Queen Of Blood Page 7

  Giselle focused every bit of will still available to her and worked to suppress the phantom limb sensation. The effort seemed to yield results. A dim tingle remained, but now she felt the low throb at the end her scarred stump. She concentrated harder still and jabbed at the creature with the stump. The stump skidded past the creature on the first attempt, just brushing its fuzzy legs. The thing was mere inches from her pubic thatch and was still moving. Panic rose in her throat like an exhalation of poison gas. She sat up straight and jabbed downward. The suspended cage swung slightly on its chain, but she made direct contact this time. Her stump pinned its body against her leg. She felt it trying to escape from the pressure, exerting more strength than so tiny a thing should possess. Giselle gritted her teeth and pushed down with all her strength. Instinct and revulsion made her want to knock the thing off her body, but she knew she had to kill it while she had the chance.

  The creature swelled beneath her stump, its legs growing longer and thicker. Giselle leaned forward, applying upper body leverage. Then there was a squeal as the thing’s body burst and a thick, gooey substance exploded against her flesh. Its legs twitched another time and stopped moving. Giselle gagged and flicked the tattered body away. Coated in goo, the thing’s body clung to the cage for a moment, then fell between two of the steel bars and landed with a sickening plop on the stone floor.

  Giselle’s chest was heaving. Sudden tears erupted from her eyes and spilled in hot trails down her cheeks. She pawed at the mass of goo coating the center of her body, wiping as much of it away with her stumps as she could. The phantom limb sensation returned and she made a mess of the job, spread the goo over a wider area of her body. She managed to gather a fair amount of the vile stuff on her stumps and flick it away, but without hands it was impossible to clean herself thoroughly.

  The room abruptly grew colder and her tears turned to frost on her cheeks. The atmosphere in the room was clearly being artificially manipulated. Yet another spell constructed by Ms. Wickman, likely designed to start working should Giselle somehow manage to thwart the shape-shifter. Knowing the cold was a product of magic did nothing to alleviate the spell’s effects. The temperature plunged several more degrees and Giselle moved into a corner of the cage, drew her legs up to her torso, and wrapped what was left of her arms around them. Her body shivered uncontrollably in the deepening cold, making the cage sway again on its chain.

  And though they shamed her and added to her discomfort, her tears continued to flow, etching icy paths down her cheeks. She was so frustrated and afraid, more afraid than she’d been in years. More than that, she felt powerless. She still couldn’t accept that this had happened to her. A few years earlier she’d been at the height of her powers, the Master’s mountain kingdom destroyed through her efforts and years of patient planning.

  In the aftermath of that triumph, she used her deep knowledge of magic to build a comfortable place for herself in the world. She returned to the home of her youth, Boston, where she was able to manipulate wealthy, powerful people in her special way, reaching into their minds and convincing them that it was their own idea to hand over large sums of money to the beautiful and tantalizing young girl. Money to buy a mansion in an exclusive neighborhood. She led an easy, comfortable existence in that big house, her every need and desire attended to by a large staff of well-paid and loyal servants.

  Giselle’s teeth chattered as she recalled with dim bitterness the betrayal of one of these ostensibly trustworthy employees. It was to have been a lovely evening out at the opera. One of the world’s leading tenors was performing, and she’d managed to procure choice seats and backstage access. Her regular driver, the impeccably mannered and attired Mr. Thorne, pulled up to the mansion that evening in a limo. She recalled how he’d smiled and bowed slightly to her as she came down the mansion’s steps in her expensive evening gown, a fake fur shawl wrapped about her bare, slim shoulders. She’d felt not the slightest twinge of alarm as Mr. Thorne opened one of the limo’s rear doors, allowing her a glimpse of the legs of an elegant woman and two men wearing tuxedos.

  These would be her companions for the evening. Her neighbor Angelica Anderson and her husband Henry, and her own date, Robert McDowell, a financier who’d been one of the many contributors to her still-growing fortune. As she approached the open door, she gathered up the hem of her gown and dipped her head in preparation for sliding into the car.

  Then she froze, her eyes going wide and her heart stopping for an instant as she saw that the woman inside the limo was not Angelica Anderson. She was Ms. Wickman, flashing a mad grin as she laughed at Giselle’s shocked expression. The men with her were two wild-eyed boys barely into their early twenties. Giselle tried to back away, but then she felt Mr. Thorne’s firm hand at the small of her back.

  His voice was fierce and hot against her ear, full of venom and so unlike anything she’d ever heard from the proper British man, “You’re not going anywhere, cunt.”

  Then he shoved her inside and the hands of her enemies were upon her. She was too stunned to fight back instantly—as she should have—and by the time it occurred to her to strike at them with her magic it was too late, her powers blunted by the elaborate web of counterspells spun by Ms. Wickman. And when one of the men produced the machete from an inner pocket of his tux, Giselle knew that the battle was lost.

  She cringed at the memory of the heavy blade punching through her wrist, the awful grind of steel on bone, then the blade passing into the upholstery beneath. And her hand coming away from her wrist, the explosion of blood across black seat leather. She screamed and thrashed, to no avail. And through it all remained the wild and desperate belief that one or more of her many servants would come running to her rescue.

  It didn’t happen.

  Her assailants were able to go about their grisly work unimpeded and unhurried.

  Ms. Wickman raised the blade again.

  And one of the men holding her down thrust his crotch against her ass as steel chopped through flesh again.

  She’d been sure she would bleed to death there in the back of the limo, but then Ms. Wickman calmly accepted something passed to her from outside the car by Mr. Thorne. There was a glint of light on some metal object. Then she discerned the cylindrical shape of the object and knew at once they weren’t here to kill her after all. They wanted her to suffer, though. There was a whoosh and the acetylene torch grew a bright blue and red tongue of flame. Another hoarse exhalation of purest terror tore out of her as the flame was lowered to her violated flesh. And yet another, shriller scream as the flame made contact and burned brighter, cooking her flesh as the limo’s interior filled with the aromas of smoke and burning meat.

  The flame burned and burned and it seemed like the torture would go on forever. Then there was a click and the whooshing sound stopped. Giselle saw her hands, one on the seat next to Ms. Wickman, the other on the shiny black floormat. A glimpse of protruding bone made her stomach knot. Her blood was everywhere. Splattered across the upholstery and all over the tinted windows. A zigzag pattern of coagulating gore across the front of Ms. Wickman’s black dress. Everywhere.

  Instinct caused her to aim a strike of lethal dark energy at the grinning madwoman, but the anticipated blast fizzled and the energy dispersed. Giselle had forgotten about Ms. Wickman’s web of blocking spells. And the removal of her hands had eliminated her most powerful method of focusing and unleashing magical energy.

  Ms. Wickman laughed. “Your power is gone and you are mine now, you pathetic whore.”

  And Giselle had choked back the tears long enough to say, “Damn you.”

  Ms. Wickman’s eyes gleamed with amusement. “Oh, that’s right. The former mute can speak now. Bonus.” Her smile vanished then. She seized a handful of Giselle’s long black hair, twisting it and eliciting a yelp. “Righteous hypocrite. What do you deserve? How many people did you torture and kill while in the Master’s employ, hmm? Including your own brother, as I recall.”

  Giselle did
n’t reply because the answer to Ms. Wickman’s question was obvious. And because the pain was coming back, overwhelming the temporary numbness of shock. Instead she’d said, “Just kill me. Be done with it.”

  Ms. Wickman threw her head back and laughed again, long and heartily, until she was almost crying. “Oh, you of all people should know better than that, Giselle. We’re taking you to a special place, dear. You’ll be there for a very, very long time and your suffering will go on forever.”

  And so she was brought to this place, many hundreds of miles from Boston.

  Despair overwhelmed her as it became clear Ms. Wickman had truly mastered the most advanced forms of dark magic, working to appease the death gods, drawing immense power from them through daily blood sacrifices. The scent of blood—fresh and flowing—was strong in the air.

  Giselle knew she would ultimately be offered as a sacrifice to the death gods. Her sadist’s soul would be particularly prized by them. She would die.

  Unless…

  Yes. There was one avenue yet left to her. It was a slim hope at best. And any possibility of success would hinge on a price perhaps too heavy to bear, even given the grim reality she was facing already. She hesitated, contemplating what manner of unspeakable atrocity might be asked of her in exchange for the help she needed. Time moved forward. She felt the minutes un-spooling like the ticking of the Doomsday Clock. Death was coming for her soon. She could almost hear the Reaper’s footsteps on the stone floor. She saw him in her mind, raising a gnarled hand to point an icy finger at her.

  Then the vision of the Deathbringer dissolved and was replaced by an image of Ms. Wickman’s mad grin as the cleaver separated Giselle’s hands from her body. A low sound like the warning growl of a wounded animal rumbled out of her throat.

  She brought her right forearm to her mouth. The taste of her own flesh on her tongue made her pause for a moment, anticipation of pain momentarily freezing her resolve. Then she sank her teeth into her arm, driving them deep, shredding flesh and filling her mouth with salty blood. She drank the blood, drawing it down into her stomach as she continued to slurp more of it from the wound. Then she pitched forward and pressed her face against the cold metal bars of the cage floor. She opened her mouth and expelled blood, allowing it to coat the metal. The pain was bad, but she ignored it and initiated the blood ritual by repeating the phrases she’d memorized years earlier. Rhythmic phrases from an alien tongue. A chant. A summoning spell.

  Ms. Wickman had removed her ability to wield magic as a weapon, but she had not deprived Giselle of her knowledge. She had one ally among the death gods. A rogue who had aided her efforts to overthrow the Master. He would help her again. If only she could reach him…

  She placed the tip of her tongue against the cold metal and tasted her own blood again. Then she focused what psychic engergy she could and sent a message into the wall of darkness and the ether beyond.

  Azaroth, I beseech you.

  Another taste of blood, metallic and tart.

  I offer you my blood. My pain. Please come to my aid.

  I will do anything.

  Nothing.

  Despair again began to encroach on her thoughts, threatening the necessary focus and spiritual purity of the ritual. She tasted her blood yet again, used the feeble power it contained to focus her wavering will one last time.

  And the message went out again: Azaroth, I implore you…

  Then she felt it, the death god’s presence manifesting at first as a warmth that allowed her temporary respite from the freezing atmosphere of the torture chamber. She drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, forcing herself to relax. And as she relaxed, a bright, warm light displaced the darkness of her prison, enveloping her in an ethereal radiance that felt like a loving embrace.

  Something dark swirled in the midst of all that brightness, a cloud of energy that became luminescent and began to mold itself into a humanoid shape. The entity was forging a human appearance, one that exactly replicated the form Giselle remembered from her prior experience with this being.

  When the process was complete, Azaroth smiled at her with his human mask.

  Ah, Giselle. I see you have need of my assistance again.

  Tears misted Giselle’s vision. The spark of hope became a flame.

  I do. My enemies have taken me. They have maimed me. And I fear what they’ve done to me is only the beginning. They will not rest until they have done the same to all those who rose up against the Master.

  Azaroth’s expression changed subtly. His eyes continued to glow with that lovely radiance, but the set of his features shifted to something approximating a frown. You speak of the woman who served the Master and her new set of followers.

  Giselle gathered her courage. Here was where things might get tricky. Yes. She chopped my hands off to blunt my magic and imprisoned me in a dark place. I’ll do anything you ask of me if you can help me.

  Azaroth’s features shifted again, displaying a fluid grace that made the god look like something from an animated motion picture. He was smiling again, but there was a hint of something very dark behind the expression.

  What you ask will require a sacrifice.

  Giselle nodded. Of course. Anything.

  Azaroth was silent a moment, his not-quite-real-looking brows knitting in apparent concentration. Then his expression became solemn. I can restore you, Giselle. Make your body whole again so that you may combat your enemy on equal footing. But to justify this I will need you to do something that will wound your soul very deeply.

  Giselle suspected what was coming. She held her breath and nodded tensely.

  There is a man who is special to you.

  Giselle thought, Oh, Eddie…

  Azaroth paused for a beat, hearing her thought. Yes, the very one. I will grant you temporary restoration and temporal transport to his current location. You will be there just long enough to kill him.

  And though her heart was pierced to the core by the thought of murdering the one person left in the world for whom she felt genuine affection, Giselle knew there was no other choice. She alone possessed even a slim chance of defeating Ms. Wickman. A part of her hated Azaroth for forcing her to make this difficult choice, but the feeling was muted by the knowledge that this was merely the nature of the death gods, this exchange of blood and breath for aid.

  And once this has been done…I will be whole again?

  The death god’s expression darkened slightly. As I have said. You know I keep my bargains. Do what is asked of you and you will be more than whole again. The cast of his features shifted again, projecting a shimmering glow as he smiled. You will be stronger than before. More powerful. You will be a fearsome adversary for the one who took you, her equal in every way.

  Giselle thought again of Ms. Wickman’s many vile transgressions against her. The memories stoked her anger anew.

  I am ready to do what you ask.

  The god laughed, a sound that echoed like rolling thunder in this place between worlds. I believe that you are. And now…go from here.

  His words seemed to shift the fabric of reality around her, lifting her and moving her at astonishing speed through a place of swirling shadows and strange colors. The journey passed in utter silence, but ended with an audible pop that signaled the end of a temporal displacement.

  She blinked against a flash of light . The real, human world reconstructed itself around her in the space of that blink. Then she was standing in the empty kitchen of a woman’s apartment. She based this supposition on the general cleanliness and the array of frilly touches and knick-knacks. The sound of a television tuned to a talk show emanated from another room. Giselle felt a strange tingle and lifted her arms to look at her freshly restored hands. She flexed her fingers, marveling for a moment at the ease of movement and the smooth, unblemished flesh connecting her wrists to her hands.

  Azaroth had been true to his word. And now it was left to Giselle to fulfill her end of the bargain. She heard voices from that other r
oom, one male and one female. One achingly familiar and one not.

  Giselle opened a likely-looking drawer and found a carving knife with a broad, flat blade. A gleaming and very, very sharp blade.

  With a final sigh of regret, she walked out of the kitchen toward the source of the voices—trying all the while to block out the underlying hints of contentment and happiness she sensed there.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The ground in the woods was still wet from the recent rains. The topsoil yielded easily to shovel blades. The going got rougher approximately a foot down, but between the two of them they were able to dig a grave of acceptable size in just over an hour.

  Marcy tossed her shovel aside and climbed out of the hole. “That’s enough.”

  Michael palmed sweat from his forehead and wiped his hand on his dirty jeans. More swollen droplets of sweat gathered at the ends of his eyebrows. “You won’t get any argument from me.” He threw his own shovel aside and followed Marcy out of the hole. He was breathing heavily, unused to such heavy physical exertion. “That’s, what? Maybe four feet deep?”

  “It’s enough.” Marcy screwed the top off a water bottle and drank deeply from it. She’d changed into jeans and a Bella Morte T-shirt for the job and they were soaked from her exertions. But she felt good. It was a strange thing. A woman she intended to kill was tied to her bed back at the house. The dead body of one of her friends was in the same room. Her other friends were freaking out. She should be beside herself with panic. But she wasn’t. She was as calm as a monk in the midst of prayers.

  Michael straightened and brushed more sweat from his forehead with the back of an arm. He was shirtless. Sweat glistened on his pale torso, the diffused early morning sunlight making him look like a ghost caught in its slanting rays. Marcy watched him and felt a stir of libido. He was slim and reasonably good-looking, at least compared to the rest of them. And he was smarter than the others. Too smart, maybe. Unlike the rest of them, he didn’t just accept her every pronouncement as gospel. But maybe she could bring him more firmly under her thumb if she fuc ked him.