by Phil Stern
But the imperial fleet had intercepted Osler’s vessel and hauled him back, in chains, to Donlon. Branded a traitor and enemy of the state in a gaudy show trial, Wendily’s father was imprisoned in a stockade before the royal palace. After a week of random beatings and stonings, he was then ceremonially dumped into a vat of flesh-eating fish.
It was always best to do such things publically. That way, the purely human lords and ladies were properly reminded of the absolute power residing within the demon-exclusive Lord’s Conclave.
Letting her mind play over Lord Olser’s gruesome death, Wendily let out a long, satisfied sigh. What an exciting time that had been! After all, Daddy always was such a bore. Busy with his whores and race horses, he’d never paid much attention to his only legitimate child. Mother wasn’t much better, constantly scolding her for not making the right “impression” at all the charity galas and stuffy balls. What a bitch.
But it was all right now. For once a year, Wendily made his father’s former mistresses partake in a grand evening of eating, dancing, and drinking right here at the mansion. Yet as the hostess of this wondrous event, Wendily had felt herself entitled to make some minor changes to the normal social standards of such things.
First of all, daddy’s former harlots were required to dress in rags, like actual street trollops. No more fancy dresses for them! Then they must drink spoiled wine and eat rotten food, dancing with diseased, crippled old men on a floor strewn with horse dung. That was quite amusing.
After finally puking up their guts, the dirty girls would then be hauled across the yard to muck out Lord Olser’s stables. Eventually, if they did a good job, these young ladies might even be allowed a drink of “clean” water from the prized stallions’ own troughs.
There was a very pleasant symmetry to the whole thing, one had to admit. Wendily herself thought it quite inventive.
Invigorated by memories of the last such soirée, Wendily brusquely rang a sedate bell. Then, stepping away from her discarded clothes, she moved into an open space in the center of the room.
A frosty butler painfully limped in, pausing to stand respectfully some distance away. Now in his late 50's, he’d served the family for over three decades, efficiently running the household throughout Wendily’s own girlhood. Now uncomfortably blinking several times, he respectfully averted his eyes from her generally unclothed state. “You called, my lady?”
“I certainly did.” Making the man wait for several moments, she then strolled towards him. Finally coming to a halt before the quaking servant, the young patrician gazed up into his marred, terrified face. “You know I just love it when you come to me like this.”
Even as the final, anguished screams of Lady Osler had reverberated through the house four years before, her bloody daughter had charged out after the butler. Eyes blazing a deep silver, Wendily had first smashed the man’s knee with an iron fire poker. Dragging the butler’s writhing form across the polished floor into her girlhood bedroom, she’d then burned the clothes right from his body.
After that, as the cowed household staff listened to his tortured screams in abject terror, she’d then inflicted a series of long-cherished punishments upon his despised, revolting figure.
Though stunning in it’s explosive, seemingly inexplicable cruelty, this sort of episode was actually a common side-effect of the ascension process. Indeed, many similar scenes had been played out within the manors and estates of the Donlon elite over the past two hundred years. For as human and demon fully merged, and previous inhibition was ripped away, all types of illicit desires naturally burst to the fore.
And just why did the young girl Wendily had once been hate the butler so? The reason was actually quite simple. Throughout her girlhood this revered, trusted man had methodically killed all of her cherished pets, one by one. Utterly powerless to intervene, Wendily had no choice but to endure his nauseating sadism.
Oh, they were all “accidents,” to be sure, at least when explained to the disinterested Lord and Lady Osler. But late at night, after everyone else was asleep, the butler would slip into Wendily’s room, as she sobbed into bed, and gleefully recounted how he’d strangled her rabbit, or smashed her puppy, or other such cruelties. Indeed, the butler seemed to gain great satisfaction from such depravation, grabbing his distraught charge by the jaw and telling her he’d never allow her to have anything, or anybody, to love.
“And one day,” he breathed right into her ear, disgusting breath rolling over Wendily’s face, “I might even kill you, little girl. Wouldn’t that be grand?”
Laughing, he’d then saunter from the room, impervious to her anguished squeals and choking sobs. Actually, he often paused at the door for a final listen, drinking in her torment like the connoisseur of such things that he was.
But that was then. Now horribly disfigured, he tried to stand at attention before his demon-mistress, though his smashed knee made it almost impossible. One ear had been ripped off entirely, an eye partially fused shut. More burn marks adorned his cheeks and neck. Underneath the fine tuxedo, Wendily well knew, the injuries so carefully and lovingly inflicted were even more dehabilitating, in any number of ways.
“I will be going out to the Grand Regatta first thing the day after tomorrow,” Wendily softly announced. “The first race is at ten, I believe? Do have the carriage ready at eight.”
Blinking furiously, a bead of sweat running down his forehead, the man gave a short, violent nod. “Very good, my lady.”
“I will be bringing Max, so please have my pet ready with the carriage. As always, have him properly dressed for a social occasion.”
Max was the butler’s 25-year-old son, at one time an extraordinarily robust, confident young man. Still quite physically attractive, he was now Wendily’s sex slave. Adorned only in sandals and a leather loin cloth, Wendily would parade Max around town by a heavy chain attached to a studded collar. On occasion he was even loaned out to other lords and ladies as an impromptu party favor.
With almost excruciating pleasure, Wendily watched yet another spurt of agony cross what remained of the butler’s features. Laughing gaily, she then slowly advanced across the room. “Is there a problem, you dirty piece of shit?”
“No, no! Not at all, my Lady.”
“Let’s not forget that you killed all my other pets.” Pausing before him, Wendily shrugged. “So why shouldn’t I turn your son into one?”
An uncontrolled spasm began in the butler’s cheek, soon spreading over his face and neck. As it traveled down his entire body, the man nearly fell over.
“There, there. No need to tremble so.” Still in just her underclothes, she now laid a gloved hand directly on the butler’s crotch. “And anyway, why shouldn’t I make proper use of your son? After all, we know that Max has certain, shall we say, accouterments that his father now lacks? Really, he’s now far more useful than you’ll ever be.”
As the servant stumbled off, barely stifling a sob, Wendily let out a deep sigh of contentment. Her mood much improved, she then walked back into the living room, collapsing lightly onto a soft couch. Savoring her latest torment of the hated butler, the young patrician’s thoughts again turned to the vile witch who’d somehow stumbled into their domain.
Lord Jarton was planning a series of police raids throughout the city tonight, hoping to catch the witch unawares. Obviously, this would be useless. The Haven whore would by now have melted into the city itself. Disguised and highly mobile, she’d be impossible to simply snatch up with a paddy wagon full of bobbies.
And then? Well, the nasty Haven harlots considered themselves grand social scientists, traipsing about the universe chronicling the human condition. Brimming with overconfidence, she’d undoubtedly stick around for a bit, learning all she could about Donlon’s technology and social structure.
Oh, what a wonderful adventure it would be! Right up until the moment, of course, when the arrogant creature met her demise.
Smiling, Wendily thought of the three fist-sized
rocks, nearly bursting with unfocused magical might, safely residing in the massive safe downstairs. Small lodes of the stuff were scattered all over Donlon, often infecting an area with it’s magical properties. The largest concentrations actually caused the dimensional rifts connecting their world to several others.
But while not even half as useful as the far more stable midate used by the Coven, Donlon’s natural magical geode did have one advantage. When different strains of the stuff where kept in close proximity, bombarding one another with molecular residue, it all became wonderfully volatile.
By now, the three samples percolating within her lead safe would be highly explosive. Carefully handled and judiciously applied, they would make excellent magical hand grenades. Powerful enough, Wendily suspected, to temporarily knock out an earth stone.
Leaping up, the barely dressed young patrician eagerly strode to the large window at the front of the room. Staring out at the busy square down below, imagining the young witch completely within her power, Wendily’s eyes burned a deep, satisfied silver.
For she intended to ascend directly into the Haven girl, stealing her body and magical might. By the time anyone else knew what was going on, it would be too late. With a fusion of both demon might and the Coven’s magical power, the new being thus created would be unassailable.
The rest of the Conclave would instantly move against her, of course. They’d never tolerate such a “perversion,” not to mention the concentration of so much force in one body. But when the dust cleared, and Ingrith and possibly some of the others were dead, she would be the unquestioned leader here in Donlon.
Jarton was a pragmatist, and might well become her number two. As a natural bully, he’d make an excellent enforcer. Some of the others might have their uses as well.
On the other hand, Rhapsony had always been the greatest threat to her ambitions. Several lifetimes ago, during the original Haven wars, she’d actually stumbled upon Wendily’s previous, unsuccessful attempts to dominate a sorceress. Unable to deep her ascendant in line, Wendily had barely escaped back into her former host. In such a weakened state, she’d been forced to promise Rhapsony to never attempt such a takeover again.
But that was then. Ever since arriving in Donlon, while her fellow demons had busied themselves playing lords and ladies, Wendily had greatly enhanced her own power. Indeed, she’d sapped the life force from dozens of additional human victims, far more than the one a year they’d all agreed upon. Carefully disposing of the bodies way out to sea, no one was the wiser.
Almost sensuously laying her gloved hand on the cool glass, Wendily felt her breath quicken. After all the scheming, and the waiting, her opportunity had finally arrived.
Now she was finally potent enough to successfully ascend into a Haven witch. And once her victim was fully enslaved, there wasn’t anything anyone else could do about it.
CHAPTER TEN
EXITING THE MAGIC SHOP, Caylee followed Grant and Leyla down the cobbled Donlon streets. By now it was early evening, the gas lamps being lit by city workers with long, burning sticks. Keeping close behind her two local guides, the disguised Haven sorceress continued her careful examination of this new world. No one else paid them much notice, the fancy lords and ladies not even deigning to glance in their direction.
Heading due north for twenty menlars, they were clearly leaving the better part of town. The sidewalk became more narrow, the cobblestones not as well maintained. Indeed, the street lamps soon ended entirely, plunging them into a shadowy, darkened urban landscape. Trash began piling up right outside the passing doorways, providing excellent rummaging material for squeaking rats.
Stumbling, confused drunks also became more prevalent. Indeed, peeking inside a raucous bar on the last regular street corner they would encounter that evening, everyone seemed to be eagerly, desperately inebriated. Even the women were well “into their cups,” bawdily swinging half-full mugs of beer about while lustily singing off-color drinking ballads.
At one point Grant found an abandoned cane leaning against a trash bin. Perching a similarly discarded old top hat on his head, he then made a great show of strutting along for the next several blocks, pretending he was a fine lord. Caylee silently wished he’d keep a lower profile, but soon realized they’d already left the ubiquitous bobbies far behind. Obviously, the police cared little what happened in the “working class” sections of the city.
After a while the structures grew farther apart, with some buildings obviously abandoned entirely. Finally leaving the street entirely, they meandered across an empty, messy lot, heading for an old industrial-type building along the central river. The water itself glittered prettily in the now-bright moonlight, a few small boats creaking softly against a dock on the opposite bank.
“Here we are,” Leyla announced, heaving the heavy, dented metal door partly open. “Home sweet home.”
“Yes! Welcome to our humble abode.” With a fancy flourish, Grant now turned about and bowed low to her. “Please, my lady, won’t you accept our gracious hospitality?”
This constant mocking of the upper classes was already getting to be an old joke. Smiling tightly, Caylee kept her head low and power ready as she passed through the doorway.
It was obviously an old factory. Upon fully wandering inside, Caylee found herself in a large, open area extending from the ground up to the third floor ceiling. Dusty boxes and equipment were scattered about. Open stairways farther into the building led up to gangways on the second and third floors, off which some enclosed rooms were located against the outside walls. Though rectangular rather than circular, the general layout almost reminded her of the testing center on Vail, untold centuries and dimensions from here.
There was an ad hoc fire pit in the center of the floor, with a strong blaze already going. About twenty young people lolled about, mostly sitting and chatting around the fire. They all looked over upon Caylee’s entrance, frowning until they saw Leyla and Grant quickly come in behind her.
“Hear ye, hear ye!” Grant called out, darting past Caylee to theatrically throw his arms out wide. “I present to you the Lady Caylee, of house Bumblebee! Bow down low, you peasants, in the presence of your betters!”
From the various sighs and eye rolls greeting this announcement, Caylee gathered that everyone else was as tired of Grant’s routine as she was.
“Hi, everyone!” Smiling a welcome, she deferentially nodded to those closest by. “I’m just Caylee, and I’m very happy to meet you.”
“As are we.” A girl stood, walking over to shake her hand. “I’m Mary. Nice to meet you.”
Several other people came up to say hi, though some contented themselves with terse nods and furtive stares. With the exception of Grant and Leyla, who had dressed up a touch for their magic show, everyone’s clothes were old and clearly worn. Much of it, Caylee guessed, had been scrounged from about town. Several of the girls, though, had low-cut, tight fitting tops, of a type designed to attract a certain kind of attention.
“What’s all this, now?” A stick-thin youth now rose from a seat about the fire, his arms pointedly crossed. “Brought a secret agent into our midst, have you? This time tomorrow we’ll have a score lids in here bashing our heads in!”
A few of the others nodded grimly, their gaze narrowing. Looking about, Caylee felt the atmosphere suddenly become tense.
“It’s not that way,” Leyla announced, walking up to take the incognito sorceress by the arm. “We met her at the magic show!”
“So what?” The same boy laughed, looking around for more support. “The bobbies can’t send a girl to a magic show?”
“Shut up, George! She can do magic herself!” Grant countered. “I’ve seen it!”
“She can do magic now?” Eyes going wide in mock apprehension, George fearfully held his hands to his face. “Fancy that!”
“I think Caylee’s nice.” Shaking her head, Mary walked back over to again sit near the fire. “And didn’t we all come here once for the first ti
me, as strangers? George, you’re being silly. Grant and Leyla wouldn’t have brought her here if she wasn’t on the up and up.”
There was a rumble of support for this sentiment. Most everyone seemed to relax, turning back to whatever they’d been doing before the three of them had arrived.
George, however, was still unconvinced. “Peck will have something to say about all that, won’t he?”
“Indeed he will,” Grant pleasantly agreed. “No doubt he’ll want to meet Caylee here when he gets back from the plant.”
“I bet he will.” Now George made a point of staring at Caylee’s body, his face twisted into an a seemingly permanent sneer of disgust. “I bet he’ll want a lot of things, actually.”
Sighing, Caylee decided that this had gone far enough. “Listen, governor, no worries,” she called out. “I’ll talk to Peck, then, or whoever else you like.” Leaving Leyla’s side, she advanced several steps towards George. “But just to be clear, talking is all we’ll be doing. No one gets anything from me that I don’t want to give.”
Most everyone laughed in evident approval, a few cat calls echoing off the walls. “She’s got moxie, that one,” someone commented from the far side of the fire. “I’ll give her that.”
Indeed, only George himself didn’t openly react, his gaze now burning into the blonde newcomer. “You better watch yourself there, girl!”
“Really?” Caylee smiled, now coming to stand right before him. “And why is that, governor?”
“Don’t call me that!”
“I’ll call you whatever I want, then.” Tossing off the working-class cap, Caylee shook blonde hair out onto her shoulders. “Unless you got something more than words, that is.” Daintily holding out her arms, almost like a ballerina, the sorceress now winked at him. “Won’t I?”
As Caylee had suspected, pushing George over the emotional edge wasn’t all that difficult. Face bursting into rage, the infuriated hooligan lunged forward, launching a clunky roundhouse right at her head. Leyla screeched out a belated warning, Grant leaping forward in an attempt to get between them.