For Love of the Dead

by Hal Bodner

  Through bleary eyes, his vision blurred with exhaustion, he saw Tyler’s grin as he moved more fully into Jake’s field of vision and touched one finger to the head of his own dick, moistening the fingertip with the drop of milky come oozing from the end.

  “With my essence I consecrate you, Jake Marshall.”

  An instant later, Tyler touched the hole at the end of Jake’s dick with his come-saturated finger. It was if an erotic electric current had been applied.

  At the moment of contact, Jake exploded. With no further coaxing, a gout of sperm shot from the end of his dick, slicing through the air in a hot fountain of jism. He screamed as all the nerves of his body seemed to concentrate themselves in his dick and balls and gather behind the fountain of sperm to propel it.

  Tyler quickly loomed over him and, openmouthed, sought to catch as much of the thick fluid as he could. It spattered across his face, its milky whiteness showing clearly against his dark skin, but he managed to drink in enough for his purposes. Jake’s orgasm went on until his very butt hole clenched with the effort of trying to pump more sperm from his drained balls. Finally, it was over and Jake collapsed back onto the altar, spent and shuddering, no longer caring that he was bound and helpless, merely relieved that the ejaculation was over, wondering if he would even have the strength to stand up if and when the leather cuffs were ever removed.

  Chin and cheeks smeared with Jake’s sperm, a few drops even dripping from his hair, Tyler unfastened the restraints. Jake groaned as he rolled free and would have fallen to the floor had Tyler not quickly thrown an arm about his shoulders to support him.

  The next few minutes were a blur and Jake’s thoughts only cleared when he found himself fully dressed and back at the bar once again, watching Tyler’s car exit the parking lot. He had some dim memory of the priest gently helping him into his clothes and a slight recollection of being driven back, but the details were lost. As he stood in the parking lot, swaying a little and wondering just what the hell he’d gotten himself into, what he’d agreed to do, he instinctively patted his pocket to make sure his car keys were still there.

  Feeling something odd, he pulled out a small dagger with a silver blade and an intricately carved handle. Staring at it dumbly, not sure where it had come from, he searched his frazzled memory but couldn’t recall Tyler having given it to him. Shrugging it off for the moment, his body too drained and his mind too exhausted to think about it for now, he thrust it back into his pocket and fumbled out his keys. Stumbling to his car, he managed to unlock it, and after a few tries, got the keys into the ignition.

  Carefully, knowing he probably wasn’t in the best condition to be driving, he maneuvered the car out of the parking lot and set out towards Gentle Rest. It bothered him that he seemed to have committed himself to doing terrible things, even though he was convinced they would accrue to a higher purpose. He didn’t know where he’d get the strength of will to accomplish the task he’d undertaken. But, there would be time to worry about that tomorrow. For now, he wanted only the solace of his own bed and a good night’s sleep to recover his strength.

  * * * *

  “Certain things are coming back to me.”

  Lucy jerked her head up, startled. She had been absorbed in what little remained of the paperwork that had accompanied Mark Hartner’s body and she’d been fascinated by the police report of his death, faxed to her as a favor by an old friend in the department whose family’s funerals had been handled by Gentle Rest for several generations.

  According to the coroner’s report, death had been caused by an unexpected aneurysm. There had been a minor ruckus at the advertising agency where Hartner had worked when the young man simply keeled over at his desk. The police had carefully interviewed various secretaries and co-workers and had intensified their investigations upon discovering the one thing all of the other employees had in common: a smoldering hatred of the deceased.

  Aside from the excitement his unexpected death at the office had caused, the overriding emotion of all the interviewees had been relief, as if Hartner’s death had caused a burden to be lifted. Hartner’s personal assistant had burst into tears while being interrogated, and at first, the officer had thought it was from grief. He was more than a little put off when the young man’s sobbing finally slacked off enough for him to make out the words the assistant was repeating over and over through his tears, “Thank God he’s gone! Thank God!”

  Seeing how universally hated the dead man was, the police were thorough but in the end, the only conclusion to be drawn was that Mark Hartner had died from natural causes. Fortunately, the coroner’s report made law enforcement’s task easier; had the death been murder, the investigating officers would have been inundated with likely suspects. The only reason, it seemed, that Hartner had been able to keep his job was twofold. First, he was extremely good at what he did and could be quite charming to achieve goals he’d set for himself, bringing scads of money into the agency. And second, as one of the officers correctly suspected, he had the agency’s president in the firm grip of some kind of personal blackmail—nothing illegal but apparently quite embarrassing—and had thus secured his own job.

  The Hartner family had refused to return telephone calls, apparently glad to be quit of him. No friends came forward to claim the body or to arrange for burial or cremation. The advertising agency sent a miserly wreath and a condolence card, which no one bothered to sign. Lucy would have found the whole state of affairs to be very sad had she not had the dubious pleasure of meeting the man and discovering firsthand how odious he was.

  Intent on reading, she hadn’t heard the door open nor had she noticed Hartner enter the funeral parlor living room. It wasn’t until he spoke that she realized he’d been there for some time, standing silently watching while she rummaged through the paperwork detailing his death. Though his voice held no note of a threat and was, in fact, merely casually conversational, she was abruptly and unaccountably aware that she was an older woman, alone and defenseless in a room with a young and obviously strong man who exuded an indefinable aura of menace.

  “Really?” She tried to appear unconcerned. “What kinds of things would those be?”

  “Oh, little things.”

  He approached the desk and she had to make a conscious effort not to shrink back into her chair from his nearness. There was something vile and unhealthy in his manner. There was no concrete indication that Hartner meant her harm but nonetheless she sensed something sadistic within him, something tinged with a dark purpose. He plucked a letter opener from her desktop and toyed with it, examining it without really seeing it, focusing instead on the rising panic he sensed from her before replacing it and perching on the edge of the desk.

  “Would you mind not...looming so close?”

  She waved one hand to show him she wanted him to back off, but he merely smiled and scooted even closer. With a grunt of disgust, and she didn’t know why he suddenly made her stomach roil, she made as if to push back from the desk. But Hartner adroitly thrust out his leg, hooked his ankle around the chair, and blocked her movement.

  “He’ll try to kill me you know. Return me to my grave.”

  “What are you taking about?” she demanded gruffly.

  She pushed against the chair and, unable to overcome Mark’s greater strength, she abandoned her effort and instead rose and went to the sideboard to pour herself a large glass of port. Drinking wasn’t a habit in which she often indulged and, in fact, it was one of the things she harped on Jake about. When she did partake, it was usually a fortified wine like port or sherry. At the moment, however, she was cursing herself for not keeping hard spirits around. Hartner’s mere presence set her nerves on edge and she longed for something stronger to settle them.

  “It’s a done deal.” He seemed to be thinking things through as he spoke. “I’d take him out first if I could. But I think the rules may prevent me from murdering the Goody Two-Shoes and I don’t want to chance it. There are, fortunately, other ways to
get what I want.”

  His perfectly formed lip curled into a sneer and Lucy was discomforted by how quickly the metamorphosis of such a beatific face into one of hate-filled menace took place. Until now, she’d never stopped to think about the thinness of the line between sublime loveliness and abject ugliness. Her breath caught in her throat as she feared she’d have more reason than she’d ever wanted to contemplate that phenomenon within the next few minutes.

  She assumed a lightheartedness that she did not feel and forced a laugh. “Don’t be silly. No one’s killing anyone. Especially if you’re talking about Jake. That boy doesn’t have a violent bone in his body. As for you...you’ve been given a second chance. A miracle! You should be thinking about that, not about more death.”

  Hartner sifted through the paperwork. She had the sudden urge to snatch up the coroner’s reports but she was standing too far away. Besides, she feared what he might do if she tried to take the documents from him.

  “My,” he crooned. “What a busy little beaver you’ve been, Ms. Graymare!” He shuffled paperwork and her notes as he read. “You’ve not mentioned my resurrection to anyone, have you?”

  “Of course not!” she snapped before she could think better of it. “Do you think I want to be branded as a loon? I’m just trying to figure out what the hell happened. How such a horrible mistake could have been made.”

  “There was no mistake.” Hartner smiled to himself, then giggled unattractively. “Dumb and Beefy and I were manipulated, shall we say, into meeting.” His eyes hardened, his expression grew fierce. “He will try to kill me. And I’m not sure I’m allowed to kill him, much as that prospect gives me a major woody.”

  He grabbed his crotch lasciviously and Lucy winced at the crudeness of the gesture. “So I’ll need to play to my strengths.” His hips thrust forward. Then he leaned close to the old woman and whispered, “If I can’t make him hate me in the right way, I’ll make him love me.”

  “You’re crazy.” There was no conviction in Lucy’s tone, only fear.

  “No.” Hartner’s voice was flat, then his eyes widened with delight. “Oh! You poor, foolish woman. I have no intention of keeping him around. You need not fear having me as a son-in-law.” He chuckled, took her by the elbow, and guided her to a seat on the couch. She wanted to resist, but suddenly, she felt like a tiny mouse who had caught the attention of a hungry hawk.

  “Besides, it’s not something you’ll need to worry your wrinkled little brow about anyway.” His stood before her, his arms rested on the back of the couch on either side of her shoulders, his body preventing her from rising.

  “I’ve been a naughty boy.” He grinned. “And naughty boys are usually punished. Unless they’re clever, and I am very clever. Unfortunately, I’ve never been one to do things easily. Lacks a challenge.”

  He held up one hand as if to cut off Lucy’s protest even though she’d made no motion to speak.

  “I know. I know what you’re thinking. You’re going to tell me, ‘Mark, keep it simple. Don’t wear yourself out.’ But, my dear lady, where is the fun in that, I ask you?”

  He stepped back, not far enough for Lucy to duck away, but to give her the chance to see his magnificent body which he stretched to display to better advantage.

  “He wants me already. I mean, look at me! Who wouldn’t want me? And I’m thinking...if I can get to him, push his buttons, make him really and truly hate me, despise me, loathe me, then....” His smile broadened. “If I can twist things, get him thinking with the little head when he should be thinking with the big one, can you imagine how fucking sweet that would be? Just the thing to help me avoid the punishment which I...” His final words bore malicious relish. “Which I so richly deserve!”

  “But how?” he continued, frowning. “How to do it? How to corrupt Sir Lancelot? How to stoke those fires of hatred and rage?” His voice trailed off and his eyes rose, meeting the now-terrified old lady’s glance. Slowly and deliberately, he smiled.

  “How to instigate him, provoke him? Why!” He professed mock surprise. “I have just the thing! It’s perfect!”

  Before Lucy could bolt for the door, she was jerked to her feet with her back pressed against Hartner’s chest, her arms trapped by Hartner’s greater strength while he whispered evilly into her ear, “At least for a start...”

  Lucille Graymare didn’t know where the scalpel had come from. It appeared as if by magic and in the few seconds she had left, she thought Mark must have picked it up from the preparation room on his way into the main house. Fortunately, there was little pain, just a line of biting cold across her skin when he used the blade to slash her throat. She had no idea he was about to do it; there was no warning, merely a quick movement and the deed was irrevocably done.

  She found herself spun around to face him, to see those grey eyes looking deeply into hers and imagined their smoky quality was a remnant of the hellfire from which she was convinced they had been spawned.

  She flopped back onto the couch when Hartner released her and her hand rose instinctively to her neck, feeling the locket she always wore slick with gushing blood. Trying to speak, she could manage only a strangled grunt and could feel the air from her lungs moving across her clutching fingers. She looked up at her attacker, pleading, but was met with only his amusement at her plight.

  “I suppose,” he said, grabbing his crotch to make sure she knew what he meant, “I could have given you a little bonus on your way out. Something a dried-up old bitch like you would have appreciated. But...” He spread his palms and shrugged. “I’ve never been one for women, and I know you wouldn’t have wanted me to put myself out on your account.”

  He gazed at her with an expression she could not help but find chilling. There was an intensity to it, a wide-eyed wonder that was almost childlike, as if he was fascinated by her life’s blood spilling down the front of her blouse and might be about to play in it like a toddler eager to make mud pies. Still, Lucy felt little pain from her bleeding neck. She knew only that her throat must be gaping wide and, though she had a sinking feeling in her soul, her mind could not quite wrap itself around the fact that her life would shortly be over, that she would cease to exist and there was a strange terror, unlike anything she had felt before, that her end was inevitable and there was nothing she could do to stop it. She tried to speak, to cry out. Tears welled in her eyes when she realized it was hopeless; she was already too weak from blood loss and feared she could not even manage to keep her hand at her throat in a futile attempt to staunch the flow.

  Her beautiful demonic murderer leaned down so that his face was a bare inch from hers, so close she could have breathed in his exhalations had she been able to draw breath.

  “Be sure to say hello to the Dead for me, won’t you?” Hartner spat. “Make sure to tell them my greeting is the only part of me they’ll ever get.”

  Lucy’s hand grew heavy and slipped from her neck to her lap. She sagged, muscles limp, and her head lolled to the side. As the darkness clouded her vision and her eyes closed, she heard Mark Hartner’s final taunt.

  “I wonder what Jake’s reaction will be to the present I’ve just left him, don’t you?”

  She was dead some minutes before he spoke again.

  “Now, what can I possibly do for an encore?” He smacked his lips and chuckled. “Whatever I come up with, I suppose I need to be wary of being anti-climatic, don’t you agree?”

  He grinned and suddenly threw back his head and laughed. A moment later, suffused with purpose, he strode out of the room, leaving Lucy Graymare’s corpse to slowly cool.

  CHAPTER 6

  Whatever Jake expected on his return home, finding Lucy’s body was not something he’d anticipated in his worst nightmares. He’d rushed back to Gentle Rest, his mind clearing with every mile he drove, anxious to speak to his benefactor, to warn her about the monster they knew as Mark Hartner, to tell her what he’d discovered and to seek her valued counsel about what he should do. He burst into the living r
oom of the main house, already babbling about Tyler Deauxfines and his experiences in the cavern with the lake. The words died unspoken when he saw the old woman’s blood-drenched body slumped lifelessly on the sofa.

  At first disbelieving, he gathered her up into his arms, fruitlessly seeking to patch together the ragged rip in her throat with his bare hands, tears streaming unnoticed down his face. It was some minutes before he calmed down enough to register that there was nothing he could do. The woman he’d come to think of as his parent was irrevocably and finally dead and, unlike the case with Mark Hartner, there would be no voodoo ceremony to revive her.

  Keening with grief, he clutched her limp body to his chest. His loss was stoked by the fire of rage; he knew who was responsible for this senseless tragedy. Had Mark come into the room at that moment, Jake would have had no compunction about shredding the skin from that perfect body, ripping the toned muscles to shreds and bashing in that ethereally beautiful face with his bare hands. He gently laid Lucy back on the couch and stormed through every room of the funeral parlor, fists clenched, screaming for Mark to show himself. Not finding him, he sprinted across the garden to the cottage and, in a frenzy, searched through his home, yanking open closet doors in a whirlwind of rage, determined to root the bastard out wherever he might be hiding.

  In the bathroom, the scarlet haze of his fury abated enough for him to make out the deliberate taunt Mark had left for him. Scrawled onto the tile wall of the stall that had so recently been the setting for his own violation at the fiend’s hands, in the distinctive reddish-brown color unique to dried blood, was an address. Jake recognized it from the ads in the local men’s bar-rag magazines, though he had never visited there himself. It was just the kind of place Mark Hartner would have felt at home in.