Queen Of Blood Part 12

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."

"d.a.m.n straight."

Marcy's brow furrowed. "And you're sure you can kill her."

"Ain't sure about s.h.i.+t. But I'll either kill the b.i.t.c.h or die trying."

Marcy's mouth twisted in a humorless smile. "That'd have to be a real kick in the a.s.s. 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. "f.u.c.k off."

"We don't have anything for you, b.u.m." 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 s.h.i.+t, just gimme a bit of pocket change and I'll be on my way."

Marcy s.h.i.+fted in her seat and turned slightly to the right. The b.u.m'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 b.i.t.c.hes look kinda familiar." The b.u.m 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 p.e.c.k.e.r a good suck and I'll keep quiet. Come on, b.i.t.c.h. Whatcha say?"

Dream surged past Marcy, seized the b.u.m by the front of his black sweats.h.i.+rt, 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 s.h.i.+t 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 pa.s.senger 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-cla.s.s 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 b.u.m 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 s.h.i.+rt 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, s.h.i.+t."

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.

"f.u.c.k!"

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 s.h.i.+t."

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 s.h.i.+rt 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.

h.e.l.l, 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 s.h.i.+rt. 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 s.h.i.+ver 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 pa.s.sion 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, s.h.i.+fted 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 b.u.mps form on her flesh as the corners of his mouth lifted in a small smile. "Years ago I saw a PBS doc.u.mentary 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 b.u.t.t 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 d.a.m.ned.

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 s.h.i.+ver 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 a.s.sortment 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-cla.s.s 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 antic.i.p.ate.

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 a.s.sa.s.sins. 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 pa.s.sed 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 alb.u.m 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 gla.s.sy 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...

His stomach knotted as the realization hit him: "Ms.Wickman--"

The wicked witch was dead. The proof was at his feet. This should be cause for celebration. Surely there was no longer anything to fear now that she was gone. Why, then, did he not f eel like celebrating? But he knew why, really. It was the inexplicable appearance of the picture. That and simple instinct. Something very wrong was happening and he didn't have the first clue what it might be. An unacceptable state of affairs. The thing to do now was summon Jack Paradise and begin an investigation.

But first...

He was reaching for the bottle of Beam when he felt a weight settle on the bed behind him. He tensed, expecting to feel the blade of an a.s.sa.s.sin slide beneath his rib cage at any moment. It should have been impossible, even for the stealthiest of a.s.sa.s.sins. The windows were boarded up. The front door, flanked by heavily armed guards, was the only way in or out of the little cabin. Logic dictated this was someone who'd been here all along. He could only a.s.sume the intruder had employed some magical means of cloaking their presence.

The intruder was closer now. He could feel her breath on the back of his neck. That the intruder was a woman was a thing he sensed on a primitive level. He knew he should leap to his feet and make a break for the door, but his feet felt nailed to the floor. He was as incapable of movement as a statue--and would remain so until the intruder released him from this paralyzed state.

Anger flared inside him. "Stop f.u.c.king around and do it."

Then he felt the cold sting of a large blade laid flat across his throat and closed his eyes. No need to wonder how it would feel. He'd had a would-be a.s.sa.s.sin's blade in his body before, back during his time Below. He'd survived that attempt on his life, but he sensed this would be different. And less clumsy. This blade would open his carotid and his blood would splash across the spilled evidence of his formerly exalted place in the world.

The intruder leaned against him. A pair of soft lips pressed against his ear. And a voice, wholly unfamiliar, whispered the following:"Don't you want to live?"

Jim swallowed hard. "Why are you toying with me?"

The woman turned the blade, pressed the sharp side to his trembling flesh. "Answer my question." Her free hand slithered like a snake around his midsection and moved to his crotch, where it grasped and squeezed. "Answer...Jim. Or I'll cut this off and feed it to you."

"Honest answer...I don't know."

The woman slid off the bed to stand before him. Jim's brow knitted in confusion at the sight of the stranger. She was wearing a black gi. She was slim and small, maybe two or three inches over five feet. Her features were Asian, though her voice had been smooth and inflectionless.

"Who the h.e.l.l are you?"

She knelt before him and s.n.a.t.c.hed up the picture of Ms. Wickman's gutted body. "I am of the Order of the Dragon. My name is not important." She waved the picture at him. "I am here to speak to you about this. And to make a proposition."

Jim realized the woman had relinquished her psychic grip on him. He grabbed the Jim Beam bottle and chugged from it. Then he sighed and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. "Does this proposition involve any sort of threat to my people?"

"It involves the removal of a threat. For my organization, it is a matter of vengeance. This may mean sacrifices. You will have to decide how high a price the removal of this threat is worth."

An ache began behind Jim's eyes as a familiar spiritual pain lanced him. For maybe the millionth time, he wished he'd not chosen to a.s.sume a position of leaders.h.i.+p. He loathed being the man who had to make life and death decisions for a larger body of people. His father had been such a man. Alas, such regrets were useless at this juncture. The die had been cast for him long, long ago.

He looked at her and spoke evenly:"Speak to me. Tell me your proposition. And then we'll see just how much I feel like living or dying."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

Giselle awoke to the sound of birdsong. She opened her eyes and saw a large and multicolored creature perched at the foot of the bed. It was a strange synthesis of parrot and vulture, with brightly colored feathers, a long, black beak, and large and very sharp talons. The creature stared at her through gla.s.sy black eyes. She found its scrutiny unnerving and wondered for a moment how the thing had gained entry to her quarters.