Queen Of Blood (14 page)

Alicia’s trademark smirk returned. “Latest in a long, long series, I’d say.”

“That’s right.” Ellen reached for Dream and clasped hands with her. “And Dream called me on it. Think what you want, but I
see things differently now. Wherever this road takes us, I want to be there. I want to see what’s at the end of it.”

Alicia picked glass shards off the passenger seat and tossed them on the parkling lot asphalt. “Whatever, Dorothy.” A small
piece of glass nicked the ball of her thumb and drew blood. She popped it in her mouth and sucked on it. “Mmm.” She withdrew
the glistening digit and stared at it. “I don’t know exactly what’s at the end of our yellow brick road, but I know it’s a
bad place, a place like the one where I died.”

Marcy said, “The House of Blood.”

Alicia wiped her thumb on her jeans and climbed into the van. She pulled the door shut and turned in her seat to look at Marcy.
“That’s right, girl. And I know one more thing. There’ll definitely be a wicked witch waiting for us when we get there.”

Marcy shoved her hands into the pockets of her brown hoodie and slumped further down in her seat. “Ms. Wickman.”

“Damn straight.”

Marcy’s brow furrowed. “And you’re sure you can kill her.”

“Ain’t sure about shit. But I’ll either kill the bitch or die trying.”

Marcy’s mouth twisted in a humorless smile. “That’d have to be a real kick in the ass. Dying twice at the hands of the same
person.”

Alicia scowled. “I don’t—”

“Any a you ladies spare some change?”

Marcy jumped at the sound of the gravelly voice and turned to look at the homeless guy standing outside the van. He smelled
like a sewer and Marcy was surprised he’d gotten this close undetected. He had limp brown hair tucked under a ratty New Jersey
Devils cap. His face was seamed and his nose sat like a swollen red ball in the center of his face. He wore a heavily stained
yellow windbreaker over raggedy clothes.

He leaned in through the open door and sniffed. “Smells like wine in here. Good stuff. ’Spose I could get a taste?”

Ellen piped up from the driver’s seat. “Fuck off.”

“We don’t have anything for you, bum.” Alicia directed her eerily intense gaze at the old drunk. “I’d advise you to leave
before you stir up trouble you can’t handle.”

The man sneered at her, displaying a mouth missing most of its teeth. “Whaaaaat?” He drew out the syllable and laughed. “You
ladies don’ wanna tussle wit’ the likes a me. Tell ya that much.” He leaned further into the van and his rheumy eyes roamed
over its interior. “Aw shit, just gimme a bit of pocket change and I’ll be on my way.”

Marcy shifted in her seat and turned slightly to the right. The bum’s aggressiveness stirred an old memory. That night in
Overton Park. The homeless guy. The bottle. The first time she’d taken a life. Her fists clenched at the edges of the seat.

“Say, you bitches look kinda familiar.” The bum scratched at a cheek with long nails turned brown with infection. “Yeah.”
He waved in the general direction of the convenience store. “Over there at the paper boxes, last week I think it was.” He
looked at Marcy and squinted. “I seen you staring out at me. You the one killed all those kids. Maybe I oughta go to the cops,
huh?”

The atmosphere in the van turned frigid. Marcy’s heart raced as a paralyzing sense of panic began to set in. This was it,
then. The end of the road. But it wasn’t right. Their journey wasn’t over. Not even close. Anger rose inside her.

The old guy sneered again and said, “Or maybe I’ll keep my mouth shut if that one—” He nodded at Dream. “She gives my pecker
a good suck and I’ll keep quiet. Come on, bitch. Whatcha say?”

Dream surged past Marcy, seized the bum by the front of his black sweatshirt, lifted him off his feet, and pulled him inside
the van. He yelped and flailed a little until Dream slammed the top of his head against the closed door on her side. The man
went limp and Dream cradled him in her arms like a child. Her eyes pulsed with cold energy as she looked at Marcy. “Close
the door.”

Marcy swallowed a lump in her throat and nodded, then shut the door.

And then she watched in horrified fascination as Dream closed her hands around the unconscious man’s neck and began to twist.

A man in a powder blue 1970s Plymouth set his paper coffee mug in the plastic cup holder he’d purchased at a truck stop the
previous night. The cup holder was clipped inside the ash tray and dipped precariously as it accepted the mug’s weight. He
hated the old jalopy, but the people in charge said it was better for tailing people than something new and flashy. The man
disagreed. He thought the old piece of shit stuck out like a sore, infected thumb, but what did he know, he was just a goon
with a gun.

A creepy three-fingered kid named Dean sat in the passenger seat. He kept playing with his favorite knife, running the edge
of the blade over the fabric of his jeans, up and down his inner thigh, over and over. The kid was a world-class geek, but
he was stone psycho and a merciless killer.

“What do you reckon the odds are we just got ol’ Ducky killed?”

The corners of the kid’s mouth lifted slightly. It had been his idea to send the old bum over to check things out. Ostensibly,
the plan had been for “Ducky,” as he called himself, to report back to them with his findings, but that looked to be out the
window. “He’s dead. I can feel it.”

The man nodded and removed a pack of smokes from his shirt pocket. He tapped a Winston out and wedged it in a corner of his
mouth. “I reckon you’re right, boy. So what do you think? Seems pretty certain these are the ones the Mistress wants.”

The boy licked his dry lips. “Yeah.”

The van’s tail lights came on and the van began to glide out toward the street just as the man was applying a lighter flame
to his cigarette. “Oh, shit.”

He flipped the lighter shut and tossed it onto the dashboard. Then he twisted the key in the ignition and listened to the
engine groan. He twisted it again and got a rattle. He looked up and saw the van cross the intersection and pick up speed.

“Fuck!”

The kid was looking at him now. The big knife was pointed vaguely in his direction. “It better start.”

The man spoke around the cigarette:“No shit.”

He was trying hard not to sound afraid, but inside he was coming apart. He couldn’t afford to blow this. Not when they were
so close. He knew the kid was just looking for an excuse to gut him and resume the chase on his own. So he sent out a silent
prayer and twisted the key again.

The engine sputtered, caught, and roared to life.

He let out a big breath and grinned at the kid. “Have faith, kid. They ain’t gettin’ away.”

He gunned the engine and the car lurched forward.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The night was cold, the chill cutting easily through her sweater and the shirt beneath. Allyson scooted closer to the crackling
campfire and rubbed her hands together. The warmth from the fire helped, but all in all she’d rather be back inside, huddled
beneath a blanket with Chad’s naked body spooned against her back. But Camp Whiskey’s inhabitants had warmed to her somewhat
in the aftermath of her close call in the woods. This was the first time she’d been invited to hang out at one of these little
gatherings of what she still thought of as the “inner circle,” and she was determined to make the best of the rare social
outing. She wanted them to see that she was a good person, a friendly and warm person, and that none of them had anything
to fear from her.

Hell, she just wanted to fit in.

Someone on the opposite side of the campfire strummed an acoustic guitar and the low babble of conversation abruptly ceased.
The man with the guitar was sitting cross-legged and was wearing a heavy denim-and-wool coat. Jim was stretched out on the
ground next to him, but now he sat up and withdrew a harmonica from a pocket of his brown shirt. Firelight glinted on the
polished silver surface of the instrument as Jim brought it to his mouth and began to blow. The guitar player intensified
his strumming and the two soon found a bluesy rhythm that made Allyson bob her head as she listened. The jam went on for
a few minutes. Then Jim lowered the harmonica and began to sing.

A shiver went up her spine at the sound of his voice. Chad returned from his trip to the outhouse and sat next to her, draping
an arm around her shoulders. She snuggled closer and laid her head on his shoulder.

Jim paused in his singing to blow a few more bluesy notes on the harmonica. Then the old singer surged to his feet and belted
out the song’s chorus with a passion that was exhilarating to see:

“Devil come a’ risin’

Devil gonna come

Devil on the highwaaaaaaaaay

Devil on the way”

Jim’s whole body was moving. Or at least that’s the way it looked to Allyson from the other side of the campfire. He was doing
a kind of Ray Charles headroll while the rest of his body rocked to the beat the guitarist was now thumping out on the body
of his guitar. Jim looked like a man possessed as that beat intensified, his facial features twisting and twitching, his hands
held out before him in a kind of supplication. Allyson watched the performance with mounting awe. There was an undeniable
electricity in the air. And no wonder. The man was a legend for good reason.

The beat slowed but grew heavier, the other guy slapping the guitar’s body with the flat of his palms as Jim resumed singing:

“Devil come a’ risin’

Devil gonna come

Devil at the crossroads

Think I might explode”

Jim abruptly raised a clenched fist high in the air and struck a rigid pose. The guitar player ceased his thumping, shifted
the guitar in his lap, and began picking out a subdued, haunting melody, a series of wistful notes that felt like a cold breeze
rolling across an open plain.

Jim slowly lowered his fist and finished the song in an equally subdued manner:

“Reckon time has come to pay that bill

Devil comin’ up that hill

Lord, I always knew this day would come

Time to get…gone.”

The last word was spoken rather than sung. Jim lowered his head and held his hands clasped before him as the guy with the
guitar plucked a few final notes, the last of which seemed to hang suspended in the air for a long, achingly lovely moment.
Then it was gone and there was just the sound of the campfire and the ambient noises of the wilderness at night.

Allyson released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

A young woman to her left said, “That was incredible. What was that?”

Chad craned his head to look past Allyson. “That was ‘Pay The Devil,’ an old blues standard.”

Jim was still standing on the other side of the fire. He put the harmonica away and tapped a cigarette from a pack. “Man’s
correct. Blind Cat Jones’s version from the 1930s is probably the best known.” He lit the cigarette and rolled it into a corner
of his mouth. “Used to have it on an old 78.” He smiled around the cigarette and blew out a puff of smoke. “Long gone now,
like most things from my past.”

Allyson surprised herself by speaking up. “I’ve heard that.” She met Jim’s gaze across the campfire and felt goose bumps form
on her flesh as the corners of his mouth lifted in a small smile. “Years ago I saw a PBS documentary about delta blues. Blind
Cat’s version was beautiful, but yours was just amazing.”

Jim exhaled more smoke. “My humble thanks to you, Allyson. And now, if you good people don’t mind, I’ll be retiring for the
evening.”

He flipped the cigarette butt into the fire and began to move back in the direction of the cabins. A pair of machine-gun-toting
men in camos fell in behind him and trailed him down the slope. Some of the others seated around the fire gathered their things
and began to make their exits as well. Allyson stayed where she was, watching Jim and his guards move in and out of shadows
as they moved downhill. He disappeared through a door when they reached their destination and the guards moved to flanking
positions at each side of the little cabin. She wondered what his inner life must be like. Did he live wholly in the present,
or did he spend a lot of time thinking about the lost glories of his past? Did he ever regret the strange path he’d embarked
upon in the early part of the 1970s? She hoped to talk to him about these things at some point. She suspected there was much
he could teach her about coping with regret.

Allyson and Chad eventually joined the slow-motion exodus, rising to their feet and walking hand-in-hand toward their own
cabin.

The bottle of Beam was calling to him again. Jim dropped the cigarettes and harmonica on a table and picked the bottle up
by the neck. He looked at the brown liquid inside the bottle. The stuff didn’t control him as completely as it had in his
youth—he’d be dead for real otherwise—but booze remained a significant factor in his life. He’d reduced his daily intake to
a small fraction of what it had once been, both to improve his health and prepare for the struggle he knew was on the horizon.
But sweet lady alcohol was always there in the background. He drank at a measured pace throughout the day, careful to never
get too intoxicated. At night he would indulge a little more deeply, but even then he remained cognizant of his responsibilities.

He was a leader now. But more than that, a symbol of a past victory for the refugees from Below. They would naturally look
to him for inspiration and guidance. It was a role in which he still felt some discomfort. Within him there yet lurked a faint
spark of the wild spirit that had driven him to such reckless extremes in the past. That part of him wanted to down the whole
bottle of Beam, consequences be damned.

He spun the cap off the bottle and brought the neck to his lips. The booze filled his mouth and he savored the sweet taste
for a moment before swallowing. A little shiver of pleasure rippled through him. Then he took another little sip, screwed
the cap back on, and returned the bottle to the table.

A faint sound from the other side of the room made him turn around. There was no one there. But he’d heard it, of that he
was certain. A woman’s voice. He sighed. He occasionally heard voices when he was alone. Sometimes he could even make out
words. Once in a great while the voice was distinct enough to recognize. And always it was someone who could not actually
be there, at least not in a physical form. These were people from his distant past he knew to be long dead, ghosts he supposed
he would carry with him until his final days.

But this was different. He wasn’t certain why, but he felt it on a level that resonated in his bones. A little tingle of fear
started at the base of his spine and worked its way up. Instinct drove him to pick up the bottle again. This time when he
screwed the cap off, he tossed it on the table and drank deeply from the bottle. The influx of booze settled him and drove
back the chill. He carried the bottle by the neck as he paced the width and length of the small room, paranoia driving him
to conduct a search, even though there was plainly no place for an intruder to hide.

Except…

He dropped to his knees, grunting as the old joints creaked. He lifted the edge of a b lanket and peered beneath the small
bed. No one was there, of course, with the exception of a few crawly bugs and his personal effects. The tattered old backpack
he’d carried on his travels through Europe and Africa in the 70s. Two boxes, a small one and a somewhat larger one filled
with some of his favorite books. He sighed and stood again. He moved to the other side of the bed and sat down. He swigged
from the bottle one more time before setting it on the floor. Then he reached beneath the bed and withdrew the smaller of
the two boxes, an old cigar box with a length of twine tied around it. He untied the loose knot and flipped the lid open.

The box contained an assortment of faded pictures and other mementos of the life he’d left behind so long ago. He’d carried
it with him everywhere for decades, even Below, where most of the banished people were stripped of their personal belongings.
But though the box was important to him, only in his most melancholy moments did he remove its contents to examine and reflect
upon. The last time had been more than a year ago, when he’d first heard rumblings of the threat that was out there.

In the time since then, he’d worked hard to prepare for the coming confrontation, and the heavily fortified Camp Whiskey was
the fruit of those labors. The goal had been to establish a haven impenetrable by any enemy. Thanks to the resources and contacts
of Jack Paradise, the community enjoyed the protection of a small but world-class army. The camp should undeniably be the
safest place for the survivors of Below. And yet there remained intangibles that might yet make them vulnerable, things they
couldn’t anticipate.

Things like the treachery of Wanda Lewis, who had once been a significant player in the plot that ended the Master’s reign
of terror. Jim could not imagine how so strong a woman had been swayed to the other side. He had taken her loyalty for granted
and bringing her into the fold had been a priority. But she’d been unusually difficult to locate, even given the slippery
nature of many House of Blood survivors. She resurfaced a month before her attempt on Allyson Vanover’s life, explaining that
she’d been busy eluding a particularly tenacious group of would-be assassins. Which seemed a believable enough cover story.
But Jim began to hear reports of some strange behavior on Wanda’s part. She was seen talking to herself, appearing to have
animated conversations with people who weren’t there. Once she was spotted engaging in a paganistic prayer ritual in the woods.
There was nothing worthy of condemnation in these behaviors, but they were far enough removed from the Wanda Lewis he’d known
to be troubling. And so Jack Paradise had passed along instruction to the soldiers to keep a watchful eye on her. Which had
turned out to be a good thing for Allyson Vanover.

He was thankful Allyson was still with them. He had a strong feeling there was more to her story than she was willing to share.
The question of why Wanda had attempted to kill her remained unanswered and presented a host of bothersome questions. Allyson’s
account of things had been too vague to provide any real answers. But his gut told him Allyson was not a threat. She clearly
loved Chad, and Jim sensed she was struggling toward an inner change for the better. He could appreciate that.

As he sorted through the stack of mementos—mostly age-yellowed photographs—Jim reflected on the uncountable number of mistakes
he’d made in his life. At the top of that list, as ever, was the impetuous decision to “kill” his public persona. He’d felt
so overwhelmed then, with the press and their lies, with evading an American court system determined to make him serve hard
time for a supposed act of public indecency, and with the pressure to record a new album that could never live up to ludicrously
high expectations. And, of course, his judgment had been clouded by the drugs, enough so that faking his death and going underground
had seemed a perfectly reasonable way out. He’d like to go back to that time and force his younger self not to go down that
road. In the first few years after his “death,” he’d occasionally entertained notions of resurfacing. But something always
held him back. Then, as the years stretched into decades, he began to realize he would never return to public life. For better
or worse, this twilight existence was his lot.

He came to a picture of Pam, his old love, and his eyes misted. The picture showed her seated outside a cafe in Paris, not
long before the end of his old life. She was looking away, not wanting to be photographed. She had just learned of the crazy
thing he was planning and was unhappy about it. He wanted so much to talk to her again, tell her she’d been right, that he’d
made a horrible mistake. But she was dead and beyond reach now. He touched the photo with the tip of a shaking finger and
imagined he could feel the softness of her flesh again. The photo slipped from his fingers and tumbled to the dusty cabin
floor. He was reaching to retrieve it when he caught sight of the photograph that had been beneath it.

His heart lurched.

And now the entire stack of old photos and mementos slipped from his suddenly numb fingers and fluttered across the floor.
The new photo—the one he knew had never been there before—landed upright amidst a sea of white. He felt a tightness in his
chest as he looked at it again. The picture showed a nude woman on a plush bed. Her eyes were glassy and her face was twisted
in a frozen expression of agony. She had been disemboweled by some means not immediately apparent. Blood was everywhere and
a small loop of intestine was visible. Jim forced himself to look beyond the gore for some hint as to why an interloper had
seen fit to insert the gruesome photograph in the middle of a stack of older pictures he looked at so rarely. At first no
obvious solution presented itself. But then he realized there was something familiar about the dead woman…