Ultimate Supernatural Horror Box Set (149 page)

“If you don’t want to be part of SSI, you can pack up your toys and go home.”

“I got my own reasons for being here,” Cody said.

As Cody stomped down the hall, giggles leaked from Burton’s walkie talkie.

Chapter 31

“It’s supposed to be locked.”

Violet had wanted to use the basement key she’d swiped from Janey’s office, a small symbol of access and power, a hint of all Phillippe could have with her.

“An invitation,” he said, taking her elbow. Not a great line, but at least his grip was firm and confident. A little tingle of anticipation raced up her spine, just as it had done when she was prowling in Janey’s office. As she’d sat in the chair and rifled the desk drawers, she fantasized herself as Janey’s replacement. Queen of the White Horse, the new Battle Axe. Somebody had to carry on , now that Janey had permanently checked out....

How do you know she’s dead?

Phillippe reached through the basement door and flipped the switch, revealing the dirt floor. “Let there be light,” he said.

Because they said so.

“I don’t see any ghosts,” she said.

“I think we need a closer look.” Phillippe wiggled his eyebrows in a suggestive manner. He pulled her closer to the top landing of the stairs. The basement air was moist and stagnant, and a coppery corruption settled on her skin like mist. Her nipples went taut, but not from arousal.

As Phillippe led her down the stairs, she said, “Now I know why the stupid kids go down in the basement in the horror movies, even when they know something bad is down there.”

“Why is that,
madamoiselle
?”

The French got her going again and reminded her of the goal. “Because they might get lucky.”

Phillippe grinned at her with those plump, exotic lips, and by the time they reached the basement, his face was near enough that she could smell the Chablis. “Worth a little risk, no?”

He pulled her close and she shivered against his body heat. “The door,” she said.

“Stay right here,” he said, as if she might wander off into the cobwebbed corners. He propelled himself up the stairs and she glanced into the shadows, wondering if anyone was hiding among the posts and support walls. She had the distinct sense of being watched.

By the time Phillippe rejoined her, she went into his arms, more for warmth than passion. The basement had gotten colder.

“Where we were?” he whispered.

“Nowhere,” she said.

“Yet everywhere.”

It was a line he’d probably used a hundred times, feeling up Parisian girls in cramped walk-up apartments where art littered the walls. She didn’t care. Once they were married, she’d pick out the art, and it wouldn’t be square purple cats and pastel vomit. And when she became queen of the White Horse, all the drab curtains and reproduction Victorian furniture would be on the curb and Martha Stewart would get a hefty royalty check.

He pulled her closer, and she molded into his body, feeling his erection tenting against her belly. He nuzzled her neck and his breath drifted across the fine hairs at the base of her skull.

“Mmm,” she said, looking over his shoulder to the rusty, hulking boiler in the recesses of the basement. The coal gate was open and something dangled from the dark recess. Phillippe nibbled at her ear and she giggled.

“Ticklish?” he whispered.

More like thinking he was silly, with all his well-oiled moves and suave maneuvers. She was used to the high school boys in their pick-up trucks, whose rough hands would grab and squeeze and push her into compliance. Not that she’d spent much time on that scene. She’d seen enough classmates pregnant at fifteen, with nothing but bruises and food stamps in their futures. She dreamed bigger, and if it meant she had to endure Phillippe’s wine-softened tongue, well, a woman couldn’t count on looks forever.

Besides, his tongue wasn’t so rough, and his lips were not too slobbery. But she couldn’t relax under his tactics, because of the thing dangling from the boiler. She squinted, trying to make out more detail.

A rag, maybe?

Phillippe’s hands did a slow crawl across her back and shoulders, kneading and stroking. They were strong but also gentle. Like she was a soufflé and he had to fold the eggs just right so the whole recipe wouldn’t collapse.

“Your skin is lovely,
ma cherie
,” he said, his nose against her cheek.

“I still don’t see any ghosts.”

“Perhaps we should turn out the lights, my sweet.”

But the switch was at the top of the stairs and the whole moment would be blown. And she couldn’t quit staring at the thing dangling from the boiler. It was cloth, but it wasn’t a rag. And there were...what?

Fingers
?

“Phillippe,” she whispered.

“I know,” he moaned, grinding against her as if he were trying to break the wooden totem pole in his jeans. His hands slipped lower and cupped her buttocks, and then he locked lips. His little goatee irritated her chin, but at least he didn’t suck all the air from her lungs. But the moment she parted for a breath, he slipped his tongue in, like a snake heading for a hibernation hole.

“
Murr-umpha
,” she said into his mouth, trying to pull free, but he was too busy proving his French manhood to listen. One hand slipped to her breast and circled, stretching the lace of her bra. The bra cost her $35 at Victoria’s Secret, and if he popped the elastic, it was coming out of his wallet without his permission. His fingers found her nipples and he pinched as if it were a generous helping of salt.

The cloth thingy in the boiler...had it moved?

No breeze, except for the lust hurricane from Frenchie’s mouth.

God, maybe it was a rat’s nest. The hotel had plenty of them. She’d have J.C.—

Ouch
.

“Easy,” she whispered. Maybe they went for pain on the Seine, and the French had a million reasons to be masochists, but if she wanted to be abused, she’d have married a cop.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, rolling out the words with a husky richness.

Good one. What’s next, “I love you”? Just do your thing, or at least the warm-up part of the act.

He thumbed free the middle button of her blouse, not even pausing in his oral attention, and then his hand was inside, teasing bare skin at the elastic frame of the bra. She wasn’t stacked by any means, but she had enough there to fill the cup without padding. She’d let him go at it a bit, maybe even a finger in the panties, but no way was she giving the milk before she got the deed to the farm.

The cloth thingy definitely moved, and it wasn’t just Phillippe that was breathing heavily. She looked around. That pervert J.C. might be down here drinking and goofing off, doing God-only-knew to kill time. It would be just like him to watch. Phillippe’s turgid snake was demanding to be free, and she’d have to make a decision soon or he’d whine about blue balls and she’d never get another chance.

She touched his zipper but all she could think about was the rats in the boiler. And the heavy breathing was louder, like a hundred pieces of sandpaper on wood.

“Phillippe?”

“
Oui, ma cherie
?” He was focused on his little mammary maneuver, inching toward raw nipple and disrespecting expensive lingerie.

“There’s something in the boiler.”

“The ghost thing...we already played that game. Now time for a new one.”

He squeezed hard and bit her neck, sending a jolt through her. Not all of it hurt, and she was disgusted by the tiny hotwire of pleasure that raced to her vagina. She moaned and closed her eyes. Encouraged, he bit again, this time hard enough to leave marks. His zipper was halfway down and heat plumed from the opening.

“
Eeee
-zy,” she said, knowing he was pushing the limits to see how much he could get. Men thought they were so damned clever, like they were setting the ground rules. But even if she’d wanted to bone him up, the dreary, creepy basement was jangling her nerves. She never relaxed during sex, not completely, because a girl had to stay on guard. But here, with that weird noise and the cloth thingy moving and—

His teeth clacked together and drew blood.

“
Ow
. Goddamn it.”

Before she could consider the consequences of having an enemy on staff, she slapped him across the cheek. If his goatee were long enough, she’d have yanked his head off and tossed it into the corner for the rats.

“I’m sorry, eez not like me....” Phillippe stared at his hands as if they belonged to someone else, but she was already to the stairs, adjusting her clothing, patting the narrow gash below her ear. Her fingers were warm and wet. The heavy breathing now sounded like giggles oozing from the dark, secretive nooks of the basement.

By the time she reached the door, she was somewhat composed. She’d been hit harder by better, and Violet Felkerson would make sure to sharpen the guillotine as soon as she became manager. Phillippe was toast, French or not.

“
Cherie
?”

“Stay down there and rot,” she said.

Behind Phillippe, the rag thingy was crawling out of the boiler, wormy fingers clawing at the door for traction.

Rats.

An old hotel like this, what could you expect?

By the time she’d slammed and locked the door, the giggling had turned into a laugh track.

Chapter 32

The Roach pressed back against the stones, fingering his crucifix. He’d drifted in and out of consciousness and couldn’t tell how long he’d been in the basement. Eloise’s—check that,
Belial’s
—blow had given him a concussion. His tongue probed a few loose teeth, and his nose was clotted with dried blood, which forced him to mouth breathe. His broken jaw throbbed and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to speak.

Not even the prayers he would need.

He awoke the first time with something touching his leg. The touch had given way to a slithery, slick stroke, all the more disturbing because it was vaguely sensual. He opened his eyes to near-total darkness, his night-vision goggles knocked somewhere across the uneven floor.

A dull orange glow emanated from a distance, like a star trying to wink in the gathering dusk. The touch became a turgid rope, and it continued across his thigh and moved on. Seconds, minutes, or maybe hours later, he heard the
skuffff
of something heavy being dragged across the dirt. Then he remembered Nancy’s corpse.

Disoriented and too sore to move, all he could was lie in the clammy dirt and assess his injuries. The scuffing lasted several minutes, followed by a meaty
thunk
, like encased bone hitting metal. The orange glow deepened and the fire roared to life. The woman’s body was thrown in silhouette against the bed of embers, then the fire roared to life and engulfed her flesh.

Rodney tried to crawl away, feeling exposed and vulnerable in the bright light cast by the flames, but the going was slow and painful. Blood seeped from his nose and he had to pause every few feet to wipe it from his lips. He expected the slithering limb to latch onto him at any moment.

Are you finished with me, God? Is this the price of arrogance?

But as he clawed his way inch by inch over greasy dirt and protruding rocks, he wasn’t sure he’d be granted such a quick release. After all, the blood of at least eight people was on his hands. Sure, it was all part of his holy work, but that didn’t bring them back to life or give their souls peace. Like Belial and the other fallen angels who did God’s dirty work, he was a necessary evil.

But an evil nonetheless.

And evil masquerading as “good” was in a class by itself, and deserving of a jalapeno enema in the scorching bowels of hell.

After the flames died down and the embers fell into a lulling pulse that made a mockery of a heartbeat, Rodney checked the luminous dial on his wristwatch. It had gone dark, along with the lamp attached to his headgear. Most of his equipment had scattered during the demon’s assault, but his digital camera was still strapped around his neck. Its batteries, too, were dead. The demon had drained all the energy from him, which explained his enervation.

He must have dozed again, because he awoke to near-total darkness, the embers dampened as if the source was entering a long sleep. He could barely make out the stairs, and figured they’d provide some refuge until he could recover enough to climb them. He dragged himself under them and huddled with his prayers.

“Give me a sign, Lord,” he whistled through his shattered mouth.

And the Lord provided, as the basement door creaked open above him and He let there be light.

Rodney thought about calling out when the woman and man descended the stairs, but he wasn’t sure whether one or both were possessed. Belial could have changed hosts, or Eloise might be manipulating people by now, spreading its profane influence like an infection.

Rodney recognized the young woman as one of the hotel hostesses. The man was obviously trying to make a move on her, in the slick, clumsy way of someone who hadn’t mastered his own power. The source would take them both, Rodney decided, and he controlled his uneven breathing so he could watch unnoticed.

The teasing of their coy embrace gave way to an argument. Then she mentioned the boiler and Rodney couldn’t help looking at the rusted hulk. The glow of embers had given way to a roiling pile of smoke. The tendrils of smoke looked solid, and Rodney recalled the tentacle that had brushed his leg. The woman said the things were rats, but she wouldn’t be able to know the demons for what they were.

Only the Chosen could see.

When the woman slapped the man and fled up the stairs, Rodney had called out for her to wait, but his mashed-up mouth could only emit a moan. After the door slammed, giggles slithered from the corners of the basement.

After the door slammed, the man gave a slow turn at the foot of the stairs, as if only now acknowledging his surroundings. “Beetch,” he said.

Rodney called again, this time doing a better job of wiggling his tongue.