House Infernal by Edward Lee (34 page)

After a delayed reaction, Venetia thought, Lottie? and
then she opened her eyes and pushed the bare bosom out
of her face. Her heart slammed once, then seemed to
stop; it was no longer Ann McGowen and Dan who
tended to her-it was Sister Patricia Stevenson and Lottie
Jessel, both naked and pale as cream as they grinned at
her, both bearing the great knife slits in their throats and
the zipperlike lines of black stitches from their autopsy
incisions.

Venetia screamed but no sound came out. The Patriciacorpse was trying to mount Venetia's face, her dead blue
nipples puckered, while the shriveled sixty-year-old corpse
of Lottie Jessel reapplied her blue lips to Venetia's sex.

"Have you gone to the basement yet?" one of them asked
in a death rattle.

Venetia awoke, cringing. Oh my God, that was disgusting!
She leaned up, sweating in spite of the room's cool air. I
fell asleep and didn't even realize it.... Revolted, she
jumped off the bed, donned her robe, and slipped out of
the room.

She needed to get out. Maybe I should ask for a different
room, she considered, skimming down the stairs. But that
would sound inane. Father Driscoll would think she believed the room was haunted. It was just a bad dream, she
convinced herself, but then-

She remembered. What Ann McGowen had told her in
the seedy bathroom. It walks around at night and poisons
our dream....

Weren't Venetia's dreams poisoned as well?

She stopped halfway across the atrium. She didn't
know where she was going, but Ann had said something
else too, something about the ghost of Tessorio urging her
to go to the basement.

Consider the source. A drunk prostitute, a drug addict.
She was making it up, a scary story to frighten "Little Bo
Peep." Nevertheless, she spent the next half hour looking
for a basement door but found none.

Outside?

Venetia was exhausted but admittedly too freaked by
the dream to go back to her room. Without forethought,
then, she was unlocking the back door with her key, then
walking outside....

A hot, starry night awaited her, with its nearly deafening chorus of crickets-the night seemed to throb. As her
bare feet took her around the perimeter of the house, all
the while she was looking down for a sign of some
foundation-level windows, or a pair of slightly angled
doors lying on the ground that would surely open to
moldy steps leading down into a basement.

Thirty fruitless minutes later, she realized, there was no
basement in this house. What an idiot 1 am.

She headed back to the kitchen door. A breeze puffed
her hair but it was hot; she was already clammy again.
The moon blurred in her eyes. At least the nighttime excursion had let her walk off some of the beer buzz.

She stopped just before the door. Had she heard a
branch crack?

Her eyes darted toward the back of the property.

And she saw a shape, a white shape move between the
trees.

Venetia laughed at herself. Could this be the ghost of
Amano Tessorio?

Or was it just Betta, on another secret rendezvous with
John?

She knew it was the latter, for she spied the movement
in the same area as the cove.

Go to bed. Her search for the nonexistent basement had
left her even more fatigued. But-

She slipped over to the wood line. I am such a snoop.
What is wrong with me? She knew what she would see, so
why was she doing this?

But no argument with herself sufficed. Venetia very
carefully traipsed around the rim of the woods to the
opening.

At once she heard rustling, then a moan.

Dan's a closet smoker and drinker, she half-jested. Am I a
closet voyeur? She didn't think so; nevertheless, she admitted a subtle thrill. The secret onlooker. Moonlight dappled
into the dell; white squiggles floated on the pond and just
before it-

Venetia pressed her cheek against a tree, hiding half her
face to watch with one eye. Betta-in her open white
blouse-knelt before John, whose back faced Venetia. His
bare buttocks flexed; it was clear what she was doing.
John groaned, muttering, "Baby," then after another moment of this oral prelude, fell to his own knees to he between Betta's legs. What took place was much more
frenetic than "lovemaking"; it was primitive, animalistic,
but even at this distance, Venetia could see the wanton
passion in Betta's eyes. John thrust into her for a time,
then stopped just as Betta's back was arching; then he was
slithering down between her legs to pursue some oral titillations of his own.

Betta squirmed in the leaves, moaning, but otherwise
unable to voice words of approval. Words were hardly
necessary anyway. Betta continued to writhe along with
her pleasure, while Venetia-

Her mind remained dead silent as she watched, but her
hands began to trace her own body's curves through the
robe. Hot sensations-that she knew were forbidden for a
celibate-began to linger around her groin. All the while
her vision strained through the moonlit darkness....

Betta convulsed now, her gasps leaving no doubt that
she was climaxing. "Like this now, baby," John's voice
floated through darkness, and he was turning her around
to hands and knees, and quickly reentering her. Betta's
hair hung in the leaves as she let herself be taken, John's buttocks pumping and Betta's hanging breasts jumping
with each thrust.

Venetia's eyes closed to slits. Her own hands had long
since slipped beneath the robe to stroke her bare flesh,
fingers pinching her nipples till she nearly squealed, her
other hand cosseting her sex. The hot night-and its carnal sights-seemed to suck the sweat from her pores.
Now the flood of pleasure wound through her nerves like
twisting wires; she could feel the blood vessels beating in
her breasts, could feel her nipples gorge, could feel-

She knew she was close to an orgasm, yet she also knew
she mustn't let that happen. More of Ann McGowen's
hostile words haunted her as her hands betrayed themselves: What kind of God would give His flock desire and then
demand that they repress it?

Then her own words screamed, I can't do this! It's a sin!

And she stopped just before climaxing.

She stood paralyzed behind the tree, her heart beating
so loud she was surprised Betta and John didn't heard it.
When she looked back at them, they were finished. They
were standing in each other's arms, kissing.

Then they parted.

Venetia froze. They're going to see me! What am I going to
say?

John whispered some endearment and disappeared
down the trail that would take him to town. Betta
watched after him, a white ghost in the dark. Was she caressing herself while she watched? Eventually Betta
turned around to nearly face the tree Venetia hid behind,
and-yes--she very openly ran her hands up and down
her bare flesh. Another gasp when her fingers slipped
lower to tease her sex, as though she were trying to handle her post-orgasmic afterglow.

Then she left the clearing and headed back to the
house.

At once the sweat of Venetia's excitement changed to the
sweat of her shame. Forgive me, God, came her feeble prayer.

When she turned, her foot rubbed something. She
looked down and saw-A gas can?

Yes. It sat at the base of some trees, but when she picked
it up, she knew it was empty. One of John's. Probably for the
mower, she thought. But why leave it here? She sniffed the
end of the nozzle, expecting the aroma of gasoline, but
smelled nothing. Why'd he leave a brand-new gas can in the
woods? Then the answer became obvious. He'd probably
meant to take it to the shed but got a little sidetracked....

Venetia shuffled back to the prior house. She felt dirty.
Some aspiring nun I turned out to be. Masturbating in the
woods. It didn't matter that she hadn't finished. Lust in the
heart is the same thing as adultery-Christ said so.

She lingered outside in the moonlight, giving Betta
plenty of time to get to bed. What Venetia had witnessed
only rubbed her face in what she was probably never going to have: mutual attraction and passion that led to sex.
God's testing me, that's it, she tried to joke to herself, but it
didn't seem funny to her. Eventually the night's cacophony of crickets drove her back into the house.

Inside she paused at the stairwell-she could hear the
shower going upstairs. Damn it-Betta must be taking a
shower. She didn't want to risk being seen so she waited in
a chair beneath the stair-hall. She tried to focus on more
halfhearted prayers, but fragments of Betta and John kept
barging in, or her little fantasy of Ann McGowen and
Dan. Forgive me, God, she thought again.

Was she jealous of Betta and John's passion for each
other? She knew she had to be in some way. Jesus, I'm a
human being, I can't help it! she tried to argue. It was intriguing, though, the dichotomy. Around others, John
was shy and introverted. But in the woods, she thought, he's
a sexual animal, and so is Betta. Could there really be that
much wrong with it? Each of their inadequacies had
brought them together. I'll bet they even love each other, she
surmised, but again she felt that she was arguing with
God. What's wrong with that, if they love each other?

Maybe nothing.

At any rate, Venetia knew that her next confession
would be very interesting.

She could still hear the shower. Hurry up, Betta. Soon, she was slumping in the chair, more exhaustion piling up.
She tried to focus on paintings around the atrium, but
they only turned to blurs. Her eyelids began to droop.

"Venetia! Venetia!" the tinny voice shrilled in her head.
"Don't fall asleep! It's Father Alexander, talking to you over the
Vox Unterwelt! Please! Listen! And don't fall asleep!"

The pain seemed to lance through her ears. Not again!
Venetia doubled over out of the chair, to kneelshuddering-with her head to the old throw rug.

A wave of something crackled through the terrifying
words, like bad reception. Between the pain and the interference, she could only make out bits and pieces of the
manic voice:

"-talking to you from Hell. Do you remember my voice
from yesterday?"

"Yes," she croaked.

"This isn't a dream, this is for real!" and then another
wave of distortion. "-are six of them," and then "-were
Unanointed by an Exalted Duke in Hell whose name is Boniface-"

The name snagged her through the pain.

But the voice grew louder. She knew she'd pass out. She
could feel tears pouring from her eyes into the carpet.

"-of them, and it's almost time for them to be-" but she
couldn't make out the next string of words, just something that sounded like "transposed," and "electrocution,"
or "revolution," but then the crunching staticlike waves
cleared and the shrill words continued,

"-Ablissa, Eylla, Azusis, Belith, Gesmary, Tzaella. Those
are their names. And one of them-"

The next wave made Venetia feel as though her head
had just been driven over by a truck.

"No! Please! Don't fall asleep!"

But it wasn't sleep that threatened her; it was paininduced wakefulness.

"-six angels!" Then static. "-six coffins!" More static,
then, "-six bones!" The mad voice spun around her head,
and she thought the last thing she heard was this: "-bones! Remember the bones! Venetia, for God's sake, remember to take
one of-

The voice ceased as abruptly as an ax-strike.

Venetia rolled over to lie flat on her back. "Thank God,"
"
she muttered, for the phalanx of pain, like metal barbs in
her brain, disappeared. Her heart raced. Calm down, it's
over. She dragged herself up, pulled her robe together. The
shower could no longer be heard, so she straggled to the
stairs. Behind her, the long expanse of the atrium stood in
total silence.

Maybe I'm going crazy, she thought. Maybe my sexual repression is making me mentally ill. But any further thoughts
snapped out of her mind. She was halfway up the stairs
when a rigor of fear locked her joints up. Did her heart actually cease to beat?

At the top of the landing, a black-cloaked figure stood
looking down. Within the hood was just shadow...

It's not there. It's not real....

Then the figure began to stride quickly down the stairs,
arms outstretched for Venetia's throat, and that's when
she fainted and toppled to the bottom of the stairs.

Alexander sighed and put the Vox Untervelt back under
his shirt. Was he having his first genuine doubts about
this mission? Come on, God, help me out, he thought.

But could God even hear him from the Mephistopolis?

He had no way of knowing if Venetia Barlow had received his latest communication. The Hex Fluxes seemed
to spike whenever he engaged the Vox, and he knew what
that likely meant: Someone's onto us.

The Boniface District shimmered all around him, the
scarlet hue of the blood bricks so intense it seemed luminous. Even the municipal workers-Imps, mostly-wore
blood-drenched overalls to keep with the District's
theme. Alexander sat at a carriage stop across the street
from the No Seasons Hotel, whose upscale infernal
restaurant-The Alferd Packer Room-was thought to be
the very best in Hell. Ruth-dressed in the pricey
Tongue-Skirt and Hand-Bra-had been hired within a
minute of speaking to the Demonic floor manager.
Alexander peered through the glass, half-fretting. Now if she can only manage to not get fired before Aldezhor arrives ...
He'd already seen too many examples of her bad temper
and firecracker attitude.

He decided to wait a while longer before he went in himself; he figured he'd get a seat at the cocktail bar to keep an
eye on her. Just be careful, he reminded himself. Grand Duke
Aldezhor always has a Bio-Wizard with him. These practiced
occult scientists could often sniff out anti-Satanic detractors
by reading their auras. And Ruth better not blow it, either...