by Clive Barker
Jerome blinked.
“You’re under arrest,” Carnegie said. Hendrix would appreciate the irony of that, he thought. The man moved his bloody hand from the stab wound in his side to the front of his trousers and began to stroke himself.
“Too late,” Jerome said. He could feel the last fire rising in him. Even if this intruder chose to cross the chamber and arrest him now, the intervening seconds would deny him his capture. Death was here. And what was it, now that he saw it clearly? Just another seduction, another sweet darkness to be filled up, and pleasured and made fertile.
A spasm began in his perineum, and lightning traveled in two directions from the spot, up his rod and up his spine. A laugh began in his throat.
In the corner of the chamber the monkey, hearing Jerome’s humor, began to whimper again. The sound momentarily claimed Carnegie’s attention, and when his eyes flitted back to Jerome the shortsighted eyes had closed, the hand had dropped, and he was dead, standing against the wall. For a short time the body defied gravity. Then, gracefully the legs buckled and Jerome fell forward. He was, Carnegie saw, a sack of bones, no more. It was a wonder the man had lived so long.
Cautiously, he crossed to the body and put his finger to the man’s neck. There was no pulse. The remnants of Jerome’s last laugh remained on his face, however, refusing to decay.
“Tell me…” Carnegie whispered to the man, sensing that despite hie preemption he had missed the moment; that once again he was, and perhaps would always be, merely a witness of consequences. “Tell me, What was the joke?” But the blind boy, as is the wont of his clan, wasn’t telling.
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