Castle Spellbound (3 page)

“This one ... and this one. Oh, can't forget her."

“For you? Three?"

“Why not? You can have four if you want. Five."

“Three's all I can handle. Until I get drunk."

“Wait."

Fetchen stopped short of another swig. “What?"

“Grosmond. We have to get this room done."

“Look under ‘slaves, menial.’”

“Oh.” Thorsby flipped a few pages. “Slaves, factotums. Yes, we need a grunt to do our work. Gods, ugly thing."

“Homunculus."

“I suppose we need someone to clean up after us."

“Right. We need it. Give us this one."

A gnarled, bent form appeared at the center of the conjuring device. It was vaguely manlike, but had an enormous head. One eye was beside the nose, and the one above the nose was smaller, slitlike. The side of its head bulged a bit. One corner of its wide mouth leaked a rivulet of clear fluid. It was short and vaguely male but more androgynous than anything. Its clothing—blue denim bib overalls—lent an incongruous note. Its small four-toed feet were bare.

“Hideous thing,” Fetchen said.

“You, there,” Thorsby called.

“Yes, master?"

The creature's voice rasped like a saw.

“Take this."

The homunculus stooped to pick up the thrown broom.

“Clean up a bit, will you? There's a good fellow."

“Yes, master. What shall I clean, master?"

“This place."

“All of it, master?"

“Yes, all of it, every last nook and cranny. Straighten it right up. Dust it up good, sort out the junk, and arrange it all on the floor there for inspection. Take care not to cover up the pattern, there."

“Yes, master. Will there be anything else, master?"

“Just do a good job, whatever it takes. And report when you're done."

“Whatever it takes. Very good, master."

The creature began to sweep diligently.

“What now?” Fetchen asked.

Thorsby gulped down more sparkling wine and let out a sigh of supreme satisfaction. He looked at Fetchen with a triumphant grin.

“Now, my friend, we throw a right proper party. The biggest, the best party ever. An orgy. A saturnalia."

Fetchen nodded. He stepped forward to command forces unseen.

“All right, then, let's have your best tits and arse!"

Club Sheila

The sun went down, the tide went out. Everyone began to dance and shout.

“Hey, hey,” Gene said, doing the lambada with Linda.

“Ho, ho,” Linda averred. She was a good dancer.

“Shake that thing."

They danced lewdly. People watched.

Finally Gene said, “I'm bushed. And this is getting me horny."

“Yeah. Me, too."

“Want to take a walk on the beach?"

“Sure,” Linda said.

They walked off the patio and past the pool, into which several people had either fallen, dived, or been pushed. The liquor had been flowing steadily, and things were getting nicely out of hand.

Laughter rang out. The night was festive and gay.

They crossed tennis courts and passed through the fringe of palm trees that edged the beach. Here the water was close, low breakers washing the slowly eroding sand. Linda took her high-heeled shoes off.

They sat together on the beach, legs crossed, knees touching. The moon was directly above, very high, very large, and full. It had dark markings on it that made it look like another planet. Which in fact it was, though a small one. The tides here were strong, much stronger than on Earth. In the morning, when the tide was at its lowest ebb, the surf would recede almost two hundred yards.

“It's a shame to let that romantic moon go to waste,” Gene said.

“Sure is,” Linda agreed.

She hooked an arm around his neck, drew him close, and kissed him. It wasn't a fooling-around kiss.

They parted and Gene looked at the moon again. “Now, I wonder what brought that on? The booze?"

Linda shrugged. She was a little high. Not all that much, but a little.

“Maybe,” she said. “Was I out of line?"

“Not at all. It was just a little surprising. Funny that we've never ... well, you know."

“Yeah. We're good friends. Buddies."

“That wasn't a buddy kiss."

“Nope. Did you like it?"

“I certainly did."

“Good,” Linda said. “Let's do it again."

They did it again, and took their time about it.

“But why now, after all this time?” Gene wanted to know afterward.

“I don't know, Gene. Maybe I never realized how much I like you. Maybe it's about time I stopped waiting for..."

“Waiting for Mr. Right?"

“I hate that expression."

“So do I. Maybe it'll take a bit more time."

“I'm tired of waiting."

“But..."

She nodded “I know, Gene, I know. Sorry."

“Don't be. I'm not. I think ... Linda, I think you're carrying a torch for somebody."

“It shows, eh?"

“Yeah. I won't ask who."

“Don't, please.” She scooped up some sand. “Oh, hell. I want to tell somebody. But I really can't."

“Then don't."

“But I want to. He's married."

“That's tough."

“Yeah.” She tilted her hand to let sand cascade back onto the white beach.

Gene fiddled with a shell some time before asking, “Someone in the castle?"

“Yep."

“Oh. Guest or staff?"

“This is like Twenty Questions. Neither."

“Neither?” Gene was mildly puzzled.

“Oh, forget it. It's hopeless. Never happen. Took me years to realize I was in love with him. Then suddenly I did. I had a dream ... But as I said, it's hopeless. I should forget. I should get on with my life."

“Such as it is, inside a magical fairy fantasy castle."

Linda giggled. “Magical fantasy fairy castle?"

“Fairly fantastical magic castle."

“Magical fantastical—"

“Faerie castle."

“What?"

“F-a-e-r-i-e castle."

“Oh. How did you pronounce that?"

Gene made a sneering face. “Faeh."

“Faeh?” Linda laughed.

“Faeh-r-r-rie. Faeeeeeerr-r-r-rie."

Linda laughed and fell back onto the sand, stretching her long legs out.

Gene regarded her lithe body. He had never realized what nice legs she had, and her short black cocktail dress made them appear all the more shapely. He had always liked the way she was put together. Why hadn't he ever... ?

“Gene?"

“Yes?"

“When I said I was horny I meant it. Don't think you would be second fiddle. I've always thought you were very attractive. You're bright, witty—"

“Gosh and shucks. I like you, too, Linda."

“Don't think ... Oh, shit. You probably think—everyone probably thinks of me as a cold fish. Asexual."

“Nah."

“Yeah. I know. But it's not that way. I have sexual needs, too."

“Never said you didn't."

“Gene, could we ... should we have an affair?"

“You know what they say about sex busting up a good friendship."

“Is that what will happen? It doesn't have to, Gene. I won't hold you to anything. Really."

“That's not the issue, Linda. That's not—"

He thought better of saying what he was going to say. He decided to kiss her instead, and bent to the task.

The kiss was interrupted by approaching footsteps. “Here's a jolly spot!” a man's voice said. “Oh, rotten luck. Seems we're intruding on something momentous."

Gene and Linda rolled away from each other and got up.

It was Lord Peter and Cleve Dalton, each with a saronged chambermaid in tow. The women were dark and lovely and smiling.

“Sorry, old chaps,” Lord Peter said, waving a bottle apologetically. “Just in search of a good spot for a moonlight swim."

“No, come ahead,” Gene said, with instant regret.

Cleve Dalton began, “We don't want to—"

“Oh, it's only Gene and Linda,” Lord Peter scoffed, leading his lady friend out onto the beach.

“I'm going to turn in early,” Linda said, picking up her shoes. “I'm bushed."

She gave Gene a long look.

He met her gaze. The matter was somewhere very high up in the air. “Good night,” he said.

Linda walked back through the trees. Gene looked after her a long time. He was vexed, puzzled, and unsure.

Presently he turned toward the intruders. Clothes already lay in piles on the beach. The two couples were wading out into the breakers, backlit by the huge moon.

He got a fifth-wheel feeling and began to follow in Linda's footsteps, then halted.

He didn't quite know what he wanted to do.

He struck off down the beach in search of solitude and quiet. And darkness. He had some thinking to do. Some very important thinking.

Why now, he wondered, after all this time?

Cellar

The musty old crypt had gotten somewhat bigger, and in the process had acquired some interesting attributes. Completely transformed, it was now a plush seraglio fit for a sultan, padded with carpets, tapestries, pillows, and rugs. Standing braziers threw off the smoke of fragrant incense. Scented oils burned in dozens of polished silver lamps.

There were two recliners, and on them reclined Thorsby and Fetchen. Attending each were no less than eight houris.

“Peel us a grape, love,” Thorsby commanded.

A bare, milky arm reached out, a purple morsel ‘twixt thumb and index finger.

“Ye gods, that
is
a peeled grape."

“It is yours but to wish, O Great One,” said the houri nearest him.

His hand idly roving across smooth bare female flesh, Thorsby accepted the bit of skinned fruit. It was sweet, melting on his tongue. A burst of flavor filled his mouth, flavor unlike any he had ever experienced.

“Gods, if that's a bloody grape, what's the real food like?"

“Who's hungry?” Fetchen said after ungluing his lips from those of the houri nearest him—one of them, anyway. This said, he attached his mouth to a salient portion of the other's anatomy.

“Yes,” Thorsby agreed. “Greater appetites gnaw."

“Why do you delay, Great One?” asked the honey-blond houri.

“Yes, why?” asked the flaxen-haired houri. “Take me again, master!"

“No, take me!” said the one dark of hair and eyes.

“No, me!"

“Me!"

“Ladies, please!” Thorsby sighed. “Demand is greater than supply at the moment. Besides, we don't want to achieve satiety too quickly, now, do we? This way, the expectation is deliciously prolonged."

“You will never achieve satiety, Great One,” the brown-haired, green-eyed beauty told him. “Your capacity for pleasure is infinite."

“I was wondering why I was feeling a return of energy so soon after,” Thorsby marveled. “You mean—?"

“Yes, Great One. You may indulge every desire, taste every variety of the fruits of passion, and not feel any sapping of strength."

“Bloody wonderful. Well, then..."

Thorsby fortified himself from the wine bottle—which, it should be noted, never emptied.

“The same applies to any sense you wish to engage,” the redhead informed him. “Taste, touch, hearing, smell—"

“Well, let's see,” Thorsby said. “We've got touch pretty well covered. Taste? Yes, let's have some food, finally."

A huge table appeared, laden with a feast fit for the shah of shahs. Dishes were fetched and offered.

“Taste this, Great One."

“This too, Great Sultan!"

“And this!"

“One at time.” He nibbled on bread dipped in something. He chewed and swallowed.

“Gods!"

“Does it meet with your approval, Great One? If not, you may order the cook to be boiled in his own oil."

“Ye gods! Fetchen, taste the food!"

Fetchen emptied his mouth. “Wha?"

“Taste this stuff! It's unbelievable."

“Quiet, can't you see I'm feeding?"

“More, O Wonderful Master?"

Thorsby's gaze swiveled back and forth. “I'll try a bit of ... this. Yes ... well..."

Thorsby ate a cube of spiced meat.

“Merciful gods! That is good! Oh, my heavens. I could eat that all day."

Thorsby began to stuff himself. Between mouthfuls he said, “Fetchen ... mmph ... You really must ... mmph ... try some of this—"

“Oh, all bloody right.” Fetchen grabbed a skewer of barbecued lamb and bit off a chunk. His eyes popped wide. “This is super!"

“Well, I bloody well told you, didn't I?"

Assisted by the houris, Fetchen tore into his food.

“What other senses may we delight, Great and Wonderful Masters?"

Thorsby turned to the honey-blonde. “I can't imagine more. Make some suggestions."

“Why, we have scarcely begun, Great One. Would some entertainment be to your liking as you take your repast?"

“Capital idea!” Thorsby said enthusiastically, his mouth so stuffed he could barely get the words out. “Bring it on, love."

“Do you have preferences, Great One?"

Thorsby swallowed. “Such as?"

“Musicians, singers, tumblers, jugglers—"

“Belly dancers!"

“Your every caprice is law, O Powerful Ruler."

Belly dancers dutifully appeared, with musicians to back them up. They were as beautiful as the other houris and more tempting. They gyrated and shook, bangles jingling, finger-cymbals clashing, to the beat of the tabour and the drone of the doumbek.

“Fantastic!” Thorsby approved.

“And when His Greatness grows weary of them, he needs but to wave a hand and they will go away."

“Never! Bring them on in endless numbers! Let every one be better and more voluptuous than the last. I command it!” Thorsby took another swig of ambrosia. “Right, I'm getting the hang of this."

“We tremble, and obey!” the houris chorused.

“But vary it a bit. Throw in some ... oh, tap-dancers or something. Chorus lines. Vaudeville acts."

“Your every whim will be obeyed, O Great and Powerful Sultan."

“That's me all over. Isn't it, Fetch, old darling? Fetch? Oh, Fetch?"

Where Fetchen had been, there was now a pileup of nude flesh draped with food.

“Right,” Thorsby answered himself.