Queen Of Blood Part 5

She clicked back over to the image search tool and with trembling fingers typed in the name of a dead rock star. The images of this man were plentiful. She scrolled through them before clicking on a thumbnail image of the man at his most grizzled-looking. His face was bloated from alcohol overindulgence. His hair was a big brown mane and he had a thick, bushy beard. The hair was shorter now and the beard was gone, but the penetrating eyes and high cheekbones were the same.

"f.u.c.k--"

Jim. Lazarus. That voice...no wonder it'd seemed so naggingly familiar.

Allyson clicked out of the browser window and closed the laptop. She sat there in a state of numb astonishment for several more minutes.

Then a noise from outside the house--a metallic thunk--snapped her out of it. She set the laptop on the coffee table and surged to her feet, her heart thumping in her chest as she moved hurriedly through the living room and into the foyer. Adjacent to the foyer was a small sitting room lined with bookcases. She slipped into this room and moved to a big window that overlooked the front lawn. She moved the curtain back slightly and peered outside.

A big, dark-colored van was parked on the other side of the street. As she watched, two men clad entirely in black moved away from the van and crossed the street. Light from the streetlamps glinted off something s.h.i.+ny in the lead man's hand. A pistol. Allyson's breath caught in her throat. She made her shaking hand come away from the curtain. Without thinking about what she was doing, she raced out of the sitting room and headed back through the living room at full speed. Then through the kitchen to the door that led to the garage. She yanked the door open and reached for the light switch. Her hand froze on the switch.

No, she thought. Can't let them see light.

She hurried down the three steps to the garage floor, making her way around in the darkness by memory and feel. Her bare right foot landed on something sharp and she let out a squeal of pain. But she made herself keep going. The men in black and their guns would have reached the house by now. She didn't have much time. Her heart felt like it might explode out of her chest at any moment.

Then she reached the back of the garage and her hands moved over the dim shapes of tools hanging from a neatly arranged set of pegs. She dislodged a hammer that landed on the cement floor with a loud clatter. A fresh jolt of terror flashed through her at the sound. But it was nothing she could do anything about. The men in black had heard it or they hadn't. Her eyes at last discerned the shape of the axe on one of the highest pegs. She seized its handle and y anked it off the peg.

She was back in the kitchen when she heard a soft tinkle of breaking gla.s.s. The sound was shockingly close and she realized the men had scaled the fence to make a rear entry. A glint of something s.h.i.+ny at the far end of the kitchen seized her attention. A big hand was reaching through a shattered pane toward the handle of one of the doors that opened to the patio and backyard.

Allyson moved to the wall and edged toward the door, blood from the wound to her foot making a slick trail on the kitchen tiles. As she neared the door, she adjusted her grip on the axe handle and raised it over her head. She held her breath and tried to make herself be calm.

Why are you doing this!? a panicked part of her mind railed at her. You only had to let it happen and collect your f.u.c.king money! You're f.u.c.king crazy to be doing this!

Allyson knew that. And she had no answer for the question. All she knew was it was too late to do anything but what she was doing right now.

She was committed.

The man's hand grasped the handle, found the lock, and turned it.

The door popped open.

One man moved through the opening. He was dressed all in black and his face was smudged with black makeup. A pistol was gripped tight in his hand. Another man attired in exactly the same fas.h.i.+on followed him into the kitchen.

Neither man sensed her presence until it was too late.

Allyson stepped forward and brought the axe down, the finely honed blade chopping through the second man's wrist with ease. Blood jetted from the stump. Hand and gun struck the floor. The man screamed as the first man into the house whirled around. He gaped in astonishment at his comrade's mutilated arm. Then he saw Allyson and began to raise his own gun.

But the blade of the axe flashed and cleaved through his neck before he could aim the gun at her. He reflexively squeezed off a shot that blew another pane of gla.s.s out of the rear door. Blood pumped out of his severed jugular vein in great gouts and he dropped dead to the floor. The other man reeled about the kitchen, then reached for his severed hand and gun with his good hand.

Allyson brought the blade down yet again, planting it between his shoulder blades and making him cry out again. But it was a weak, dying sound. She yanked the axe out. Blood bubbled from the wound and the man cried out again. He mewled and crawled a few feet away from her, his right arm spewing blood in an arcing fountain as it flopped about uselessly.

Then there were more voices. Shouts and the sound of approaching footsteps.

The kitchen abruptly flooded with light.

Someone gasped.

Allyson blinked at the stark sight of all tha t bright red blood sprayed all over the kitchen. She looked at the dying man. A pale length of ragged bone protruded from his bleeding wrist. The man looked up at her with drowsy, condemning eyes.

Allyson dropped the axe.

Then she stumbled.

Fell.

Landed in someone's outstretched arms.

Fade to black.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

Giselle awoke to the sensation of something crawling up her leg. Something about the feel of it triggered an instant feeling of revulsion. It was fuzzy and many-legged, a large spider probably. She swatted at it and missed, the charred stump at the end of her right wrist brus.h.i.+ng uselessly over the still-moving creature. Her mind still fuzzy from sleep, it took her a moment to remember that she no longer had a hand to swat with. But apparently her nerve endings still hadn't accepted this awful reality and continued to taunt her with this d.a.m.nable phantom limb sensation.

The fuzzy spider continued its progress up her inner thigh. Its insinuating presence on her bare flesh felt like the light touch of a would-be rapist stroking the sleeping form of an intended victim. The concept of violation galvanized Giselle. There was no telling what the thing on her leg really was. Perhaps it outwardly resembled a spider--though she couldn't verify that in the absolute blackness of her suspended prison--but it could very well be something else entirely, a deadly magical construct conjured by Ms. Wickman. She thought about the deliberate way it seemed to be moving toward her v.a.g.i.n.a and imagined it entering her, saw it expanding and transforming itself inside her, becoming something hideous and bloated.

And as she thought these things, the big spider's body did seem to swell slightly. Giselle's breath caught in her throat as she realized her suspicions were true. Though conjured by the evil woman's magic, the creature was all too real. She suspected Ms. Wickman had designed the thing to adjust its shape and appearance according to its victim's worst imaginings. And the slight swelling while it was still outside of her was a powerful indicator of the scope of its shape-s.h.i.+fting abilities. Once it was inside her and able to directly tap into her mind and feed on her worst fears...

Giselle focused every bit of will still available to her and worked to suppress the phantom limb sensation. The effort seemed to yield results. A dim tingle remained, but now she felt the low throb at the end her scarred stump. She concentrated harder still and jabbed at the creature with the stump. The stump skidded past the creature on the first attempt, just brus.h.i.+ng its fuzzy legs. The thing was mere inches from her pubic thatch and was still moving. Panic rose in her throat like an exhalation of poison gas. She sat up straight and jabbed downward. The suspended cage swung slightly on its chain, but she made direct contact this time. Her stump pinned its body against her leg. She felt it trying to escape from the pressure, exerting more strength than so tiny a thing should possess. Giselle gritted her teeth and pushed down with all her strength. Instinct and revulsion made her want to knock the thing off her body, but she knew she had to kill it while she had the chance.

The creature swelled beneath her stump, its legs growing longer and thicker. Giselle leaned forward, applying upper body leverage. Then there was a squeal as the thing's body burst and a thick, gooey substance exploded against her flesh. Its legs twitched another time and stopped moving. Giselle gagged and flicked the tattered body away. Coated in goo, the thing's body clung to the cage for a moment, then fell between two of the steel bars and landed with a sickening plop on the stone floor.

Giselle's chest was heaving. Sudden tears erupted from her eyes and spilled in hot trails down her cheeks. She pawed at the ma.s.s of goo coating the center of her body, wiping as much of it away with her stumps as she could. The phantom limb sensation returned and she made a mess of the job, spread the goo over a wider area of her body. She managed to gather a fair amount of the vile stuff on her stumps and flick it away, but without hands it was impossible to clean herself thoroughly.

The room abruptly grew colder and her tears turned to frost on her cheeks. The atmosphere in the room was clearly being artificially manipulated. Yet another spell constructed by Ms. Wickman, likely designed to start working should Giselle somehow manage to thwart the shape-s.h.i.+fter. Knowing the cold was a product of magic did nothing to alleviate the spell's effects. The temperature plunged several more degrees and Giselle moved into a corner of the cage, drew her legs up to her torso, and wrapped what was left of her arms around them. Her body s.h.i.+vered uncontrollably in the deepening cold, making the cage sway again on its chain.

And though they shamed her and added to her discomfort, her tears continued to flow, etching icy paths down her cheeks. She was so frustrated and afraid, more afraid than she'd been in years. More than that, she felt powerless. She still couldn't accept that this had happened to her. A few years earlier she'd been at the height of her powers, the Master's mountain kingdom destroyed through her efforts and years of patient planning.

In the aftermath of that triumph, she used her deep knowledge of magic to build a comfortable place for herself in the world. She returned to the home of her youth, Boston, where she was able to manipulate wealthy, powerful people in her special way, reaching into their minds and convincing them that it was their own idea to hand over large sums of money to the beautiful and tantalizing young girl. Money to buy a mansion in an exclusive neighborhood. She led an easy, comfortable existence in that big house, her every need and desire attended to by a large staff of well-paid and loyal servants.

Giselle's teeth chattered as she recalled with dim bitterness the betrayal of one of these ostensibly trustworthy employees. It was to have been a lovely evening out at the opera. One of the world's leading tenors was performing, and she'd managed to procure choice seats and backstage access. Her regular driver, the impeccably mannered and attired Mr. Thorne, pulled up to the mansion that evening in a limo. She recalled how he'd smiled and bowed slightly to her as she came down the mansion's steps in her expensive evening gown, a fake fur shawl wrapped about her bare, slim shoulders. She'd felt not the slightest twinge of alarm as Mr. Thorne opened one of the limo's rear doors, allowing her a glimpse of the legs of an elegant woman and two men wearing tuxedos.

These would be her companions for the evening. Her neighbor Angelica Anderson and her husband Henry, and her own date, Robert McDowell, a financier who'd been one of the many contributors to her still-growing fortune. As she approached the open door, she gathered up the hem of her gown and dipped her head in preparation for sliding into the car.

Then she froze, her eyes going wide and her heart stopping for an instant as she saw that the woman inside the limo was not Angelica Anderson. She was Ms. Wickman, flas.h.i.+ng a mad grin as she laughed at Giselle's shocked expression. The men with her were two wild-eyed boys barely into their early twenties. Giselle tried to back away, but then she felt Mr. Thorne's firm hand at the small of her back.

His voice was fierce and hot against her ear, full of venom and so unlike anything she'd ever heard from the proper British man, "You're not going anywhere, c.u.n.t."

Then he shoved her inside and the hands of her enemies were upon her. She was too stunned to fight back instantly--as she should have--and by the time it occurred to her to strike at them with her magic it was too late, her powers blunted by the elaborate web of counterspells spun by Ms. Wickman. And when one of the men produced the machete from an inner pocket of his tux, Giselle knew that the battle was lost.

She cringed at the memory of the heavy blade punching through her wrist, the awful grind of steel on bone, then the blade pa.s.sing into the upholstery beneath. And her hand coming away from her wrist, the explosion of blood across black seat leather. She screamed and thrashed, to no avail. And through it all remained the wild and desperate belief that one or more of her many servants would come running to her rescue.

It didn't happen.

Her a.s.sailants were able to go about their grisly work unimpeded and unhurried.

Ms. Wickman raised the blade again.

And one of the men holding her down thrust his crotch against her a.s.s as steel chopped through flesh again.

She'd been sure she would bleed to death there in the back of the limo, but then Ms. Wickman calmly accepted something pa.s.sed to her from outside the car by Mr. Thorne. There was a glint of light on some metal object. Then she discerned the cylindrical shape of the object and knew at once they weren't here to kill her after all. They wanted her to suffer, though. There was a whoosh and the acetylene torch grew a bright blue and red tongue of flame. Another hoa.r.s.e exhalation of purest terror tore out of her as the flame was lowered to her violated flesh. And yet another, shriller scream as the flame made contact and burned brighter, cooking her flesh as the limo's interior filled with the aromas of smoke and burning meat.

The flame burned and burned and it seemed like the torture would go on forever. Then there was a click and the whoos.h.i.+ng sound stopped. Giselle saw her hands, one on the seat next to Ms. Wickman, the other on the s.h.i.+ny black floormat. A glimpse of protruding bone made her stomach knot. Her blood was everywhere. Splattered across the upholstery and all over the tinted windows. A zigzag pattern of coagulating gore across the front of Ms. Wickman's black dress. Everywhere.

Instinct caused her to aim a strike of lethal dark energy at the grinning madwoman, but the antic.i.p.ated blast fizzled and the energy dispersed. Giselle had forgotten about Ms. Wickman's web of blocking spells. And the removal of her hands had eliminated her most powerful method of focusing and unleas.h.i.+ng magical energy.

Ms. Wickman laughed. "Your power is gone and you are mine now, you pathetic wh.o.r.e."

And Giselle had choked back the tears long enough to say, "d.a.m.n you."

Ms. Wickman's eyes gleamed with amus.e.m.e.nt. "Oh, that's right. The former mute can speak now. Bonus." Her smile vanished then. She seized a handful of Giselle's long black hair, twisting it and eliciting a yelp. "Righteous hypocrite. What do you deserve? How many people did you torture and kill while in the Master's employ, hmm? Including your own brother, as I recall."

Giselle didn't reply because the answer to Ms. Wickman's question was obvious. And because the pain was coming back, overwhelming the temporary numbness of shock. Instead she'd said, "Just kill me. Be done with it."

Ms. Wickman threw her head back and laughed again, long and heartily, until she was almost crying. "Oh, you of all people should know better than that, Giselle. We're taking you to a special place, dear. You'll be there for a very, very long time and your suffering will go on forever."

And so she was brought to this place, many hundreds of miles from Boston.

Despair overwhelmed her as it became clear Ms. Wickman had truly mastered the most advanced forms of dark magic, working to appease the death G.o.ds, drawing immense power from them through daily blood sacrifices. The scent of blood--fresh and flowing--was strong in the air.

Giselle knew she would ultimately be offered as a sacrifice to the death G.o.ds. Her s.a.d.i.s.t's soul would be particularly prized by them. She would die.

Unless...

Yes. There was one avenue yet left to her. It was a slim hope at best. And any possibility of success would hinge on a price perhaps too heavy to bear, even given the grim reality she was facing already. She hesitated, contemplating what manner of unspeakable atrocity might be asked of her in exchange for the help she needed. Time moved forward. She felt the minutes un-spooling like the ticking of the Doomsday Clock. Death was coming for her soon. She could almost hear the Reaper's footsteps on the stone floor. She saw him in her mind, raising a gnarled hand to point an icy finger at her.

Then the vision of the Deathbringer dissolved and was replaced by an image of Ms. Wickman's mad grin as the cleaver separated Giselle's hands from her body. A low sound like the warning growl of a wounded animal rumbled out of her throat.

She brought her right forearm to her mouth. The taste of her own flesh on her tongue made her pause for a moment, antic.i.p.ation of pain momentarily freezing her resolve. Then she sank her teeth into her arm, driving them deep, shredding flesh and filling her mouth with salty blood. She drank the blood, drawing it down into her stomach as she continued to slurp more of it from the wound. Then she pitched forward and pressed her face against the cold metal bars of the cage floor. She opened her mouth and expelled blood, allowing it to coat the metal. The pain was bad, but she ignored it and initiated the blood ritual by repeating the phrases she'd memorized years earlier. Rhythmic phrases from an alien tongue. A chant. A summoning spell.

Ms. Wickman had removed her ability to wield magic as a weapon, but she had not deprived Giselle of her knowledge. She had one ally among the death G.o.ds. A rogue who had aided her efforts to overthrow the Master. He would help her again. If only she could reach him...

She placed the tip of her tongue against the cold metal and tasted her own blood again. Then she focused what psychic engergy she could and sent a message into the wall of darkness and the ether beyond.

Azaroth, I beseech you.

Another taste of blood, metallic and tart.

I offer you my blood. My pain. Please come to my aid.

I will do anything.

Nothing.

Despair again began to encroach on her thoughts, threatening the necessary focus and spiritual purity of the ritual. She tasted her blood yet again, used the feeble power it contained to focus her wavering will one last time.

And the message went out again: Azaroth, I implore you...

Then she felt it, the death G.o.d's presence manifesting at first as a warmth that allowed her temporary respite from the freezing atmosphere of the torture chamber. She drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, forcing herself to relax. And as she relaxed, a bright, warm light displaced the darkness of her prison, enveloping her in an ethereal radiance that felt like a loving embrace.

Something dark swirled in the midst of all that brightness, a cloud of energy that became luminescent and began to mold itself into a humanoid shape. The ent.i.ty was forging a human appearance, one that exactly replicated the form Giselle remembered from her prior experience with this being.

When the process was complete, Azaroth smiled at her with his human mask.

Ah, Giselle. I see you have need of my a.s.sistance again.

Tears misted Giselle's vision. The spark of hope became a flame.

I do. My enemies have taken me. They have maimed me. And I fear what they've done to me is only the beginning. They will not rest until they have done the same to all those who rose up against the Master.

Azaroth's expression changed subtly. His eyes continued to glow with that lovely radiance, but the set of his features s.h.i.+fted to something approximating a frown. You speak of the woman who served the Master and her new set of followers.

Giselle gathered her courage. Here was where things might get tricky. Yes. She chopped my hands off to blunt my magic and imprisoned me in a dark place. I'll do anything you ask of me if you can help me.

Azaroth's features s.h.i.+fted again, displaying a fluid grace that made the G.o.d look like something from an animated motion picture. He was smiling again, but there was a hint of something very dark behind the expression.

What you ask will require a sacrifice.

Giselle nodded. Of course. Anything.

Azaroth was silent a moment, his not-quite-real-looking brows knitting in apparent concentration. Then his expression became solemn. I can restore you, Giselle. Make your body whole again so that you may combat your enemy on equal footing. But to justify this I will need you to do something that will wound your soul very deeply.

Giselle suspected what was coming. She held her breath and nodded tensely.

There is a man who is special to you.

Giselle thought, Oh, Eddie...

Azaroth paused for a beat, hearing her thought. Yes, the very one. I will grant you temporary restoration and temporal transport to his current location. You will be there just long enough to kill him.

And though her heart was pierced to the core by the thought of murdering the one person left in the world for whom she felt genuine affection, Giselle knew there was no other choice. She alone possessed even a slim chance of defeating Ms. Wickman. A part of her hated Azaroth for forcing her to make this difficult choice, but the feeling was muted by the knowledge that this was merely the nature of the death G.o.ds, this exchange of blood and breath for aid.

And once this has been done...I will be whole again?

The death G.o.d's expression darkened slightly. As I have said. You know I keep my bargains. Do what is asked of you and you will be more than whole again. The cast of his features s.h.i.+fted again, projecting a s.h.i.+mmering glow as he smiled. You will be stronger than before. More powerful. You will be a fearsome adversary for the one who took you, her equal in every way.

Giselle thought again of Ms. Wickman's many vile transgressions against her. The memories stoked her anger anew.

I am ready to do what you ask.

The G.o.d laughed, a sound that echoed like rolling thunder in this place between worlds. I believe that you are. And now...go from here.