Queen Of Blood

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The girl bent over the edge of the bed was a white prostitute with lank blonde hair and track marks on her arms. She was a new arrival, fresh from the streets of Los Angeles, where she’d been swept up by Black Brigade scouts. In the ordinary course of things a creature already so damaged would have been banished to Razor City. But Gwendolyn’s suicide had changed things. Upon learning of the loss of her plaything, Ursula had become despondent and withdrawn. Giselle attempted to appease her by allowing her to decide the fate of the new meat, a privilege she relished. Some Ursula deemed as clearly unworthy of her attention and these were sent to Razor City. Others she killed on the spot, with no apparent rhyme or reason. And every week she selected an unlucky few upon which she vented the rage and frustration consuming her.

The prostitute’s mouth had been stitched shut with a needle and thread. Her wrists were bound by a length of rusty barbed wire. Ursula stood behind her, nude except for black platform heels and a strap-on dildo. A cigarette in a plastic holder dangled from a corner of her mouth as she pounded the dildo into the prostitute’s bleeding anus.

Giselle lay on her side on the other side of the bed, her head propped in an upraised hand. The prostitute stared a desperate plea at her with wide, misty eyes. Giselle felt a mild arousal at the obscene thing her lover was doing to the pitiful creature. But it was a reflex. There was no real fire behind it. She still loved Ursula, but the bond between them had weakened, a steady, drip-drip erosion she feared would continue until there was nothing left. She watched the bounce of Ursula’s breasts and the sway of her long blonde hair as she ass-fucked the prostitute and tried to feel more than mild arousal.

And the result was the same.

Nothing.

So she was glad for the diversion when she heard the clack of jackboot heels.

She rose from the bed to greet Schreck.

The commander’s sleek black uniform was crisp and immaculate, his boots polished and gleaming. His eyes were a cold blue-gray and his hair was cut close to the scalp. His lips were thin and his features had a cruel cast, fitting for one in his position. He doffed his hat and clacked his heels. Giselle was amused. The man was an admirer of the arch militarism of Third Reich fascists, and there were times when he seemed like a particularly demented little boy playing the role of concentration camp commandant.

He bowed stiffly and said, “Mistress, there is a matter requiring your immediate attention.”

Giselle smiled and moved to her wardrobe. She selected a green silk robe and pulled it on. It was short, the hem reaching the mid-thigh level. She cinched it shut with the sash and turned back to the commander, the smile still on her face.

She smoothed the fabric down over her thighs and said, “How does this look?”

A corner of the man’s mouth quirked as he struggled to contain frustration. “Madam, this is a matter of the highest importance. I hardly think ”

Giselle’s smile faded. “I asked you a question. Answer it.”

Schreck was a coolly efficient man who didn’t stay flustered long. It was what made him so perfectly suited for his role in the scheme of things. “It looks lovely on you, Mistress.”

“Of course it does. Now tell me about this supposedly dire development.”

She moved to the vanity next to the wardrobe and sat in the chair there, pulling at the hem of her robe as she crossed her legs. Schreck turned to face her directly and drew in a breath. A slight frown creased Giselle’s forehead. Something had rattled the man. A faint alarm sounded at the back of her mind. She’d never known Schreck to be nervous, not even in the immediate aftermath of Ms. Wickman’s assassination.

Her interest piqued, she sat up straighter and leaned forward. “Come on, man. Out with it. What has the likes of you in such a tizzy?”

Schreck heaved a sigh. “Madam…we have new arrivals. Three women. One of them is Dream Weaver, who was—”

“I know who she is.” Giselle frowned and glanced toward the bed. Ursula was still pounding away at the prostitute. The backs of her long, shapely legs flexed with each thrust. The mild arousal she’d felt earlier gained a bit more heat. She had to force her gaze back to Schreck’s subtly troubled expression. “She’s a prize catch. You should be giddy. So why the concern?”

Schreck tugged at the stiff collar of his uniform shirt with an index finger. Giselle’s frown deepened. The man was more than a little nervous. There was even a very thin sheen of sweat along his forehead. “We did not bring Ms. Weaver in. She and her companions are here of their own accord.”

“But that’s absurd. Why would they come here of their own free will?”

Schreck’s shoulders lifted in a small shrug.“I know little of their intentions. Ms. Weaver has actually caused quite a stir in the larger world of late. She and her friends have been on a crime spree of epic proportions, with a trail of victims and robberies across several northeastern and midwestern states.”

Giselle settled back in the chair and crossed her fingers at her waist. “How odd. It’s not a fate I would have imagined for that woman.” Her eyes narrowed. “And it still doesn’t explain why they’re here.”

“Indeed.” Schreck glanced briefly in the direction of the large double doors that stood open at the far end of the big room. He seemed anxious and his voice dropped to a whisper as he said, “But if I may venture a guess?”

Giselle frowned. “Please do.”

Schreck moved closer to Giselle, kneeling slightly at the waist as he again spoke in a whisper: “I believe they’ve come here seeking refuge. They’re weary of dodging the law and need a place to hunker down, perhaps indefinitely.” A malignant smile darkened the corners of his thin lips. “Desperation brought them to our door, Mistress. They are broken. Beaten. They are at our mercy.”

“My mercy, you mean.”

Schreck blinked. “Of course.”

Giselle frowned again. “If they are, as you say, ‘beaten,’ then why are you so afraid?”

Schreck straightened at once, indignation flaring in his eyes. “I am not afraid.”

Giselle uncrossed her legs and rose from the chair. She approached Schreck, enjoying the way his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly as she neared him. “You are so very afraid,” she said, still smiling as she put a hand on his shoulder. Her nose twitched. “I smell the stink of it on you.”

Schreck swallowed. “Madam, I—”

“Shush.” Giselle squeezed his shoulder, her fingers digging into muscle, finding a tender spot. She held his gaze a moment and allowed him to feel how easily she could tear him apart. “Your fear is a good thing, Schreck. You’ve always been so unflappable, even in the moments after I slaughtered your original Mistress. So this tells me something. Our guests are not to be underestimated. You believe they present a genuine threat.”

Schreck drew in a sharp breath as Giselle relaxed the pressure on his shoulder. He wiped moisture from his forehead with a uniform sleeve. “Madam…it’s true. My time in their presence left me feeling…unnerved. It was a subtle thing, a sense of something being…not right.”

Giselle nodded. “Take me to them. Now.”

“Are you sure, Mistress? Perhaps you should grant us time to arrange a more secure—”

Impatience flared in Giselle’s eyes. “Now.”

Shreck returned his hat to his head and snapped his heels together. “As you wish.”

Giselle considered taking a moment to change out of the flimsy robe into something more formal, but she was too anxious to see her guests to waste time selecting something appropriate. She glanced toward the bed, where Ursula was still positioned behind the whimpering prostitute. The girl evinced no sign of having heard her conversation with Schreck. She was too lost in her own world. A part of her wanted to order Ursula to finish with the prostitute and accompany her downstairs, but the prospect of yet another spat with the girl made her weary.

So she looked at Schreck and said, “Lead the way.”

The commander spun on his heels and strode away at a brisk rate, which Giselle hurried to match. They passed through the open double doors and moved rapidly down the long, candlelit corridor. Muffled but nonetheless distinct sounds emerged from behind the closed doors that lined either side of the hallway. Moans of ecstasy and the strangled sobs and whimpers of those in agony, laced with incongruous bursts of mad laughter. Similar sounds drifted from the hallways of each floor as they descended the spiral staircase to ground level. Schreck’s boot heels struck a loud, discordant accompaniment on the marble stairs. Giselle was struck by the impression that this was how the echoing chambers of hell must sound. She was not displeased by the notion.

They reached the bottom and passed through the foyer into a large living room filled with lots of expensive oak furniture. Giselle followed Schreck through the living room as he continued toward an archway that led to the main dining hall. As they neared the dining hall, Giselle began to hear voices. Female voices. The timbre of one was instantly familiar. Dream Weaver. Though she’d never met the woman in person, she’d heard her voice on television numerous times. A little shiver rippled down the length of her spine. The instinctive fear made her angry. This was her domain. Her castle. She had all the power here. And yet the feeling persisted.

She detected no fear in the woman’s voice. Not the slightest iota. Which was just insane. Regardless of whatever mischief she’d gotten up to in the normal world, she was now on dangerous and very hostile territory. Her every word should pulse with anxiety.

But it just wasn’t there.

Giselle tensed as they passed through the archway into the dining hall. More than a dozen heavily armed Black Brigade soldiers lined each side of the room. These were hard, brutal men. Sadists guilty of countless atrocities. The collective scent of fear was almost overpowering. Some of the men fidgeted. Others were sweating and trying not to shake in their boots. Giselle was overcome with disgust and disdain. This was her elite force. Her professional killers. The ones she entrusted with the security of her realm. But right now they looked about as fearsome as a troop of Cub Scouts wielding Wiffle Ball bats. She decided then that none of these men would survive to see another sunrise.

Schreck included.

But these pitiless thoughts were forgotten as she looked at the four women seated in relaxed poses at the far end of the table. There were two women who looked to be in their midthirties. One black and one white. The other two were younger, in their very early twenties at the most. The younger women possessed a certain similarity of features. One, slightly older and sporting choppy, jet-black hair was markedly prettier than the other. Yet they had the same thin lips, wide eyes, and slightly upturned nose. They were sisters or close cousins. There was something not quite right about the younger one. Her mouth was hanging open. Droplets of drool depended from the corners of her lips and her dark eyes possessed a flat, dead look.

A half-empty bottle sat on the table between the women—and three glasses filled with varying levels of dark liquid. The thirtysomething white woman also had choppy, jet-black hair. It looked better on her than it did on the younger girl. She was extraordinarily attractive, the kind of woman who could adopt any look and instantly make it her own. She wore a pink baby-doll T-shirt, which was emblazoned with the word SLUT in large glittering letters. On any other woman her age the shirt would look ridiculous, but…

Then it clicked.

Giselle forced a smile. “Hello, Dream.”

Dream’s smile was surprisingly feral, nothing at all like what Giselle remembered from television coverage after the fall of the House of Blood. “Hello, cunt.”

Giselle blinked rapidly for several moments. “How dare you—”

“Oh, shut up.” Dream eyed her up and down, a mocking glint in her eyes. “I’d tell you not to get your panties in a knot, but you’re not wearing any, are you?”

The younger black-haired girl cackled. “Yeah, that’s some robe, baby. Shit, it’s like she’s the female Hugh Hefner and this is the house of horrors version of the Playboy Mansion.”

The comment enraged Giselle even as it evoked a round of laughter from the girl’s companions. Even the drooling, slack-jawed girl made a chuffing sound that might have been mirth. She continued making the sound for several moments after the laughter of her friends faded. Giselle put her rage on hold as she stared in helpless fascination at the pathetic creature. She looked outwardly normal, but it was apparent her mind was functioning only at the most basic level.

Giselle scowled. “What’s wrong with that one? The ugly, drooling idiot, I mean.” She lifted an arm to point at the girl with the slack jaw and glassy eyes, who turned her head slowly to stare blankly in Giselle’s direction. “That one, I mean.”

Dream’s smile remained in place, but her eyes turned cold. “Oh, that’s Ellen. She’s a work in progress.”

Giselle frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Dream drained her wine glass and filled it again. “Oh, nothing much. She died recently. Was murdered, actually. By one of your men, the late Harlan Dempsey.”

Giselle shrugged. “I don’t know the name. Many of our field operatives are still working under orders issued by the woman I…replaced.”

“Yeah, okay, whatever. Doesn’t matter. He’s fucking dead now.”

The younger dark-haired girl grinned and the fingers of her right hand assumed the shape of a gun. “Pow. Right between the eyes.”

Dream chuckled. “That was right at your doorstep, as soon as we were sure ol’ Harlan had guided us to the right place. Anyway, I brought our dead sister back to life. Actually, I created a whole new Ellen. We had to leave the original body behind. Physically, she’s perfect. The trick is getting her mind to work again. It’s slow work, but I’m getting there. Marcy is the key.” She nodded at the other young girl, who was still aiming the finger-gun in Giselle’s direction. “She’s bound to Ellen by blood and carries a touch of her sister’s essence with her. I’m drawing on that to restore her personality and memories.”

Giselle nodded. “Uh-huh. Right.”

She knew what was happening now. It was a little unnerving, but the mere knowing made her feel somewhat better. She had lived amongst sadists and practitioners of dark magic for so long it had taken her a while to recognize simple madness when she saw it. It was a fine distinction, the line between deliberate indulgence of dark desires and the helplessness of lunacy. Dream and her friends were dangerous, yes, but only in the manner of any other roaming pack of maniacs. And she just didn’t have the time or patience to deal with babbling lunatics.

So she marched further into the room and yanked a submachine gun from the shaking hands of a startled Black Brigade soldier. She broke the trembling man’s neck with a hard chop of her left hand and he fell dead to the floor. Then she got a proper grip on the gun, slipped a finger through the trigger guard, and aimed the weapon at the crazy women sitting at her table.

“I’ve enjoyed our visit, but I’m very busy, so I’ll be killing you now.”

Her finger squeezed the trigger. Fire erupted from the muzzle. The weapon chugged and spit shell casings as the barrel tilted toward the ceiling. Bullets slashed through a chandelier and a rain of glittering white shards spattered the table like crystalline rain. Giselle eased her finger off the trigger and stared at the weapon with an expression that made her look like a befuddled child. Her first instinct was to blame the weapon itself. Recoil. The gun had a strong kick and she was not used to handling firearms.

But then she saw Dream’s devilish grin.

Her eyes went wide and her breath caught in her throat. She felt a moment of fear. Then she shoved the fear down and a snarl transformed her face, animal fury twisting her natural prettiness and turning it into something almost ugly. She brought the weapon to bear again, aiming it straight at Dream’s face. She squeezed the trigger again and waited for the thing she ached to see more than anything else, Dream’s pretty face blowing apart beneath the onslaught of a hail of high-velocity steel.

The barrel tipped toward the ceiling again and the bullets etched a jittery pattern of holes in the wood. She kept her finger down on the trigger this time and struggled to bring the barrel down, the muscles in her arms and neck bulging with the strain. But her arms seemed frozen, as if held in place by the hands of some invisible puppet master. The gun’s magazine clicked empty and only then did Giselle become aware of the mad, continuous roar emerging from her open mouth. The force holding her hands in place retreated, and she threw the useless weapon across the room with a cry of helpless rage. The gun’s stock struck a long, wall-mounted mirror and shattered it.

Dream’s black friend—who seemed vaguely familiar—laughed. “Look at that. Seven years bad luck. You done fucked up, bitch.”

The one called Marcy laughed.

The drooling lobotomy case made that unsettling chuffing sound again.

And Dream just kept on smiling, utterly unfazed by all the gunfire and drama.

Giselle’s teeth were clenched and her hands were curled into tight fists at her side. From the corners of her eyes, she could see the faces of the soldiers. Here and there she was able to discern tell-tale hints of smugness. Of a grim satisfaction. There, they were thinking. Now the bitch knows why the hard men are afraid.

And they were right, damn them to hell.

She exerted a considerable effort of will and slowly composed herself. In a few moments she was able to regulate her breathing. The flush faded from her face. Her fists uncurled and her jaw relaxed.

She forced a smile. “Okay, Dream. I know that was your doing. I can feel it.” She moved a few slow, deliberate steps toward the seated women. “Why don’t you tell me how you did it?”

Dream chuckled. “Oh, you know. If you think about it hard enough, that is.”

Giselle moved another step closer. And another. Slow. Casual. As sublimely cool and confident as a stoned surfer riding the crest of an early morning wave. Her eyes were locked on Dream’s. The rest of the world faded. There was only the two of them now. There was a sweet tension in the air that was almost sexual. She was putting herself out in the open, making herself as vulnerable as she’d ever been, clearing the channels to allow only pure truth to flow between them. In those moments she learned all she needed to know about Dream, and Dream saw the extent of Giselle’s own formidable powers.

Yet another step closer.

“The Master. Of course.” Giselle’s smile was almost radiant now. He showed you some things, awakened a dormant power within you. A power that grew beyond your ability to control and direct.” She laughed. “You’re not really human. Not purely. Somewhere in the distant past one of his kind mated with one of your ancestors. This is why you have become so strong without schooling yourself in the dark arts.”

Dream’s smile became a smirk. “Interesting theory. Might even be the fuckin’ truth. Thing is, I don’t really give a fuck. Not anymore.”

Giselle was within six feet of them now. Close to striking distance. Certain muscles began to subtly coil. “Is that so?” She arched an eyebrow, a faintly mocking expression. “Or are you just too much of a drunken mess to wrap your stupid head around any idea more complex than a knock-knock joke?”

Dream’s face turned hard. “Stop right there.”

And Giselle felt that force rise up against her again. It was impressive, the sheer ease with which Dream wielded her ability. But Giselle had been expecting it this time. And she was not without ability of her own. She threw up a psychic shield that repelled Dream’s energy pulse and knocked the woman back in her own chair. Dream gaped at her. Shock radiated from her every pore.

NOW.

Giselle loosed a shriek of fury and dove across the surface of the table, her right hand extended, long, sharp nails seeking Dream’s sky-blue eyes. Dream’s friends tried to intercept her, but another blast of energy sent them tumbling to the floor. Giselle slid across the table at high speed, her body knocking aside the wine bottle and glasses. Then she was on Dream, her left hand closing on the woman’s slender throat as the fingers of her other hand shot toward those gaping, stupid eyes. And for a flashing instant, Giselle felt her own smug satisfaction, thinking, stupid cow.

Then Dream’s hand snapped up and seized Giselle’s outstretched wrist. Giselle’s momentum alone should have been enough to finish the job anyway, and the power flowing through her should have sealed the deal.

But Dream’s strength blunted her momentum. The woman’s hand moved backward perhaps half a centimeter. Then stopped. Giselle’s wrist was frozen in place, but the rest of her body kept moving. Dream leaped to her feet and moved with the direction of that energy. She shifted her grip on Giselle’s wrist and exerted some force of her own. Then Giselle was airborne and flying toward the wall with no way to stop the impending crash. The top of her head smacked the wall, and an instant later she hit the floor with a hard, undignified thud. The pain was immense. Before she could even begin to consider her next move, she was yanked to her feet and slammed against the wall.

Dream put a hand around her throat and slammed her against the wall again. “How’s that feel, bitch! How’s that fucking feel!” Dream’s eyes were wide and bulging, pulsing with insanity and unmitigated fury. “Does it fucking hurt! Does it fucking hurt!”

Giselle’s vision blurred and she realized with shame that she had tears in her eyes. She didn’t bother to answer the crazy woman’s question. Of course it hurt. But the pain wasn’t the worst of it. The thing that really got to her was how powerless she was to stop this abuse. And she almost felt like laughing, despite everything, because now she had the gift of clarity and could see how arrogant she had been. Had she really felt like a god? As if nothing or no one could ever hurt her again?

She bit her lip. Hard. Tasted her own blood.

And called out to the void.

Azaroth! Help me!

No answer from the void.

Just the sound of her head banging repeatedly off the wall as the world turned fuzzy. She wondered if she was about to die and felt a moment’s perplexion at how little she cared. As she neared unconsciousness, she thought of the essential ways in which the blood sacrifice of Eddie King had changed her. Maybe she’d really died back then, the real Giselle, and the thing she was now was just some magical construct, a joke played on her by a malicious god. Azaroth. The silent one. Her former coconspirator against the Master. Her restored hands. A body, whole again.

Construct.

Giselle’s laughter approached madness. Now who was the crazy one? Dream continued to scream at her, the words losing any meaning now.

Then, just as she thought death might take her, she glanced over her shoulder and saw a new shape enter the room. She blinked hard. Dream wasn’t banging her against the wall anymore. Just screaming. Raging. Her hand squeezing. The shape came into focus as it moved closer.

Giselle’s heart lurched.

Ursula.

Still nude. So beautiful. So tall in those ridiculous platform heels. The jut of her mouth so insolent. In that moment Giselle felt a rush of love and desire. It was all still there, the purity of all she’d felt for the girl over these months. It hadn’t really faded at all. And seeing the fright and concern in her lover’s eyes only intensified the feeling.

Ursula locked eyes with her and Giselle saw the same depth of emotion within her.

It was a beautiful, aching, glorious moment.

And it passed in a nanosecond.

Ursula screamed and came running toward her, ridiculous big heels clomping on the marble floor.

And the young girl with the black-as-night hair—Marcy—rose up and strode purposefully forward, a real gun, a gleaming, nickel-plated 9mm pistol, in her hands now. She aimed the barrel point blank at Ursula’s face and fired once. The bullet hit her between the eyes. An explosion of red bloomed behind her head even as her body flew backward. Giselle squealed anguish and tried to flex her power one last time, reached down deep inside herself and tried to kickstart the core of that power. But it was unreachable. Something was in the way. Still she kept reaching, kept straining…

Dream grinned and said, “No.”

Giselle’s vision blurred again. “Kill me. Please. Finish it….”

Dream laughed. “No.” She increased the pressure around Giselle’s neck, reducing her air passage to perhaps the width of a straw. “You’re not getting off that easy.”

Of course not.

Giselle’s fading gaze went to the trembling soldiers. No smugness on their faces now. Just terror. Disbelief.

Helplessness. Trembling hands unable to wield their weapons. Giselle wasn’t sure they’d choose to use them if they could.

And there, just inside the archway, good old Schreck. As afraid as the rest of them, but with a hint of a smirk playing at the edges of his mouth. She had another insight then. Another bit of truth she’d been too stupid and arrogant to discern. He was the traitor. The Order of the Dragon plant alluded to by Gwendolyn in her last moments. And he must have seen the recognition in her fading vision, because now he was baring his teeth. Cackling, the jackal exposed at last.

Giselle sucked more blood from her torn lip into her mouth.

Called out one last time.

Azaroth…why have you forsaken me?

And this time she received a response.

Disembodied, mocking laughter that boomed in her head like thunder.

Thunder that rolled on and on as the world faded away at last.