This mere moment of stunned silence passes, and then Iris unleashes a horripilating scream.
It does not last long, for though the malignant creatures had wanted to draw out the bride’s torture, she is here, now, and with a quick attack from one, she is knocked into the ichor. It is corrosive, poisonous, and a hissing of gas rises up as her body is engulfed. There is some attempt at flailing, but the concoction is heavy, thick, and very potent, and those meager struggles soon cease.
The need for subtlety now quite gone, the dark forces lurking in this place increase the intensity of their attack.
Drowning, drowning in sludge … pieces of skin and other material flaking off, floating in the thick soup … the warmth almost inviting, save for this corrosion … physical pain like jerks and shocks over the network of nerves, a spasmolytic doll on terrible strings … this feeling numbs, for the mental torment must rise, much more horrifying than the mundane. Still, time for that later. One thing courses through her mind – survival.
She rises up from the morass, not springing up as though some forced expulsion, but grasping wetly at the sides, hands slipping, then taking hold, carefully, and she pushes, her backside having been upwards, and she raises her head above the sludge, taking in a breath, still careful. She inhales some of the liquid, coughing, sputtering, thick tendrils of it trailing down over her face and hair, seeming like a coat to her, her dark, wet locks looking to have become part of the ooze. This is no mere water, but more like a demented amniotic fluid. Has she been reborn?
She forcefully exhales, spitting a spray of the stuff from about her mouth, then reaching over with her right hand to try to wipe away the more pronounced, stubborn leavings. Her hand is, of course, covered in the slime, and this does not much help. She clambers up onto her knees, the dense liquid rocking with her movement but somehow the more stable of it and her. She looks about, again, carefully, but those … things she thinks she saw are nowhere to be found. If it were not for her own condition and the body of Jordan, she might even wonder if it had not all been some vivid nightmare.
She looks down at the gunk in which she kneels, and it hits her, what she has somehow managed to get out of her mind, and she tenses, jaw clenching. She surges forward on clutching abdominal muscles, retching into the muck. She expels the contents of her stomach, adding it to the disgusting soup, and this motivates her. She again grips the slick sides of the vast tub, finally managing to get to her feet.
She then stands before the mirror, the once polished, pristine surface of it now marred by blood and other, less identifiable stains, abstract swathes of dark liquid, drying, other areas more a peppering of strange dust, as if ash. She looks at herself, a slight trembling to her body, having left the torturous embrace of the acidic soup. Shock has assuredly set in, but she does not completely crumble beneath it. The tattered remnants of her ancestor’s bridal gown hang on her now like the saturated leavings of a thick web, clinging wetly to her form.
She reaches forward for the faucet, hands slipping a bit to get hold, and she slowly, methodically, goes through the motions of washing her hands and face, pushing her hair back, feeling more of that slime, and she washes her hands again. She looks pale, as though her flesh has somehow uniformly been bleached from her time in the bath. Her eyes, once a rich dark brown, even look more hazel now. She leans in closer to her image, peering, and she sees some variegations of red throughout, radiating from the center. She might think her eyes bloodshot from her ordeal, vessels burst, but it appears as though the pigmentation itself has been changed.
A terrible scream comes from the other cabana, obviously a man, and she starts, tensing, her trembling now of fright rather than the damp. Her teeth clench, even as her paled lips quiver. She stands there a moment, not wanting to leave, not wanting to stay, wanting to be anywhere but here, yet here she is.
She leaves the bathroom, moving on shambling feet toward the continued sounds – tittering, hissing breaths, some seeming to come from pain, others emerging as though from inhuman throats and mouths. She hears noises like that from the mobile phone earlier, a buzzing that toys at some underlying, animal part of her brain, something she feels could be a language, yet how can she possibly know that?
When her feet finally get her back into the other room, she sees things her brain does not want to accept. She sees those creatures and more. Some of the ones that at least hold a quasi-human shape, though there is no doubt they are the stuff of nightmares, others looking less anthropomorphic, some hovering in the air on leatherine wings, a lack of any noticeable sensory organs, but they all eventually turn their notice to her.
She sees Ryan, held in bondage. He is restrained by something that looks organic, as though one of the very beasts has wrapped itself about him, lengths of its form attached by toothed suckers, the tendrils flexing obscenely, one of them partially covers his face, going over his left eye, fluid leaks, staining him, a dark red, some even black. He is obviously in anguish.
The Bride, the Bride …
She turns about, looking, wondering how she hears this rustling of odd speech, this sense of confusion and excitement coming from the denizens.
“… Iris …?”
And this is Ryan, and her eyes find him, noting his struggles, his tension and pain, the seething burn and fear so obvious upon his restrained form. She merely stands there, saying nothing, as several of the monsters move to her, getting in close, more observant than ready to touch her.
“How are you … alive?” one hisses out at her in a more solid form of communication than the buzzing whispering she thought she registered before.
She does not answer, and she feels a somewhat chitinous hand grip her right bicep. She tenses, a short breath passing roughly through her nostrils, eyes looking at the culprit. Many eyes look back at hers, and that insanity-inducing horror threatens at her again, and just as before, she somehow manages to quell it. The sharply tapered digits of that hand squeeze at her arm as though testing the ripeness of fruit.
“She lives …,” says another voice, then the pitch rising, “The Bride lives.” More hands grip her, moving her toward Ryan.
“Look … look and see. See what we do to your groom, your love.”
Iris stares, blankly, her body moved like a rag doll to get closer, held by firm, terrible hands and other appendages, made to stand there and observe. Ryan returns that gaze, his single, exposed eye filled with panic, pain, as he drills the remnants of his sight into her, almost as though they may save each other through sheer will. What he does not know is that her mind is not directed the same as his.
The tentacles over him flex again, going thicker as though filling with air or coursing with a rush of blood, and then they constrict. He tenses, teeth bared, then cries out in pain. The tittering and buzzing increases, accompanied by more obvious gurgling laughter from those creatures that possess some capability of a semblance of human speech.
Let him make noise, let him speak …
“You see? You see?” One of them comes in close, hissing in her ear, its fingers caressing her face and neck. “We will let him keep the use of his mouth until the end. We want him to scream and plead and beg. We want him to talk to you.”
All she can think is to let it be anyone else but her. Let it be him, if it must, but just not her. She even emits a weak, shaky nod.
The torture resumes, more pain applied, more grunts and twitches and tensing and screams. She casts her eyes about, and she sees the crumbled and broken forms of Kaitlyn and Aaron. She figures they have left Ryan alive for this torture, and then she sees Kathryn, still just standing there, looking untouched, still a petrified husk, lost in her mind. The girl’s mouth now fully gapes, slack, stains of drool on her chin as fresher expulsions collect and drip into lengthy trails.
She doesn’t care, she doesn’t feel …
“Look at him!” one of them commands, its voice wet, a spray of whatever fluid resides in its mouth spattering her face as she is roughly made to g
aze upon Ryan as the torture continues.
“His skin, his skin,” another says, moving in to pet a portion of exposed flesh that has not yet been covered or ruined by the treatment, “His precious skin. You love that flesh. We will flay him.”
A number of the talons displayed on many of the monsters would seem to suffice, and one is brought nearer, its edge promising just the sort of razor sharpness needed. Ryan’s eye bugs, craning to look at the direction of the coming operation. It is amazing he retains consciousness.
“He is not my love.”
What? …
“What!” cry out many, some more substantial, like a choir with manifest voices over sickly whispers and hums.
“I-I’m not the bride,” she says, then she slowly raises her right arm, the slender length of it wracked by trembling, tatters of the torn, lacey garment wriggling from the motion as she points, “Kat … Kaitlyn. There. She’s the bride. Not me.”
Dead, dead … we did kill the Bride …
And she hears cries of anguish from this. She feels she has done herself a disservice by revealing it; her efforts to spare Ryan may only bring her death.
“You lie to us,” accuses a voice, and then digits that may pass as fingers prick and pull at her, “You wear the bridal dress. You are the offering.”
“No,” she shakes her head, trying to make it more forceful and deliberate than a spasming jerk, “This … this is m-my g-g-great-great grandmother’s dress.”
And more of those insubstantial cries erupt into that subconscious part of her hearing, more hisses and yowls and scatterings.
“Then you serve no purpose to us,” comes a deeper, much clearer voice, and the others scuttle away.
She turns to see one there who looks more human, definitely masculine, tall, well-muscled, even a length of dark hair emerging in some healthy abundance from his pate. His red eyes stare fixedly on her.
“For your deception, you will be last. You will watch as we kill the others, then you will die.”
She drops to her knees, taking the thing’s left hand in her own, noting that though it is large, the fingers thicker than one might expect, the nails dense and curved to points like those of a bird of prey, it still looks more human than the others, giving her a strange sense of comfort. She averts her eyes, looking at the floor, much of which is stained with blood and other broken bits of things and people, her friends.
“Please don’t kill me,” she begs, her voice weak, though she fights the inclination to stammer, trying to give more strength to her fearful words, “I’ll do whatever you want, just please don’t kill me.”
“You are a pathetic thing,” the seeming leader declares, pulling his hand away, and she drops her arms in surrender. “Kill them.”
A more rejoiceful chattering arises even as the suitable voices emit similar cries on more mundane wavelengths. Many rush over, grabbing her, roughly returning her to her feet, turning her. She watches, stoic, stunned, as time is taken to tease and torment Ryan, eventually ending him. Her efforts to protect him from being flayed prove wasted, even as he eventually expires.
Sweet, sweet suffering …
They then move to Kaitlyn’s younger sister, collecting Kathryn’s body, ripping off her clothes, and the lithe, youthful girl is finally brought back to wakefulness with nigh inhuman-sounding screams as they decide to do to her what they intended to the groom, peeling away her virile skin. Iris remains mute throughout, no tears even falling from her vacant, spoiled eyes.
Ambrosial pain, yes, yes …
She can hear the orgiastic cries that do not so clearly resonate on this plane even as others make obvious sounds of barbaric enjoyment, some huffing in sharp bellows, others yipping like barking animals. The crowd of them seems too numerous for this room, their forms varied beyond nature, beyond sanity. Why has no one else heard this? Why is no help coming? Is she broken?
She wonders this of herself.
She finds her gaze again on the masculine one, its form rippling with dark muscles, veins in unhealthy, inhuman prominence. Her arms and legs are held in steel-like grips of others, and she feels the sickening length of tentacles threading about her, holding her further.
“And now you,” he says with a steaming coat of eroticism.
Stop …
He does so, instantly, and she sees something there that strikes her as alien, even more so than the appearance of these beasts, in as much as she has grown to know them. She sees fear.
You are more pathetic than the creature you threaten.
She does not know how she hears this, how she comprehends the unearthly-sounding words. She holds still, listening, watching.
You will not kill her …
“But she is not the Bride.”
You think that because you command this rabble that you are worthy? I could send you to tortures that make what these humans have endured feel like a meaningless pastime …
The beast stiffens further.
“I merely-.”
You are where you are by design! You have been given what meager power you have by design! The girl, she is the Bride …
Silence ensues, all of them cowed, even Iris. The voice that speaks sounds as though it comes from even further away, yet its malignance and power is undeniable.
She was put in the bath, yes? …
“Yes.”
And she did not die …
No answer comes to this statement, for such is obvious.
What fortitude must a mere human possess to survive thus? …
Another weighty moment of silence stretches, and this time, it seems the speaker is desirous of an answer.
“I … don’t know.”
Fool! She is no mere human. Fool! You will be demoted, marked. You are not worthy of the paltry position you have been given …
She sees a blink of disappointment on the alien features.
Ask her what she will do to continue to keep her life …
This infuses the beast, eyes narrowing as it grates out, “What is your life worth to you?”
She again drops to her knees, realizing the hold which once bound her has slackened enough that she is able to lean forward, burying her obsequious face against the tall being’s left thigh, her head very near his prominent genitals, something about which she seems to care little, if at all.
“I will serve. I will do whatever I am commanded,” she spurts, instinctively, “Please, please, don’t kill me.”
Her instinct to live feels as though a flaring, a pulsing inflammation. Nothing else matters to her, not her friends who now lie dead, not her family, not even what in hell is even going on. She just wants to live.
You see? She endures …
He nods, slowly, looking down at her, “I s-.”
You see nothing! Were I not bothered by having to keep such a watchful eye on you, you would have killed her, thus denying us her obvious power. Do you see? Do ... you … see! …
And he openly trembles now, and with such a display of fright and such a showing of anger on the part of the speaker, all the others begin to also convey trepidation. She remains on her knees, but she registers this, noting that even with their alien-nature, their obvious power, they may also feel fear.
“I …,” he begins, stumbling on his words, appearing to ponder them, a slow nod coming to his head, “I see.”
Good. Now, look closely, for you will never see this again. She shall never again kneel to the likes of you …
And he does indeed stare, taking in the sight.
Others are coming. You will protect her. Nothing will take her away or take her life. Others are coming who are more capable than you, and they shall collect her for us and bring her somewhere safe where she may be used as is her due …
“Yes, Master. Thy Will be done.”
Naught but silence now results, and he finally looks back down.
“Get her to her feet,” he growls, and hands and tendrils again take her, “But do not harm her. You heard the Ma
ster.”
And so did she, and she wonders if the Master knows she heard, and she wonders what it all means. What is her due?
CHAPTER ONE
He stands alone atop the building, the night a plague to vision, but something in his eyes belies a preternatural focus. A light wind tries to have its way with his trench coat, producing little movement in the well-worn fabric. The color is dark, variance of hues speaking out amongst his other clothing, though all look desaturated, as though old and brethren to the night. A utilitarian aspect hints in his dress, but the main focus is his eyes, peering out beneath the scraggy array of his short hair. His jaw is square, though not overly large, a shadowy forest of whiskers grown up from neglect.
He pauses in his scanning, for there is only so much he may see from atop this broad three-story building. He raises his chin, inhaling deeply. Something catches his notice, and with a brief flex of his legs, he springs away, launching himself into the air in a way that seems humanly impossible.
He is not unused to this, for he has been a tracker and a hunter nearly his whole life. He plies the family trade, and though he is not the best, he is far from the worst. Experience has given him some useful edge, and he hopes to prove successful here. He moves across the top of another night-quiet building in this town, the boots on his feet reporting his progress. The evening takes the sound, eating it, as though the stillness were a sensory famine. The staccato finds interruption as he again leaps through the air.
Sword of the Butterfly Page 2
