Queen Of Blood (18 page)

The evening darkness deepened as they entered the woods. The woman yanked him to his feet and stood him against the thick
base of a tall tree. The narrow slits of her eyes seemed darker and harder now, like the eyes of a demoness. She removed the
scabbard containing her sword and set it carefully on the ground. Then she moved in close and peppered Chad’s midsection with
a series of high-power jabs. Yet each was delivered with just enough force to maintain a steady level of pain. Chad tried
to collapse several times, but the woman wouldn’t allow it, forcing him to remain upright as she continued to punish him.
And he knew that was precisely what was happening. She’d judged him guilty of insolence and was putting him in his place.
At some point a part of his mind became disconnected from the pain and the beating. He thought of Jack Paradise, how brave
the man had been, and he weeped.

Then the woman stopped punching him and said, “I have something else to tell you.”

Chad sniffled. “What?”

“Your woman is an agent of your enemy. She has betrayed you and laughs at you whenever your back is turned.”

Chad stood up straighter and tried to get his breathing under control. “I…k now. I figured…that out…a long
time ago.” He swallowed hard. “But she’s with us now.”

The Order woman smirked. “You are an idiot.”

She slapped him.

Chad put a hand to his stinging cheek. “Fuck. Why don’t you just kill me and be done with it?”

Her smirk gave way to a small smile. “Because I have another use for you. The Order rules this place now. And I have decided
to claim you as my property.”

Chad’s brow furrowed. “What?”

The Order woman slapped him again. “Be quiet and do as I say.”

“Fuck you.”

The woman’s nostrils flared. Here eyes widened with rage. She punched him in the abdomen again, a blow harder by far than
any of the previous blows. Chad dropped to his knees and she kicked him in the stomach again. On his back, now, he stared
up at her and watched in disbelief as she began to disrobe. In a moment she was standing naked over him, a small foot planted
to either side of his head. Chad stared up at her slender, sleek body, which was rendered ghostly pale by the sliver of moonlight
that peeked through the treetops.

She licked her lips. “It is time for you to begin your life of servitude.”

Chad had time to draw in a breath.

Then she lowered herself to him.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The girl bent over the edge of the bed was a white prostitute with lank blonde hair and track marks on her arms. She was a
new arrival, fresh from the streets of Los Angeles, where she’d been swept up by Black Brigade scouts. In the ordinary course
of things a creature already so damaged would have been banished to Razor City. But Gwendolyn’s suicide had changed things.
Upon learning of the loss of her plaything, Ursula had become despondent and withdrawn. Giselle attempted to appease her by
allowing her to decide the fate of the new meat, a privilege she relished. Some Ursula deemed as clearly unworthy of her attention
and these were sent to Razor City. Others she killed on the spot, with no apparent rhyme or reason. And every week she selected
an unlucky few upon which she vented the rage and frustration consuming her.

The prostitute’s mouth had been stitched shut with a needle and thread. Her wrists were bound by a length of rusty barbed
wire. Ursula stood behind her, nude except for black platform heels and a strap-on dildo. A cigarette in a plastic holder
dangled from a corner of her mouth as she pounded the dildo into the prostitute’s bleeding anus.

Giselle lay on her side on the other side of the bed, her head propped in an upraised hand. The prostitute stared a desperate
plea at her with wide, misty eyes. Giselle felt a mild arousal at the obscene thing her lover was doing to the pitiful creature.
But it was a reflex. There was no real fire behind it. She still loved Ursula, but the bond between them had weakened, a steady,
drip-drip erosion she feared would continue until there was nothing left. She watched the bounce of Ursula’s breasts and the
sway of her long blonde hair as she ass-fucked the prostitute and tried to feel more than mild arousal.

And the result was the same.

Nothing.

So she was glad for the diversion when she heard the clack of jackboot heels.

She rose from the bed to greet Schreck.

The commander’s sleek black uniform was crisp and immaculate, his boots polished and gleaming. His eyes were a cold blue-gray
and his hair was cut close to the scalp. His lips were thin and his features had a cruel cast, fitting for one in his position.
He doffed his hat and clacked his heels. Giselle was amused. The man was an admirer of the arch militarism of Third Reich
fascists, and there were times when he seemed like a particularly demented little boy playing the role of concentration camp
commandant.

He bowed stiffly and said, “Mistress, there is a matter requiring your immediate attention.”

Giselle smiled and moved to her wardrobe. She selected a green silk robe and pulled it on. It was short, the hem reaching
the mid-thigh level. She cinched it shut with the sash and turned back to the commander, the smile still on her face.

She smoothed the fabric down over her thighs and said, “How does this look?”

A corner of the man’s mouth quirked as he struggled to contain frustration. “Madam, this is a matter of the highest importance.
I hardly think ”

Giselle’s smile faded. “I asked you a question. Answer it.”

Schreck was a coolly efficient man who didn’t stay flustered long. It was what made him so perfectly suited for his role in
the scheme of things. “It looks lovely on you, Mistress.”

“Of course it does. Now tell me about this supposedly dire development.”

She moved to the vanity next to the wardrobe and sat in the chair there, pulling at the hem of her robe as she crossed her
legs. Schreck turned to face her directly and drew in a breath. A slight frown creased Giselle’s forehead. Something had rattled
the man. A faint alarm sounded at the back of her mind. She’d never known Schreck to be nervous, not even in the immediate
aftermath of Ms. Wickman’s assassination.

Her interest piqued, she sat up straighter and leaned forward. “Come on, man. Out with it. What has the likes of you in such
a tizzy?”

Schreck heaved a sigh. “Madam…we have new arrivals. Three women. One of them is Dream Weaver, who was—”

“I know who she is.” Giselle frowned and glanced toward the bed. Ursula was still pounding away at the prostitute. The backs
of her long, shapely legs flexed with each thrust. The mild arousal she’d felt earlier gained a bit more heat. She had to
force her gaze back to Schreck’s subtly troubled expression. “She’s a prize catch. You should be giddy. So why the concern?”

Schreck tugged at the stiff collar of his uniform shirt with an index finger. Giselle’s frown deepened. The man was more than
a little nervous. There was even a very thin sheen of sweat along his forehead. “We did not bring Ms. Weaver in. She and her
companions are here of their own accord.”

“But that’s absurd. Why would they come here of their own free will?”

Schreck’s shoulders lifted in a small shrug.“I know little of their intentions. Ms. Weaver has actually caused quite a stir
in the larger world of late. She and her friends have been on a crime spree of epic proportions, with a trail of victims and
robberies across several northeastern and midwestern states.”

Giselle settled back in the chair and crossed her fingers at her waist. “How odd. It’s not a fate I would have imagined for
that woman.” Her eyes narrowed. “And it still doesn’t explain why they’re here.”

“Indeed.” Schreck glanced briefly in the direction of the large double doors that stood open at the far end of the big room.
He seemed anxious and his voice dropped to a whisper as he said, “But if I may venture a guess?”

Giselle frowned. “Please do.”

Schreck moved closer to Giselle, kneeling slightly at the waist as he again spoke in a whisper: “I believe they’ve come here
seeking refuge. They’re weary of dodging the law and need a place to hunker down, perhaps indefinitely.” A malignant smile
darkened the corners of his thin lips. “Desperation brought them to our door, Mistress. They are broken. Beaten. They are
at our mercy.”

“
My
mercy, you mean.”

Schreck blinked. “Of course.”

Giselle frowned again. “If they are, as you say, ‘beaten,’ then why are you so afraid?”

Schreck straightened at once, indignation flaring in his eyes. “I am not afraid.”

Giselle uncrossed her legs and rose from the chair. She approached Schreck, enjoying the way his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly
as she neared him. “You are so very afraid,” she said, still smiling as she put a hand on his shoulder. Her nose twitched.
“I smell the stink of it on you.”

Schreck swallowed. “Madam, I—”

“Shush.” Giselle squeezed his shoulder, her fingers digging into muscle, finding a tender spot. She held his gaze a moment
and allowed him to feel how easily she could tear him apart. “Your fear is a good thing, Schreck. You’ve always been so unflappable,
even in the moments after I slaughtered your original Mistress. So this tells me something. Our guests are not to be underestimated.
You believe they present a genuine threat.”

Schreck drew in a sharp breath as Giselle relaxed the pressure on his shoulder. He wiped moisture from his forehead with a
uniform sleeve. “Madam…it’s true. My time in their presence left me feeling…unnerved. It was a subtle thing, a
sense of something being…not right.”

Giselle nodded. “Take me to them. Now.”

“Are you sure, Mistress? Perhaps you should grant us time to arrange a more secure—”

Impatience flared in Giselle’s eyes.
“Now
.”

Shreck returned his hat to his head and snapped his heels together. “As you wish.”

Giselle considered taking a moment to change out of the flimsy robe into something more formal, but she was too anxious to
see her guests to waste time selecting something appropriate. She glanced toward the bed, where Ursula was still positioned
behind the whimpering prostitute. The girl evinced no sign of having heard her conversation with Schreck. She was too lost
in her own world. A part of her wanted to order Ursula to finish with the prostitute and accompany her downstairs, but the
prospect of yet another spat with the girl made her weary.

So she looked at Schreck and said, “Lead the way.”

The commander spun on his heels and strode away at a brisk rate, which Giselle hurried to match. They passed through the open
double doors and moved rapidly down the long, candlelit corridor. Muffled but nonetheless distinct sounds emerged from behind
the closed doors that lined either side of the hallway. Moans of ecstasy and the strangled sobs and whimpers of those in agony,
laced with incongruous bursts of mad laughter. Similar sounds drifted from the hallways of each floor as they descended the
spiral staircase to ground level. Schreck’s boot heels struck a loud, discordant accompaniment on the marble stairs. Giselle
was struck by the impression that this was how the echoing chambers of hell must sound. She was not displeased by the notion.

They reached the bottom and passed through the foyer into a large living room filled with lots of expensive oak furniture.
Giselle followed Schreck through the living room as he continued toward an archway that led to the main dining hall. As they
neared the dining hall, Giselle began to hear voices. Female voices. The timbre of one was instantly familiar.
Dream Weaver
. Though she’d never met the woman in person, she’d heard her voice on television numerous times. A little shiver rippled
down the length of her spine. The instinctive fear made her angry. This was her domain. Her castle. She had all the power
here. And yet the feeling persisted.

She detected no fear in the woman’s voice. Not the slightest iota. Which was just insane. Regardless of whatever mischief
she’d gotten up to in the normal world, she was now on dangerous and very hostile territory. Her every word should pulse with
anxiety.

But it just wasn’t there.

Giselle tensed as they passed through the archway into the dining hall. More than a dozen heavily armed Black Brigade soldiers
lined each side of the room. These were hard, brutal men. Sadists guilty of countless atrocities. The collective scent of
fear was almost overpowering. Some of the men fidgeted. Others were sweating and trying not to shake in their boots. Giselle
was overcome with disgust and disdain. This was her elite force. Her professional killers. The ones she entrusted with the
security of her realm. But right now they looked about as fearsome as a troop of Cub Scouts wielding Wiffle Ball bats. She
decided then that none of these men would survive to see another sunrise.

Schreck included.

But these pitiless thoughts were forgotten as she looked at the four women seated in relaxed poses at the far end of the table.
There were two women who looked to be in their midthirties. One black and one white. The other two were younger, in their
very early twenties at the most. The younger women possessed a certain similarity of features. One, slightly older and sporting
choppy, jet-black hair was markedly prettier than the other. Yet they had the same thin lips, wide eyes, and slightly upturned
nose. They were sisters or close cousins. There was something not quite right about the younger one. Her mouth was hanging
open. Droplets of drool depended from the corners of her lips and her dark eyes possessed a flat, dead look.

A half-empty bottle sat on the table between the women—and three glasses filled with varying levels of dark liquid. The thirtysomething
white woman also had choppy, jet-black hair. It looked better on her than it did on the younger girl. She was extraordinarily
attractive, the kind of woman who could adopt any look and instantly make it her own. She wore a pink baby-doll T-shirt, which
was emblazoned with the word SLUT in large glittering letters. On any other woman her age the shirt would look ridiculous,
but…

Then it clicked.

Giselle forced a smile. “Hello, Dream.”

Dream’s smile was surprisingly feral, nothing at all like what Giselle remembered from television coverage after the fall
of the House of Blood. “Hello, cunt.”

Giselle blinked rapidly for several moments. “How dare you—”

“Oh, shut up.” Dream eyed her up and down, a mocking glint in her eyes. “I’d tell you not to get your panties in a knot, but
you’re not wearing any, are you?”

The younger black-haired girl cackled. “Yeah, that’s some robe, baby. Shit, it’s like she’s the female Hugh Hefner and this
is the house of horrors version of the Playboy Mansion.”

The comment enraged Giselle even as it evoked a round of laughter from the girl’s companions. Even the drooling, slack-jawed
girl made a chuffing sound that might have been mirth. She continued making the sound for several moments after the laughter
of her friends faded. Giselle put her rage on hold as she stared in helpless fascination at the pathetic creature. She looked
outwardly normal, but it was apparent her mind was functioning only at the most basic level.

Giselle scowled. “What’s wrong with that one? The ugly, drooling idiot, I mean.” She lifted an arm to point at the girl with
the slack jaw and glassy eyes, who turned her head slowly to stare blankly in Giselle’s direction. “That one, I mean.”

Dream’s smile remained in place, but her eyes turned cold. “Oh, that’s Ellen. She’s a work in progress.”

Giselle frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Dream drained her wine glass and filled it again. “Oh, nothing much. She died recently. Was murdered, actually. By one of
your men, the late Harlan Dempsey.”

Giselle shrugged. “I don’t know the name. Many of our field operatives are still working under orders issued by the woman
I…replaced.”

“Yeah, okay, whatever. Doesn’t matter. He’s fucking dead now.”

The younger dark-haired girl grinned and the fingers of her right hand assumed the shape of a gun. “Pow. Right between the
eyes.”

Dream chuckled. “That was right at your doorstep, as soon as we were sure ol’ Harlan had guided us to the right place. Anyway,
I brought our dead sister back to life. Actually, I created a whole new Ellen. We had to leave the original body behind.
Physically, she’s perfect. The trick is getting her mind to work again. It’s slow work, but I’m getting there. Marcy is the
key.” She nodded at the other young girl, who was still aiming the finger-gun in Giselle’s direction. “She’s bound to Ellen
by blood and carries a touch of her sister’s essence with her. I’m drawing on that to restore her personality and memories.”