black Bentley parked alongside the long front porch. The old car was no abandoned relic. Its windows were tinted. A silver hood ornament sparkled in the brilliant moonlight, as did the chrome hubcaps. The vehicle was immaculate in every way, and its sleek lines made it look vaguely predatory. The beautiful antique looked as out of place parked outside the old Sutton place as a supermodel in a room full of crack whores.
An argument ensued. They had come so close to turning around and leaving.
He’d argued more forcefully than anyone, bordering on belligerence. In the end the others gave in. They always did. They did it to shut him up, not because they’d been swayed by the strength of his arguments. If only they’d stood up to him for once. If only…
No.
He couldn’t let himself off that easy. Not now. And never again. They were all dead and it was all his fault.
And soon he’d be dead, too. He held out no hope of divine deliverance, harbored no illusion of the cavalry (police) riding up to his rescue at the last minute. Violent, painful death awaited him, and probably at some point within the next few minutes. It was a strange and horrible thing, the idea of the remainder of your life being down to a handful of torturous minutes. Thinking about it elicited another helpless whimper. He didn’t want to die. Quite the contrary. He wanted to be around for many decades to come, even if that meant living with the guilt of being responsible for the deaths of his friends all that time. Yes, even then.
All he had to do was get to that axe.
Somehow haul his battered body upright.
And then be ready for the bastards when they came for him.
So he drew in a deep breath and began to crawl toward the axe.
His hands trembled as the fingernails of his right hand dug into the rotting hardwood floor. He bit down hard on his lower lip and suppressed another whimper. He willed his hand to be still and pulled himself forward another few inches. Then he extended his left hand and gained another few inches. That was harder. The mangled flesh there throbbed horribly. He bit down harder on his lip to stifle a scream. Teeth penetrated flesh and drew blood. The scream stayed inside him, a fire burning in his chest, aching to explode. He extended his right hand again. Then the ruined left hand. He repeated the process several more times, progressing with great deliberation but seemingly infinite slowness. It was maddening. The sheer frustration almost caused him to give up. Then he heard more muffled laughter and anger engulfed him again.
Ignoring the pain as best he could, Dean began to move faster, wriggling forward on bloodied elbows and slightly upraised knees. He began to make serious progress, passing through the archway separating the foyer from the living room. He focused on the bloody axe with a single-mindedness that allowed no awareness of anything else.
He began to grin as he neared the blade. Just a few feet away, now. And then he was there, an electric burst of triumph sparking within him as his right hand closed around the axe handle. He had it, his coveted weapon.
Now he just had to tap one last reservoir of strength, somehow get to his feet and prepare to make his last stand. And he would do it. By God, he would. He hadn’t come this far to punk out now.
He drew in another deep breath, steeling himself.
His grip tightened around the axe handle.
Then something flashed through his field of vision, a dark blur. He was aware of pressure on his wrist before his eyes could process the image of a woman’s high- heeled black shoe pinning his hand to the floor. Then the image crystalized, searing itself into his mind with blazing intensity. The polished black shoe was as elegant as the woman’s finely turned ankle. Black was her whole motif. Black shoes, black stockings, and black dress-a fitting wardrobe reflecting the darkness dwelling within the one the others referred to alternately as “Mistress” and “Ms. Wickman.”
She applied more pressure to Dean’s wrist, eliciting another sob.
Her laughter was soft and mocking. “Such a naughty boy. I suppose you imagined you might use this on me.” She wrenched the axe from Dean’s grip and tossed it across the room. It struck the far wall and clattered to the floor. “I hope you realize it was intentionally left where you might see it upon regaining consciousness.”
Dean wanted to scream, but he didn’t have the strength for it. His spirits dipped to their lowest ebb yet. There had never really been any chance for revenge. The hope he’d felt moments ago had only been an illusion. This whole exercise nothing but another sadistic mindfuck. A game.
Anger flickered within him again. He wrapped the remaining three fingers of his left hand around her ankle and attempted to twist her foot off his wrist. He burned inside with the need to topple her, get on top of her, rip her flesh with his fingers and tear her leering eyes out. But he failed to budge her even one millimeter, her leg as unyielding as an iron girder.
Her strength was unnatural. She was a slender woman, about forty, average weight and height. Not unattractive. High cheekbones, but a gaunt, almost ghostly pallor. Her long dark hair was pulled back in a bun, lending her features a slightly pinched, severe sexuality. A shade of lipstick so dark red it was almost black painted the thin lines of her lips, which were curled now in a disdainful sneer. So she was spooky looking, yes, but at first glance she had not appeared to be some kind of evil superwoman. Not someone capable of lifting a teenage girl above her head and throwing her clear across a room. But he’d seen it with his own eyes, Debbie flying through the air, then striking the wall and bouncing off it like a rubber ball.
It defied logic. It was crazy. Impossible.
But…
“You’ve underestimated me again, haven’t you, Dean?” She knelt down, pried his fingers from her ankle. “I’m going to hurt you again, child.”
An anguished, keening wail issued from Dean’s pulped lips. “Noooooo. Please…please don’t. I’ll do anything…”
Ms. Wickman snapped his index finger.
Dean screamed. His body convulsed as the pain arced through him, his feet beating a jittery rhythm on the hardwood floor. Through the pain, he was only dimly aware of the front door creaking open. Then there were voices. Those young people. Her followers. They were coming inside, no doubt drawn by the scream.
Ms. Wickman snapped the middle finger of his left hand. The scream this time filled the dust-laden living room like an explosion. He tried to get up. Pure pain instinct was driving him. But Ms. Wickman planted a knee between his shoulder blades and that was that. She was too strong. Stronger than any human woman should be.
“One finger left, one stubby little thumb,” she said, leaning close, her voice an insinuating, malicious purr. “I do enjoy your begging, Dean. Would you like me to spare this one?”
Dean thought about the way this sort of thing usually went in the movies. Your typical cinema hero, facing yet another round of torture, would spit in his tormentor’s face and say, “Fuck you.” Or some witty alternative.
What Dean said was, “Please don’t do it. I’ll do anything. I swear.”
A brief pause.
“Thank you, Dean.”
She snapped his thumb.
Dean’s next scream mingled with the laughter of Ms.
Wickman’s apprentices. Some of the laughter died off as their Mistress gathered his broken fingers in her hand and…squeezed.
Then squeezed harder. And harder still.
Tidal waves of pain slammed through Dean. His body bucked. The long, continuous scream that ripped out of him felt as though it might tear his body apart. Dean blacked out for a moment, only to be reawakened almost instantly by the agony blazing in every nerve ending in his body. At some point, Ms. Wickman relinquished her grip on his broken fingers, stood up, and moved away from him.
He heard her talking to her followers. There were four of them, ranging in age from mid-teens to early twenties. The oldest, a thin but tall boy of about twenty or twenty-one, hauled Dean off the floor and deposited him on the old sofa. The sofa reeked of mildew and rot, and it creaked beneath his weight.
Then Ms. Wickman loomed over him again. A long, thin cigarette was pinched between two fingers of her right hand. She took a draw on the cigarette, then blew a thin stream of smoke at the sagging ceiling.
She met Dean’s gaze and smiled. “Do you smoke, Dean?”
Dean coughed. “No.”
That strange, wicked smile again. Insinuating. Malicious to the core. “Well, you’re about to start.”
Dean felt terror again, sure, but now another feeling rose to the surface, a weariness he felt from the depths of his soul. “I don’t care anymore. Please kill me now. Get it over with.”
The woman’s eyes widened in mock surprise. “Oh, Dean, honey, I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding between you and me.”
Dean drew in another sharp breath as she sat next to him on the sofa and draped an arm around his shoulders. He trembled beneath her touch, tried to cringe away from her, but of course was unable to move.
She leaned into him, her breath hot on his ear as she spoke. “I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot here, Dean. You see, we’re not going to kill you.”
Dean’s gaze swept over the mad woman’s followers, cataloguing a variety of minor injuries and mutilations. A missing finger here, a livid scar there…and the tall, thin boy was missing an ear.
Dean shook his head as more tears filled his eyes. “No. No, no, no. You can’t make me. I won’t…won’t be like… them.”
A dark-haired girl in a raggedy black dress and black Doc Martens laughed. “Where have I heard that before?”
More deranged laughter.
Ms. Wickman leaned closer still, her lips moving softly against his ear as she said, “You’ll be whatever I want you to be. You belong to me now.”
Then she put out her cigarette on the back of his mangled hand.
Dean screamed yet again.
And watched aghast as smoke rose from the seared pucker of flesh.
