Queen Of Blood (6 page)

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 glass 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 brushing 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 damnable 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 vagina 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-shifting 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 brushing 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
mass 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-shifter. 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 shivered 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, flashing 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, cunt.”

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
passing 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 assailants 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 ass 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 passed
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 hoarse 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 whooshing sound
stopped. Giselle saw her hands, one on the seat next to Ms. Wickman, the other on the shiny 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 anticipated 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 unleashing magical energy.

Ms. Wickman laughed. “Your power is gone and you are mine now, you pathetic whore.”

And Giselle had choked back the tears long enough to say, “Damn you.”

Ms. Wickman’s eyes gleamed with amusement. “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 gods, 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 gods. Her sadist’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, anticipation
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 gods. 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 god’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.