already keen senses and replenished his appetites. In these ways it approximated the sleeping state of humans and the lower animals; however, he remained aware of his surroundings at all times-albeit in the dim way one perceives background details in paintings or films-and possessed the ability to instantly return to full consciousness should circumstances compel it.
This was one of those times.
There had been an unusually high level of activity in his home tonight. There was the matter of the escapee from Below, a foolish man who likely believed he’d succeeded in evading his pursuers. This was not the case. The Master knew the man was in one of the rooms on the second floor. He even knew which room. He smiled, thinking of the wicked little girl with no voice.
His most facile and talented apprentice.
He was content to allow her to have her fun with him.
The man was a gnat.
Less than insignificant.
As had been the case with tonight’s first new arrival, Mark Cody, whom he’d dispatched from this world simply because he’d been a dullard. The Master preferred lively torture sessions with interesting, intelligent humans. There was nothing as stimulating as an evening spent listening to smart people plead their cases between moments of intense agony.
There were people of this sort en route even now. He could feel them out there, wandering, lost souls growing more desperate and afraid by the moment. Soon they would arrive at the false succor of his home. He could not read their minds, but he could sense things about them. There was one among them who radiated something special, an inner energy that hinted of gifts she likely didn’t know she possessed. A female. A charismatic figure adored by many. But he sensed a deep vein of vulnerability there, as well.
He wanted to know more about her.
He closed his eyes again, entered another meditative state, and focused the power in his mind, that living mass of energy that was almost like a separate organism existing within the shell of his physical body, an intimate symbiosis of unique beings. His mind thrummed with the power, and he felt the fine edge of electricity that always accompanied these moments sweep through him.
His mind sent out energy pulses like psychic tendrils.
A radar that detected usually imperceptible brainwaves.
And, sometimes, deciphered them.
Dream, he thought.
He had her name now, snagged like a firefly out of the air. He sensed more about her by the moment. She was getting closer and closer. Dream was a moral person. She was perceived by most people as a force for good. A truly decent human being. The strength of his perceptions about her was unusual, another indication of the rare gifts she didn’t comprehend.
The Master’s eyes snapped open.
He went to the bar and poured himself a drink. Old scotch over ice in a lightly frosted glass. Alcohol’s intoxicating effects were largely lost on him-his body processed the alcohol more efficiently than a human body-but it did have a soothing effect.
He was surprised to find himself in need of the liquid comfort.
Dream.
He repeated the name silently several times, savoring it like a fine wine.
He poured another drink.
Something was happening in his domain. Something unusual and troubling. Troubling because none of his efforts to pinpoint its nature had been successful. His powers of perception had waned of late, flickering in and out like radio transmissions from a remote location. This insight into the woman’s psyche was the clearest signal he’d received in months.
Even his gods, the death spirits, were silent.
He called to them again, now.
Beseeching them for guidance.
Shivar!
Mindragin!
Nothing.
Just the same aching celestial void.
He poured yet another drink.
Dream, he thought.
The new obsession grew in his soul like a malignancy.
Dream?
What are you?
How will I corrupt you?
The Master’s assumption about Eddie King’s circumstances was correct. He was a prisoner again. A slave again. He was spread-eagled on his back on the mute girl’s plush bed, staring up at the velvet canopy. His arms were lashed to headboard rails, and the leather straps of a ballgag were affixed firmly about his face. His ankles were tied to the posts at the foot of the bed. His bonds grew tighter and more uncomfortable each time he struggled against them, so much so he was worried the circulation in his extremities would be cut off.
He was fixated on the discomfort now. The circumstances that had brought him to this place had-at least temporarily-been rendered irrelevant, overwhelmed by the panic filling his mind, panic that cranked up another notch every time the knots about his wrists and ankles tightened a little more. And there was the lump of plastic in his mouth-the word “gag” was apt in more ways than one. He knew it was firmly attached to the device encircling his head, but he couldn’t suppress the growing fear he would swallow it and choke on it.
Giselle was at the writing table, bent over the stationery pad. She’d been at it for nearly an hour now. The quill pen in her hand was a nonstop flurry of motion that ceased only when she paused to flip to a fresh page. Eddie had no idea what she could possibly be writing about. She couldn’t be going on and on about what she had done to him. There just wasn’t that much to tell. He’d misjudged her. Well, that was an understatement of epic proportions. She’d asserted her dominance over him with embarrassing ease. So perhaps she was writing about something else.
The long velvet dress was gone. She was naked now, with the exception of a pair of lacy black panties and high-heeled shoes. Her legs were crossed at the knees, and the dangling foot jiggled like a teenage girl’s would during a boring math class. Physically, of course, she still was a teenager, frozen in time at the age of seventeen. Eddie, who was pushing forty, knew she was actually older than him by more than a decade. Knowing this on an intellectual level was one thing. But yet her body was still ripe with the perfections of youth.
A perpetual Lolita.
She put the tip of the pen to her chin in a contemplative pose. Her brow furrowed and the jiggling of her foot slowed. Miracle of miracles. The runaway prose train was at an impasse. She stared into the middle distance for a time before redirecting her gaze toward Eddie. The pensive look vanished and was replaced by an expression that was equal parts smirk and lascivious grin.
He shuddered.
And thought, Oh, no …
A sound that was almost like a hideous laugh issued from Giselle’s mouth. She had seen the terror in Eddie’s eyes and been amused by it. She set the pen down, tore a page from the pad, then stood up and came to the bed.
A dark, undeniable thought came to him.
I should’ve killed her when I had the chance.
He remembered how supple, how yielding, her flesh had felt beneath the pressure of the blade. Parting that flesh would be no more difficult than carving a Thanksgiving turkey. The idea repulsed him, the notion of murdering a woman, but now he wondered whether his ingrained chivalry might really desert him should he again have her at his mercy. Maybe things would happen another way.
He thought about it some more.
He also thought some more about the ballgag in his mouth.
