Devil's Fire (20 page)

The agitation on Martin’s face matched my own. I recalled how my fear had run rampant when that moonlit crone came to my room at Mount Calvary; I didn’t dare ask why young Crowley felt compelled to leave the celebration, or how long long he’d languished before expiring. ‘Handsome fellow,’ I remarked, not knowing what else to say.

‘Yes, he was. All of us loved him.’ Brother Christy’s eyes met mine, telling me I should take a lesson from Martin’s fate. ‘But I’m wasting our time, and there’s still much to see. And while precious few have viewed this room, only my closest, chosen companions even know about the next chamber. This should tell you how very special you are to me, Mary Grace.’

I couldn’t miss the implication: the favour of his friendship came with a price. Although the room was cosy, I again shivered, wishing I weren’t so exposed to the monk’s attentive eyes — eyes that captured line and form so accurately and transferred them into his macabre art. I sorely wished Fortune had warned me about Brother Christy’s peculiar pastimes — but then, he wouldn’t have entrusted me into his keeping, had he known about them. With the fleeting thought that I might never again kiss the one I loved, I stood aside so my guide could open the disguised door.

What I saw in the next room made the blood rush from my head.

Noting my pallor, Christy draped an arm around my bare shoulders and began to speak in a low, controlled voice. ‘At first glance, the eye fools us into believing that what we see is a continuation of what came before. But if you apply your rational mind, dear Mary, you’ll realise the fallacy of this illusion.’

Concentrating on Brother Christy’s voice — because I had to cling to something, or I’d faint — I focused intently on the figures in this room. It was a replica of the sanctuary, but with only three rows of pews between us and the chancel area. The dark panelling, marble altar and anatomical sconces were the same, but even in the dim lighting I could not mistake the faces and figures of Father Luc, Mrs Goodin, Elvira, Ahmad and Sybil.

Having seen the previous corpses, it took only a tiny leap of imagination to believe these people were dead, as well. ‘I don’t understand,’ I murmured. ‘And I don’t think I want to.’

Brother Christy chuckled. ‘This is my wax museum, Mary Grace. Because the human form fascinates me — and because we have an ample supply of beeswax — I’ve indulged myself in another medium that gives me even greater pleasure than preserving the dead. Perhaps you’ll better appreciate my efforts after you sit down for a moment.’

Trancelike, I allowed him to usher me to the front pew. I was afraid to take my eyes off the wax models, fearing they might change positions to trick me — or reveal themselves as their live counterparts, playing a ghastly joke. Father Luc, dressed in a black cassock, sat on the majestic chair nearest the pulpit, while Hortense Goodin stood beside him with a fist in her hip, looking ready to scold the others.

And it was no wonder: my dear friend Sybil, stark naked, in a partial squat atop the altar with her russet waves and gypsy earrings, wagged her shapely arse at Ahmad. The inscrutable beekeeper, as mystical in wax as in reality, stood ready to skewer her from behind with that legendary pecker, while Elvira, clad in her tunic, leaned towards Sybil’s crotch with her tongue extended.

That this brazen act was posed upon the altar was beside the point. Everything about the scene and this room, right down to the low lighting and the elusive scents of sweat and sex, suggested activities I didn’t allow myself to imagine. After all, Brother Christy had made no mannequin of himself.

‘Do you want to study them more closely? Touch them, perhaps?’

‘No!’ I blurted. My outcry echoed in the vaulted ceiling, mocking my deepest fears. Covered again in gooseflesh, I squirmed on the pew, my bare skin protesting against the polished walnut. My pulse was pounding, and I felt so ready to run from this room my shins twitched. And yet, when I saw that Sybil’s eyes were fixed on mine — that she gazed at me over Elvira’s ebony curls, with a longing I knew so well — the heat flared inside me.

‘She’s a wondrous creature, is she not?’ the friar whispered. ‘Forged in the Devil’s own fire, it would seem, expressly to lead us into temptations beyond our wildest fantasies. I was so taken with her, she inspired my first work in wax the day after she arrived.’

Recalling the way this man watched from the cottage doorway as Sybil and I pleasured each other, his revelation didn’t surprise me. ‘Does she know about this…doll?’

‘Of course not. And I think you realise why no one else does, either.’

I could only nod, mutely agreeing not to reveal Brother Christy’s secret. Since she didn’t feel the same level of affection for him, Sybil would be curious — and defiant — enough to sneak down here, to suffer Martin Crowley’s horrible fate. Having her demise on my conscience would be more than I could bear, so I kept gazing at her lush breasts and the flush of arousal on her flawless face — admiring the perfection of the art so I wouldn’t think about the twisted whims of the artist. As the wetness trickled between my legs, I swore Sybil winked at me.

‘Sit here, if you wish, or you may look around. I’ve something else to show you.’

Brother Christy passed between the inert figures to the crimson curtain, which — like the one upstairs — concealed a door. He stepped through it, leaving me alone in this airless room inhabited by three-dimensional optical illusions. Wondering if I’d again been influenced by opium, I dared myself to stand up and touch Elvira’s tan tunic.

It was as real as the one Mrs Goodin had snatched from the grass earlier.

Bolder now, I slowly circled the altar to study the monk’s handiwork. Careful to remain at a distance, lest Sybil or Ahmad playfully grab for my breasts, I admired their skin tones, the skilfully arranged wigs, the facial features that captured them exactly as I knew them. I swore I could smell Sybil’s wet sex. Ahmad’s erection seemed to quiver, with a bubble of translucent fluid oozing from its tip. His cock ring glimmered in the dusky light, and the ruby in his nose caught the glow from the sconces as his piercing obsidian eyes tried to mesmerise me.

I turned quickly, thinking Elvira had shifted, but it was the rustling of the crimson curtain as Brother Christy returned. ‘Now that you’ve had a chance to pass judgment on my earlier works, what do you think of this fine specimen?’

My hand flew to my mouth. He was rolling in a replica of Hyde Fortune.

At that moment I wanted Hyde’s company so badly, a sob escaped me. This warned me of my distraught state, and of how vulnerable I was to whatever else the apple-cheeked monk had in mind, so I forced myself to study this life-sized image. Not only had Brother Christy captured the shadow of Hyde’s jaw and the dimple near his chin, but he’d mussed the thick, sandy hair just enough to correlate with the handsome mortician’s expression when he was ready to climax.

‘I could swear he has a suit like that,’ I managed, fighting to stay afloat in these emotion-charged waters.

The monk smiled slyly. ‘They say clothes make the man, but I contend that our natural endowments are what make us memorable.’

With that, he unfastened the pants to reveal an erection so realistic I would’ve recognised it in the dark. The monk’s chuckle came from all corners of the mock sanctuary as he let the trousers drop, watching my reaction. ‘Feel free to indulge yourself, Mary Grace. I know how you miss him between his visits.’

Again I clapped my hand to my mouth, more frightened than I’d ever felt in my life, yet vibrantly aroused. Hyde might as well have been standing before me, imploring me to spread my legs or suck him. My sex ached with the need to know whether that cock of wax would fill me like the real one, but the way Christy caressed it — and himself — warned me not to step any closer.

‘My sculpture’s having the desired effect,’ he murmured, slipping a hand through a vent in his tunic seam. ‘It’s one thing to react to my own art, but much more gratifying to see a beautiful woman respond so copiously, despite her knowledge that he’s only a waxwork.’

Brother Christy’s gaze remained at the apex of my legs. ‘Would you please catch that honey dribbling down your leg, Mary Grace? You’ll be doing us both a favour. The sooner we satisfy ourselves, the sooner we move on to the vaults.’

His manipulation stung, after I’d trusted him so long, but I didn’t think he’d come after that honey himself: he’d had plenty of chances, yet allowed others to do the honours. As my fingers inched down to catch the slickness escaping from my slit, however, I knew the culmination I craved wouldn’t come by my own hand.

My companion — as always — seemed to know what I was thinking. Brother Christy tipped the mannequin of Hyde backwards, just enough to level it horizontally, and then laid it carefully on the floor. Had I walked in at that moment, I would’ve assumed my lover was lying in wait, randy and ready for me. The cock rising proudly in the air seemed to quiver as I stared at it. It was my own excitement causing this illusion, no doubt, but I was too agitated to care.

‘Straddle him, Mary Grace. Close your eyes and fuck him as though the two of you were alone.’

That was his price: Brother Christy wanted to watch me come, but this time he demanded a private showing. If I was to have the fabrics he’d baited me with, I would play his game and keep his secrets — hopefully before Father Luc and Mrs Goodin could plan another humiliating penance.

I lowered myself over the image of Hyde Fortune, reaching between my thighs for the shaft of wax. Undulating above it until its tip teased at my swollen folds, I circled my hole before testing it on my clit. Perhaps because the wax absorbed my own heat, it felt like the chocolate dildo Sybil’s kitchen crew had slipped inside me — ridged, veined, and satisfyingly solid. With a sigh, I impaled myself and began to pump. Closing my eyes would allow me to pretend it was Hyde beneath me, lying very still at my command, yet I fed my fascination by gazing into that familiar face.

Brother Christy watched intently, following my movements up and down the cock he’d created. When he again slipped behind the crimson curtain, I assumed he wanted his own private release — so I humped faster, to please myself rather than putting on a show. Sitting higher, I threw my head back and thrust out my breasts as I angled myself to better advantage. My inner tensions had risen near the breaking point since I’d entered the monk’s secret chambers, and I was eager for release. My body tightened until that familiar frenzy rose within me, breaking like waves before a cataclysmic storm.

Brother Christy returned as I was on the verge of screaming, and when I saw what he brought with him, my cries rang louder. He smiled, looking so very childlike and proud of another waxwork he’d made — of me.

His woman of wax wore the ivory-and-cream striped dress Hyde gave me, and her auburn waves had worked loose from the knot at her crown. She was kneeling, with her eyes closed and her lips forming an O. Christy raised the front of his tunic. He was facing away from me, towards the seated figure of Father Luc, but I knew exactly what he was going to do.

Once again I was forced to recall when Mrs Goodin threw open the carriage door to catch me in that very position, but I was beyond humiliation: I squirmed against the false cock until release racked my body. Unable to stop, my hips kept driving against the shaft, finding that sweet, heated spot that sent ripples up from deep inside me for delicious minutes on end. Relieved, yet somewhat aghast at what I’d just done, I began to dismount the man so much like Hyde — until a rustling of the crimson curtain froze me in place.

Mrs Goodin stepped into the chancel, her eyes on Brother Christy. The monk was now thrusting madly into the mouth of my counterpart, perhaps pretending Father Luc watched while he slid between my lips. He was apparently so caught up in his pleasure he didn’t realise who had joined us, while I hoped to avoid detection by lying flat upon the mannequin of Hyde, on the opposite side of the altar. Through the loose weave of the altar cloth I could see Mrs Goodin, however, and I knew the friar she approached in silence would soon feel her wrath.

But the dour housekeeper unfastened her skirt and let it drop to the floor. Then she stepped away from the puddle of stiff fabric, wearing only dark stockings held up by a black garter belt, which framed a bush of bristling jet hair. Without interrupting the humping monk, she threw aside the folds of Father Luc’s cassock to reveal a wax erection beyond all possible human proportions. She was fingering her slit, feverishly spreading her wetness as she watched Brother Christy.

Backing towards the abbot’s seated figure, Hortense straddled his lap to thrust herself upon his mammoth shaft. With a feral growl, she moved up and back, up and back, with the same speed and force of the monk a few feet in front of her. Now that I knew Father Luc’s housekeeper was no stranger to this room, and was too engrossed in her own satisfaction to notice me, I slipped two fingers between my quivering folds. A delicious sense of irony spurred me on: while the two paragons of the monastery brought themselves to climax, I had caught them in the act — together!

The laundress was about to lose all her starch, judging from the dark sparkle in her eyes. As she gazed at Brother Christy, her nostrils flaring, she fumbled with the buttons of her blouse. ‘Don’t you dare pump your juice into that redheaded hussy, Christopher Goodin!’ she snarled. ‘Get over here where you belong. Prove yourself more a man than the abbot here.’

Brother Christy acknowledged her command with a desperate groan. As he yanked himself from the throat of the Mary Grace mannequin, Hortense removed her uniform blouse. She sucked in her breath to unhook her corset in one practised motion, freeing a pair of full, pendulous breasts. The man she’d summoned caught them in his hands, suckling them eagerly, as though he’d been deprived of human contact for days.

I could only stare: if I’d understood correctly, Brother Christy was the Mr Goodin we’d all wondered about and felt so sorry for. There was more to this story than I dared speculate over, but the housekeeper’s enraptured face — and the hungry way the monk serviced her — told me these secret encounters occurred more often than anyone could guess. As I imagined telling Sybil about this, I doubted she’d believe me.