House of Blood

by Bryan Smith

  The line of thought again made her think of Karen and Alicia. She suspected she couldn’t help them if they were in trouble, but she nonetheless felt compelled to ask after

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  them. “Ed, I want to ask you a question, and I hope you respect me enough to give an honest answer.”

  She saw his gaze retreat from the middle distance and flicker with curiosity. “Like is the mildest of words for what I feel for you, Dream.” He smiled. “I think it might be something much more.”

  She arched her eyebrow again. “You think you love me, Ed?” King’s claim was startling, and it derailed the other line of inquiry. “You can’t be serious. You only met me last night. And I’m not… like you.”

  He sighed deeply.

  Dream couldn’t imagine a more weary sound.

  And he really did look tired. She examined him closer. His eyes. The set of his features. His posture. She was sure what she was seeing wasn’t as simple as physical exhaustion. His eyes reflected a weariness of the soul. The perception supported her suspicion about his state of mind. She experienced a frisson of recognition, the opening of a previously closed door in her mind.

  It felt like precognition.

  King looked away from her. “No, Dream, you’re not like me. You won’t live for a thousand years. You won’t see empires rise and fall. Imagine it, Dream. A life so long you’ve experienced everything there is to experience many times over. Except, of course, love.” The haunted quality in his voice made her shudder. “You want honesty, Dream? Here’s honesty. I kill. It’s what I do. It’s my purpose. I can’t change that, nor do I wish to. As long as I inhabit this world, I will continue to do what I do.” He sighed again. “I may have killed you last night had our time together not

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  been so transcendent. Now I know what a waste that would be. What a travesty:”

  Dream shivered. “So my fate’s not still up in the air, Ed?”

  King’s gaze came back to her. “I will not kill you.”

  Dream held his gaze. “I’m not afraid to die, Ed. Do you know that?”

  He studied her for a moment, holding his head at an angle. “I sense it, yes. I suppose it may be one of the reasons I find you so … compelling.”

  He pushed away from the railing, came to the wicker chair, and knelt before her. He took her left hand in his, turned it so the wrist was facing out, and traced the little white scars with the tip of a forefinger. Dream shuddered at his touch, which possessed the maddening ability to turn the scars into a new erogenous zone. “Your willing flirtation with your own demise touches me. I don’t believe suicide is the act of cowardice so many of your kind proclaim it to be. It bespeaks a rare bravery, an unflinching zeal to know the bliss that lies beyond this decaying world.”

  It bespeaks a bunch of self-justifying mumbo jumbo, Dream thought.

  As she should well know, since she’d expressed similar thoughts to a long succession of therapists, albeit not quite as poetically. She was smart enough to know when a man was preying upon her weaknesses. It was the creepy, devious, underhanded tactic of a raving asshole, but damned if it wasn’t effective.

  It was exactly what she’d always wanted to hear.

  Her eyes brimmed with tears.

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  Her shoulders shook.

  His arms encircled her and she sobbed on his shoulder for several minutes. The embrace felt good, natural, comforting-the safest place in the world to be. The insanity of the notion-safe in the arms of a monster?-was irrelevant. For the time being, there was nowhere else she wanted to be.

  When the sobs finally began to ebb, she reluctantly broke the embrace. “I’m sorry!” Her voice was subdued. “That happens to me a lot. It’s like I have no fucking self-control.” She sniffled. “It’s embarrassing.”

  King’s expression was solemn. “You’re beautiful, Dream. Everything about you is beautiful. Even your anguish, which is only the product of your wounded heart.”

  That was laying it on a little thick, but she let it pass. “You said something about the ‘bliss beyond this world.’ Were you talking about…” She hesitated. The notion sounded silly even in her mind, but she weighed that against everything else she’d experienced and plunged ahead.”… an afterlife?”

  He nodded. “I was.”

  She swallowed hard. “What’s it like? Do you know?”

  That faraway look stole back into his eyes for a moment. Something about the question troubled him. But his expression sharpened and the perception went away. “I have some sense of it, Dream. I know this. When you get there, assuming you get to the right place, you will be at peace. You won’t hurt anymore. You will actually feel exalted, removed forever from the troubles you once knew.” A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “It’s certainly something to look forward to.”

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  She frowned. “But what about hell? Don’t the bad people go to someplace bad?”

  He showed her his solemn expression again. “Depends. Humans, for instance, can wind up dwelling within any number of the infinite planes when their physical bodies die. Some of these are pleasant places. Some of them are akin to what you think of as ‘hell.’”

  Dream’s lips were pursed. “So … what about… things like you? Do you have more control over where you wind up than humans? Or are you even mortal?”

  That troubled look flashed and disappeared again. Something was definitely bothering him. “I do, Dream. And I am mortal. My gods have protected me for centuries, and I have served them well. They are the death spirits, the most powerful of all gods. When I die, my ascendance to paradise will be assured.”

  Paradise, Dream thought.

  What a lovely word.

  At once corny and rich with the promise of a better place.

  She put a hand around King’s neck, stroked the edge of his jaw with a thumb. “I can never be your queen here, Ed. I can’t condone murder. Or sadism. You say you won’t kill me, but you’ll have to if we stay here.”

  King frowned. “We?”

  The idea coming together in Dream’s head disturbed her on many levels, but it seemed fitting in a way that was final and unquestionable. “Yes, Ed. We. I won’t help you hurt people, nor will I be content to stand by while you do it.” She drew in a deep breath, steeling herself for the leap she was about to make. “But I would love to be with you forever in that other place.”

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  His face expressed a wide range of emotions in a few seconds. Surprise, anger, stupefaction, perhaps even fear. “Dream-“

  She cut him off. “That’s the only way we can be together, Ed. You implied you were in love with me.” She wasn’t sure she believed him, not knowing what she knew about him, but she had to go with it. “If you were telling the truth, you’ll do this with me.”

  He didn’t say anything, just stared at her.

  She pressed him. “You need to do this, Ed. We both do. You know it.”

  He relented. “Yes.” But there was doubt in his eyes. “I…”

  “Ed? What is it?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Her hand went to the sash of her robe again. “Do you love me, Ed?”

  He watched her part the flaps of the robe, exposing her sun-bronzed body. Something in him seemed to break. Suddenly he wasn’t resisting anymore. He just nodded. She stood up and slipped out of the robe.

  She took King by the hand and led him to the railing.

  She leaned against it.

  Turned her head to the sky and saw an eagle soar over her.

  King came to her without hesitation.

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  Chad awoke with a throbbing headache. No surprise there, given that he’d consumed copious amounts of cheap bourbon and sundry other forms of alcoholic potions. He’d also smoked a bit of the old singer’s faux-ganja. The stuff had a weird kick that was different from anything in his limited drug experience. Lazarus claimed the herb was called Trance and that it grew naturally in
the area affected by The Master’s influence. Slaves supervised by the guards cultivated the stuff and brought it back here. Use of the drug was prohibited for slaves, but Overlords, emancipateds, and guards were allowed to partake of it. Apprentices Above were rumored to use it, as well.

  Trance.

  Now there was an appropriate name. The drug had taken a while to work its magic, but once he began to feel its effects, he knew he was in for a unique experience. It

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  seemed to really enhance the senses and open up doors of perception in ways other drugs were only purported to do. While under its influence, he was conscious of being tapped into the beating heart and lifeblood of the universe. Later, he doubted this, attributing the perception to mere intoxication. On some level, he understood he was only rationalizing the experience, but he was okay with that. Transcendental mysticism, even in the form of dazzling, drug-induced celestial light shows, wasn’t really his bag anyway.

  He preferred good ol’ terra firma and alcohol.

  And there’d been plenty of the latter.

  When the drug’s effect finally dissipated, he’d stuck to what he knew, imbibing at a rate that nearly matched the singer’s almost supernatural ability to quaff spirits. Getting wrecked had seemed the only sane response to the insane circumstances he found himself in, but now he was regretting it. He felt the way he did when he went out on the rare weekend bender with guys from work-remorseful. He was sorry he’d done it, he’d never do it again, and so on. Please God. All bullshit.

  Once the rote words of phony contrition were out of the way, he became aware of sensations other than the pain cleaving his skull. There was a sleeping body next to him. His eyes fluttered open and he saw Cindy’s face on his bare chest. Her eyes were closed and she was lightly snoring. She had an arm thrown around his waist and a leg curled over his crotch. They were both utterly devoid of clothing. He had to assume they’d engaged in some sort of sexual activity, but, regrettably, he could remember none

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  of it. And he had to wonder just how “performance-ready” he’d been after giving his liver the workout of its life.

  Chad had known guys, lots of them, who told stories about getting blind drunk and screwing bar sluts or strippers. In his experience, though, this didn’t seem possible. Once he achieved a certain level of intoxication, getting a stiffie was about as likely as being invited to a penthouse orgy by a bunch of hot bisexual supermodels.

  How, then, to explain this?

  He was drawing a big fucking blank on that one, he had to admit.

  So, on to other things, like, where were they?

  Because they sure didn’t seem to be in the back room of The Outpost anymore. This room was more squalid compared to the relative order and cleanliness of that place. No one had given it even a cursory cleaning in a long time. They were sleeping on a mat similar to ones he remembered from those rare camping excursions with his friends. It was none too comfortable. A gas lamp provided the room’s primary illumination. The walls looked like the walls of a tree house assembled by first-time users of hammers and nails. The boards were crudely fitted, and some were warped, admitting slivers of light from outside. Bugs scurried between the cracks in the wood, including some sizable specimens that made Chad want to jump out of his skin. He detected a faint odor of urine and shit, and he turned his head to the right to see a toilet resembling the ones in Porta Potties. He supposed there would be some sort of collection tank beneath this ramshackle joke of a domicile.

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  He had a disturbing thought.

  Was this where Cindy lived?

  He hoped not. Because she just didn’t deserve anything this horrible. Neither did anyone else, of course, but she was the only one he cared about. He studied her sleeping face, at once so beautiful and grubby. He wanted to take a clean, wet washcloth to that lovely countenance and wash the grime from it. He wanted to wash her whole body, erase forever the stain of this appalling place. He would do that for her if he could. He would do anything for her-now that he knew what he knew.

  He was, apparently, an unwitting key figure in a conspiracy that aimed to accomplish a seemingly impossible task-the overthrow of The Master and the liberation of the banished people of Below. The conspiracy was built on what seemed to Chad a very shaky foundation, composed primarily of two very ephemeral components: faith in the ability of a resurrected Lazarus to stir the people to action, and a “vision” of the future by a woman few active participants in the conspiracy had ever met.

  That was hard enough to swallow.

  But then Lazarus told him the woman, whose name he would not reveal, had experienced this vision more than twenty years ago, and that was just too much. The woman had known his name and what he looked like as an adult when he’d been a little kid living hundreds of miles from here. That couldn’t possibly be true, yet Lazarus insisted that it was. The bitch of it was, he believed the old singer was telling the truth. How else to account for his foreknowledge of Chad’s identity?

  He marveled at the insanity of it all.

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  He’d been an almost mythical figure in this place for decades. It was nuts. There he’d been in Nashville, contentedly living his successful urban life, surrounded by nice things and girls eager to fuck money, and all the while a handful of netherworld dwellers had been obsessing over him, praying for and awaiting his eventual arrival.

  Awaiting deliverance.

  Life could throw you some curveballs once in a while, but this was ridiculous.

  Then there was the matter of Cindy, who’d been drawn into the conspiracy after she’d been called upon to nurse Lazarus back to health following a failed attempt on his life. With her connections, she could have attained emancipation long ago, but she chose to remain a slave to further the cause. She functioned as an undercover agent, finding out what she could by keeping her ears open when she was in the company of the Overlords. Her information saved the conspirators several times over.

  They could never thank her enough.

  An understatement of astounding proportions.

  Her final contribution as a slave was volunteering to be in that jail cell when Chad arrived. It was her duty to see to it that he made it Below in one piece. The conspirators couldn’t risk exposing the few guards friendly to the cause. Their assistance would be needed later. So it fell to Cindy to use her ingenuity and daring to get Chad where he needed to be. An arrangement was made and she was there waiting for him.

  The rest he’d already known, having experienced it.

  The thing he was having a hard time getting his brain around right now was the uprising itself. It was supposed

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  to happen tonight. This huge, momentous thing, a mad, impossible undertaking, and it was set to begin hours from now. Chad became aware of an impulse to run and hide. What these people expected of him wasn’t fair. He wasn’t what he’d call a coward, but he wasn’t really a brave man, either. He knew this. He accepted it. And these people just assumed he would automatically leap to fulfill this fucked-up “destiny” of his. He tried to envision himself wading into battle like Rambo, and he just couldn’t do it.

  But then he looked at Cindy’s face again.

  And the shame he felt brought tears to his eyes.

  Couldn’t do it?

  Horseshit.

  He had no choice. What was he going to do, adjust to life Below and spend the rest of his years toiling as a slave and living like a fucking caveman?

  No goddamn way, buddy.

  He would do what he had to do.

  He would, however, have to find a way to process and cope with the paralyzing fear that loomed like a storm cloud in his consciousness. That potential wrench in the works would have to be dealt with well before the uprising got under way. He suspected a few shots of the singer’s rotgut right before showtime might do the trick, but he would have to be sure he consumed just enough to take the edge off-it wouldn’t do to go up against an
army of guards and shapeshifters drunk off his ass.

  That would just get him dead.

  Which, he supposed, would spell the end of the uprising.

  And the beginning of a massacre of the banished people.

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  Chad shuddered.

  Jesus Christ, he thought, I can’t handle this kind of responsibility.

  Cindy groaned and stirred, lifting her head off his chest and blinking sleepily. She smiled when she saw him, hooked a hand over his shoulder, and pulled herself up to kiss him. The physical reality of her mouth on his triggered sense-memory, briefly shedding light on banks of memory obscured by alcoholic blackout.

  The shack was her slave quarters. She’d told him that at some point. Since they would be gone from this place forever in less than a day, there’d been no point in seeking other lodging. Besides, there were things here she needed. Faded, edge-worn pictures of her little girl, a child’s drawing on a yellowed piece of construction paper, and a hidden weapon. She’d shown him where the latter was, he remembered that, but the weapon’s location was a bit of information that still eluded him.

  He’d been falling-down drunk when they finally left The Outpost late that morning, needing to lean on Cindy to remain upright while they made their way here. All he’d wanted to do at that point was pass out on the mat, but Cindy had other intentions. She gave him something, a powder she said was a derivative of the Trance plant, and made him swallow it with water. The Trance derivative produced a muted version of the smoked version’s trippy effects, but it mainly acted as a restorative.

  And, he remembered now, a stimulant.

  He’d watched her remove the two ragged articles of clothing she’d had on since he’d met her in the holding

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  facility. “I want to make love to a man one more time.” There’d been a troubling hint of melancholy in her voice. “I want you, Chad.”