House of Blood hob-1

by Bryan Smith

  He was thinking about liberation. About throwing off the shackles of oppression. He was also thinking quite a bit about retribution.

  Eddie was dreaming again. Yet again. But the images weren’t as vivid this time. They were fleeting and halfformed. That sense of lucidity and pseudoreality was gone. In its place was an odd mixture of physical lust and a swirling sense of impending disaster. He saw bodies burning in a pile, heard screams so loud and so anguished they pierced his eardrums like serrated knives. The stink of death was everywhere. And, in the middle of it all, appearing and disappearing-then reappearing again-was the woman from his earlier dream.

  Dream.

  A hauntingly beautiful image glimpsed here and there through a fog. Or it might have been smoke, the billowing black smoke of a conflagration. Although he couldn’t tell exactly what was happening, he sensed the woman was in extreme danger. Something terrible was about to happen to her, something unspeakable, and, this was the creepiest part of it, she seemed to welcome it, to even embrace it.

  He saw the woman again, more clearly than before. She was again wearing the flimsy, sheer blue dress she’d shed in his previous dream. She seemed less threatening in this dream, not quite as apt to turn into a yellow-eyed beastie. He wasn’t sure why that was, but he would later decide he was getting glimpses of a fluid possible reality. The woman’s fate wasn’t decided yet. He sensed she was vulnerable, susceptible to ideas she wouldn’t normally entertain. She stood now on the precipice of a great corruption. Soon she would either surrender her soul to darkness or give up her life trying to fight whatever was threatening her.

  This dream, what little he would recall of it upon awakening, was suggestive of things that might happen should she pursue the latter course. A dark shadow, enormous and distended like a shadow puppet, emerged from the smoke to loom behind her.

  Eddie opened his mouth to scream out a warning … … and awoke with a start.

  Giselle looked up from her writing table when he sat bolt upright in the bed, gasping hard like a runner at the end of a marathon. The images from the dream became fuzzy and dispersed like bubbles blown into a breeze, but he retained a sense of what he had seen and of what the images meant. He looked at Giselle, who, with a tip of a quill dimpling a corner of her mouth, resembled a biology student studying a particularly interesting specimen through a microscope.

  He heaved one more heavy sigh and said, “I am having some seriously fucked-up dreams.”

  He reconsidered the admission instantly. Broaching the subject with her was the kind of mistake that registered in the upper reaches of the stupidity Richter scale. Wasn’t it possible she was the one who’d turned his head into some kind of psychic antenna? “That is, ah, I mean, it’s probably nothing, and, uh …”

  Giselle set the quill down, folded her hands primly in front of her, and said, “In what way are these dreams … ‘fucked up’?”

  Eddie said, “Well-“

  And then it came back to him, the memory of the astonishing event that had sent him reeling back into unconsciousness. She had spoken. Upon emerging from the secret passage, the mute girl had opened her mouth and sounds had emerged.

  Words and sentences.

  He stared at the sleek contours of her lovely face-and again experienced inappropriate erotic urges-and recalled images of a bloody flap of flesh sliding down her mouth, a tongue excised from the mouth of an emaciated old man.

  The images, as well as the persistent desire to kiss her red lips, quashed his train of thought. “Um …”

  There was a glint of amusement in her eyes, a glimmer of secret knowledge. “Your desire for me disturbs you.”

  Eddie swallowed hard. “Ah … well…”

  She laughed. “You can’t understand why you are so drawn to a woman whose deeds you find abhorrent.”

  She’d nailed that part of it, Eddie had to admit. “That about sums it up.”

  He shrugged. “I suspect you of literally fucking with my head, altering my brain chemistry somehow. I don’t understand it, but… there you go.”

  “Nor do you need to know the specifics of it.” She got up and walked slowly toward the bed. The long skirt swirled about the ankles of her boots. “My powers are rooted in obscure rites and ancient magical practices, things you are too simple to comprehend.”

  She climbed onto the bed, hoisted the skirt to thigh level, and sat astride him. “You saw me do something horrific, saw it in a dream, but what you don’t know about is the higher purpose behind the ceremony”

  She wriggled her ass against his crotch and grinned at the automatic physical reaction the stimulation caused. Eddie’s heart fluttered. He was having difficulty focusing on anything other than pure sensation, but he managed to say, “Come on, a higher purpose behind murder. You’re kidding … right?”

  She tilted her head back, pinched her nipples hard through the fabric of her dress, and said, “No … you have a destiny to achieve, Eddie.” Her face was flushed with lust, her porcelain flesh tinged a deep red. Her breathing quickened as she moved more rhythmically against him. “The ceremony… is symbolic. Restores my speech for a short time. I did it to facilitate quicker… communication between us, to…”

  Eddie managed a hoarse mutter: “What destiny?”

  Her only reply was a low moan.

  Eddie shifted uncomfortably beneath her, but the movement only served to further stiffen his cock. He sighed and became still. It felt like there was a stick of dynamite wedged between their bodies.

  Though it disturbed him to look into her eyes-especially when they were so close-he did so now. “You know, magic didn’t make that happen. I’m a guy who likes women. A lot. And you are one lovely piece of ass.”

  Giselle licked already moist lips. “Oh?”

  Eddie nodded. “Yeah.”

  Giselle laid her wrists on Eddie’s shoulders and clasped her hands behind his neck. “Tell me more about these dreams.”

  He slid a hand along one of her thighs. “Um … now?”

  “Tell me everything.” One of Giselle’s hands came away from his neck and cupped his jaw. The hand squeezed, forced his mouth open, and for one long, delicious moment their mouths joined. During that moment, every concern he had-even the need to escape-was obliterated by the totality of the erotic fever gripping him. Then she withdrew her tongue, pulled her head back, and said, “Everything. Leave nothing out. Starting with your escape from Below.”

  Eddie was breathing hard. “Jesus … I can’t even think with this … thing … between us.”

  Giselle’s eyes flicked downward, then she met his gaze again and smiled. “I seem to have created a monster.” Teasing laughter trilled out of her mouth. “I suppose I should set it free. Then we can talk.”

  She propped herself up on a knee, unfastened his jeans, and pulled his cock free. Eddie scrambled to push the jeans down around his knees while Giselle stroked the engorged shaft. He moaned and flopped onto his back. She settled onto him, easing him inside her one heavenly inch at a time. When he was all the way in, she started riding him like an urban cowgirl atop a mechanical bull. Eddie thought he would come right away, given his unusually intense state of arousal, but it turned out she controlled his ability to achieve orgasm, as well.

  He cupped her breasts through the fabric of the dress, and she arched her back. Her mouth stretched open wide. Her eyes closed. Her head whipped side to side, making her raven hair fly. A series of high-pitched gasps escaped her mouth, building to one long crescendo of uninhibited pleasure. She abruptly seized him about the wrists and stopped bucking. She got to her feet, pulled the dress off over head, and tossed it away. Eddie stared up at her, rapt, and ran a hand along one of her perfect legs. He was dimly aware of any will, any resistance to her desires, dying quietly. Whatever else she might be-monster, killer, sadist, what have you-she was unquestionably a goddess.

  There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her.

  She smiled, as if sensing his thoughts.

  And
she sat on his face, wedging the pink slit of her sex against his open mouth. He worked her with his tongue, determined to pleasure her as no one else had, convince her of his worthiness. A piece of knowledge arrived wholly formed from seemingly nowhere. His arrival in her room was no accident. She had directed him here. She had plans for him. Grand, dangerous plans. He didn’t know what she had in mind-couldn’t know-but he sensed whatever it was might be his only true hope for salvation.

  She screamed.

  Slapped the wall behind her with open palms.

  She rolled off him and beckoned him to her. He came to her without hesitation, planting his hands beneath her arms. She arched toward him and he thrust into her, gasping at the hot wetness that enveloped him. She locked her legs around him, the balls of her feet gouging the small of his back. Eddie thrust and thrust, arching his back, crying out, and it went on and on, until finally, mercifully, release was achieved. His eyes clenched shut, he groaned, twisted handfuls of rumpled bedsheets, gasped in air, and slumped against her.

  No words were exchanged for a while. Silence was better. Eddie’s head rested between her breasts while she slowly stroked his tangled hair. Her legs still clung loosely to his hips. It was beautiful, a natural physical joining. Eddie had engaged in sexual activity during his time Below, but never had there been an opportunity to enjoy the luxury of afterglow. For that matter, sex Below had never remotely approached anything like what had just transpired. The memory of those quick, animalistic couplings saddened him, served as a reminder of just how grim his situation remained. And he didn’t want reminders. He just wanted to enjoy this moment. To savor the feel of Giselle’s soft, deceptively fragile body beneath him.

  He’d just made love to a woman.

  Really made love to a woman.

  A beautiful, transcendent thing, one of nature’s greatest gifts. The most natural, normal thing in the world. How good it was to feel normal again, even if for only a few fleeting moments. How he would love to perpetuate this moment forever, render this carnal interlude eternal.

  But that could not be.

  Somehow he knew it.

  And so he was not surprised when Giselle said, “Our time here is short.”

  Eddie sighed. “I thought you might say something like that.”

  She stroked his cheek. “A time of reckoning is nearly at hand. Now… tell me about your dreams.”

  So he told her. He described the woman called Dream, whose recurring presence in his dreams was so like a portent, a sign of some momentous event, something he was somehow tied to. He told her of his growing surety that Dream was a real person, not merely some symbol of the subconscious.

  “But the dreams themselves, I think, are symbolic. Something catastrophic will happen. I keep picturing fiery conflagrations. There’s a sense of temptation, a psychic war for this woman’s soul.” Eddie shook his head. “I can’t make sense of a lot of it, but I get the feeling she’s the key to… everything.”

  Giselle’s gaze flicked to the bed canopy. She looked thoughtful. “Tell me about your escape. Leave nothing out. Spare no detail, no matter how minor.”

  So he told her about the escape. The supply run to the checkpoint. How he’d slipped into one of the upbound tunnels while the guards at the undermanned station were busy taking advantage of the female members of the supply team. He was more than a hundred yards into the tunnel before he heard the dim echo of raised voices behind him. He told her of his frantic dash through the tunnels. At some point the shapeshifters picked up his scent. The memory of that awful snorting, a hungry intake of unnatural breath, made him shudder in Giselle’s arms. Next he related his passage through the security booth and the surreal trip up the endless staircase.

  Giselle made a sound.

  Eddie frowned. “What?”

  She ran fingers through his hair. “I was thinking how much easier this would have been for you had we been able to approach you.”

  “We?”

  Giselle just smiled.

  Eddie’s mind reeled. There was so much he didn’t understand. “Shit. Look, I don’t care who all’s involved in … whatever’s happening. But if you needed me up here, if I’ve really got some kind of destiny to meet… why not tell me up front?”

  Giselle’s smile never wavered. “Destiny can’t be coerced.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  She kissed him lightly on the mouth. “You had to come to me of your own free will, Eddie, with no foreknowledge of the role you’re to play here.”

  “But why?”

  She sighed. “A higher power decreed it.” Her smile finally faltered. “I doubt you would have come here had you known what was in store for you.”

  Eddie didn’t like the sound of that. This rendezvous with so-called destiny gave every indication of placing him in great danger.

  Life-threatening danger.

  Which wasn’t his cuppa Joe, thank you very fucking much.

  He cleared his throat. “Look…”

  “Shush.” She placed a finger to his mouth. “You have a rare opportunity, Eddie, a chance to achieve greatness. To do a good thing.” Something flickered in her eyes, a barely glimpsed shadow of regret. “And to help me atone …”

  He frowned again. “Wait… are you saying what I think-“

  She cut him off again. “Yes. Then we’ll be gone from here.”

  Gone?

  Eddie knew better than to hope.

  Hope was heartache waiting to happen.

  But Giselle said, “Yes, Eddie, we will.”

  She drew him into her again.

  And gasped.

  “I promise.”

  Dream couldn’t get over how gorgeous King was. His square jaw and cool blue eyes were the stuff of steamy erotic fantasies. A wavy wedge of brown hair swept back from his brow. He was dressed in black slacks with razor creases, a starched white shirt open at the collar, and polished nut-brown loafers. A class ring of some sort glittered on one of his fingers. But the attraction was about more than appearance. There was something in the knowing way he looked at her that made her weak in the knees.

  A shudder went through her every time he turned that dazzling smile on her, as he did now. “Tell me, Dream, if you don’t mind my asking, were your parents…” He pursed his lips, as if considering the proper way to address a potentially delicate subject.”… the sort who lived on communes and traveled around the country in the wake of nomadic musicians?”

  Alicia snorted.

  Dream shot her a look, then showed King her most open, inviting smile. “No, I don’t mind the question. I know what you’re getting at. My name.”

  King arched an eyebrow. “And a lovely name it is.”

  Dream was peripherally aware of Alicia rolling her eyes. She knew what Alicia would say privately about King. That he was phony. That he dripped false sincerity the way construction workers dripped sweat-profusely. And perhaps there would be some truth in those accusations, but Dream didn’t care. She knew King’s demeanor toward her was typical predatory male stuff. His interest in her was obvious in both the set of his features and the rapt attention he paid to her.

  And Dream loved it.

  The memories of recent wounds were still so fresh in her mind. Disillusionment caused by Dan Bishop, the ultimate phony. Rejection and scorn from Chad, the man who didn’t know-and now would never know-he was the love of her life.

  It felt good to be the object of such blatant desire.

  “Thank you,” she said, flushing. “To answer your question, my parents weren’t classic hippies. They went through a phase of that when they were very young, which happened to coincide with when I was born. My folks were eighteen and nineteen at the time. My mother named me. She later said she would have named me anything else if she’d known there’d be a hit song in the seventies of the same name. At any rate, I don’t mind the name. It’s not the burden everyone assumes.”

  King laughed. “Oh, I would hope not. A name like that’s a gift. You should
wear it proudly, the way a queen wears her crown.”

  Alicia echoed his laughter. “Flaunt it, baby”

  King appeared to miss her sarcastic tone. “Precisely. Let it set you apart, distinguish you from the masses. You should move through the world with arrogance, smirking at the ordinary people who can never know how it is to feel special… the way you are, Dream.”

  Dream’s smile faltered. “Yeah. …”

  What King said ran contrary to everything she believed. She disdained arrogance in people. Ditto crass displays of unchecked ego. King exuded those qualities in abundance. Everything about him, his clothes, his home, his attitude, bespoke a measure of wealth and success that was disquieting. Exceptionally attractive women, women like herself, were magnets for men like King. A lot of women allowed themselves to be seduced by money and material things. Dream couldn’t fault them. It was only human to seek security. But her experiences with successful men always left her cold. Wise in the ways of finance and business, none of them were versed enough in the nuances of the human heart to suit her. She needed a man who would prize her more for her worth as a person than her value as a trophy arm-piece. Somewhere along the way she’d decided the right man for her, whoever he turned out to be, probably wouldn’t be a slice of society’s upper crust.

  Why, then, should she find herself so drawn to King?

  But the answer was obvious, wasn’t it?

  This was a time of great upheaval in her life. Life, in fact, had beaten her. Like a hooker left broken and bloody in a ravine. She had struggled so hard for so long, and now she was ready to give up. She was ready to die. The enormity of it hit her for the first time since entering King’s house. Maybe her bleak mind-set was to blame. A person facing imminent death at her own hands had no reason to be bound by a lifetime’s worth of insecurities and inhibitions. The same went for principles once held dear. A man like King, cocky and so polar opposite of her ostensible ideal, was maybe exactly the right man for this set of circumstances.

  King got up to freshen his drink, then returned to the sofa opposite her. “You seem troubled, Dream. Is something bothering you?”