Flesh & Blood

by John Argus

  Title Page

  FLESH & BLOOD

  by

  JOHN ARGUS

  Publisher Information

  Flesh & Blood first published in 2004 by

  Chimera Publishing Ltd

  www.chimerabooks.co.uk

  PO Box 152

  Waterlooville

  Hants

  PO8 9FS

  Digital Edition converted and published by Andrews UK limited 2010

  www.andrewsuk.com

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Copyright © John Argus

  The right of John Argus to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Advisory Note

  FLESH & BLOOD

  John Argus

  This novel is fiction – in real life practice safe sex

  Introduction

  ‘Shhh,’ he cajoled, then drew her forward between a pair of waist high posts. Each had a brass ring at its top, and a thin chain attached. He drew her right arm out to one side and attached a shackle to it. Leah felt her stomach lurch and opened her mouth to protest; yet no sound emerged. She jerked her arm back, but no real conviction was behind it. And then her other wrist was shackled to the opposite post and her heart was beating like a trip hammer as he moved away to one corner, and maneuvered a tall, antique, gold embossed mirror in front of her, cocked at a slight angle. Her reflected eyes were enormous and her expression stricken. She could see the outline of her erect nipples through her thin blouse, and her cheeks began to flush as she became aware of his scrutiny.

  Chapter One

  The car pulled to the curb and Scott yawned, covering his mouth briefly, then turned and grinned at her. ‘Odds or evens?’

  Leah shrugged, reaching into her purse for her badge, then pinning it to the pocket of her blazer. The two climbed out of the unmarked car and separated, Scott crossing the road while Leah moved to the nearest home on the block, clipboard in hand.

  It was extremely unlikely any individual along this street would have anything to contribute to their search. It was unlikely, in fact, that any of them would have much of interest to the police investigation. Still, it was a time-honored method of gathering information. It had to be done. She just wished she hadn’t been delegated to do it.

  It was a well-heeled neighborhood, home to an unfortunate number of seniors who, in Leah’s experience, found it thrilling to speak to the police and tried to extend the event as far as possible.

  The first house was home to a dignified, pipe-smoking gentleman and his overweight wife, both of whom spent far more time trying to get information out of her than trying to facilitate her own investigation. The second was worse; an elderly widow who insisted on feeding her scones and chatting on about her neighbors’ foibles, her grandchildren, and the lack of morality of young girls today.

  As the investigation concerned the disappearances, likely by foul play, of several young women, Leah found it difficult to keep from expressing her irritation. She wondered how Mrs Peabody would react if she had arrived in one of her short skirts or tight tops, both of which were mentioned frequently in her headshaking analyses of the reasons men were tempted by immoral young females.

  She did, however, have one bit of information Leah filed away for action: a suspicious neighbour. Oh, it was normal enough for a woman like Mrs Peabody to be suspicious of almost anyone different, especially a foreigner, but there was an odd catch to the woman’s lowered voice, a quiver almost of actual fear, as she mentioned Mr Morales.

  Mr Morales apparently lived two houses down, and was quite ‘suspicious’. Oddly, Mrs Peabody, who’d lived in the same home for several decades, could not say how long Mr Morales had lived in his. She seemed under the impression he had always been there, though she described him as a ‘young man’.

  The next house over produced a family of five. Two of the children were teenage girls, which produced the anticipated high level of helpful interest in their parents. However, they had nothing of substance to add to the information Leah already had.

  The next home was Mr Morales’. It was a large, but unremarkable gray stone house with a sloping black tile roof. Chimneys pushed through at either end, and half a dozen windows looked down from the first floor onto a large front yard. Tall hedges and trees shadowed the yard itself, but the lawn was well maintained, the path to the front door swept.

  Yet despite a low level of confidence in Mrs Peabody’s concerns, she found herself looking a little nervously about as she walked through the darkened yard. The branches overhead swayed creakily with a stiff chill wind swirling through their leaves, and the shadows seemed to dance and roll along the ground as she walked through them. They played upon the flat gray stone with an almost sinister air, and she licked her lips and clutched her blazer a little tighter around herself as she climbed the steps to the front porch.

  The impact of her knuckles was so minimal she realized at once the door was heavy and solid, not the hollow frame construction one normally encountered. There was no bell so she used the heavy brass knocker, hammering it firmly against the plate beneath.

  She was a police officer, and this was a routine interview in search of information. While it was true one of the missing girls lived nearby, there was nothing whatever that indicated her suspect or suspects lived in this area. It was, in fact, quite unlikely.

  A sound made her whirl suddenly, a chill running up her spine as her eyes tried to pierce the darker shadows, but though she saw nothing she felt her heart beating more quickly.

  ‘Yes?’

  The almost sibilant whisper made her gasp and swing round towards the door again. A very tall man in a dark suit stood there, bald, his face long and emotionless. His eyes were so deep-set within his angular face they were almost lost in the shadows. Leah took a deep breath to steady herself, cursing softly under her breath at Mrs Peabody. ‘Mr Morales?’ she asked.

  ‘I am his manservant,’ the man said, in a voice so quiet she had to strain to hear.

  ‘I’m Detective Leah MacInnes. I’d like to speak to Mr Morales, please.’

  The man stared at her for a long moment, and Leah felt both rising annoyance and a sense of discomfort under his blank gaze. Why, she wondered, hadn’t Mrs Peabody mentioned this man? Surely the sight of him would rouse considerably more doubt than the owner himself.

  ‘One moment,’ he said.

  He closed the door in her face, and Leah glared at it even while feeling a sense of relief. ‘Shit,’ she whispered, rubbing her arms and again glancing about.

  The door opened a long minute later and the man stepped back, revealing a narrow hall, a chandelier hanging just within. ‘Mr Morales will see you,’ he said.

  Leah stepped inside, feeling her soft leather shoes sink into the deep red carpet that ran the length of the hall. She turned quickly to face the man as he closed the door, not wanting him behind her, and then followed as he wordlessly led her deeper into the gloomy house.

  There were closed doors on either side of her, and to the left the same blood-red carpet rose up a wide staircase with an ornately carved wooden banister.

  The
y turned into a capacious living room, heavy red velvet curtains covering the front windows to her right, a fire flickering in an immense marble hearth to her left. The furniture was heavy leather and dark-grained wood, probably not antique, but quite old-fashioned nonetheless.

  Aside from the fireplace, the only light in the dimly lit room came from a pair of lamps in a corner near the window, and a large man sat comfortably in a chair before the fireplace. The chair itself had a very high back and arms that served to keep him in shadow as Leah moved to him.

  ‘Mr Morales?’ she asked.

  She reached to shake hands almost automatically, regretting it the instant she saw his pale hand rise to clasp hers. It was icy cold, yet large and powerful, and she gasped, feeling a strange shock run through her as they made contact. She felt her legs grow weak and sank down onto a pillowed ottoman just in front of the chair. ‘I, um, I would, that is, I’m with the Los Angeles Police,’ she said, her voice quivering strangely. She cleared her throat in annoyance with herself, and shook her head so that her brown hair swirled around her shoulders. ‘I wonder if we could have more light, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Why, I wonder, do people avoid the dark so?’ he asked rhetorically, his voice a bass rumble with a thick Spanish accent. ‘Is it that their own fears can take form in the darkness?’ He reached out to switch on a lamp on the side table by his chair, and the shadows created by the soft yellow glow of the fire and the lamp now diminished enough to make out his features, yet the room was scarcely much brighter.

  He was in his mid-forties, she thought, creepily handsome, with thick, shaggy hair spilling down in loose curls around his head. He had a square face with a firm jaw and wide, full lips. His eyes were so darkly brown as to be almost black.

  ‘What was your name?’

  ‘Detective MacInnes,’ she said, unaccountably nervous.

  ‘Your first name.’

  It occurred to tell him that should be of little concern, but being polite with potential witnesses seldom did any harm. ‘Leah.’

  ‘Leah,’ he said, rolling out the word in his deep, low voice. ‘A lovely name, Leah.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, producing a wan smile. ‘I wonder, Mr Morales, if you are aware of the investigation into missing girls taking place. It’s been somewhat in the media the last few weeks.’

  ‘I do not read the newspapers,’ he said. ‘And I have no television.’

  ‘Well, er, three girls—’

  ‘Children?’

  ‘Well, no, young women.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, his head nodding. ‘The prey in the game of life.’

  She blinked at him. ‘Prey?’

  He smiled, and she felt a strange glow within her belly, which sank through her abdomen.

  ‘Aren’t all attractive young women prey to the animal hungers of men?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ she said. ‘But many would say the reverse is true, as well.’

  He chuckled throatily, and she felt a tightness in her chest. ‘Young women seek a man to protect them, to support them, to father children by them. Young men seek women to conquer, to use, to satisfy their lusts, to prove their virility upon their bodies. Surely you are aware of this. You are a sexually desirable young female. You look to have a healthy body beneath those masculine clothes. Your breasts appear full and your hips well rounded.’

  She felt blood rush to her face. ‘We should speak about the issue at hand, please,’ she said. Yet that warm glow in her abdomen spread lower still, and she subconsciously squeezed her thighs together, feeling a moist heaviness sink into her loins.

  ‘I thought we were,’ he said, his voice somber yet melodic. ‘What do you believe has happened to these young women?’

  ‘That is what we are investigating,’ she said.

  ‘But you have your suspicions,’ he said softly. ‘Suspicions that these young does have been brought down by some hungry wolf, their bodies a feast for his lust.’

  ‘This is a serious investigation, Mr Morales,’ she said sternly.

  ‘Of course it is. The veneer of civilization is thin upon us all. We are predators, we men, and all our instincts, upon seeing an unattached female in the full bloom of her breeding season, is to bring her to her knees and mount her.’

  He leaned forward slightly and she felt her eyes caught by his, felt something within her twist and crumble. The moist heaviness in her loins began to seep outward and she felt a heat rising within her body. Her nipples tightened within the cups of her bra, and she felt a sense of confusion and disbelief at the sense of arousal growing within her.

  ‘I’m sure you’ve felt it yourself many times,’ he said, his voice almost hypnotic, ‘the lust of the men around you, their eyes crawling over your body, the hunger in their words as they seek to persuade you to shed your clothes and inhibitions and join them in the ancient dance of flesh.’

  ‘You have such an optimistic view of humanity,’ she said sarcastically, fighting to keep her composure even as her heart pounded.

  He smiled again, almost tolerantly… or was it contemptuously? She felt her pulse race a little and straightened her shoulders, pushing her breasts out more firmly against the thin fabric of her blouse.

  ‘What, um, w-what do you do for a living, Mr Morales?’ she asked, increasingly flustered.

  ‘I am an artist.’

  The corners of his lips turned up again, and Leah pressed the tip of her pen against her pad to help keep her hand from shaking. He reached out to the table beside him and lifted a crystal wine glass to his lips, sipping lightly. His movements were graceful and fluid, and she found herself staring in admiration as he set the glass down once again.

  ‘I specialize in the female form,’ he said, sitting deeper in the chair. ‘Nothing in life is so beautiful. No artist could create a form so perfect.’

  Leah reached up to brush aside the chestnut fringe that had spilled across her forehead. She felt very warm and glanced at the flames flickering in the fireplace to her left. Her eyes lifted to the mantle above, and a large painting of a girl. She was nude, backed against a tall post, her arms chained above her head, her back arched, perfect breasts thrust up and out. ‘Y-you paint nudes,’ she gasped. His lips turned up again and she felt herself melting, her sex thrumming. Confusion twisted through her mind. Why was she so aroused? What on earth was she doing? She ought to be asking…

  ‘I try to capture the female form in its most erotic moments,’ he elaborated. ‘Come, let me show you.’

  He stood up and she half stumbled to her feet, a little dazed as he took her arm and led her from the front room and down a side hall to a back room, bright with track lighting coming from above. There were no windows, which she found surprising, having heard that artists craved natural light. The room was largely unfurnished, but a number of canvases, completed and empty, were propped against the walls. An easel stood in the centre of the room and a large, almost finished painting sat upon it. It was of another naked woman, reclined on a bed, wrists bound to the posts above her head, back arching, legs spread wide, mouth open in a cry. Up and down either side of the easel were black and white snapshots, clearly the woman in the painting, all of them showing her in almost the same pose.

  ‘These were taken as she climaxed,’ he said to her wide-eyed, questioning look.

  ‘Uhm, oh,’ she gulped, face reddening.

  ‘The pleasure is unfeigned. This is the moment of glory, the moment when the skin flashes fire, when the body writhes and the world explodes within her. That is what I seek to capture on canvas.’

  ‘How do you know she’s not faking it?’ Leah asked, driven by her own alarming curiosity. He turned those dark eyes on her and smiled, and she felt her legs tremble and her stomach flutter.

  ‘I know,’ he said assuredly.

  ‘But… but how could you
?’ she couldn’t help but ask.

  ‘Allow me.’ His fingers slipped beneath the edges of her blazer and pulled it back over her shoulders.

  ‘I… I don’t…’ she stammered, but without thinking she drew her arms back, allowing him to remove the garment.

  ‘Shhh,’ he cajoled, then drew her forward between a pair of waist high posts. Each had a brass ring at its top, and a thin chain attached. He drew her right arm out to one side and attached a shackle to it. Leah felt her stomach lurch and opened her mouth to protest; yet no sound emerged. She jerked her arm back, but no real conviction was behind it. And then her other wrist was shackled to the opposite post and her heart was beating like a trip hammer as he moved away to one corner, and maneuvered a tall, antique, gold embossed mirror in front of her, cocked at a slight angle. Her reflected eyes were enormous and her expression stricken. She could see the outline of her erect nipples through her thin blouse, and her cheeks began to flush as she became aware of his scrutiny.

  ‘Y-you should… I mean, please release me,’ she said, her voice trembling slightly, her arms held out to either side at waist height. The chains were slender but strong, though she’d made no real effort to pull free.

  ‘But of course,’ he said, and moved behind her, his hands grasping hers for a moment. A shock of excitement rippled through her body and she realized she was beginning to perspire with nervous anticipation of his intentions.

  His hands slid gracefully up her arms to her shoulders, and his lips brushed the nape of her neck. Leah could not tear her eyes off the mirror as she watched his mouth drift over her throat and up to her earlobe. Her breathing was growing ragged, her breasts rising and falling rapidly as she swayed where she stood.

  ‘Watch,’ he whispered, his voice a soft breath in her ear. His powerful hands squeezed her trim waist for a few seconds, then slid up to her front and cupped her breasts and she could not repress a gasp and a shudder of sexual excitement. Her breasts tingled and warmed within his cupped hands, and she felt her heart beginning to race. His body was molding against her back, she felt his groin pressing against her buttocks, and moaned softly as the sexual heat rose increasingly strong within her. This was insane, she knew. Aside from the shock and shame of allowing a total stranger to chain her and touch her so intimately, her professional instincts admonished her severely for being so stupid as to let herself be lured into a potentially dangerous situation. She was a police officer and this was an inexcusable lapse.