billowed and swirled, and took on a female form. As he watched, it coalesced into a solid object, then faded away, to reveal a nude, voluptuous woman with an hourglass figure and skin the color of bread crust. She stood as still as a statue for a few moments, her eyes closed, then she inhaled sharply and started to breath. She tilted her head back, raised her arms, and stretched her entire body, as if trying to reach the ceiling. She lowered her arms in a languid manner, bending her elbows, and ran her fingers through her billowing mane of fiery crimson hair. Still lowering her arms, she caressed the sides of her face and neck, her shoulders, and her voluminous breasts. It wasn't until she rested her palms on her hips that she relaxed and opened her eyes.
She stepped out of the bowl. "How long has it been this time?" Her voice was a low contralto, with a sultry burr that sounded like a purr.
"Three months, Lily my dear." He raised the whiskey bottle to his mouth.
She frowned and raised an eyebrow. "That's the longest yet."
He took a swig. "Not as long as when I first woke you up. What year were you processed again?"
"1912." Her voice sounded tight as he took another drink.
"And the first time I let you out was last year. So, ninety-five years. Get the picture?"
She gave him a look that could curdle milk. "What do you want this time?"
He took one last pull then recapped the bottle. "Most of it's routine, but I have a couple of new requests. First, I want to replace Lucy." He turned and went back to his desk to set the bottle down.
"Isn't she working out?"
Her snarky barb stung, but he ignored it. "She expects me to permanently resurrect her." He turned around.
"What ever gave her that idea?"
"I told her I knew how to do it, to get her to do what I wanted."
She scowled. "That was stupid. All you had to do was threaten to torture her, though you would have to do it at least once to make it credible."
"I'll keep that in mind. So, can it be done?"
"No."
"That's plain enough. So I'll need someone new for tomorrow. Who would you recommend?"
She smirked. "As I remember, you prefer them sweet, adorable, and naïve, true?"
He licked his lips. "Most definitely."
"Then I suggest Helen; front row, third from the middle."
He looked over to his left. That entire wall was covered by a bookcase. In its center was a display cubicle with a glass front. Inside were three rows of ceramic jars, similar to Lily's, but only a third the size.
He glanced back at her. "Stacked?"
Lily favored him with a grinning leer. "Most definitely."
He went over and opened the front. "From the name, I assume she's a blonde."
"That she is."
He reached in and picked up the jar in question. "Why can't they be permanently resurrected?"
"The reconstituted body is held together by the salt matrix. The salts are vulnerable to oxidation, so the integrity of the matrix only lasts about a day. Once the body starts to break apart, it crumbles very easily. If you could seal her in an airtight vessel filled with helium, she would stay intact indefinitely; she doesn't need to breath. But that wouldn't do you any good. Of course, the more powder you use, the longer she would remain reconstituted, but the fewer times you could resurrect her."
He examined the jar as he returned to his desk. "I've always wondered why your jar is so much bigger than these others."
"That's because living tissue condenses that much smaller. Your grand-uncle poisoned me first; I still don't know how."
He snapped his head around and stared at her, his gut crawling. "They were alive when you...?"
"Of course. You need special procedures to process a dead body. Your uncle didn't know that and he almost botched my processing. I survived only because I hadn't been dead long enough to matter. It also helps if the subject is aware."
He felt the blood drain out of his face. "They're awake when you...process them?"
"At least for as long as it takes the chemicals to begin decomposing their bodies."
He glanced back at the jar in his hand. "Is it painful?"
"Excruciating. And they remember every moment."
He grunted as he placed the jar on his desk. "You sound like you enjoy their suffering."
She turned and walked over to the "casting" coach against the right wall. He had put it in against the day when he would have flesh and blood female clients; for the time being, it served as the platform for his daily antics with Lucy. She laid down, facing him, her head and shoulders propped up on the padded arm and one arm draped over the back.
"They're my servants; they're only purpose is to serve my needs; all my needs." She snapped her fingers and a cigar appeared in her mouth.
"Your slaves, you mean."
"I prefer to think of them as pets. In any event, I fail to see a distinction." She snapped her fingers again and the exposed end lit up.
"You don't believe they have any rights?"
She snapped her fingers a third time and a glass of liquor appeared in one hand. "Technically, they're dead. What rights does a dead man have?" She drained the glass, but as soon as she held it level, it refilled.
From "Youthful Indiscretion"
As soon as the block fully reassembled itself, the tolling stopped. Apprehension crept over Henry; he knew something was about to happen, he just didn't know what. Then the room began to grow dark. He looked around at the the lights. They didn't appear to grow dim; in fact, they seemed as bright as ever. Rather, the areas over which they cast their luminance shrank as the borders became more distinct and sharp. Beyond them, the room fell into shadow like it would at twilight when the sun had set but the sky was still bright.
In that moment They appeared in his room. It wasn't like how Vlad emerged from shadow, or the affect of Dr. Mabuse's transporter machine. Quite literally one moment the room was empty, and next five beings stood in its center. The thing he noted first was the stench. Though not overpowering, it was enough to turn his stomach, and yet overlaid was the scent of vanilla, which partially mitigated but could not completely cover their foul, rotten odor. At almost the same time he spotted the blue phosphorescent glow that surrounded them like a mist.
Their most horrific feature, however, was that each was deformed or mutilated in some hideous fashion. One was morbidly obese, with its face so swollen with fat that the wrinkles distorted and obscured its features. Another had a flap of skin covering its eyes while its disfigured mouth had the lips pulled back well away from its mouth and the teeth clattered together endlessly like it was chattering. The third was the size of child about his same age, but its flesh had been seared as if in a barbecue while its eyes stared out from their sockets without blinking. Number four looked like a teenage girl, and while bald was otherwise unmarked, except for a gaping wound in her throat held open by small hooks. They all wore clothing that looked like a combination of religious vestments and butchery garments, except they were made from black leather and vinyl. The robes exposed areas of skin on their chests and stomachs, and it was pierced and sliced and coated with fine powder, like talcum, or...ash? The garments themselves were sewn or hooked into the skin, as if that was needed to hold them in place, in the manner of buttons or zippers.
But the fifth and foremost, whom he took to be the leader, was the most compelling. He was hairless, with dead-white skin, and his face and scalp was etched in a grid of lines. At each intersection a large pin or small nail had been driven into the bone below. Unlike the others, who looked vacant or mindless, he seemed intelligent and aware. He stared at him with a sardonic half-smile, as if he alone knew a secret others would give their lives to know. It sent chills down his back even as he felt ill. Yet despite how repulsive they appeared, there was something about them that he found fascinating, even provocative. Even as he feared he would vomit at any moment, he felt enchanted by their presence, even a little bewitched.
But then the nail-headed
one frowned, like he realized something was wrong. His companions moved towards the bed, he assumed with the intent to take him, but as they tried to go around their leader, he held up a hand.
"No, he did not summon us."
Summon!? He stared down at the block in horror. That's why it was in the vault! How could I be so stupid!
Vlad appeared in an explosion of shadow, in front of the bed between him and the monsters. "Run, Little Master!"
Whatever spell, psychological or psychic, that held him in that room broke, and his terror galvanized him. He ran for the door to the nurse's room, pulled it open, and made for the opposite side, which led into the nursery. From there he could access the secret stairwell and make his way down to his mother's office. She would protect him.
As he reached the other door, he heard the one to his bedroom slam shut.
Vlad moved to block the door to keep the Cenobites from following his Master's son, but he felt the one called Pinhead extend his power to push it closed.
"Vlad Tepes Drakulya." Pinhead regarded him with what appeared to be an arrogant expression. "Have you finally decided to surrender yourself to us?"
"No. My current existence still satisfies me."
"Then why do you interfere with our actions?"
"I defend the Van Helsing Bloodline. So long as I draw breath, no harm will come to those who possess it."
Pinhead sported a bored expression. "So be it." Even as he spoke, iron hooks at the end of heavy chains flew out of the walls, ceiling, and floor. The chains wrapped around Vlad's body, ensnaring him, as the hooks dug into his flesh, ripping through to the bones. They lifted him off the floor and spread-eagled his limbs even as they pulled him apart.
Through the haze of agony and blood he saw Pinhead scan the room in a slow manner, as if searching for something. "The one who summoned us is not here. Come, we must search for him." They turned as a group and headed for the hall door. As they passed through it, the chains dissolved into thin air and he dropped. Before he hit the ground, he transformed into shadow and flowed under the bed to reform. He had to do so quickly; he knew they would follow Henry for the time being, hoping he would lead them to their victim, and Henry would go to his mother.
Differel and the Girls were in the north stairwell, halfway between the first and ground floors, when her cell phone beeped. She paused and answered it.
"Differel here; report."
"Holt speaking. The Cenobites are in the grand hall, second floor, just outside the matriarch suite."
Too soon; she had hoped for more time. "Fall back. Do not engage; repeat, do not engage! Follow them for now, but keep your distance and do not interfere unless they threaten someone. Understood?"
"Yes, Mum."
"Keep me informed of their progress. What of my son?"
"He is not in his bedroom."
Her heart stuttered as her breath caught in throat. "Start a search for him immediately!"
"Right away, Mum. Holt out."
She passed the phone to Eile. "Take all reports from Holt."
"Sure thing, Diff."
"You want us to help with the search?" Sunny asked.
"Not yet. Stay with me for now."
They continued on. They got off at the ground floor, Differel used her pass card to open the security gate and the door to her office, and then she went to the room safe. She unlocked it and pulled it open with Eile's help. Sunny entered first and switched on the light; she and Eile followed and went to the weapons locker. She pressed a thumb against the reader and heard the metal doors unlock. Opening the cabinet, she removed and passed to Eile a British Army L128A1 semi-automatic shotgun with a bandolier of 12-gauge shells, followed by an FN AR-57 semi-automatic carbine which she passed to Sunny along with a bandolier of 50-round magazines, and finally a Parker Hale submachine gun with a 180-round drum magazine for
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