Even after Guy pressed his old, wrinkled lips to the thing wrapped in burlap, none of the men in the bar moved. If anything, they were more still, completely motionless. Pink cups sat in front of them. None of them reached for the phones, none even looked toward the door. It was then that Hayden noticed, he was the only one with a bottle. All the other men had the pink cups, every single one of them.
Hayden spun toward the entrance. The woman who’d been there was gone, the solid wood door closed and latched. The latch was medal and held secure with a thick lock.
None of the men were looking at the door. None cared.
They watched Guy, now breathing into the thing on the floor while Matthew continued to uncover its pale naked skin. McKinon crawled from the chair, kicked it back. He picked up the bottle, poured oil—not the wine Hayden had been expecting—onto the thing’s face, trailed downward onto its neck and breasts. McKinon worked in tandem with Matthew, the two of them coordinating their efforts to simultaneously uncover and oil the thing. Once the exposed skin was gleaming with oil, he set the bottle down, then bent forward, resting his palms on either side of the thing’s head, rocking his hips, lifting high and low, higher and lower. Matthew began caressing the thing, gliding his hands upward over its hard, glistening skin with one hand while still pulling the burlap down with the other.
Hayden scanned the room again, but the men circling the stage continued to watch, mesmerized by the freak show. A difference now, occasionally they each picked up their pink cups, took a sip, then set it down.
McKinon paused to kick Guy, making the old man turn so he was perpendicular to the body, so he and Matthew had better access to the dormant. Soon, both men were moving in rhythm to the music. Guy continued to sporadically breathe into the thing’s mouth.
Whatever that thing was now, it had been a person once. It had chosen to be defiled, used and made unhuman.
Acid trickled up Hayden’s throat, burned its way across his tongue. He was part of this world. He’d chosen it, too. A chill went down his arms and soon his body was aching with both heat and ice. His stomach clenched, pressure ran downward, filled his guts, made his cock hard. He inspected the room, watching the men watch the sick scene. That first night he’d had sex with Mattie, he hadn’t known everything, but if he was honest with himself, he’d known enough. He’d known it was fucked up, literally and otherwise. But he’d gone ahead.
And that had only been the start—not the worst of what he’d done recently.
What’s the worst thing people are capable of?
That question had no answer. The depths of terror and disgust, humiliation and depravity—there was no bottom to that pit. That black hole was his new normal.
For now?
Forever?
Hayden braced himself, physically and emotionally. Watching the sick scene stirred desires he wanted to deny. The constant motion of McKinon’s long arms, his oddly-angled legs…
Hayden knew what was coming. He started to feel the anxiety, the ache, the out of body need for the cold chill of Mattie’s possession.
Where was she? Why wasn’t she there?
Why didn’t she need him?
His apprehension started to swell, prickle against his skin. If she’d found someone else and didn’t need him anymore, he was fucked. If she didn’t need him, if she’d found someone else to use, give her what she needed…
It was then that Rachelle came out from behind the swinging door. The woman coming around the end of the bar was a long way from the proper, socialite, graduate student he’d met weeks ago at an art opening. That night she’d been gentle charm, a cute impish tease in an expensive fur. She was wearing a fur again, but one from the camp, so it was ragged and worn. Her blonde hair was pulled up into a messy twist, flashes of her bare legs slashed beneath the heavy animal skin as she sauntered to the makeshift stage.
Hayden had had those bare legs wrapped around him, quivering beneath his hands. Now those legs scared him. Those legs made him sick. The whole woman made him afraid. Not because of what she herself could do to him, but because he was now comprehending how little he’d understood her. Now, he sat like the other men, fascinated, frozen and tense, waiting. But Hayden was also disgusted. Nauseous. Knowing.
While the three men continued the ritual, Rachelle picked up the thermos, not bothering with the cup. She took a long drink, then recapped it with practiced precision. Her lips, still wet from the tea, were soft, her mouth open. Need? Or desire? Hayden didn’t know. He’d never known that woman. Fool that he was, for thinking he had.
And he was a fool. He knew that for certain. And yet he couldn’t stop being the fool. He should’ve noticed before he was the only one drinking from a bottle. Everyone else in the room had been dosed with the potent tea. Being a fool to yourself was the easiest thing. Thinking you know, thinking you’re in control. Over and over he’d done this to himself but kept coming back for more. There he sat.
Taking more. Getting more.
Now the voyeur, watching, thinking about Mattie and hating himself for wishing she was there to tap in to the insidious heat the scene before him had stirred to life in his body. He dropped his hand to his crotch, stroked his hard cock and watched as his ex-girlfriend slid the fur cloak from her shoulders to expose her bare tits and compact body. Yes, he’d touched her skin, kissed her softly, fucked her harder. But he now knew there was another side of sex. The side where you gave up while someone else took, leaving you used and depleted.
The bolt on the door, the drugged men at the tables, him, alone, watching this ceremony, it was all a set up, and he’d walked right in. Of course, he had. Someone had known he would. Why was he there? Was it an invitation or a threat? He lifted his hand off his hard-on, willing himself not to give in to the moment.
Rachelle dropped the cloak all the way, revealing a key dangling between her breasts and a wide holster circling her waist. Two items hung from the holster: a small, squat, black bottle and long, pointed piece of wood. The small, wooden staff had a fine metal tip bound to its end. She withdrew the wood first, set it on the floor. The metal point caught the light. After pulling free the bottle, she knelt beside Matthew, then set the bottle on the floor. She took off the cap, set it aside.
Matthew had pulled the burlap down to the thing’s waist. He nodded to McKinon and together the two of them flipped the thing over. Its face hit the linoleum, head rolling to the side. McKinon doused the creature’s back with oil, began massaging the pale skin with long, smooth strokes. The music rolled on. The men in the room continued to watch, staring through glazed eyes as the scene continued, evolving slowly with brutal precision.
Matthew ran his pale fingertips up and down the spine, flicking pieces of burlap off the bony points visible beneath the skin. Each time Matthew’s hand moved up, McKinon’s moved down, until, suddenly, they both stopped. Rachelle dipped the metal tip into the bottle, began stabbing the thing at the base of the spine, just above its flat hips. Matthew moved back, crouched, held its legs. McKinon held its shoulders. Over and over, Rachelle went back to the bottle. Her application wasn’t careful or artistic. Her hands worked quickly, stabbing the ink into the skin, her small breasts bouncing from her sharp movements. The black line appeared quickly, marking the bones beneath it.
Belmont had scooted back, positioned himself on all fours and rocked back and forth, his body moving in rhythm to Rachelle’s hands. The old man’s face was filled with grief. Or was that resentment because he didn’t have a significant role in the ritual? No doubt he wanted more than the small part he was playing. The low, heavy bass of the music continued, the beat doing nothing for the men in the room who sat still, watching, numbed by the tea and consumed by the moment, the actions, and probably, as Hayden was, their own dirty fantasies.
Rachelle’s hand bounced back and forth between the jar and the spine. The line over the spine got thicker and darker, longer, and soon it was half way up the back. While Rachelle continued, Belmont crawled backward
and pulled a sketchpad from his coat. He flipped it open and started drawing, his hand surprisingly steady.
Thinking about the others he’d seen with the same spinal inking, Hayden got off the stool and backed away. Only a few yards away, Belmont scribed. The old man suddenly looked determined and objective. Hayden, on the other hand, panicked. He wanted to see more, but he also wanted to get away from the sexual shadow hanging over him and swallowing the whole crowd. His cock was hard, his skin on fire. How could he feel this way when Mattie wasn’t nearby?
Rachelle finished the inking. She returned the makeshift quill to the holster as Matthew and McKinon flipped the thing back over. The crowd sat motionless but still radiating sexual energy. The music thumped on, churning through the room with a steady, relentless rhythm.
With one sharp jerk, Matthew tugged the burlap all the way down, tossed it aside. He stood, showing off his huge cock, now erect. McKinon reached for the oil, drizzled the thing’s legs, then began massaging the muscles with precise sweeps of his hands. Rachelle knelt in front of Matthew, began stroking his cock. Belmont’s hand skimmed over the sketchpad on his lap, most likely documenting this ritual as he had many others of this tribe.
Hayden backed away again. Rachelle, her hands still on Matthew’s dick, looked up, finding him instantly. Of course, she’d known he was watching. Of course, she’d known right where he was seated. She released Matthew’s now jutting cock, got to her feet, and stepped toward Hayden. Heart hammering, he braced, as she moved through the room, not the least bit self-conscious about being naked among these strangers. She stopped in front of him, stared up into his eyes, a mocking smile lingering on her mouth. He’d seen that look before, but on Mattie’s face it stirred fear. Seeing it on Rachelle’s simply made him angry at her and disgusted at himself.
She reached between her breasts, taking the key into one of her hands, then lifting the twine from around her neck. Once she had it off, she pivoted, then headed to the door, freed the lock, threw off the latch, then came back to him.
“Stay?” She put her hand between his legs and pressed upward, smiling when she realized how erect his dick was. “Be part of the show?” She let go and took a step back. “Or be a pussy and leave?”
Hayden shoved her away, jogged across the barroom floor, then burst through the door and out into the icy, stinging darkness.
Chapter Four
“Be part of the show?”
“What the fuck is he doing here?” Mattie asked, pointing at Belmont, dressed and sober on Hayden’s couch.
If the old man was surprised or insulted by her greeting, he didn’t show it. Instead, he used his bony, age-spotted hands to scoot himself forward, then did his old man best to shoot to his feet. Reeling from the little speed he managed to gather, he reached back and steadied himself on the arm of the chair. “You aren’t in control anymore, Mattie. We’re going to be a team of equals.” He lifted his hand, fingers spread wide. “Not entirely equals, actually.”
Mattie lurched forward, droplets of melted snow hitting the floor as she reached out to push him, but he dodged to the side, managing to avoid her. She backed up. “Say what you have to say, then get the hell out of here,” she said, giving up on bullying him and shoving her pale hands into the pockets of her leather.
Belmont walked casually to the window, turned, then went back to drop himself onto the couch. He was playing the cat and mouse game Mattie usually loved so much. This time she wasn’t winning, though. No sneer curled her lip and that constant threatening angle to her chin was missing.
Outside, a sharp gust of wind made the window panes rattle. A few flurries brushed gently across the glass. So pretty to look at. But so deadly with possibilities. Hayden would never be able to take the false peacefulness for granted. Things lurked. Things hid. Things did worse than that.
Once she heard what the old man had, or rather claimed to have, it wasn’t going to be hard getting her to agree to take him along. He wasn’t worried about that. It was keeping himself relevant and keeping Belmont alive that were going to be the challenges.
The man was basking in his moment of perceived power. He’d passed on a normal life to be the tribe’s voyeur. The unauthorized, and unknown, documentarian of Mattie’s tribe. The man was stupid beyond belief, but he’d managed to get something from that ritual and as much as Hayden hated to admit it, he should’ve stayed to the end. Seen what the old man had seen. Hayden got off the couch, speaking over his shoulder as he went to the window. “Talk, Belmont.”
Smug. That was the only word to describe the old man’s attitude. That attitude was only going to get him so far. Hayden was stuck with the shit job of making sure the man got the rest of the way. Belmont reached for his parka, started sliding his arms into the sleeves. “We’re all getting out of here, together.”
Mattie replied, but the conversation between her and Belmont faded as Hayden took in the scene on the street below. Five feet from his front door, standing on the sidewalk, were four white ponies. Two of the mounts had tack but no riders. Two of the mounts were ridden by men who looked upward, their gaze focused directly on Hayden. Guards from her camp, escorts, so it seemed.
“Why didn’t you come alone, Mattie?” he asked, without turning back.
She came up behind him, standing slightly to the side as she looked over his shoulder at the scene below. Hayden stiffened, feeling the chill of her body slither across him like an icy second skin. The shiver ignited his nerves, made his muscles twitch. And his cock too, it responded to her closeness. His unanswered question hung in the air sounding, he realized now, like a threat. The combination of lust and fear churned through him, reminding him of what he’d become and how badly he now wanted out. How much more could he lose? How much more would he lose by the time it ended?
And if it didn’t end?
Mattie’s continued silence told him part of what he needed to know. “Troubles at home?” he asked.
Belmont, still soaking up his imaginary importance, didn’t bother to come see what they were staring at. “I want what’s coming to me,” he said. “Let’s go. I’ve waited long enough.” Behind them, Belmont was rubbing his palms together. “Do you have tea? Yes, I know you do. Give it to me. Now.”
She pulled a mesh bag from her pocket, he snatched it, then headed to the kitchen. The hiss of water and clank of the teakettle being set on the stove followed.
The guards circled their mounts, scanning the street. The two extra horses followed their motions, stepping into the banks of deep snow, the lower parts of their legs disappearing into the dirty white mounds. Woe was the passerby who asked the fur cloak wearing undead why they were riding horses through Boston’s Back Bay.
“Why should I want that fuckwad around? You know he’s the reason I’m being watched.”
“Blame the victim much, Mattie? Guess suddenly appearing with those dormants didn’t impress Matthew. Or anyone else. I’d say you’re the reason you’re being watched.”
“You always think you know everything, Hayden. But you don’t.” She sneered at the old man. He gloated in response. She looked back at Hayden, “He isn’t a victim. Just like you aren’t a victim.”
Hayden swallowed, trying hard to ignore that truth.
“You had a choice.” Still behind him, she unzipped her jacket and thrust out her bound tits. He felt their soft pressure push into his back. “You made your choice.”
The lump in his throat got harder, nearly making him gag on his own guilt.
“You really haven’t learned a thing,” she said, her voice a soft whisper, a sexy endearment and cruel threat.
She’d moved her hand around him and started caressing him between his legs. Even through the fabric of his pants, he felt the chill of her fingers. Despite the repeated promises he’d made to himself that he’d no longer crave or even tolerate her touch, he ached for it. Only last night he’d woken up, bathed in a cold sweat, wanting her to suck his cock and pull the pent-up resentment, frustration and
lust from his body. She knew her effect on him. After all, she’d created it, fed it. Taunted him over it and ultimately controlled it.
She continued stroking him, making his cock get stiff and long. Don’t want it. But it was no use. She owned him, just as she’d said. And until he found the information she wanted, solved the puzzle of what to do with the stinking dormant under the bed, that wasn’t going to change. Unless, of course, Belmont got the information to her first. What would happen then, he had no idea. Then it struck him—whatever the man had, he’d be sure he got hold of it. Get it. Use it. Or, keep it. He’d decide, he’d have control. That pathetic waste of skin would be no match for him.
“He has something we—you—need.” In the window’s reflection, Hayden watched Belmont reappear from around the wall that hid the small kitchen. He couldn’t stop being disgusted at the sight of the man. And irritated. Why couldn’t he have stayed gone? Kept his promise to disappear for good? Hayden shifted his weight, made his hips roll back and forth, increasing then releasing the pressure she’d been applying to his cock. “At least I think he does.”
“That’s right, my dear.” Belmont stood in the center of the room looking like a child expecting to go outside and build a snowman. “You’ll be taking me to the camp. No sneaking in this time. No hiding in the bushes any more. Never again like that.” The kettle began to whistle. “I expect to be treated with respect now,” he nearly yelled as he retreated to the kitchen.
She followed him. “You’ll be sorry you came back and sorry you asked for this. But that’s not my problem.”
Side by side they reappeared, him holding a steaming mug in his hands. “You’ll understand soon enough how badly you need me.” He cast Hayden a smug grin. “He’s not the man he thinks he is.”
Mistress of the Undead Page 4