Hotter Blood: More Tales of Erotic Horror

'Yeah. Pretty serious.'

'What happened?'

'I don't know. She's kind of schizy. I got freaked out one night when she said we should do a death pact.'

'A what?'

'That we should commit suicide together to declare, I don't know, ultimate love or something.'

'I think, guy, you're kind of better off without her. I mean, death pacts? Or what?'

'Yeah. I'm better off without her. For sure.'

But every time he saw Pearldoll in the clubs, he had that gawky longing in his face. And she had that smug knowledge about her. And now she was dead and he was still thinking about her.

'Okay,' Candy said, now. Tonight, in this hot, sweaty, loud club. They had to yell their conversation in each other's ear over the music. 'So how did she die?'

'Sacrificed.'

'What?'

'She was into Espiritu.'

'What the fuck is that?'

'Espiritu Bebida. It's some Spanish cult from… Cuba or someplace. Like Santaria. Kind of an offshoot of it.'

'I thought you said she was Japanese and… and Danish or something.'

'Her roommate was Hispanic, got her into it. Pearldoll hated Japanese stuff, 'cause she hated her mom. She was into Latin stuff.'

'Half Japanese, half whatever, Norwegian or something —»

'Swedish.'

'Half Swedish — but into Spanish stuff. I never noticed her maracas.'

He grinned. 'She had some.'

'So her roommate sacrificed her?'

'No, her roommate killed herself about two weeks before that. The police talk like Pearldoll was murdered by someone. They even hassled me about it. But she wasn't murdered. She did it to herself. Killed herself. Which is weird, how Japanese that is, like hara-kiri — kind of funny.'

'Oh hilarious.'

'She killed herself in an Espiritu suicide ritual.'

'I told you she was fucked up. And it wasn't just jealousy.' Candy looked around at the club, suddenly conscious that it was crowded and noisy and choked with cigarette smoke. A fat girl wearing too much makeup was trying to shove past her to get at the bar. Candy said, 'This party sucks.'

'It's not a party, just the usual crowd on —»

'That was from a song, 'This Party Sucks.' You have been put away.'

'You wanna get out of here? Go to my place?'

'Your place?'

'Not mine. Where I'm staying.'

'I better not.' But hoping he'd talk her into it.

'Come on. I won't make moves on you. I just want to listen to records and talk. Let's fortify first.' And he ordered two double Cuervo Golds. And then two more. She was wobbling on her heels when they finally got out, giggling and gasping, onto the sidewalk, and he guided them back to her car, seemed to know where it was without asking. Probably spotted it earlier.

Frank seemed hardly even drunk. He drove her up into the Hollywood Hills, one of those old bungalows built split-level into the hillside. The little porch kind of overgrown with shrubs and bird-of-paradise and morning glory, their blossoms closed and wrinkly for the night, like girls with their legs crossed, labia folded away…

Inside, air-conditioned shadows. Santa Fe-style furniture.

'Awesome view,' Candy said. She stood in the dark living room, at the picture window, looking over the tapestry of light, electric blue and sulphur yellow, that was Los Angeles. The night sky was dark violet, somehow, and an eternal stream of cars swept in rivers of headlight glow along the boulevards.

She stood in a deep rug, enjoying its feel on her toes, holding her pumps in one hand; one of Frank's cigarettes, a Sherman, dangled in the other.

Suddenly music, The Cult's 'Sonic Temple,' was playing from somewhere. He'd put on a CD. 'I thought you didn't like this band,' she said.

'I like 'em, now,' he said, coming up behind her.

She could feel the heat from her cigarette on her knuckles; she could feel heat from Frank as he stepped up behind her. Put his arms around her waist. She could feel a rod of warmth at his crotch, pressing against the crack of her ass.

'Forget it,' she said.

'It was you,' he said. 'I realized that when I was in the hospital. You were the one. The only one.'

'Frank, don't — ' But she wanted to hear more. To cover the doubts. His story about the hospital had come out too rehearsed. But playing it back in her head again, it sounded reasonable. Sort of. She turned around, knowing she shouldn't. 'I still don't think —»

But then he was kissing her, hard, had his arms around her. It felt like he was around her and up under her. That was how it felt to her, with men, when it felt really good. Around you and coming up under you. Protecting and coming into you at the same time. He wasn't actually in her yet, but she could feel it pushing, straining at his pants, and there was an answering rush of oozing melt in her pussy…

'You… goddamned…' she tried to say. And then his tongue was in her mouth and it was like plugging into an electrical socket, the current was flowing. He felt different now, to her; he felt bigger and sometimes his tongue felt like it was —

Wait. He was carrying her in his arms.

She couldn't believe it. He wasn't that strong. She looked around and saw he was carrying her up a flight of stairs, which was even harder to do, and then he had toted her effortlessly into a bedroom. There were candles lit here. Blue and red candles. Nice. Romantic.

He put her gracefully on the bed, which was bare but for a sheet, and knelt beside her, kissing and groping. Only now, mixed in with the excitement, there was an anxiety, a feeling that someone was watching them…

Whose house was this? Not his. Some sicko voyeur, maybe, some flake he'd met in the nut house, watching them from a two-way mirror?

He was peeling her clothes off her, she was nude almost before she knew it, and he had taken off his coat and shoes but still had his pants on, how rude, but there was a certain excitement to that, too, a feeling that he was out of control with lust for her, wanted her that badly…

And then he was on top of her, wriggling into her. She was looking dreamily over his shoulder at the candlelight. Her eyes adjusting, the dark room coming gradually into focus. Little dolls, figures made of cornhusks and straw and rags, and a ceramic Mother of Mary but a Mary with the muzzle of a dog, and on a wall someone had painted a slogan or something, ornate in red letters. She could only make out a couple of words.

Hermano demonio… consagrar…

Spanish.

Panic surging, she looked around, seemed to see Pearldoll everywhere now. Saw her face in the folds of the curtain, in the curl of candlesmoke, in the shadows gathered on the ceiling.

Candy yelled hoarsely, tried to push Frank away. His cock in her no longer felt like a connection — it felt like an intrusion. 'This is her place isn't it! Pearldoll's house! You pig! I don't want to be here —»

'Chill out. She left it to me.'

God. Maybe he did kill her. Maybe he was a murderer. Maybe he was into this Espiritu stuff. Maybe he had sacrificed her.

She managed to pull her hips away from him, turning under him to crawl away. Saw the sheet for the first time clearly. There was a pentagram painted on it, in red, and some Spanish words. And a brown stain.