Of Saints and Shadows (1994) (30 page)

“Let me introduce myself,” the creature said. “I am the owner of this home, and your host.” He executed a short bow.

“You may call me Hannibal.”

Over the past several years Tracey had woken up many times having forgotten for a moment what day it was or just where she was. But this was more than that. As she came up and up and up from the depths of a dreamless nowhere sleep, she didn’t know who she was, or if she was at all. She climbed up from that place not out of desperation or with any great difficulty, but slowly and steadily forward because she already seemed to have some upward momentum and it would have been an effort to prevent herself from drifting into the waking world.

It would have been worth the effort.

The horror grew around her in stages, her senses clicking in as if switched on one by one.

First her sense of touch awoke, shocked to attention by pain in her arms and wrists, and a tremendous ache between her legs, from some terrible violation. And her neck hurt. But before she could wonder about any of these things, her sense of taste warned her that her violation had not been confined to her vagina, or even her rectum. The unmistakable taste of semen filled her mouth, combined with the biting-on-aluminum flavor of blood.

Hers or someone else’s.

Her sense of smell kicked in right away, picking up the same things in the air, sex and blood. The bloody smell was overwhelming the pungent odor of recent copulation, and she was reminded again of the pain at her throat. She reached a hand up quickly and found the wounds.

As she remembered just where she was alarm bells sounded in her head, and her ears worked again. She’d been bitten! And now she heard the grunts and groans of a man—it had to be one of Them—and the slapping sounds of intercourse. And yet there was one other sound, a hungry sound. The tearing sound of the feast.

Darkness finally cleared from her sight, all of these thoughts and sensations having come to her in a matter of seconds. Her head moved around, slowly so as not to tear the wounds at her throat, though she thought the bleeding had stopped. She saw him.

Hannibal, their host, the creature she and Linda had been warned about by the couple before coming into the party. His back was toward her, and she admired his well-muscled body for a moment. It wasn’t only his eyes that were mesmerizing! She watched as he thrust again and again into someone
Linda
but her eyes were torn away from that body toward the sucking, tearing, slurping sounds coming from his mouth.

They were not kisses.

She knew this, and yet was drawn to the sight. Grunting as he thrust, and tearing as he grunted, Hannibal worried at the bloody gash at Linda’s neck like a wolf at a carcass. Truthfully, though she tried to deny it to herself, his face had lengthened slightly, his nose and jaw protruding far more than was normal for a human, and now dipped into that wound with the enthusiasm of any such beast.

She had to get the hell out of there. From the sounds of his grunting—he had ignored her own retching—Hannibal would not be much longer with Linda’s . . . oh, shit. The girl had been a pain in the ass and was totally screwed up about pain and death, but who knew how she’d gotten that way? She was only human, after all.

Hell with the clothes, Tracey thought. She didn’t want to give him an extra moment. She was out of the room with no thought for noise, the party still raged on unabated, but now the orgy was almost complete. The stairs leading down to the second floor were not as crowded as they had been on the way up, and yet the creatures there, human creatures and the others, were lying down now, or against the walls, and attached in ways both sexual and violent. The carpet was splotched with blood where she could see it, yet it was for these splotches, like targets, that she aimed her steps.

Shaking off a dozen hands that reached for her, and batting away several that actually got hold, she thought she might make it to the second floor without incident. Halfway there, a leg moved quickly, in time with a screaming orgasm, bouncing with pleasure just as her foot came down on a bloody spot of carpet. But she struck flesh instead, roundly muscled flesh. Her weight was already forward on that leg, and down she went.

Tracey screamed as she fell into the mass of flesh. She just couldn’t hold it in any longer. Linda had led her into the biggest news story ever, and into the middle of a hive of supernatural, undead monsters straight out of pop culture and ancient mythology. And now Linda was dead, her body violated by one of Them, and her own body had been violated as well, not only sexually but . . .

“NOOOO!” She screamed again, almost a growl, as her head hit a wall and her body tumbled down across hands that grappled her, legs and breasts and elbows and penises. And there were fangs there, too, and that was what had made her scream. Was she one of these things now? She’d been bitten, and what did that mean?

She realized she knew nothing.

She realized she had to get out, that the truth had to escape with her.

Three steps from the bottom, she stopped moving. Hands wrapped around her now as mouths closed on her breasts, teeth biting down. She couldn’t tell the sex of those around her or even if they were human, but when incredibly strong hands forced her legs apart and she looked down to see a beautiful redheaded woman lapping at her she knew for certain that
she
at least was one of Them. The pleasure was incredible, and she wondered for a moment just what the creature was doing to create such feelings, almost overwhelming her fear. Then she felt two sharp pricks in the folds of her labia, not unpleasurable in themselves, but terrifying because she knew what they were.

And yet she strained, not against those arms that held her down, but to push her crotch further into the redhead’s face, to bear further on that tongue and lips, the teeth. It was terrible, and tears fell from her eyes, but it was wonderful, too.

Hands picked up her head and a penis aimed straight for her mouth, thickening and elongating as it reached her lips. That broke the spell, the imminence of that penetration brought back all that had happened and gave her the burst of strength she needed. Throwing herself forward, several people about her toppling back, she landed rolling on the second-floor landing, then stood up immediately, staring back up the stairs. Already the hole she had occupied had filled with flesh, and she’d been forgotten by all.

“Bitch,” the creature with the growing penis growled at her. Not everyone had forgotten her. But at least he wasn’t giving chase.

She looked at the lop of the stairs, expecting Hannibal to emerge at any second, and yet he didn’t. But that meant nothing, for she knew he’d be after her in mere moments. Looking down the steps, she could see the first floor, and yet what should have been a hopeful sight was discouraging, and she almost fell to her knees in despair.

The stairs were covered, from about three steps down to the bottom, with bodies. For the first time she noticed that some of the bodies were not moving. There were corpses on the stairs! There was no way she could make it down those steps without being dragged down for good.

The answer was clear.

She made it down to the fourth step and could go no farther without being attacked. Then she jumped. The fall over the banister was no more than fifteen feet, and she was lucky enough to have her feet land on bare floor. Her luck was short-lived, though, as she felt her ankle turn badly, and her momentum carried her onto her side in a roll. She knocked into a trio of lovers, but for a change, none of them tried to drag her into their bloody sex play. Sprawled there, she could see into the room with the dance floor, which had become a sea of sweaty flesh. She ran through the house, and for a moment thought she might never escape the mixed smell of blood and sex and yet, God help her, she thought she might be getting used to it.

Finally, she found the door. She reached into the closet and grabbed the first coat she laid hands on, hoping it was long enough to cover her.

It was.

Out the door and into the street, she panicked when there was no gondola in sight. At first she thought she might just find any passerby, or a policeman, but then she realized the enormity of it. The people must know, the police must know, what was going on. Or at least, if they didn’t really know, they knew enough to be afraid, to stay indoors, not to get involved. How was she to get back to her room?

She wanted to scream, but the only ones brave enough to come out at night now would be those inside the house she just left. And she surely didn’t want their attention. Not, at least, until she had blown the whistle in the light of day. National—no, world news would be made when she tore the veil away from this madness, and then these things would be hunted down and destroyed. Forget any inkling of curiosity or morality here, they were monsters and they must be destroyed!

Where the hell was the
traghetto
boatman? She looked out over the canal, calm and freezing cold, the water lapping at the edge of the street. And then it hit her again that no one was out, that the boatman wasn’t coming, that she was alone. The cold came up on her then, though it had been there all the time, and latched itself onto her body like an icy leech, ignoring the thick fur of the coat that fell to her knees, knowing, like an intimate lover knows, that she wore nothing underneath.

She had time to wonder which way to run before the third-floor window directly above her exploded outward, showering glass down onto the street and into the canal. Miraculously, barely half a dozen shards hit her, only two cutting the back of her neck as she bent to avoid the broken glass. Then the unmistakable, naked form of Hannibal shot out the window, transforming itself before her eyes, flesh flowing until a huge bat swooped low above her, out over the canal then back above the street, and changed again just as quickly in the moment that it lit upon the ground in front of the house.

“How rude,” Hannibal said, with the air of a deliciously offended gossip. “I can’t believe you left without saying good-bye!”

Tracey backed up a few steps, unable to look away from his hypnotic green eyes, the white hair snapping in the wind like an ivory flag as he stood there, naked and erect, bloody and flushed, but obviously not feeling the cold.

She took another step back and almost fell into the canal, losing her balance for a moment and tearing her gaze away finally to be sure of her footing.

“No,” Hannibal said, unsure, and she looked up to see that the smirk had gone from his face. “Get away from there.”

She was uncertain herself, but any chance was better than no chance. She jumped.

She was under in a moment, and then her head bobbed up, but it was several seconds before she could take a breath. The cold had her in a crushing bear hug, her lungs fighting to continue their work. Her muscles twitched involuntarily and she knew she couldn’t last long if she had to swim.

So did Hannibal.

“Such spirit,” he said as he hunkered down by the water’s edge, “but oh, so silly. Why, you’re going to freeze to death, my little darling.”

“Better . . .” she barely said, above the shivering, but couldn’t continue.

“Ah, you think so. Well, you’re right in assuming that I can’t come in after you. That old wives’ tale about crossing running water is simply rubbish. But swimming in it? Well, that’s another story entirely. So you have two choices, both of which you think are death, hmm?”

Tracey just looked at him, his eyes drawing her out of the water but her muscles paralyzed by the cold. He couldn’t make her move, and she would eventually get too cold to swim and sink like a stone. It wasn’t deep, but she was in over her head, to say the least.

“Tracey, darling . . .”

When had she told him her name? For that matter, she didn’t remember anything between being led into his bedroom and waking up there.

“Tracey, don’t drift off like that, it isn’t sleepytime. Why aren’t you dead already? You know I already bled you, so why are you alive at all, have you thought of that?”

I was just getting to that, she thought.

“I’ll save your icy brain the trouble, dear. I was saving you for carnival tomorrow night. You were to be my ‘date.’ Of course, you would have died the next day for certain. Now, though, I could easily sit here and watch you die and go inside and have my pick of the women in the house—it is my party, after all—but I would rather have you. You show such . . . passion, emotion.

“Let’s make a deal, shall we? My word of honor on the throne of my forgotten homeland. If you come out, I’ll bleed you tomorrow, but I won’t kill you. As a matter of fact, I’ll protect you from the rest of my kind. You’ll be a kept woman until you die naturally or I grow tired of you and let you go. Of course, you will serve me with your blood and your body, until that time.

“But you’ll be alive, and I imagine you’ll have thousands of chances to escape. It might even be fun!”

He smiled at her, enjoying himself tremendously, and held a hand out over the water. She thought for a moment of pulling him into the water to see exactly what damage that would do, but she knew his strength was prodigious and what little she normally had was long since sapped away by the water.

She barely had the strength to grasp his outstretched hand.