‘No . . .’ she breathed. It was a plea for mercy, not a refusal. She was no longer in any position to refuse anything Delgado demanded of her. ‘Please don’t make me . . . not in there.’
But that was exactly what Delgado did. He used the candle flame to light a lantern, and held it aloft to light Mara’s way as he pushed her through the hole, following close behind.
When Mara’s eyes had become accustomed to the semi-darkness, she saw the outline of the massive stone sarcophagus, standing in the centre of the cellar. Delgado had lovingly cleared away the thick layer of dust from the polished lid, and it now gleamed with a malevolent intensity in the feeble yellowish light.
The moment she set eyes on it she could feel the power within, even without touching the stone. She could feel the evil seeping out of it, and knew instinctively what it contained.
To her surprise, she felt the cord about her wrists suddenly slacken and fall away, as Delgado sliced through the knot with a sharp knife.
‘Lay your hands upon the surface,’ he instructed Mara, pushing her forward towards the sarcophagus.
‘I . . . I cannot. The power is too great – I fear it would destroy me.’
‘Do it,’ commanded a soundless voice within her own head. ‘Or I shall destroy you. Do it now.’
Terrified, she approached the sarcophagus and laid her trembling hands upon the polished stone. Instantly, an enormous surge of power ran through her hands and into her body, searing like a massive electric shock; and she screamed with the sudden pain of it. But, try as she might, she could not take her hands from the lid. They felt as though they had been glued to the surface. She was a prisoner of its awesome power.
As she stood there, every muscle taut with agony and straining to free her from this evil force, an image flooded into her brain: an image planted, she had no doubt of it, by the Master. It was the image of what lay beneath the heavy coffin lid: the body of a man who was neither dead nor alive; a man imprisoned in a block of crystal; a man who was no longer a man, but an evil creature, intent on using her powers to liberate his own.
‘No, no!’ she sobbed. ‘Free me, I beg of you. My powers are only for good. I cannot work for evil.’
She knew her pleas for mercy were in vain. For at that very same moment, the voice filled her head once again:
‘Slide back the lid of the sarcophagus. I will give you the power.’
She gazed down at the heavy stone lid. It must weigh tons: how on earth could she hope to move it? And her hands were held fast against its mirror-smooth surface.
‘Push it away from you,’ came the voice again. ‘I will give you the power. Do it, I command you. Or die . . .’
And the voice in Delgado’s head told him:
‘Take the girl now. Fuck her. As you fuck her, my power will enter her and she will move the stone. Do it now, I command you.’
The command seemed to electrify Delgado, up till now so impassive and machine-like. Unbuttoning his trousers, he took out his prick and began to wank it, caressing it into veiny-smooth hardness, breathing hard as he anticipated the warmth of Mara’s secret cave. His prick was not slow in responding: the thought of flooding the girl with spunk soon had him hard and panting for her, his shaft throbbing and a bead of love-juice gathering already at the tip of his well-lubricated glans.
With a groan of satisfaction, he forced Mara’s buttocks apart and sank into her delicious cunt, pumping away at her with furious lust. No woman’s cunt had ever felt so good, so tight and wet around his eager tool. No fuck had ever made him feel so aroused, so immense, so powerful. With each stroke, he felt the Master’s strength and dominion growing more complete, and his prick growing harder and more sensitive. And he rejoiced to be the servant of such awesome power.
With each thrust into her cunt, Mara felt her own passion rising in defiance of her fear and repulsion, her clitoris throbbing towards a massive climax; and she felt the Master’s power flooding into her hands, her arms, her shoulders. Slowly, as she leaned forward to accept Delgado’s tribute, the stone lid began to slide smoothly to one side.
And as Delgado inundated Mara with his spunk, and as she came with a great cry of bittersweet pleasure, their sexual energies united with the will of the Master and the lid gave way, sliding sideways across the coffin and falling to the cellar floor with a thundering crash.
Mara fell forward, Delgado still on top of her and the last drops of his semen trickling out of the tip of his penis and into her cunt. Her hands sought something to steady her, and came to rest upon another cool, hard, smooth surface. She opened her eyes and found herself looking down into the compelling, evil face of the Master, the handsome features distorted with agony and fear at the moment of his imprisonment, his sightless eyes gazing up into hers from the centre of a massive block of crystal, as clear and smooth as glass. And, glittering menacingly on the surface of the crystal, the magical dagger and the ring. So: they had followed Mara to Winterbourne, and now they had found their way inside the sarcophagus. Would she never be free?
For now, the Master’s body was helpless, unmoving; but she knew instantly that the power within him was growing terrifyingly fast and that soon this evil presence would walk the earth again, if she could not find a way to resist him. And all her instincts told her that she could not. Her head swam, and she closed her eyes to dispel the vertigo.
The voice spoke again, sweetly evil, insinuating itself inside her head. She tried to fight it, but she could not.
‘Place the ring upon the third finger of your left hand. Now take up the dagger in your right hand and place the point of the blade on the surface of the crystal, above my forehead.’
She obeyed, silent and submissive; defeated by the superior power of the Master’s iron will. And the power flooded into her once again, and she became no more than a channel for his thoughts, his desires, his words.
As he fed the words of the incantation into her beautifully receptive brain (how well he had chosen!), the Master watched and waited and knew that he would soon be free.
‘Asta, asta, Astaroth,’ she began, in a voice that was no longer her own. ‘Besra, besra, Behemoth. Azriel, Uriel, Shimoneth . . .’
It was working. He could feel the chains of sorcery beginning to dissolve.
‘Mene, mene, Meroneth . . . Gazriel!’
The room was filled with a dazzling flash of white light, and the Master felt pain flooding through him, tearing him apart: pain such as he had never before felt. Such agony . . . a fire consuming him, raging through his soul and body and then . . .
Ebbing away, and leaving his flesh cold, unresponsive, imprisoned.
Mara lay unconscious, slumped across the crystal; the unmoving body staring up at her with glassy, unseeing eyes.
The incantation had failed. And the Master knew why. His body had been irrevocably damaged by the long imprisonment. It was useless to him now; it could not be revived. Yet still he was shackled to it, for without a body to house it, how could his soul be liberated?
There was only one course of action left open to him now.
He must find a new body.
20: The Prey
The electric gates which guarded the hidden entrance to Winterbourne Hall swung open on silent, well-oiled hinges to allow the stretch limousine to pass and glide on, beetle-black and sinister, past the lodge and up the broad driveway to the main house.
The invited guests were gathering for one of Winterbourne’s special evening entertainments. There was a thrill of anticipation in the evening air, for Delgado was one of the great showmen. He always gave his guests their money’s worth. They wouldn’t be going home disappointed.
Some of them wouldn’t be going home at all.
Somewhere in the shrubbery, cold and shivering on the damp earth, Andreas Hunt was coming to, feeling groggy and disorientated and very much the worse for wear.
The truth filtered into his mind and brought him to his senses with a jolt. The impossible had happened. He had stepp
ed into a picture of a house and now, hours later, he had woken up to find himself at that very same house: and he couldn’t remember a damn thing about what had happened in those intervening hours. Supernatural? He was long past asking those sorts of questions.
He staggered to his feet and winced, brushing the leaf-mould from soggy trousers. His arm hurt. His head throbbed. His clothes were soaked through from lying on wet leaves. He peered out from between the foliage and watched the cars driving in slow procession up to the house. He couldn’t risk walking up to the front entrance, but somehow he had to get into that house. He had no idea how he was going to do it, but he knew he had to make his mind up pretty damn quick if he was to stand a chance of rescuing Mara before it was too late.
Delgado walked out of the secret room and up the stairs. He didn’t even bother to close the secret panel this time. There was no need. After tonight, there would be no further need to keep Winterbourne’s dark secret from its pampered and privileged guests.
For they would have become a part of that secret.
He walked along the corridor and towards the main entrance lobby, immaculate in tuxedo and bow tie: still the consummate master of ceremonies. Already the guests were arriving, to be greeted by a tall and handsome black man in a white loin-cloth and very little else. Delgado scanned the guests with approval.
Soon they would all be here. Already he could see Cheviot, de Lacy, Parry-Evans, Blomfeld, the two princes . . . It was all going exactly as the Master had planned.
Delgado turned his attentions to the tall negro:
‘Direct our guests to the ante-room, Ibrahim. It is almost time for the ceremonies to begin.’
And then he noticed the golden-haired beauty walking through the door towards him: red lips, cool white skin, almost deathly pale in its translucence . . .
‘My dear Sonja! So glad you could make it . . .’
Hunt tried several windows before he managed to find one that yielded to his penknife and a little brute force. It took all his strength and resourcefulness to squeeze through, and he cursed his broad shoulders.
He jumped down into the room and saw that he was in the main kitchens of the Hall, thankfully deserted. A few bowls of evil-smelling red stuff stood on a table but he resisted the urge to examine them more closely. He crossed the room and opened the door. No-one was about. The corridor led to a narrow staircase which Hunt assumed must be the old servants’ back stairs. He took them two at a time, anxious to find Mara before something terrible happened to her.
He reached the first floor and set off along a long, dimly lit corridor, lined with identical black-painted doors. Each had a hand-painted nameplate – Serpent of Nile, Revolution, Reichskammer, Lotus Gardens, Notre-Dame, The Winter Palace – and Hunt read several before plucking up the courage to turn a door-handle and look inside.
Hunt passed from room to room as though in a dreamworld. He’d never in his life been in a place like this, and he’d been in some pretty amazing places. Each room mirrored the name on its door: decked out in loving detail to illustrate the chosen theme. Thus, Serpent of Nile represented Cleopatra’s palace, complete with a basket full of very lively snakes; whilst Revolution recreated a French Revolutionary court, complete with guillotine. All were deserted.
Except Orient Express.
When he turned the door-handle, a husky voice called to him:
‘Is that you? I was expecting you hours ago, darling. Come in, I’m so hungry for you.’
Hunt was on the horns of a furious dilemma. If he went away, she’d probably come after him. If he went inside, she’d be bound to see that he wasn’t the man she was expecting.
He compromised, and opened the door just a tiny crack. Mercifully, it was rather dark inside. The curtains had been pulled, and the only light came from a Tiffany lamp on the small table. The whole room was decorated to resemble the interior of a turn-of-the-century railway sleeping compartment, the height of decadent luxury.
The woman was sitting on the side of the bed, completely naked except for a pair of black silk stockings and a hat with a black veil which covered her face. She was slender, with nicely rounded breasts, a trim pair of buttocks and breathtakingly long legs, which she crossed and uncrossed with an erotic awareness which set Hunt’s prick leaping about inside his underpants.
‘You must be my guest,’ she greeted him, sweetly. ‘Señor Delgado told me to expect you. A very special guest, he said. Make yourself at home, won’t you, my dear? Now, you know the little game we play in here, don’t you? You’re the guard on the train, and I’m the naughty lady who’s travelling without a ticket. You have to think of the best way to punish me . . . Shall we begin?’
Hunt was completely nonplussed. He could hardly make his excuses and leave, not now. On the other hand, how could he justify wasting precious time playing silly games when Mara was in mortal danger?
‘Would you like to punch my ticket, sir?’ breathed the woman.
That clinched it. Hunt’s prick refused to take no for an answer. He entered the charade with gusto.
‘That’s right, madam. All tickets, please.’
‘Oh, dear – I’m afraid I’ve lost mine,’ sighed the woman, pretending to search in her handbag. ‘And I haven’t any money. What am I to do? Are you going to throw me off the train?’
‘That depends, madam,’ replied Hunt, licking his lips, ‘on how co-operative you’re prepared to be.’
‘Oh, I’ll do anything, anything you tell me, sir,’ breathed the woman, uncrossing her legs and stroking her dark pubic curls suggestively. ‘I know I’ve been a naughty girl and I have to be punished.’
‘In that case . . .’ Hunt picked up the decorative parasol which lay, folded, on the table in front of the couchette. ‘Turn round and bend over the bed.’
She obeyed, with evident enjoyment, thrusting out her backside and inviting him to thrash it. Which he felt obliged to do, since it pleased her; though he would really have preferred just to shove his dick into her and give her a damn good fucking. She squealed appreciatively as the parasol thwacked down hard on her backside, reddening it like a big juicy apple.
Next, he ran the tip of the parasol between her legs, enjoying the way she squirmed as the cold metal ferrule glanced fleetingly over her clitoris and slid through the delicious wetness of her cunt. As she was parting her legs wider and wider for him, he felt honour bound to give her what she was asking for, and shoved the parasol right up her cunt: the frilled fabric stuck out of her like the petals of some monstrous flower, but she loved it, and begged him for more, and more . . .
Finally, he could wait no longer; and, pinning her face-down on the couchette, he unzipped his flies and gave her the full benefit of his nice fat cock, right up her slippery cunt. Oh, how she howled with pleasure as he took her, sliding his hands underneath her to pinch her nipples as he rode her to orgasm.
It was only as he pulled out his still-dripping prick and climbed off her that she turned into a spitting fury, turning on him suddenly and lunging for his throat. In the struggle, her veil slipped from her face and he saw her for what she was:
‘Anastasia . . .’ he breathed – his mind now in total confusion. And, in fear for his life, he gave her a swift uppercut to the jaw. She fell back, unconscious, on to the bed. Frantic with fear, he tied her up with her own stockings and gagged her lightly with a pair of black silk knickers. He hoped that would give him time to do what he needed to do.
Swiftly zipping up his flies and locking the door behind him, Hunt stepped out into the corridor. It was still deserted, but there were some curious sounds coming to his ears from below. They sounded as if they were coming right from the bowels of the earth. From the cellars, perhaps?
Since Mara clearly wasn’t in any of the upstairs rooms, Hunt decided he had better investigate.
* * *
Naked, giggling, high on Madame LeCoeur’s aphrodisiac wine and the excitement of the moment, the guests followed Delgado down the stairs, through the
secret panel and into the cellars, now impressively lit by burning torches hanging on the walls.
All around the room stood braziers full of burning sweet woods and incense to cloud the mind and inflame the senses. And in the centre, beside the open sarcophagus (its contents hidden from view by a black velvet cloth), a large pot of something warm and red and sticky was standing upon a bed of glowing charcoal. Beside it, an array of soft sable brushes.
Delgado cut an incongruous but elegant figure, fully clad in evening dress amid the host of revellers, naked save for their crystal necklaces. He clapped his hands and they fell silent, now sensing the power that flowed through him, attentive to his every word.
‘Welcome, friends,’ he said. ‘Tonight is a night of great celebration at Winterbourne. Tonight we enter the spirit world: the world where darkness reigns, in which flesh and soul are one, and where all pleasures are permitted, nothing forbidden.’
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted de Lacy and his stockbroker friend, Drew Pettifar, nudging each other and eyeing up the women. Time enough, he thought. Soon you’ll have all the time in the world.
‘First,’ he continued, ‘we must prepare ourselves for the sacred ceremonies of sexual conjugation which we are about to enjoy. Therefore, each of you must take a brush and dip it in this red . . . pigment; and then you must use it to paint upon each other’s bodies whatever signs come into your minds.’
The guests came forward and dipped their brushes into the pot of sticky liquid. It had a strange and rather sickening smell, and Delgado was glad that he had ordered Ibrahim to add the incense, honey and sweet spices. The smell of blood was so difficult to disguise.
If some of the guests thought that this would be an occasion for horseplay, for joking around, for painting childish obscenities on each other’s lewd bodies, they had not bargained on the all-pervading power of the Master.
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