Table for Three-Hold the Blood

by Romans, Bobbi

  Shana's heart sunk. Erron's words cut to the bone, and she fought to keep in mind how devastated he was.

  "Back the fuck off her, man." Marklon tensed under her grip, ready to strike again.

  Erron balled a fist, drawing it back, ready to strike at Marklon. But, before Shana could say anything, he changed his mind and pushed her toward Marklon instead.

  "Fuck you both," Erron shouted as he slammed the door.

  "Please, Marklon, he doesn't need to be alone. Please, please go talk to him. At the very least follow him, and make sure he doesn't get into any trouble."

  Yeah, Marklon was pissed, but his feelings for Erron went deep. If Erron got hurt or stumbled into any trouble in his currently postal mood, she knew Marklon would never forgive himself.

  "He's not thinking clearly right now, and God only knows where he's heading or what trouble he's looking for. Please, Marklon."

  She watched as the hostility slid out of Marklon's expression and the concern rolled in.

  "Have I said lately how much I love you?" He grasped the sides of her face and stared into her eyes so intently she swore he was looking into her soul.

  "Yes, all the time, now go. Hurry, before he gets too far."

  He kissed the top of her forehead and blessedly raced out after their boyfriend.

  Erron normally didn't have much of a temper, but, when the police were questioning him, she'd seen him drinking—a lot. Add the numerous Patron shots and...well? Drunk enough, anyone could find trouble.

  She went off in search of the broom to clean up the mess before Erron returned and saw the evidence of his outburst. Damn it. She muttered when she couldn't find it where it was normally kept. Typical. The guys must have left it outside on the deck again. She flipped the switch back and forth, but the backyard flood lights failed to turn on.

  Damn. Marklon had promised to fix that. Oh, well. Enough moonlight illuminated the deck that she figured she could maneuver her way around to find it.

  Fuck! She rubbed her throbbing stubbed toe and shoved the grill out of her way after stumbling over the thing. Damn, but that shit hurt. With all the pressures Erron had been under lately with the grisly nightmares and now the innuendo that more than steak tartare was served in his establishment, she really was worried about his mental state. Her heart broke for the families who would be getting phone calls that their loved ones had been found, or what parts of them were left anyways.

  Her heart also ached that none so far seemed to have missing persons reports filed for them. If it weren't for Marklon and Erron, she supposed she'd have no one left to report a missing persons on her. Her parents had been killed in a car crash over ten years ago, and she'd been deemed an outcast by a distant aunt a few years ago. Marklon and Erron were essentially all the family she had left.

  They all had that in common.

  Limited family.

  Finally...she felt the wood handle of the broom. Grabbing it, she began making her way back into the house. She really wanted the mess cleaned up before the guys returned. Not that she blamed Erron. If there was ever a time to be an ass, this was it.

  The nice, clean sheen from the freshly windexed sliding glass glinted and caught her attention in the moonlight.

  At least the glass looks nice and shiny....

  Crack!

  Pain exploded. Her brain stung. Everything suddenly grew blurry. The world spun off its axis, and she didn't understand why.

  "Hello, pretty, pretty."

  "Wha...."

  "Oh, no, don't try talking just yet. You've probably got a concussion. Here, let me help you inside."

  Arms came around her. Hard and cold, not warm and gentle like Marklon's or Erron's. These arms were rough; they bit into her ribs.

  "Can't see right. Head h...hurts."

  "Yes, well, unfortunately that's a common complaint among concussion patients."

  When did she get a concussion? Where was she? Who was the man helping her?

  She eased into the softness under her and, even through the pained haze, recognized the leather scent of her sofa.

  "One more minute, pretty. I need to leave a message."

  She fought the sudden urge to vomit and turned to catch a shadowy figure marking something on the large formal mirror. The letters circled around too fast to make out what they said, or maybe it was her eyesight twisting and turning, but something about the figure writing them seemed familiar. Sadly, she couldn't concentrate on remembering what it was through the pounding in her head.

  "Do...Do I know you?" Her throat felt oddly tight and dry.

  "We've never officially met. Pardon my lapse in courtesy. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Gordon Michaels, but you may call me The Chef."

  "I...I...."

  "There, there, no need to introduce yourself. I'm quite aware of who are. You are the ever-pretty Ms. Shana Worther. Better known as the town tramp."

  "What did you...say?"

  Damn. The pounding made everything go dark then light, dark then light, causing a serious case of motion sickness. She fought to keep conscious and aware, but even opening her eyes hurt. She suddenly vomited.

  "Oh, now, look at the mess you made. Well, better here than in the trunk. I do hate cleaning out vehicles. So tedious."

  Trunk? What did her vomiting have to do with his trunk?

  "Okay, upsy-daisy. Yes, just lean on me. Good girl."

  "No, just lay me down," she pleaded, not entirely sure she was done hurling.

  "You can lay down again in a moment. Right now, we need to leave before those cavemen of yours, Marklon and Erron, return."

  "No, I want to wait for them." She didn't doubt she needed a hospital, but she wanted the guys with her when she went.

  "Aww, now that's not showing the love for your men, now is it?"

  "Huh?"

  She loved them. What did he mean?

  "You wouldn't want to see them get hurt, would you?"

  "Hurt?"

  She didn't understand. They were hurt? She tried pulling away from the steely arms holding her, but they wouldn't budge. She tried dragging her feet which, given her current condition wasn't too hard, but then she found herself hoisted in his arms. She was about to ask what was happening, but suddenly a hand clamped over her mouth.

  It was about then her mind cleared, and oddly it was the words she'd viewed in the mirror that came clear first. Well, that and the sudden weightless feeling of being tossed into a trunk and the darkness of it being closed while she lay inside.

  Chapter Six

  Lumpy Gravy and Kidney Pie

  Her entire body hurt, and the damp cold she awoke to didn't help one damned bit. She tried to sit, but something restrained her leg, and even the slight movement made her brain sluggish as if it were shifting to and fro in her skull. How much Patron had she drunk last night?

  "Erron? Marklon?" she croaked.

  If they felt half as bad as she did then, they would be out on the deck, soaking in the hot tub.

  "Marklon? Erron?" She tried to call for them again, but the scratching in her throat made her voice little more than a crackly whisper.

  She pushed up on her elbows and shifted on her hip, daring to crack her eyes open.

  Darkness met her, everywhere.

  Something was wrong. Even with their shades pulled, their room never achieved this level of inky darkness. Not even in the dead of winter at midnight.

  She blinked over and over, trying to make out something within her immediate area. After some effort, she realized she lay clad only in her hot pink, bikini-style bra and thong on a stone slab of some sort. Her ankle seemed to be chained to something out of view. Her skin chilled against the cool of the stone.

  What the hell was going on? Where in Hades had she ended up? Panic set in as she fought against the restraints.

&
nbsp; "Hello? Who's there? Anyone?" She sounded scared, pathetic. Damn! What the hell had happened? She tried taking a few deep, settling breaths.

  Fragmented memories came back. The Grey Goose. The bloody parts in the sculpture, and...oh, shit, Erron storming off and Marklon going after him. The shattered Patron bottle and...going after the broom. Something happened when she went after the broom.

  Little by little, she got flashes, snippets of images and memories that did not make much sense.

  Finding the broom. A terrible migraine, curling up on the sofa, and the mirror.

  The mirror!

  Words on the mirror!

  "Oh, fuck me!" she whispered into the darkness.

  "Oh, now, I assure you. Fuck you I did not."

  She jerked into a sitting position and zeroed in on a small transistor-type TV. To her right sat something too small to make out, but, whatever the thing was, it bore a small, red, blinking light.

  "Good morning, pretty."

  The term "pretty" struck something in her mind strongly enough that the remaining memories flooded back. The stranger helping her inside, writing a note on the mirror, and dumping her into the trunk like nothing more than a deflated Goodrich tire.

  "Who are you?" She tried to keep her voice from shaking, but, between the cold and the fear, that proved virtually impossible. She couldn't quite make out his face or figure, but one lone lock of blond hair peeked from behind a cloak of some kind. She also remembered his height and build from the night before. He was well over six-feet and stocky.

  "Tsk, tsk. You've already forgotten my name. How rude, but, I concede, not unexpected from such an immoral tramp. I am Gordon Michaels, The Chef."

  "Well, Gordon Michaels"—she refused to call him by his murderous nickname—"I don't suppose you're going to tell me where the fuck I am, are you?"

  "Dirty mouth from a dirty whore. Not surprising."

  "Well, since we've never officially met, I don't think it's appropriate to call me names like slut or whore. I mean, you're the Miss Manners mentioning rudeness."

  "We may not be acquainted, but I'm aware of your kind, Ms. Worther. Seeing you parading around town with two men...well, that isn't exactly a good catholic virtue, now is it?"

  "And kidnapping someone is?"

  "Touché, Ms. Worther."

  "Now, where I am?"

  "All in good time, which we have plenty of right now."

  Her gut twisted at his innuendo. What did plenty of time mean? She wondered about the guys? Had he hurt them?

  "If you laid one fucking hand on Erron or Marklon...."

  "Oh, do settle yourself, and watch that tongue of yours. I'd hate for you to lose it, though braised tongue is a specialty of mine. Your lovers are fine and unharmed for the moment. Though I do suspect Erron is wishing he'd invested in something other than his doomed restaurant about now. I suspect the Grey Goose is in all the papers this morning."

  Mentally, she agreed with him, but she stayed mum.

  "Some issues arose, the handling of which I'm unable to postpone."

  Someone moaned in the background of his transmission.

  "But, to show I am not entirely inhumane, I've rigged some lighting to come on momentarily. Wouldn't want you sitting around in the damp darkness to catch a cold, now would I?"

  Though she welcomed the thought of light, something in his promise provoked chills across her spine.

  The connection ended, but the blinking red light continued, and she could only assumed he was still watching her. The sounds of the moans she caught before he disconnected played through her like a record with a scratch. Replaying over and over as fast-moving images of the possible horrors the owner suffered from at the hands of the brutal and murderous Chef.

  Construction style droplights flickered on in two corners of the room. Their sudden brightness taking a moment for her eyes to get adjusted to, but the heat they radiated was very welcome against her chilled skin.

  The more she took in of the small, square, stone room, the faster her terror rose. The room turned out to be not any ordinary room. Rather, she was inside a mausoleum, and the slab she was perched on, the cover of the concrete coffin within.

  She also wasn't alone.

  A makeshift wooden workbench stood off in the corner, and a man's broken, bloodied remains lay atop it.

  Even from her odd angle, she could see that his chest and stomach area had been cut and cracked open. Skin and meat had been flayed backwards from the cavity. White jagged bones, broken and snapped, were visible. Not a spot on his body hadn't been cut, burned, or flayed. The man had literally been tortured to death.

  She finally spotted the small TV table over to the side of the body. A small camping-type burner sat on the table with a skillet on top and a spoon handle sticking out.

  The smell hit her then. Something had been cooked, near burned, and she could think of only one reason for the burner, the pot, and the rancid odor.

  Instinct had her heaving, and fleeting memories reminded her she'd already lost most of what she'd eaten the day before, heck even the night before.

  After what seemed forever, she managed to stop the gagging. She turned away from the gore and caught sight of what looked like another transmitter.

  Two? Why would he need two?

  She hadn't even finished the thought when the video transmitter crackled to life.

  "My fault...because of me."

  "Erron, she's out there, and we will find her."

  Tears pooled in her eyes as she heard Marklon's voice. Somehow, Gordon had rigged a camera in their living room.

  "If I hadn't been such a pussy and run off, she'd still be here right now, safe and sound. Fuck, why did I have to be such a prick?"

  She saw Erron raking a hand through his hair.

  He looked like hell. Pale, drawn...sick.

  "They'll find her. No, we will. She's alive, I can sense it, and I know you can, too."

  Marklon grabbed Erron by the shoulders and shook him. He looked as worse for wear as Erron.

  Her men loved her and would do anything for her. The thought spiked fear through her. Not for herself, but for whatever else, besides a transmitter, the killer may have set up in their home. Her heart seized at thoughts of either man being hurt, especially being hurt because of her.

  "When are the police supposed to check in again?"

  "Erron, they promised to contact us soon as they learn anything. I don't think we need to sit around and wait though."

  Marklon stalked across the room and smashed a hole in the wall. He was so angry he actually vibrated.

  "Where do we start?"

  She watched Erron stand and begin pacing, anxious, she supposed, to begin the hunt.

  "We retrace Shana's steps at the old barn. They say killers leave their victims in particular areas for a reason. I bet the barn is a clue within itself. She ran into something, got too close. Fuck! I'm not sure, but I'm not sitting around waiting for the sheriff and his lackeys to stop hurling long enough to investigate."

  "Let's go. You gave 'em our cell numbers?"

  "Yeah."

  They left her sight, and her heart dropped. Just seeing them gave her hope and strength. When they left the range of the video camera and she could no longer see them on the monitor, she became all alone again. She had to get free. Figure out where in the hell she was and quick before either of her men could get close enough to the danger. Yet she couldn't help but be curious as to who Gordon was and what would have triggered him into doing all of this.

  There is crazy, and then bat-shit, eat-people kind of crazy. Obviously, their killer fell into the latter category.

  An hour later and still stuck like Chuck, she conceded that she wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. Unsure of even the time, she began taking in every detail of her surroundings. Mausoleum,
check. Dead body, check. Creepy stalker-killer-voyeur, check.

  The only thing missing was Jason Vorhees banging on the door, machete in hand.

  There had to be a way out somehow.

  "Come on, snap out of it. What would MacGyver do?" she asked herself, trying to keep calm and stay smart.

  She caught the glint of something shiny over by the body. The end of a knife seemed to taunt her, flickering madly in the rigged lightning. Only one of her feet was shackled. If she managed to stretch her free leg over, maybe....

  Mausoleums, though large enough to house a crypt, weren't exactly roomy.

  Scooting to the stone's edge, she maneuvered herself onto her belly. That in itself should have won her an Olympic gold medal in gymnastics. Stretching out as far as she could, she blindly toed for the knife.

  All the childhood taunts of monkey toes came back as, using her toes, she managed to pull it from the stand. Thankfully, when it hit the floor, the knife remained within reach. She slid her foot until she could just barely reach down and grab it between her toes.

  Lock-pick she wasn't, but right now she'd bet she was desperate enough to wing it.

  It took her quite a while to get free but, luckily, the shackle itself was old and half-rusted. She was able to snap the locking mechanism housed within and free herself.

  Just as she was about to move off the table, the transmitter's familiar crackle sounded, and she froze.

  "Hello, pretty. I thought I'd check in on you and your friend."

  Friend? Oh...she glanced at the body. F-r-i-e-n-d.

  "He talks too much, but other than that we're just dandy. How was your day dear?"

  "Oh, ever the smart mouth. I wonder how long it will take before I break that bad habit of yours. With the right training, I bet you'd be pleading with the utmost courtesy within minutes. Shall we make a wee wager?"

  "Whatever floats your boat, butthead."

  "Hmm? Let me think a moment. Ah, yes, I've got it. If you win, I'll kill your boyfriend swiftly. If I win, I'll kill him slowly and painfully."

  Didn't make a damn whether it was Erron or Marklon he referred to. She saw red at his words. Her blood boiled, and anger simmered just below the surface. She was so mad she almost moved, but she caught herself at the last second.