Queen Of Blood

“I am schooled in methods of stealth.”

“No kidding.” Chad’s heart was pounding. “What are you doing here? You pissed that we rejected your stupid-ass proposal?”

“The plan will go forward. Your master, Mr. Jim, has been made to see the wisdom of our intentions.”

Chad frowned. He didn’t like the sound of that at all. He noticed the Order woman had one hand tuc ked behind her back and realized she was concealing something.

“What are you-”

Her right hand curled into a fist and delivered a brutal jab to a spot just beneath his sternum. Chad cried out and bent over at the waist. He tried to say something, but could only manage a wheeze. Then the woman showed him the thing she’d been hiding behind her back and bile flooded his throat. Her fingers clutched the severed head of Jack Paradise by strands of blood-slickened hair.

Anger overwhelmed his fear. Chad forced himself up right and threw a wild punch the Order woman easily avoided. She jabbed him in the stomach again, harder, blasting the breath from him and driving him to his knees. Then she kicked him in the gut and he flopped over onto his back. A white-hot center of pain expanded and rendered further resistance at least temporarily impossible. The Order woman tossed Jack’s head into the pit and again seized handfuls of Chad’s jacket. She began to pull him away from the campsite toward the nearby line of trees. A part of Chad’s psyche marveled over the small woman’s strength, impressed despite the peril he was in.

The evening darkness deepened as they entered the woods. The woman yanked him to his feet and stood him against the thick base of a tall tree. The narrow slits of her eyes seemed darker and harder now, like the eyes of a demoness. She removed the scabbard containing her sword and set it carefully on the ground. Then she moved in close and peppered Chad’s midsection with a series of high-power jabs. Yet each was delivered with just enough force to maintain a steady level of pain. Chad tried to collapse several times, but the woman wouldn’t allow it, forcing him to remain upright as she continued to punish him. And he knew that was precisely what was happening. She’d judged him guilty of insolence and was putting him in his place. At some point a part of his mind became disconnected from the pain and the beating. He thought of Jack Paradise, how brave the man had been, and he weeped.

Then the woman stopped punching him and said, “I have something else to tell you.”

Chad sniffled. “What?”

“Your woman is an agent of your enemy. She has betrayed you and laughs at you whenever your back is turned.”

Chad stood up straighter and tried to get his breathing under control. “I…k now. I figured…that out…a long time ago.” He swallowed hard. “But she’s with us now.”

The Order woman smirked. “You are an idiot.”

She slapped him.

Chad put a hand to his stinging cheek. “Fuck. Why don’t you just kill me and be done with it?”

Her smirk gave way to a small smile. “Because I have another use for you. The Order rules this place now. And I have decided to claim you as my property.”

Chad’s brow furrowed. “What?”

The Order woman slapped him again. “Be quiet and do as I say.”

“Fuck you.”

The woman’s nostrils flared. Here eyes widened with rage. She punched him in the abdomen again, a blow harder by far than any of the previous blows. Chad dropped to his knees and she kicked him in the stomach again. On his back, now, he stared up at her and watched in disbelief as she began to disrobe. In a moment she was standing naked over him, a small foot planted to either side of his head. Chad stared up at her slender, sleek body, which was rendered ghostly pale by the sliver of moonlight that peeked through the treetops.

She licked her lips. “It is time for you to begin your life of servitude.”

Chad had time to draw in a breath.

Then she lowered herself to him.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The girl bent over the edge of the bed was a white prostitute with lank blonde hair and track marks on her arms. She was a new arrival, fresh from the streets of Los Angeles, where she’d been swept up by Black Brigade scouts. In the ordinary course of things a creature already so damaged would have been banished to Razor City. But Gwendolyn’s suicide had changed things. Upon learning of the loss of her plaything, Ursula had become despondent and withdrawn. Giselle attempted to appease her by allowing her to decide the fate of the new meat, a privilege she relished. Some Ursula deemed as clearly unworthy of her attention and these were sent to Razor City. Others she killed on the spot, with no apparent rhyme or reason. And every week she selected an unlucky few upon which she vented the rage and frustration consuming her.

The prostitute’s mouth had been stitched shut with a needle and thread. Her wrists were bound by a length of rusty barbed wire. Ursula stood behind her, nude except for black platform heels and a strap-on dildo. A cigarette in a plastic holder dangled from a corner of her mouth as she pounded the dildo into the prostitute’s bleeding anus.

Giselle lay on her side on the other side of the bed, her head propped in an upraised hand. The prostitute stared a desperate plea at her with wide, misty eyes. Giselle felt a mild arousal at the obscene thing her lover was doing to the pitiful creature. But it was a reflex. There was no real fire behind it. She still loved Ursula, but the bond between them had weakened, a steady, drip-drip erosion she feared would continue until there was nothing left. She watched the bounce of Ursula’s breasts and the sway of her long blonde hair as she ass-fucked the prostitute and tried to feel more than mild arousal.

And the result was the same.

Nothing.

So she was glad for the diversion when she heard the clack of jackboot heels.

She rose from the bed to greet Schreck.

The commander’s sleek black uniform was crisp and immaculate, his boots polished and gleaming. His eyes were a cold blue-gray and his hair was cut close to the scalp. His lips were thin and his features had a cruel cast, fitting for one in his position. He doffed his hat and clacked his heels. Giselle was amused. The man was an admirer of the arch militarism of Third Reich fascists, and there were times when he seemed like a particularly demented little boy playing the role of concentration camp commandant.

He bowed stiffly and said, “Mistress, there is a matter requiring your immediate attention.”

Giselle smiled and moved to her wardrobe. She selected a green silk robe and pulled it on. It was short, the hem reaching the mid-thigh level. She cinched it shut with the sash and turned back to the commander, the smile still on her face.

She smoothed the fabric down over her thighs and said, “How does this look?”

A corner of the man’s mouth quirked as he struggled to contain frustration. “Madam, this is a matter of the highest importance. I hardly think ”

Giselle’s smile faded. “I asked you a question. Answer it.”

Schreck was a coolly efficient man who didn’t stay flustered long. It was what made him so perfectly suited for his role in the scheme of things. “It looks lovely on you, Mistress.”

“Of course it does. Now tell me about this supposedly dire development.”

She moved to the vanity next to the wardrobe and sat in the chair there, pulling at the hem of her robe as she crossed her legs. Schreck turned to face her directly and drew in a breath. A slight frown creased Giselle’s forehead. Something had rattled the man. A faint alarm sounded at the back of her mind. She’d never known Schreck to be nervous, not even in the immediate aftermath of Ms. Wickman’s assassination.

Her interest piqued, she sat up straighter and leaned forward. “Come on, man. Out with it. What has the likes of you in such a tizzy?”

Schreck heaved a sigh. “Madam…we have new arrivals. Three women. One of them is Dream Weaver, who was-”

“I know who she is.” Giselle frowned and glanced toward the bed. Ursula was still pounding away at the prostitute. The backs of her long, shapely legs flexed with each thrust. The mild arousal she’d felt earlier gained a bit more heat. She had to force her gaze back to Schreck’s subtly troubled expression. “She’s a prize catch. You should be giddy. So why the concern?”

Schreck tugged at the stiff collar of his uniform shirt with an index finger. Giselle’s frown deepened. The man was more than a little nervous. There was even a very thin sheen of sweat along his forehead. “We did not bring Ms. Weaver in. She and her companions are here of their own accord.”

“But that’s absurd. Why would they come here of their own free will?”

Schreck’s shoulders lifted in a small shrug.“I know little of their intentions. Ms. Weaver has actually caused quite a stir in the larger world of late. She and her friends have been on a crime spree of epic proportions, with a trail of victims and robberies across several northeastern and midwestern states.”

Giselle settled back in the chair and crossed her fingers at her waist. “How odd. It’s not a fate I would have imagined for that woman.” Her eyes narrowed. “And it still doesn’t explain why they’re here.”

“Indeed.” Schreck glanced briefly in the direction of the large double doors that stood open at the far end of the big room. He seemed anxious and his voice dropped to a whisper as he said, “But if I may venture a guess?”

Giselle frowned. “Please do.”

Schreck moved closer to Giselle, kneeling slightly at the waist as he again spoke in a whisper: “I believe they’ve come here seeking refuge. They’re weary of dodging the law and need a place to hunker down, perhaps indefinitely.” A malignant smile darkened the corners of his thin lips. “Desperation brought them to our door, Mistress. They are broken. Beaten. They are at our mercy.”

“My mercy, you mean.”

Schreck blinked. “Of course.”

Giselle frowned again. “If they are, as you say, ‘beaten,’ then why are you so afraid?”

Schreck straightened at once, indignation flaring in his eyes. “I am not afraid.”