Succubi Part 20

She wasn't quite sure what he meant. Great a.s.s too, Great a.s.s too, she thought, taking a glance. "Did you really meet Killing Joke?" she thought, taking a glance. "Did you really meet Killing Joke?"

"You don't believe me?"

"Oh, I believe you, I just-"

"You'll see," he said.

She found his aloofness as attractive as his body. His slow casual gait somehow propelled him so quickly that Melanie nearly had to jog to keep up. She didn't feel comfortable cutting between houses-someone might call the police; at least, in the city they would. In one window she saw several women sitting around a table; they seemed huddled. Then she saw the same thing in a window of the next house. Another room showed a man sitting alone. He was staring at the wall.

"That was quick," she said.

The shortcut brought them to the town square in minutes. The sun was going down just over the peaked roof of the church.

That's where he was taking her: the church.

What a strange place to live, she thought. she thought.

"Down here."

In back, steps descended into a brickwalled enclosure in the ground, and a door. A hinge keened.

"Home, sweet home," Zack remarked. Light from a bare bulb lit a long cinderblockwalled room. One end was cramped with a small bed, a dresser, and a chair. But then she saw what most of the room was devoted to: rows of shelves which contained hundreds, if not thousands, of records and compact discs.

"Jesus," she whispered.

"It ain't Buckingham Palace, but it's all I need."

"No, I meant your collection."

"Yeah, and check out my gear."

Arranged at the back of the bas.e.m.e.nt was a stereo system the likes of which Melanie could never imagine. Steel racks on floor points housed dual amplifiers the size of televisions, a Nakamichi DAT recorder, an ARCAM CD player, and a line conditioner. Another stand on points supported a turntable with a linear airbearing tone arm. A subwoofer separated two giant electrostatic speakers the size of doors.

"It's my pride and joy," Zack said. "Gotta leave the equipment on all the time or else it sounds edgy. A highend turntable blows compact discs away; most people don't realize that. Of course, most people don't spend twentyfive grand on a stereo system."

"Twenty five thousand thousand?" Melanie whispered.

"Sure. Music's my only pleasure. I don't cut corners."

"They must pay you pretty well to clean up the church."

Zack laughed faintly. "They don't pay me nothing, 'cept they give me the room for free."

"Then how can you afford...all this?"

"Odd jobs," Zack replied. He walked over to one of the shelves and removed something. "Check this out."

Melanie held it as if it were an icon. The CD version of Killing Joke's Nighttime. Nighttime. It had been autographed by all members of the band, and inside was a Polaroid of Zack standing next to the lead singer. It had been autographed by all members of the band, and inside was a Polaroid of Zack standing next to the lead singer.

"Believe me now?"

Melanie nodded. All she could say was: "Wow."

"You can have it," he said.

Melanie was shocked. "Oh, no, I could never take-"

"If you want it, take it." Abruptly, he turned away.

Melanie's sense of cordiality lapsed. She knew she shouldn't take it, but she did anyway. An autographed Killing Joke, An autographed Killing Joke, she thought, awed. She would frame it, hang it in her room. "Thanks," she said. she thought, awed. She would frame it, hang it in her room. "Thanks," she said.

She perused his record shelves. He had everything. Everything by Killing Joke, PIL, Siouxsie and the Banshees, Magazine, Monochrome Set, Section 25, Strange Boutique-the old stuff that actually predated Goth. Melanie couldn't believe the coincidence: her and Zack's musical tastes were identical. He had everything by anyone good.

He played some records and discs for her. The huge speakers threw a soundstage that overwhelmed her. Zack seemed to enjoy playing the music as much as she enjoyed listening to it. He mustn't get much of a chance to show off his system, not in a town like Lockwood.

They listened for hours. She never got bored, but eventually she grew fidgety. She knew what it was. When her high wore off, it left something like a hot anguish in its place. She felt steamy, tingly.

She'd never done anything so overt before.

She took his hand and led him toward the bed.

"You're very special," he said, and turned off the lights.

Chapter 16.

Providence, Erik thought. Erik thought.

He had to travel in s.n.a.t.c.hes, at night. Several times police had pa.s.sed him-he'd thought sure that was the end. How much longer would his luck last?

He'd lay low tonight, he couldn't afford not to. He'd driven past Lockwood on Route 13, to the woodlands. An old trail he remembered took him deep into the forest belt. They'd never find him here. He covered the van with brush and mud, to mask its lacquered white paint.

He knew he still had a few days.

He felt buried in the dark woods, closed in. Buried, Buried, he thought. he thought. Brygor-wreccan. Brygor-wreccan.

I'm a peow, he thought. he thought.

The moon shone down. Its light pinkened the dense forest.

Doefolmon, he thought. he thought.

Wiffek.

FulluhtLoc.

In the moon's bleary light, he saw it all again. He saw them. them. Bathing in glee, in blood. He saw their mad feasts, their supple bodies, and their longing eyes and l.u.s.t which stripped him of his soul. Bathing in glee, in blood. He saw their mad feasts, their supple bodies, and their longing eyes and l.u.s.t which stripped him of his soul.

They weren't people. They were monsters.

How many graves did I dig for them?

He'd watched their mad rituals many times. They'd held the husls down on the slab, slicing them open like fish and reeling out their entrails, oblivious to the mad, lurching screams. Erik knew that he would hear those screams forever. The more privileged wreccans tended to far worse matters, things which beggared description...

Dohtor, he thought. he thought.

Dother.

Dother fo Dother.

He'd seen it once, in the nightmirror. That had been many years ago. They'd held his head by his hair and made made him look, had pried his eyelids open with their fingers. It had been like being drowned in blood. him look, had pried his eyelids open with their fingers. It had been like being drowned in blood.

Afterward, they'd nearly f.u.c.ked him to death.

Martin dreamed of Maedeen.

Even within the dream, he knew it was a dream. Because he would never do such things for real. Never.

He loved Ann more than he'd ever loved anyone in his life. Cheating on her would be like cutting her. It was unthinkable.

So what did the dream mean?

He was walking around in the darkness, in the woods. Tinder crunched-the moon's pink light led him through a labyrinth of trees.

He'd been a.s.signed a task. A cramped clearing formed, bright in moonlight. At his feet lay a pile of bags. They were regular plastic garbage bags, Hefty kitchen size. They'd been tied up and neatly stacked. Martin didn't know what was in them, and he didn't care. He only knew he was supposed to do something with them.

He was supposed to bury them.

It hadn't taken long to dig the hole. Next, he was placing the bags, one at a time, into the hole. Though small, they felt heavy, weighted. He calmly filled the hole with the little bags, then covered them with earth. Plap, plap, plap! Plap, plap, plap! came the sound as the dirt landed on the plastic. came the sound as the dirt landed on the plastic.

When he was done, he leaned against a tree and flinched. There was something wet and slick on the tree trunk. In the moonlight, his palm looked black.

Faint giggling bubbled out of the dark.

Martin wended back into the woods. The giggling sounded a lot like girls, children perhaps. The moonlight was bright and pink.

He stopped, tried to focus.

A slender, naked girl was leaning over. Martin stared fixedly. He looked at her long, slender legs, the spa.r.s.e cleft of fur where they joined. The fur protruded as she leaned over further, and he could see the bottoms of her beasts jiggling slightly as her arm moved in some arcane task. This sudden sight-this beautiful nude girl pristine in moonlight, her b.u.t.tocks jutting-aroused Martin at once. But when she turned, he gasped.

It was Melanie.

"Hi, Martin," she said. She was grinning.

Embarra.s.sment flooded him. Her nakedness faced him without inhibition. This was a seventeenyearold-his lover's daughter. daughter. Yet she seemed to sense his unease, she seemed to delight in it. Yet she seemed to sense his unease, she seemed to delight in it.

"You want to f.u.c.k me, don't you?" she queried.

"No," Martin said, but the reply was roughened, dry.

"Don't lie to me, you pig. When I was leaning over a minute ago, you wanted to take your c.o.c.k out, didn't you? You wanted to walk right up behind me and put it in me. Didn't you?"

"No," Martin croaked.

She grinned back at him. She looked just like Ann, the same b.r.e.a.s.t.s and nipples, the same legs-just younger. In one hand she held a pail, but it looked old, rusty. It looked like a relic. In her other hand she held a crude brush, like a paintbrush.

That's what she'd been doing. She'd been painting something on the trees.

Then two more girls emerged from the darkness. They, too, were naked. Their matching grins seemed obscene, their bodies tinted pink. They each held a brush and a pail too.

What was this? Why were they painting trees trees?

One girl seemed younger, slimmer; she scarcely had any pubic hair at all. The third girl's bosom jutted. She was more developed, more curvy and plush.

"Get that s.h.i.t off," said the youngest.

"What?"

"Your clothes, s.h.i.thead," said the third.

"The wifford wants you ready," Melanie added.

"The what what?" Martin asked.

"Just shut up and get your clothes off."

Strangest of all, Martin obeyed these commands. The pink moon beat down on him, glare in his eyes. Next thing he knew he lay sprawled on the thatchy forest ground. The girls converged. Their hands ran all over him. His erection throbbed as if to burst, pulsing with his heart. All Martin could do was lie back and cringe.

No, no, he thought. This was perverse. These girls were teenagers, he was a thirtyeightyearold man. And Melanie, for G.o.d's sake...

It's got to be. It's got to be a- "That's right, a.s.shole," Melanie said. "It's a dream."

But that knowledge did not legitimize the wrongness wrongness of this. l.u.s.t felt stuffed into his head; his entire body throbbed with it. Without preamble, Melanie straddled his face. "Eat it, peow," she said. "Stick your tongue in it." Martin tried, but couldn't. She was keeping it too far away. She laughed, touching herself. Her thighs clenched against his head. of this. l.u.s.t felt stuffed into his head; his entire body throbbed with it. Without preamble, Melanie straddled his face. "Eat it, peow," she said. "Stick your tongue in it." Martin tried, but couldn't. She was keeping it too far away. She laughed, touching herself. Her thighs clenched against his head.

And the other two girls... What were they doing? Martin couldn't see, but he felt rough, swirling sensations. They giggled with their work. As Melanie brought herself to o.r.g.a.s.m, little daubs touched his p.e.n.i.s, his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es-though the contact was insubstantial, Martin thought he might explode.

"We're initiating you, peow," one of them said, giggling.

"We're making you ours," said the other.

He realized then what they were doing.