They lay at my feet.

  Three dead dogs and Satan’s corpse.

  Her blue eyes shone with surprise.

  Her open mouth was a gutter for blood.

  In dying, that was all she had surrendered.

  Or perhaps it was all I could see.

  No shade. No ghost. Only blood.

  But blood was enough.

  Flies came.

  And flies lingered.

  So did I.

  * * *

  I heard footfalls on the staircase. Careful, quiet, afraid. And very much alive.

  Janice Ravenwood stood before me, searching for answers in my eyes.

  My eyes held nothing. I was dead. But I saw clearly. I saw Janice’s future. She could have everything she’d ever wanted. Fame, fortune…even Circe Whistler’s mansion. She could have it all, as long as she was willing to pay the price.

  We all paid our prices. All of us, the living and the dead. Me, and Diabolos Whistler, and the thing that had masqueraded as his daughter, and Spider Ripley and all the rest.

  Janice Ravenwood was no different.

  I remembered what she’d told me, once upon a time: “A wise soul understands the dynamics of mercy.”

  I wondered if Janice truly believed that, for even mercy has its price.

  “I don’t know if you can hear me,” she said. “But I want to tell you that I’m sorry. For everything. I didn’t know about Circe until tonight…. When she told me what she was, I thought it was too late for any of us…especially for me. I hope you believe me.”

  Sirens howled in the distance.

  Janice’s fingers brushed my forehead.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  She closed my eyelids with fingers that felt too much. She knew the price of a single touch. She paid it.

  * * *

  I left Circe Whistler’s mansion under a ripe moon.

  The storm was clearing. Tattered clouds whipped across the heavens, but there was no power left in them. The wind took the clouds where it wanted to go, blustering through the long night and beyond.

  I could not go with the wind.

  I looked to the road ahead.

  A pair of gates swung open before me.

  Not the gates of heaven, and not the gates of hell.

  Only the gates that shielded the Whistler estate from the outside world.

  A car from the sheriff’s department raced down the driveway. Instinctively, I made a grab for my K-bar, and the laughter that spilled across my lips didn’t even amount to a whisper on the wind.

  I held the knife before me. Just like the deputy I’d murdered at the side of Circe’s house—the one who’d aimed a ghostly pistol in my direction—I could see the weapon clearly.

  But I wouldn’t be fooled by it. I tucked the knife under my belt. The patrol car skidded to a stop beneath the porte-cochere. Two deputies jumped out, and Janice Ravenwood met them at the door, and they entered the mansion together.

  I turned my back on the mansion and started toward the open gates.

  I didn’t know where I was bound.

  Heaven. Hell. Somewhere in between.

  But I knew where I wanted to go.

  I started up the road. Another police car came down the drive, followed by a CNN news van.

  This time, I didn’t spare them a backward glance.

  Car doors opened behind me, then slammed shut.

  Radio crosstalk drifted through the night air, along with insistent voices.

  The talk was of a killer.

  They’d given him a name, the way they always do. They called him Jehovah’s Hammer.

  2

  She was waiting, of course.

  Sitting on a footbridge that arched across a rushing creek, her little girl legs dangling over the side as she gazed down at the cold water rushing below.

  I moved toward her, following a fern-choked path through old redwoods, but Circe Whistler didn’t notice me.

  Of course, the sounds I made were hardly sounds at all, and what the little girl would have heard had she been listening was masked by the hollow sigh of clear creek water flowing to the sea.

  Silent as an evening breeze, I stepped onto the bridge.

  “I always keep my promises,” I said.

  Circe looked up with startled blue eyes that were as clear as the October sky.

  A smile bloomed on her face. “I’m glad you came back,” she said.

  “So am I.”

  I sat down next to her, and Circe looked into my eyes. She saw nothing there to make her wary or afraid. But she was afraid of questions, questions she had to ask.

  Questions are never good. She said, “Did you find out—”

  “The truth?”

  She nodded.

  “Yes, I did,” I said. “Later, I’ll tell you everything.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise,” I said.

  We sat in silence, in shadows beneath heavy redwood bowers. Somewhere above the sun was rising, but we could not see it, and we could not feel its warmth.

  “Look!” I said.

  A steelhead shot through the water like a bullet, fighting the current every inch of the way. A flash of scale like living sunshine, a splash of the steelhead’s dark and powerful tail, and then it was gone.

  I stared down at the dark water, rushing so fast, and at the shadows that waited there.

  The shadows didn’t move at all.

  I drew the K-bar from behind my back.

  The knife wasn’t what it had been. I knew that.

  Maybe now it was something different.

  My fingers parted. The blade started down.

  Gleaming like a steelhead swimming upstream to die.

  The K-bar sliced through the shadows without the slightest splash, and then it was gone.

  The water gleamed like silver.

  “Will you stay with me?” Circe asked.

  “I’ll stay.”

  The creek whispered below, the soothing sound of water rushing to the sea.

  Circe reached out and took my hand.

  THE END

  Cemetery Dance Publications

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  Table of Contents

  Title_Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Quote

  Part_One

  Part_One_Quote

  1-1

  1-2

  1-3

  1-4

  1-5

  1-6

  Part_Two

  Part_Two_Quote

  2-1

  2-2

  2-3

  2-4

  2-5 />
  2-6

  2-7

  2-8

  Part_Three

  Part_Three_Quote

  3-1

  3-2

  3-3

  Part_Four

  Part_Four_Quote

  4-1

  Cemetery_Dance_Publications