Conceiving (Subdue Book 3)

by Thomas S. Flowers

  “Luna!” Somewhere inside his broken body, his breath wet sand, Bobby found the strength to pull himself up and growl.

  The robe turned his way, seeming to sneer beneath his black hood. He raised his hand again, slowly, deliberate.

  “No…” Bobby hissed.

  The robe swung hard. The slap was clear and sharp, even with the others celebrating. Laughing, the man started to untie her. Space was being made on the altar. Space for Luna’s body. Space for them to let that dreadful Thing have her. Turn her into what became of his friends, became of Maggie, and now Johnathan and Jake.

  No…I won’t let them.

  A kindling fire turned in his gut and rose to the back of his throat. Bobby shook his limbs, testing his weight, his strength against the silver spikes and the density and tiredness of his chest. He’d never been so out of breath before, never in all the ruck marches and cruelest PT. Even in the dry heat of Iraq, Bobby had never felt so close to the end. Somehow the fiend inside him reignited. In a dazzling blaze in the back of his head those devilish yellow eyes glared up at him from the gloom of his fading mind. Let me loose, it seem to say. Free me. Free us. We will kill them all. He nodded, surrendering to his hate and anger.

  Bobby looked to the first crucified palm. Feeling his anger and hatred fill his confidence, he jerked his hand outward. Flesh tugged against bone. Nerves screamed and burned. Biting his lip, drawing blood, he ripped his hand free from the nail. Dangling loose by his side, he dared not look at the mauled fork separating half his hand.

  He managed the next pierced palm. Using his weight, he stretched, pulled, and shredded the meat loose. His hand came apart, cracking, spilling dark red gore on the floor. Those cursed yellow eyes burned brighter, filling him with renewed baleful energy. He could already feel his teeth reshaping in his drooling mouth. Hair filling in. Bones snapping and rearranging.

  Gritting his growing canines, Bobby kicked his foot out. The silver spike resistance was almost unbearable. Giving one shuddering wrench, he was free. The pool beneath his saltire-formed cross glistened in the firelight. The robe untying Luna froze and watched. His gaunt look numbed by the inconceivable gruesome scene unfolding, of watching a man rip himself apart.

  With his mangled and fractured hands, Bobby snatched the last silver spike. Ignoring his sizzling flesh, he pulled and pulled until finally the nail was free. He was free.

  Falling to the crimson floor, Bobby spasmed and jerk and grinned as the wolf took form. Arching his back, he howled, and what had started as purely human bellowed out into something other, something horribly not human, something feral and incensed.

  The robe beside Luna seemed to jolt from his stupor. He ran to the crowd, pulling on robes and shouting. Only the tall man looked to Bobby. The other cultist were still caught up in the sullen victory. His eyes locked with him. Realization dawned under that sown-bear hood. An outstretched hand then shouting words the transfiguring Bobby did not fully understand.

  The Things that wore his friends, Johnathan and Jake, also turned. Clicking loudly, almost in a screech. Eyes wide with hate, but also fear. Yes, also fear.

  Bobby smiled, feeling himself slip away. His brain was on fire. Skin bubbling and kneading. Hands reshaped with jagged hungry claws.

  “You’ll be first,” he said to them.

  They clicked and chirped wildly.

  And Bobby laughed and he laughed until his voice was no longer his own.

  Chapter 34

  Amor Fati

  Luna

  The moment Luna Blanche arrived in Texas, time seemed to whip past her. Her RAV4 rolled on through Taylor and Palestine, quickly making her way through Hobbsburg, pausing briefly to glance at an odd-looking building with strange lights on the outskirts of town, and then promptly made her way into Jotham. She had never been this far north in Texas. Only that one occasion, through Bobby’s mind. Bobby. Where was he now? There was no certainty. Her gift, her heritage was still an untrained tool. Despite being stronger, her focus was often sloppy. Especially now, sensing him as close to death as she had peering into his mind, and beyond, into his future. Silver spikes and saltire cross appeared in the forefront of her thoughts. Bobby. Where was he now? He could be on the highway still or perhaps it was already too late. She’d doubted the latter. He was around here, somewhere.

  Trusting her gut, Luna followed the main road toward the university, the only university within a hundred miles. Baelo was an old aristocratic mausoleum, she felt. Masonic and secretive, sheltered behind its large stone walls and black iron gate. The sun was setting. Feverish red and dark purple bled between hazy cold clouds. A small box was on the horizon, a guard post of sorts, smoking billowing in the chilled frosty air from a shaft fixed to the top. The entrance to the school, no doubt. And, a motorcycle…?

  —Stop!

  Luna skidded her RAV4 on pebble and ice to the side of the road. Climbing out, she discovered, hidden behind a section of bushes next to the university wall, her grandfather’s Harley Fatboy. Must be. Who else would park here? And the year, 1974 with gold lettering. Such coincidences did not exist. He was here. Bobby was at the school, just as she had foreseen. Looking back over at the guard post, there was no movement. Only a flickering light and the sound of voices, some television show no doubt.

  Stepping back, Luna sized the wall. Doubting very much the guard, whoever it was, would let her in at such a late hour, she stepped up on the seat rest and hoisted herself up to the wall. Good thing I ditched the skirt for some pants, she prayed looking over the edge, judging the fall. Having a dress now would certainly not feel very pleasant.

  Holding her breath, she dropped.

  And rolled.

  Just like back in the day, climbing trees and playing Neverland.

  Kneeling, Luna tugged on her dark floral bomber jacket. The wind seemed colder on this side of the wall. The university loomed on the horizon, across a long stretch of empty lawn. The typical green grass frosted over in the bitter temperature.

  Dusting the knees off her purple slacks, Luna started for the school. Crunching the icicled grass with her tennis shoes, wishing to God she’s worn something thicker. Or wool socks, at least. She also wondered about the cabin in the woods, her grandmother’s home, and the once-man who resided somewhere in the Delta greenwood.

  One of the windows on the east end of the school pulsated with light.

  Jogging now, Luna came to the window, peering up on the tippy-toes.

  Nothing.

  The window was blocked by a large thick curtain. Too high for anyone of natural height to reach. Stuffing her trembling hands in her coat pockets, Luna followed the side of the building. There was an entrance near a parking lot. All the cars looked freshly dusted with white frost. They’d been here for some time. She approached the door, sure it would be locked. But it wasn’t. The door was wide open. Almost like a…invitation.

  Opening the door was quietly as possible, Luna inched inside. The hallways was dark, all but for the red neon glow of the emergency exit signs and the flickering light from a room at the end of the corridor.

  There were voices down there.

  Laughter.

  And a scream.

  A solitary blood curdling scream.

  Followed by the sound of hammering. Luna imagined railroad spikes being driven into wooden beams, the heavy clink of metal against metal. Hammering. Hammering.

  More screaming.

  Jesus, what is that?

  Afraid to go on; too terrified to stop, Luna slunk against the wall and cautiously made her way toward the awful noise. The light grew brighter as well as warmer. The screams had muffled down to grinding moans. Rattling breaths akin to swimmers taking in gulps of air. Suffocation. Torture. Her visions taunted her in the dark shadowy hallway.

  And a new shadow.

  Tall.

  Looming behind her.

  Wait…

  Luna started to turn.

  Something hard came down on her head.

 
; A painful thud. Her teeth clamped. Skull on fire.

  Limbs falling.

  White stars behind her eyes.

  Metallic taste on the back of her throat.

  Nothing. Just the pain.

  And the snickering of some cruel robed shape above her.

  ***

  There were no dreams. Just the crackling of firewood. And heat. Warmth covering her body like a cozy patchwork quilt. Luna was never fully unconscious, simply set adrift between the two, of being aware and partially sleeping. There were no dreams, but she could hear voices. Many. Excited and equally nervous. And the voice of a woman, pleading with whom she could only assume to be her husband. And her husband’s poor attempt to console her. If he was even trying to console or not was another matter entirely. One she did not have the energy or will to press to seek an answer.

  Her body had been placed on a chair. Secured with soft rope. The smell of oak and cedar was strong. And heat whipped at her back as if flames danced close behind. Her sight was blinded by some kind of bag, not entirely void of light. More like mesh or some other loose fabric. It was removed with a jerk. Slowly, terrified of the pain and what she might discover, Luna opened her eyes. The room was expansive with a tall vaulted ceiling. The walls were covered with ornate paintings by famous people and places, no doubt, she cared little to know. Behind her, indeed she could sense the looming fireplace with fresh crackling, smoldering logs. In front, a crowd of people dressed in dingy robes gathered closely, surrounding some sort of platform, or…god forbid, altar.

  A robed man stood near her, holding on to the bag that blinded her, his gaze fixed to his massed cohorts, one in particular, a giant of a man dressed strangely native with what looked to be a bear carved mask and hood, black patched skins as the robe. His face was squared, fixed with an expression of the most maddening joy. The glow of the fireplace reflected off his round glasses. Large bull-moose looking teeth glimmered pale white. And in his hand he held a necklace with a stone at the center, a blank stone, dangling above a woman adorned with flower petals and a crown of white brush, exposed pale skin painted with odd black markings.

  The woman was in pain. On her back on a bed of expensive looking pillows and sheets. Her legs were up in stirrups and her belly swollen…

  Oh God, is she having a baby? Here? Of all places?

  Why?

  What is going on?

  Turning away as the woman began grunting and thrashing her legs uselessly against the stirrups, Luna gazed out over the other side of the room. Nearly screaming, she bit her lip. Quivering at the sight of Bobby Weeks crucified to some sort of St. Anthony’s cross, a type of saltire X. His palms and naked heels pierced with what looked like silver spikes. Blood soaked into his jean jacket and pants. His head hung low, hair lay just below his eyes. Beard wet and glossy in the fireplace glow. Breathing slow and obviously painful, yet somehow still awake, watching her with an expression of utter horror. Two robes stood near him, seeming to taunt him with whatever they were saying.

  “Bobby…” Luna had started to say. The room was suddenly filled with the pleading moans of the woman and a dazzling unnatural hot white light, consuming every thought and form and shape, brilliant as she could imagine some sort of divine, celestial hue, washing the room, not with splendor, but with the gnashing of red hideous eyes and ghostly clicking bone skewed mandibles, reaching out between kaleidoscopic beams of unknown color.

  Luna clamped shut her eyes, fearing to be burned away in the hoary storm.

  The dull colors of the room returned. Muted compared to the radiant burst of light. The woman was grunting, moaning still, though remarkably less. More relieved than anything. Bobby’s head was slunk against his chest. The two robes that had stood by him were next to the crowd now, rejoicing with the others. A woman with long grey hair was cradling something, a child more like, wrapped in blankets and towels. The woman was asking for the baby. But she started screaming.

  Curious beyond control, Luna reached out with her mind, her inheritance, which was starting to feel more like another appendage. The people around the woman were more than happy, this was something that felt like religious zeal or serotonergic rush, flooding their thoughts fanatically. All but for two. A man, clouded with remorse and grief. And the woman, whose very sanity felt ripped open, her own thoughts ablaze with visions uncanny, beyond realization.

  What did she see?

  Luna pressed harder, farther into the raging tide of the woman’s madness.

  The baby, she asked to see her baby. And they showed her. The scarlet blanket draped over…That’s no child. No baby. A worm, parasite of some species.

  Nearly losing her grip, shuddering in the confines of her chair, Luna pressed outward, toward the mock child. The larva. The Thing welcomed her, strangely feminine in tone. Greedy red eyes bid her stay, to take a place at the tabernacle.

  No.

  No.

  You’ll not have me.

  (Mrs. Blanche, it is inevitable.)

  You can’t.

  I will not allow you—

  (You have been chosen.)

  How?

  (We tasted your residue on the thoughts of Mr. Weeks.)

  What? When?

  (Our Hive, Our temple.)

  Luna pictured in her mind the House on Oak Lee, the house she envision when she peered into Bobby’s mind for the first time nearly a year ago to the day.

  You set this all in motion? You brought Bobby here? she thought.

  (Yes.)

  Why? Why me?

  (Power, Mrs. Blanche. You have sight. And We want to see.)

  “No!” Luna shouted, severing the cord of her reach. Wild eyed, she searched the room for something, anything. Her bonds were too tight. Already, some of the robes were clearing a place for her at the altar. A place for her to be laid down and given to this horrible Thing. It was their Queen, she felt as much. The collective mind brought into one single voice, Her voice. And if the Queen got hold of her…and her gift, what then? What would they do with her sight? Having the ability to see what has or has not been. Strangely, she thought of Nineteen Eighty-Four, a novel by George Orwell she’d read for a school assignment back in high school, envisioning a world of omnipresent surveillance and manipulation and conditioning and oligarchy tyranny. Is that what these creatures would do? Is this how They’d abuse my gift? Another dark thought came to mind. A movie she’d seen when she went to go live with her grandparents. Back in ’86, The Fly was playing at the Mainland Theater. It was rated R, but her Pappy snuck her in anyhow. The scene she thought of now was a conversation between Seth and Ronnie. He was becoming more and more like the fly, accidentally spliced. Ronnie wanted to stay with him, but Seth warned her about insect politics, because insects have no politics, insects are brutal, no compassion or compromise. “You cannot trust the insect,” he’d warned her. And then he told her to go away, he wasn’t human anymore, and he’d hurt her if she stayed. He wasn’t human, just as Luna would not be human if the Queen became part of her.

  She shut her eyes tight.

  No. No. I can’t let it happen.

  How?

  How can I stop Them?

  —Bobby!

  She turned to Bobby who hanged on the saltiric crucifix. Silver spikes gleaming with crimson gore. Pushing out, Luna tried to wake him. He was weak, she knew, but she also knew he could turn, if he could get free from the silver nails, he could become…even without the aid of a full moon, he could turn. His lycanthropic curse, to no fault of his own, only by the cruel loving hands of fate, the curse had spread and matured in his cells, mutating and evolving, becoming more and more unshackled from its lunar cage.

  Luna had read as much as she could during the holidays, mostly searching for a way to cure him. But there was no cure. The wolf was as much a part of Bobby as any other part. As second nature as her own gift. She’d read in one of her father’s notes eventually all werewolves are able to hone the ability to change at will, though few freely have want
. Typically, transformations happen by accident, for when the change happens, the host loses control. Only the vilest of men have ever used the curse to their advantage. And Bobby was no vile man. He’s kind and compassionate. Haunted by his past and ghosts that chase him into the streets and into the gutters, keeping him from ever trusting himself. It was horrible, she knew, to ask him to do this, but what choice was there?

  Pushing out again, Bobby began to stir.

  He won’t have control.

  But if that is what needs to happen…to stop Them…

  Let the wolf out.

  Chapter 35

  Sad Man

  John Turner

  John stood in the frozen grass under the massive high window of Baelo University. His woolen trench coat whipped in the steadily growing winter breeze. Strange lights were flickering inside, casting a near-white glow through the glass panels and making the dark night sky seem like daylight. Now, he could only see a soft orange hue as if from a candle or fireplace. Luna was in there, there was no doubting that. He’d followed her across Mississippi and Louisiana and Texas. He followed her, with what he could only describe as scent. Her essence, perhaps. Whatever it was, he trudged across mile after mile like some sinister locomotive hounded by the devil. And as he stood on the ice-coated lawn, listening to the crunch beneath his large boots, freezing to death, if he could in fact die, the granddaughter of the woman who’d given him life was inside, just beyond the window. The question that seemed to be confounding him, keeping him locked on the lawn, was why he should care. Why did he follow her? The rougarou, of course. She’d come to save her friend…or perhaps more. He understood. What he didn’t seem to understand was, again, why he followed her. Who was she to him? Ronna was his because of the sins committed to bring life back into his mangled flesh. But the girl? There ought to be no connection between the two, but then again, there was. There was a connection.

  He sneered in the dark. Breath coming out in plumes like a smokestack in the blue tundra.