Queen Of Blood Part 15

Chad sneered. The woman's smug words rankled. "In the end, we'll do whatever the h.e.l.l we want, and if that turns out to be a choice you deem 'irrational,' well whoopty-f.u.c.king-do, too bad."

A corner of the woman's mouth turned slightly upward, indicating only mild amus.e.m.e.nt at Chad's speech. It was a little thing, but it was just enough to send Chad over the edge. Offense shifted to anger. His hands curled into fists. But he couldn't lose his cool in front of them.

That would lend the "emotion" comment more credence than it deserved. So he turned away from them and stalked out of the cabin, banging the door open with the base of a clenched fist.

The sharp chill of the early December evening made him shiver. Jim and Jack stood near a picnic table some twenty yards away. They stood close to each other, their heads bent as they spoke in muted tones. Wisps of fog drifted from their mouths. Chad zipped up his jacket and set off in their direction. The other men glanced his way as he neared them.

Jim smiled. "Chad."

"f.u.c.k this, I'm done with them." Chad was shaking and he realized as he spoke it wasn't solely from the cold temperature. "I say we reject their suicide mission and send those a.s.sholes packing. We've got a good thing going here and there's no reason to throw it all away. Okay, so our location isn't a secret anymore. Our supposed enemy knows where we are. Great. Let them bring the fight to us if there's to be one. We'll kick their f.u.c.king a.s.ses."

Jack nodded throughout Chad's speech. He struck a wooden match with his teeth and applied the flame to a hand-rolled cigarette. "Exactly what I've been saying." He blew a stream of smoke at the dark sky and looked Jim in the eye. "Let's say everything they've said about Giselle is the truth. So what? If there's to be a fight, it should be on our own ground and our own terms. If she's stupid enough to send a force after us, they'll be in a universe of f.u.c.king hurt."

Jim pursed his lips and slowly stroked the beard he'd been growing for the last few weeks. "I see the sense in what each of you says. I'll admit I found the notion of eradicating the remaining threat against us a tempting one. And I might have been swayed if not for the pa.s.sion you've displayed. So we will reject their proposal."

A grim smile etched a tight curve across Chad's face. "Good."

But Jim's expression remained thoughtful. "But we can't be complacent. If we're to believe the Order, Giselle has a formidable paramilitary unit at her disposal as well. We'll need to beef up our own forces and rethink our defensive strategies."

Jack grinned. "I'll take care of that."

Jim managed a small smile of his own. "I'm sure you're up to the task." He sighed and rubbed his hands together. "Let's get back inside and break the news."

Jack pinched the end of his cigarette and snuffed the flame. He dropped it in a pocket and said, "Yeah, let's do it. Can't wait to see the looks on their f.u.c.king faces."

Chad shook his head. "Go without me. I don't want to see any of them ever f.u.c.king again. If you guys don't mind, I'm gonna head home and let you take care of it."

Jack shrugged. "Cool with me."

Jim nodded. "And with me. Evening, Chad."

"Night, guys."

Chad turned away from them and started up the hill toward the cabin he shared with Allyson. But an impulse carried him past the cabin, sparing it only a quick glance as he hurried by. The lights were out, so Allyson was probably asleep anyway. He still felt agitated and was not yet ready to join her in bed. The steep ground began to level out and he soon arrived at the site that functioned as an informal communal gathering place for the denizens of Camp Whiskey. He sat on the ground near the large campfire pit and crossed his legs beneath him. There was no fire tonight, but the pit contained a few blackened logs left over from earlier in the evening. Chad pushed his hands into his ja cket pockets and hunched his shoulders forward. He peered beyond the pit at the rows of cabins down the hill. A few soft lights still glowed in some of the windows.

He'd initially found it strange that the founders of Camp Whiskey had decided to establish their compound in the mountain country of east Tennessee, so near the Master's former territory. But the feeling had diminished with time. Really, it was kind of perfect. Once they had been prisoners here. And now they had returned to the country of their nightmares, transforming it into something fresh and life-affirming. The Order had no right to be here. They were intruders. Interlopers. Their presence tainted the good things everyone here had worked so hard to accomplish.

He sat there thinking about these things for an indeterminate period of time. Perhaps a half hour. Perhaps only as long as ten or fifteen minutes. But it had been a long day. At some point physical exhaustion caused his eyes to close and he began to drowse. Then the crunch of a twig caused his eyes to snap open. He sensed movement to his left and turned his head in that direction. Then a hand seized him from behind, gripping the collar of his jacket and yanking him roughly to his feet. He let out a startled yelp as the same hand spun him around. He tottered for a moment on the edge of the pit. Then the Order woman grabbed the front of his jacket and pulled him away from the hole.

Chad let out a gasp. "Jesus f.u.c.king Christ! Where did you come from?"

"I am schooled in methods of stealth."

"No kidding." Chad's heart was pounding. "What are you doing here? You p.i.s.sed that we rejected your stupid-a.s.s proposal?"

"The plan will go forward. Your master, Mr. Jim, has been made to see the wisdom of our intentions."

Chad frowned. He didn't like the sound of that at all. He noticed the Order woman had one hand tuc ked behind her back and realized she was concealing something.

"What are you--"

Her right hand curled into a fist and delivered a brutal jab to a spot just beneath his sternum. Chad cried out and bent over at the waist. He tried to say something, but could only manage a wheeze. Then the woman showed him the thing she'd been hiding behind her back and bile flooded his throat. Her fingers clutched the severed head of Jack Paradise by strands of blood-slickened hair.

Anger overwhelmed his fear. Chad forced himself up right and threw a wild punch the Order woman easily avoided. She jabbed him in the stomach again, harder, blasting the breath from him and driving him to his knees. Then she kicked him in the gut and he flopped over onto his back. A white-hot center of pain expanded and rendered further resistance at least temporarily impossible. The Order woman tossed Jack's head into the pit and again seized handfuls of Chad's jacket. She began to pull him away from the campsite toward the nearby line of trees. A part of Chad's psyche marveled over the small woman's strength, impressed despite the peril he was in.

The evening darkness deepened as they entered the woods. The woman yanked him to his feet and stood him against the thick base of a tall tree. The narrow slits of her eyes seemed darker and harder now, like the eyes of a demoness. She removed the scabbard containing her sword and set it carefully on the ground. Then she moved in close and peppered Chad's midsection with a series of high-power jabs. Yet each was delivered with just enough force to maintain a steady level of pain. Chad tried to collapse several times, but the woman wouldn't allow it, forcing him to remain upright as she continued to punish him. And he knew that was precisely what was happening. She'd judged him guilty of insolence and was putting him in his place. At some point a part of his mind became disconnected from the pain and the beating. He thought of Jack Paradise, how brave the man had been, and he weeped.

Then the woman stopped punching him and said, "I have something else to tell you."

Chad sniffled. "What?"

"Your woman is an agent of your enemy. She has betrayed you and laughs at you whenever your back is turned."

Chad stood up straighter and tried to get his breathing under control. "I...k now. I figured...that out...a long time ago." He swallowed hard. "But she's with us now."

The Order woman smirked. "You are an idiot."

She slapped him.

Chad put a hand to his stinging cheek. "f.u.c.k. Why don't you just kill me and be done with it?"

Her smirk gave way to a small smile. "Because I have another use for you. The Order rules this place now. And I have decided to claim you as my property."

Chad's brow furrowed. "What?"

The Order woman slapped him again. "Be quiet and do as I say."

"f.u.c.k you."

The woman's nostrils flared. Here eyes widened with rage. She punched him in the abdomen again, a blow harder by far than any of the previous blows. Chad dropped to his knees and she kicked him in the stomach again. On his back, now, he stared up at her and watched in disbelief as she began to disrobe. In a moment she was standing naked over him, a small foot planted to either side of his head. Chad stared up at her slender, sleek body, which was rendered ghostly pale by the sliver of moonlight that peeked through the treetops.

She licked her lips. "It is time for you to begin your life of servitude."

Chad had time to draw in a breath.

Then she lowered herself to him.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

The girl bent over the edge of the bed was a white prost.i.tute 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 prost.i.tute's mouth had been st.i.tched 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 d.i.l.d.o. A cigarette in a plastic holder dangled from a corner of her mouth as she pounded the d.i.l.d.o into the prost.i.tute's bleeding a.n.u.s.

Giselle lay on her side on the other side of the bed, her head propped in an upraised hand. The prost.i.tute 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s and the sway of her long blonde hair as she a.s.s-f.u.c.ked the prost.i.tute 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 fl.u.s.tered 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 a.s.sa.s.sination.

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 prost.i.tute. 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 prost.i.tute. 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 prost.i.tute 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 pa.s.sed through the open double doors and moved rapidly down the long, candlelit corridor. m.u.f.fled 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 h.e.l.l must sound. She was not displeased by the notion.

They reached the bottom and pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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. s.a.d.i.s.ts 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 gla.s.ses 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 s.l.u.t in large glittering letters. On any other woman her age the shirt would look ridiculous, but...

Then it clicked.

Giselle forced a smile. "h.e.l.lo, 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. "h.e.l.lo, c.u.n.t."