Authors: Bryan Smith
Queen Of Blood (19 page)
Giselle nodded. “Uh-huh. Right.”
She knew what was happening now. It was a little unnerving, but the mere knowing made her feel somewhat better. She had lived
amongst sadists and practitioners of dark magic for so long it had taken her a while to recognize simple madness when she
saw it. It was a fine distinction, the line between deliberate indulgence of dark desires and the helplessness of lunacy.
Dream and her friends were dangerous, yes, but only in the manner of any other roaming pack of maniacs. And she just didn’t
have the time or patience to deal with babbling lunatics.
So she marched further into the room and yanked a submachine gun from the shaking hands of a startled Black Brigade soldier.
She broke the trembling man’s neck with a hard chop of her left hand and he fell dead to the floor. Then she got a proper
grip on the gun, slipped a finger through the trigger guard, and aimed the weapon at the crazy women sitting at her table.
“I’ve enjoyed our visit, but I’m very busy, so I’ll be killing you now.”
Her finger squeezed the trigger. Fire erupted from the muzzle. The weapon chugged and spit shell casings as the barrel tilted
toward the ceiling. Bullets slashed through a chandelier and a rain of glittering white shards spattered the table like crystalline
rain. Giselle eased her finger off the trigger and stared at the weapon with an expression that made her look like a befuddled
child. Her first instinct was to blame the weapon itself. Recoil. The gun had a strong kick and she was not used to handling
firearms.
But then she saw Dream’s devilish grin.
Her eyes went wide and her breath caught in her throat. She felt a moment of fear. Then she shoved the fear down and a snarl
transformed her face, animal fury twisting her natural prettiness and turning it into something almost ugly. She brought the
weapon to bear again, aiming it straight at Dream’s face. She squeezed the trigger again and waited for the thing she ached
to see more than anything else, Dream’s pretty face blowing apart beneath the onslaught of a hail of high-velocity steel.
The barrel tipped toward the ceiling again and the bullets etched a jittery pattern of holes in the wood. She kept her finger
down on the trigger this time and struggled to bring the barrel down, the muscles in her arms and neck bulging with the strain.
But her arms seemed frozen, as if held in place by the hands of some invisible puppet master. The gun’s magazine clicked empty
and only then did Giselle become aware of the mad, continuous roar emerging from her open mouth. The force holding her hands
in place retreated, and she threw the useless weapon across the room with a cry of helpless rage. The gun’s stock struck a
long, wall-mounted mirror and shattered it.
Dream’s black friend—who seemed vaguely familiar—laughed. “Look at that. Seven years bad luck. You done fucked up, bitch.”
The one called Marcy laughed.
The drooling lobotomy case made that unsettling chuffing sound again.
And Dream just kept on smiling, utterly unfazed by all the gunfire and drama.
Giselle’s teeth were clenched and her hands were curled into tight fists at her side. From the corners of her eyes, she could
see the faces of the soldiers. Here and there she was able to discern tell-tale hints of smugness. Of a grim satisfaction.
There
, they were thinking.
Now
the bitch knows why the hard men are afraid.
And they were right, damn them to hell.
She exerted a considerable effort of will and slowly composed herself. In a few moments she was able to regulate her breathing.
The flush faded from her face. Her fists uncurled and her jaw relaxed.
She forced a smile. “Okay, Dream. I know that was your doing. I can feel it.” She moved a few slow, deliberate steps toward
the seated women. “Why don’t you tell me how you did it?”
Dream chuckled. “Oh, you know. If you think about it hard enough, that is.”
Giselle moved another step closer. And another. Slow. Casual. As sublimely cool and confident as a stoned surfer riding the
crest of an early morning wave. Her eyes were locked on Dream’s. The rest of the world faded. There was only the two of them
now. There was a sweet tension in the air that was almost sexual. She was putting herself out in the open, making herself
as vulnerable as she’d ever been, clearing the channels to allow only pure truth to flow between them. In those moments she
learned all she needed to know about Dream, and Dream saw the extent of Giselle’s own formidable powers.
Yet another step closer.
“The Master. Of course.” Giselle’s smile was almost radiant now. He showed you some things, awakened a dormant power within
you. A power that grew beyond your ability to control and direct.” She laughed. “You’re not really human. Not purely. Somewhere
in the distant past one of his kind mated with one of your ancestors. This is why you have become so strong without schooling
yourself in the dark arts.”
Dream’s smile became a smirk. “Interesting theory. Might even be the fuckin’ truth. Thing is, I don’t really give a fuck.
Not anymore.”
Giselle was within six feet of them now. Close to striking distance. Certain muscles began to subtly coil. “Is that so?” She
arched an eyebrow, a faintly mocking expression. “Or are you just too much of a drunken mess to wrap your stupid head around
any idea more complex than a knock-knock joke?”
Dream’s face turned hard. “Stop right there.”
And Giselle felt that force rise up against her again. It was impressive, the sheer ease with which Dream wielded her ability.
But Giselle had been expecting it this time. And she was not without ability of her own. She threw up a psychic shield that
repelled Dream’s energy pulse and knocked the woman back in her own chair. Dream gaped at her. Shock radiated from her every
pore.
NOW.
Giselle loosed a shriek of fury and dove across the surface of the table, her right hand extended, long, sharp nails seeking
Dream’s sky-blue eyes. Dream’s friends tried to intercept her, but another blast of energy sent them tumbling to the floor.
Giselle slid across the table at high speed, her body knocking aside the wine bottle and glasses. Then she was on Dream, her
left hand closing on the woman’s slender throat as the fingers of her other hand shot toward those gaping, stupid eyes. And
for a flashing instant, Giselle felt her own smug satisfaction, thinking,
stupid cow.
Then Dream’s hand snapped up and seized Giselle’s outstretched wrist. Giselle’s momentum alone should have been enough to
finish the job anyway, and the power flowing through her should have sealed the deal.
But Dream’s strength blunted her momentum. The woman’s hand moved backward perhaps half a centimeter. Then stopped. Giselle’s
wrist was frozen in place, but the rest of her body kept moving. Dream leaped to her feet and moved with the direction of
that energy. She shifted her grip on Giselle’s wrist and exerted some force of her own. Then Giselle was airborne and flying
toward the wall with no way to stop the impending crash. The top of her head smacked the wall, and an instant later she hit
the floor with a hard, undignified thud. The pain was immense. Before she could even begin to consider her next move, she
was yanked to her feet and slammed against the wall.
Dream put a hand around her throat and slammed her against the wall again. “How’s that feel, bitch! How’s that fucking feel!”
Dream’s eyes were wide and bulging, pulsing with insanity and unmitigated fury. “Does it fucking hurt! Does it fucking hurt!”
Giselle’s vision blurred and she realized with shame that she had tears in her eyes. She didn’t bother to answer the crazy
woman’s question. Of course it hurt. But the pain wasn’t the worst of it. The thing that really got to her was how powerless
she was to stop this abuse. And she almost felt like laughing, despite everything, because now she had the gift of clarity
and could see how arrogant she had been. Had she really felt like a god? As if nothing or no one could ever hurt her again?
She bit her lip. Hard. Tasted her own blood.
And called out to the void.
Azaroth! Help me!
No answer from the void.
Just the sound of her head banging repeatedly off the wall as the world turned fuzzy. She wondered if she was about to die
and felt a moment’s perplexion at how little she cared. As she neared unconsciousness, she thought of the essential ways in
which the blood sacrifice of Eddie King had changed her. Maybe she’d really died back then, the real Giselle, and the thing
she was now was just some magical construct, a joke played on her by a malicious god. Azaroth. The silent one. Her former
coconspirator against the Master. Her restored hands. A body, whole again.
Construct.
Giselle’s laughter approached madness. Now who was the crazy one? Dream continued to scream at her, the words losing any meaning
now.
Then, just as she thought death might take her, she glanced over her shoulder and saw a new shape enter the room. She blinked
hard. Dream wasn’t banging her against the wall anymore. Just screaming. Raging. Her hand squeezing. The shape came into focus
as it moved closer.
Giselle’s heart lurched.
Ursula.
Still nude. So beautiful. So tall in those ridiculous platform heels. The jut of her mouth so insolent. In that moment Giselle
felt a rush of love and desire. It was all still there, the purity of all she’d felt for the girl over these months. It hadn’t
really faded at all. And seeing the fright and concern in her lover’s eyes only intensified the feeling.
Ursula locked eyes with her and Giselle saw the same depth of emotion within her.
It was a beautiful, aching, glorious moment.
And it passed in a nanosecond.
Ursula screamed and came running toward her, ridiculous big heels clomping on the marble floor.
And the young girl with the black-as-night hair—Marcy—rose up and strode purposefully forward, a real gun, a gleaming, nickel-plated
9mm pistol, in her hands now. She aimed the barrel point blank at Ursula’s face and fired once. The bullet hit her between
the eyes. An explosion of red bloomed behind her head even as her body flew backward. Giselle squealed anguish and tried to
flex her power one last time, reached down deep inside herself and tried to kickstart the core of that power. But it was unreachable.
Something was in the way. Still she kept reaching, kept straining…
Dream grinned and said, “No.”
Giselle’s vision blurred again. “Kill me. Please. Finish it….”
Dream laughed. “No.” She increased the pressure around Giselle’s neck, reducing her air passage to perhaps the width of a
straw. “You’re not getting off that easy.”
Of course not.
Giselle’s fading gaze went to the trembling soldiers. No smugness on their faces now. Just terror. Disbelief.
Helplessness. Trembling hands unable to wield their weapons. Giselle wasn’t sure they’d choose to use them if they could.
And there, just inside the archway, good old Schreck. As afraid as the rest of them, but with a hint of a smirk playing at
the edges of his mouth. She had another insight then. Another bit of truth she’d been too stupid and arrogant to discern.
He was the traitor. The Order of the Dragon plant alluded to by Gwendolyn in her last moments. And he must have seen the recognition
in her fading vision, because now he was baring his teeth. Cackling, the jackal exposed at last.
Giselle sucked more blood from her torn lip into her mouth.
Called out one last time.
Azaroth…why have you forsaken me?
And this time she received a response.
Disembodied, mocking laughter that boomed in her head like thunder.
Thunder that rolled on and on as the world faded away at last.
The caravan departed Camp Whiskey at the break of dawn, six vans and two Jeeps packed with weaponry and ammunition, carrying
some two dozen passengers down a winding, snow-encrusted mountain path. They traveled all through the day and the whole of
the night that followed, arriving somewhere in the approximate center of Wyoming at dawn of the next day.
Allyson blinked and emerged from the drowse she’d fallen into some fifteen minutes earlier. She sat up straight and stared
through a window at the gray sky and the passing countryside. The Jeep’s engine rattled and chugged, its big tires bouncing
in and out of potholes as it followed the snaking stretch of rural highway. There were no houses to be seen anywhere. Just
trees and more trees, their branches denuded by the season, pale and angling toward the sky like the outstretched arms of
worshippers.
The Jeep was at the rear of the modest column of vehicles. Allyson shifted in her seat and peered between the front seats
for a glimpse of the road ahead. The other vehicles were staying close, none of them separated by more than a car length.
The van directly in front of them was old and painted olive green.
Just like a for-real army truck
, Allyson thought, smirking.
But as far as she was concerned, the van’s color marked the end of any similarity between this insane glorified Boy Scout
mission and any real military operation. They lacked strength of numbers, for one thing. In the wake of Jack Paradise’s murder
and the imprisonment of Jim, the tenuous connections that had held together the always fragile Camp Whiskey community frayed
and came apart. An attempt to repel the usurpers from the Order of the Dragon lacked cohesion and direction and was put down
in spectacularly brutal fashion. The camp’s mysteriously cowed faux-military wing stood by and let it happen. The bulk of
the people saw that the Order could not be overcome and a mass exodus ensued. Allyson had felt a strong urge to run with them,
but could not bring herself to do so without Chad, who was riding now in one of the forward vehicles.
Only a small, hardcore group chose not to flee. These were mostly men, and mostly members of the paramilitary unit assembled
by Jack Paradise. Most of Jack’s men died alongside him that night. The ones who remained took orders from the Order people,
and did so without question. Chad was being held against his will by the Asian woman, but Allyson had a feeling he would have
stayed regardless, at least as long as Jim remained alive.
Thinking of that stirred Allyson’s anger anew. The bitch treated him like a piece of property, or a pet, dragging him along
wherever she went, striking him whenever he dared to open his mouth. Allyson felt embarrassment on Chad’s behalf any time
she witnessed this behavior, and a part of her withered inside every time it happened, as she thought of how humiliating the
ordeal must be for him. Doubly frustrating was her utter inability to do anything about it.
The Asian woman forbade any contact between them. Allyson initially wondered why Chad’s new keeper allowed her to stay at
Camp Whiskey. She eventually realized the woman was deriving a sadistic enjoyment from Allyson’s predicament, taunting her
by flaunting her ownership of Chad. It was a petty, cruel thing. But it was also a good thing. Proximity meant there would
one day be an opportunity to exploit. She kept her eyes open. The chance to get away with Chad in tow would present itself.
And she damn well intended to make the most of that opportunity.
But now things had changed. Again.
The order to saddle up and head out to the final battle of good versus evil (although Allyson had decided evil versus evil
was a more accurate description at this point) had been handed down. Many hundreds of miles later, Allyson was still looking
for that perfect moment. The circumstances complicated things. She no longer had an indefinite period of time to work with.
She was separated from her man and surrounded by well-armed hostiles.
Still, she wasn’t ready to give up just yet.
She kicked the back of the seat ahead of her and said, “How much farther?”
The man in the seat turned to look at her. He was clad in camos and sported black shades despite the overcast sky. “Not sure.
Maybe fifty more miles.” He grinned and licked parched lips. “And hey…k ick my seat again and I’ll come back there to
teach you a lesson.”
The man in the driver’s seat—a black man also clad in camos—glanced at the rearview mirror and grinned broadly. “I’d like
to tear me off a piece of that, my ownself.”
Allyson snorted. “Either of you pukebags touch me, I’ll tear your fucking eyes out. And anyway, you don’t have time for pussy.
You’ve got a big battle to be dying in soon, remember?”
The driver laughed. “Listen to the mouth on her.”
The man in the shotgun seat leered at her. “Don’t worry, baby. I can always make time for pussy, one way or another.”
Allyson slid a hand into a pocket of the heavy winter jacket she was wearing. Her fingers curled around the handle of the
big switchblade she’d stashed there earlier. She eased her hand out of the poc ket and clicked the little button on the side.
The blade popped out and she lunged forward, slamming the blade into the man’s exposed throat. The man’s shades popped off
his face as blood jetted from the hole in his throat. He gaped at Allyson in disbelief even as she yanked the blade out and
slammed it into one of his eyes. Allyson did all of this without thinking, instinct driving her, a moment of pure awareness
in which she understood on a primal level that the “perfect” moment she hoped for would never arrive. It was much like those
fevered moments in the dark kitchen of Chad’s house as she’d slaughtered those men in black, her mind and body operating with
surprising efficiency in stripped-down reptile-brain mode.
And brutal murder was like anything—it got easier with practice.
Blood spurted over her hands and soaked the front of her jacket. The man tried to twist away from her, but she grabbed the
front of his shirt and held him close, yanking the blade from his eye and whipping it around again, punching it through his
temple, somehow keeping her aim true as the driver screamed and swerved on the winding back road.
Allyson turned her snarling face toward the driver and said,“Slow down and let the others get around that bend.”
She pulled the bloody blade out of the dead man’s head and brandished it.
“Do it or die.”
The man was shaking and crying, robbed utterly of any remaining shred of bravado or machismo. “Y-y-y-yeah…o-kay . .
. please…”
And he did it. The van ahead of them disappeared around the bend. The Jeep slowed and Allyson ordered the driver to park at
the shoulder. Again, he did as instructed, tears streaming down his face as he mewled like a snot-nosed kid on a playground
standing in the shadow of a bully. Allyson pushed the shotgun seat forward, threw the door open, and got out. She hauled the
dead man’s body out of the Jeep and deposited it in the ditch beyond the shoulder. The whole time the Jeep was in gear and
running, its engine chugging, exhaust kicking out steam in the winter’s air.
Allyson climbed back inside, assuming the position formerly occupied by the dead, would-be rapist. She pulled the pistol from
the driver’s holster and jammed the barrel against his side.
“Drive. Now.”
The driver looked at the pistol she’d so easily taken from him. Then he looked at her, simple, numb disbelief in his eyes.
“I could’ve killed you. Or left you. Or—”
Allyson jabbed the pistol harder against him. “But you didn’t. You fucked up. Because you’re not as hardcore as you thought.
But I am, motherfucker. So now you’re gonna drive. Catch up to the rest of those assholes before they know anything’s wrong.
Make me say it again, I’ll shoot your ass and do it my damn self.”
The Jeep lurched forward.
The engine rattled and ate up highway.
They caught up and kept rolling.
