When it was done, Elena climbed on top of her and joined her in a slow, lingering kiss, their bodies locked together tenderly. Christina realized she was crying a little. Elena smiled broadly and kissed her again.
Chapter Eleven
Ben pounded up the steps. He didn’t know for certain where the women were, but the same mysterious instinct that had beckoned him back to the castle seemed to be urging him upward. But the moment Ben reached the fifth floor, he knew whatever had happened was over, that the women had either lived or died on their own. Ben lowered the Ruger, a tight coil of dread tightening in his guts. Something was very wrong up here. Something…
Then he heard it. Moaning. From the direction of the bedroom Claire had taken last summer, the bedroom in which he and Claire had made love for the first time.
Ben stepped cautiously forward, probing his memory for the identity of who was sleeping in that room now. It wasn’t Christina or Elena. It wasn’t one of the bodyguards. Which left Teddy or Professor Grant.
As Ben neared the open door, he realized there were two voices, one female, the other male. The female voice was familiar, though the moaning was so wild and loud Ben had a difficult time attaching an identity to it. The male voice…
Oh hell, Ben thought. He’d heard that voice before, had heard it the night Eva had been defiled by the beast down in that horrible pit.
Ben’s gut felt weighted down by lead. His scrotum shriveled.
Because the voice was not only the same—there was no mistaking the voice of the beast—it was groaning with something that might have been passion. But as repellant as the beast’s voice was, it was the other voice that made Ben dizzy with fear and something that might have been betrayal.
No, he thought. It can’t be.
You know it is. You’d never mistake that sound.
No! he mentally screamed. She would never…she would die before—
Don’t kid yourself, Ben. She already did. She summoned the beast as surely as Eva did. Both of them were wanton—
Shut up.
—lustful—
Shut up!
—whores. Claire is no more faithful than—
“Stop it!” Ben shouted. He stood immobile, realizing he’d given himself away, but the voices from Claire’s old room continued in unbroken bliss.
He burst through the door and found them on the bed. His wife. Claire Shadeland, formerly Claire Harden. Naked. Undulating. Moaning and writhing beneath the gigantic, bestial form of Gabriel Blackwood.
Ben stared at his wife, his body gone hollow with shock and heartbreak.
Her legs were splayed wide, her feet bobbing with the beast’s thrusts. Her tummy glistening with sweat, Claire ground her hips into the beast as though insatiable for its sex. Her lovely breasts tremored each time the beast slammed into her; her eyes were closed, but there was a delighted, pouty cast to her face that Ben had seldom seen. Only on those rare occasions when she’d been totally divested of her inhibitions had her face even approximated that expression, but he knew she’d never experienced this level of ecstasy with him. The beast’s curled horns rose and fell, their hoary yellowed surfaces the color of arcane parchment. Claire raked her nails over its shoulders, cried out again and again, implored the beast to fuck her harder, harder. Sneering with exaltation, the beast complied. Ben felt sick tears crawling down his cheeks, and though he knew he should do something about this degradation of his wife, what really could he do? She was a willing accomplice, an eager pawn in Gabriel’s game. She had thrown away their marriage, their love, all the promises of a happy future for a rut with a monster.
“You’re seeing what she did last summer,” a voice behind him said.
Ben gasped, spun toward the speaker. Griffin Toomey stood leaning against the far wall, watching him with a cagey grin.
“It’s a lie,” Ben said.
“Don’t you see?” Toomey asked. “Don’t you realize what this means?”
“It doesn’t mean anything,” Ben croaked. “It means this place is trying to get to me. It’s trying to make me doubt my wife.”
“Julia is the spawn of a monster,” Toomey said, a taunting grin transforming his mouth into an abhorrent red scar. “Claire had sexual dreams about the Master, and she enjoyed them so much she invited him in. She begged him to take her.”
“Shut your mouth,” Ben said. He noticed with little surprise that the figures on the bed were gone, in their place a tangled mound of sheets and pillows.
“You’ve known it all along,” Toomey said. “From the moment she told you she was pregnant.”
“Shut up,” Ben demanded. His free hand was bunching into a fist; there was a constant twitch in his temple. The gun in his hand trembled.
But Toomey continued to grin at him imperturbably.
Ben frowned. “What did you say about your master?”
Toomey shook his head. “Not my master. The Master. The one who got your whore of a wife with child.”
Ben was across the room in an instant, the gun shoved against Toomey’s beaklike nose so that the cartilage of its tip lay against a cheek. “I’ll fucking kill you now,” Ben growled. “I swear I will.”
Toomey eyed him over the Ruger, his expression maddeningly blithe. “Sounds to me like you’re under his spell too, Ben. He’s only coaxing out what was already in you.”
“Bullshit.”
“How long did she wait? Three months to tell you she was pregnant? You knew that was abnormal. Your first wife told you right away, right after the positive test. But not Claire…she was terrified of how you’d react.”
“You can’t know—”
“You hugged her, but you didn’t laugh until several minutes later. That’s how she knew you suspected her.”
“If you’ve got such an inside track to the…”—he couldn’t bring himself to utter the name—“…to the beast’s thoughts, then you know where my baby is.”
Toomey laughed. “Of course I know.”
“Tell me, goddammit!”
“She’s very weak now,” Toomey went on. “I wouldn’t give her more than another two or three hours. Not unless she gets food and water right away.”
Ben raised the gun, bashed Toomey in the nose with its blunt handle. Though Toomey immediately covered his bleeding face, Ben tore loose again, ramming the gun butt down on the crown of Toomey’s head. That took him down, the blond man landing so ungracefully that Ben was momentarily sure he’d knocked him unconscious, and that sure as hell wouldn’t do. Not with Julia’s life at stake. He didn’t trust Toomey for a second, but he was nevertheless positive what the man had told him about Julia being alive was true. If anything it provided a measure of relief. Ben had begun to believe it was hopeless, that Julia couldn’t possibly survive an ordeal like this. But somehow she had. Somehow she had lived through the beast’s abduction of her and was still clinging to life, albeit weakly. But how, Ben wondered, how could he force this snake to reveal her whereabouts? What button must he push to make him talk?
Toomey rose, still smirking. He leaned against a dresser, tapped his fingers.
“You’re going to forsake the women?” Toomey asked. “Right now, when they need you the most?”
“I’m not forsaking anybody.”
“You’ll leave your wife too.”
Ben felt a gale of fury blow through him, did his best to ride it out. Careful to keep his voice level, Ben said, “Why would you serve him? Why would you willingly help a monster destroy people’s lives?” Ben’s voice grew ragged. “Risk the death of an innocent child?”
“She’s the Master’s child,” Toomey said.
Ben clenched his jaw. “She’s mine.”
“Did you ask the doctors about abnormalities?” Toomey said. “Or were you too terrified of what they’d say?”
“I trust Claire.”
&
nbsp; “You weren’t even dating when the Master defiled her.”
“Stop saying that.”
“But it’s true,” Toomey said and tapped his fingers. “She was the classic good girl just itching to be corrupted.”
“Tell me where Julia is,” Ben said, but his voice was distant, distracted. Something about Toomey’s restless fingers had triggered a memory deep in Ben’s mind. He’d once heard that everyone was a trifle OCD, that everyone was somewhere on the obsessive-compulsive spectrum. Ben knew a good deal about that because as a child he had engaged in meaningless rituals himself. He would hop a certain number of times, put his basketball away only after making a specific number of shots. It had all been nonsense, of course, but it had always relied on some obscure and completely arbitrary numeric code, one that only made sense in Ben’s young mind.
“I’m not telling you where she is,” Toomey said. “So you might as well stop hoping.”
Ben scarcely heard him. Because each time Toomey tapped his fingers on the dresser, they were the same three fingers in the same order. Not index finger, middle finger, ring finger, the way that would seem natural. No, Toomey would begin with the ring finger, follow that with the index finger, and end with the pinkie. The middle finger and thumb remained static during the bizarre operation, the other fingers tapping out their idiot rhythm with mindless regularity.
“Nothing to say?” Toomey asked.
“Three times,” Ben answered. “And never with the middle finger.”
Toomey frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“Your tapping,” Ben explained.
Toomey actually glanced down at his hand, used it to make a dismissive gesture, then hid it in his pocket. “Just a way to pass the time.”
“Is it because the middle finger’s naughty?”
Toomey’s frown deepened. “What are you—”
“You never use it. And it’s always three taps in the same order. Your parents teach you that?”
“Don’t talk about her.”
“Her?” Ben asked, and it was his turn to smirk. He turned it up another notch, making his expression as nasty as he could. “Mama’s boy, are you?”
Toomey’s hands came out of his pockets, his slender body stiff with rage. “Don’t you dare—”
“Didn’t she teach you to defend yourself, Griffin? Did the other kids bully you?”
“She was a good woman!”
“So she’s dead,” Ben said, delighted. “I don’t suppose you were much of a son, were you? Did you ever call her, ask her—”
But Toomey had remembered the gun in his pocket. Toomey had wrestled it halfway out, but then Ben was on him, the skinny man instantly pinned on the floor.
“You’re still scared of her, aren’t you, Griffin?” Ben said in his ear. He had each of Toomey’s wrists pinned, the skinny man straining up against him. “That’s why”—Ben stopped, eyes widening—“that’s why you joined up with Gabriel. You think he’ll make you stronger.”
“He did make me stronger!” Toomey yelled in that same shrill voice. “I killed that agent, I made that big bodyguard run back inside so the spirits could get him!”
“You think you’re any different?” Ben asked. “Do you really believe you’re anything more than a pawn for your master?”
“Shut your fucking mouth!” Toomey screamed. And then, impossibly, he did shove Ben off. Ben tumbled backwards, appalled at the scrawny man’s sudden strength. Toomey reached for the gun, but Ben had his Ruger up and aimed at him.
“Don’t do it,” Ben warned.
“I’ll show you strength,” Toomey said, and Ben received another shock. The scrawny man’s voice wasn’t so shrill anymore. Was, if anything, lower than Ben’s. Toomey stepped forward, the gun at his side and a venomous grin on his face.
Ben extended the Ruger. “I’m not going to ask you again. Put the gun down.”
“Scared?” Toomey asked, but it wasn’t Toomey’s voice anymore. It was rough, guttural. A sound that set Ben’s teeth to chatter.
Ben found himself edging toward the door.
“Why don’t you shoot?” the thing that was no longer Toomey asked.
“Last chance,” Ben said, but he knew the words were meaningless. This thing was no more frightened of bullets than it was willing to tell him where Julia was.
The Toomey-thing lowered its head a moment.
Ben held his breath.
The Toomey-thing’s face swung up and leered at Ben, the eyes as pupilless and white as Gabriel’s. Snarling, it lunged for him. Ben squeezed the trigger, caught it in the throat. The thing was three feet away now. Ben got off two more shots, and though both of them made the Toomey-thing’s head snap backward, it kept coming. It crashed into Ben, drove him across the hallway. The back of his head cracked the large window, the Toomey-thing crushing Ben against the outer wall. He was dimly aware that if the large corridor window gave way, the shards that crashed down on him would be as heavy and sharp as guillotines.
But this danger was easily surpassed by the snapping menace that was now bearing down on him. The creature’s strength was diminished by the three slugs Ben’s Ruger had spat, but it was still absurdly powerful. Its hands closed over Ben’s shoulders, its face looming closer, the teeth snapping. Ben pulled his head back, crammed the Ruger’s barrel into its stomach, and unloaded the rest of the clip. The Toomey-thing jerked with the slugs, the grasping fingers weakening but not letting go of him entirely. No matter. It gave Ben the opening he needed.
He dropped the gun, drove his fingers into the messy pool of the Toomey-thing’s belly. His hand slid inside effortlessly, the Toomey-thing squealing in outrage. It gave off its attack entirely and pawed at Ben’s arm, but despite the way the flailing fingernails gashed his flesh, Ben drove his hand deeper, his wrist disappearing inside it, several inches of forearm. As he shoved his hand higher, the Toomey-thing rose up to its tiptoes, as if by doing so it could avoid Ben’s probing fingers. But then he grasped it, the Toomey-thing’s pulsing heart. The Toomey-thing slapped wildly at Ben now, scoring the sides of his head with its frenzied fingernails. Ben didn’t mind. He’d been attacked before. Grasping the Toomey-thing’s heart, he wrenched down with all his might while pushing its chest away with his left hand. With a meaty slurp the heart tore free. The Toomey-thing stumbled backward, its eyes human again, and slumped against the inner wall of the corridor, a scarlet sheet of blood spreading over its lower body and forming a lake around its sticklike legs. A look of stupid surprise stretched Griffin Toomey’s birdlike features.
There came a dull thud from down the hall. Ben was out of ammo, but he assumed Toomey’s gun was still loaded. Ben hustled over and retrieved the gun. Ignoring the slimy feel of the handle, Ben hurried down the hall.
More sounds. They seemed to be emanating from Christina’s room. If it was Rubio or Marvin, Ben wouldn’t bother with the questioning again. He’d just shoot.
Ben heard voices, brought the gun up to rest on the open doorway. But then two figures stepped through and all Ben could do was gape.
Christina and Elena stared at him. They were slathered in blood. They were naked.
“What…” Ben shook his head. “What happened?”
Elena raised an eyebrow. “We could ask you the same thing.”
Castillo smuggled Jessie down the passageway until they reached another of those narrow slivers of light. He muscled open the door with one arm but kept the gun against her head with the other. They shuffled into the room like that, Jessie realizing with grim disgust that Castillo was erect against her. Once into the room he shoved her forward, but before she could grab her gun, he ripped it out of her pocket. Tossing it across the room—which appeared to be some sort of servant’s quarters—he rammed the main door closed and shot the bolt. Jessie performed a cursory scan of the room, but the only things she discovered apart from the
bed were an end table with a big white lamp and a few scattered hangings.
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