Queen Of Blood (17 page)

The girl flopped onto her back, making the bed springs squeal again. Then she rolled onto her side and pressed her face into
the pillow, kicking her feet and convulsing with hysterical laughter. Marcy hopped off the bed and made a beeline for Dream.
There was a wild gleam in her eyes, a hint of something wicked. She slid onto Dream’s lap and pushed her tongue between her
lips. Dream’s initial reaction was shock bordering on revulsion. This wasn’t her thing at all. But the cocaine was working
on her now. She felt wild and up for anything. So she let Marcy kiss her, even started kissing her back.

Then she heard something.

A click.

She broke the liplock with Marcy and turned her gaze to the hotel room’s front door. The brass doorknob moved. The motion
was slight, careful. She heard another click and knew someone was breaking in. She pushed Marcy off her lap and got to her
feet as the door swung open and two men rushed into the room. One was a middle-aged man in a cheap suit. The other was a wiry,
black-clad kid with scraggly hair that hung in his face. The older man had a .38 clutched in a beefy fist. The kid brandished
a large and quite lethal-looking knife.

The older one kicked the door shut with the heel of his shoe and leered at them. He dropped a lockpicking tool into a suit
poc ket. “Party’s over, bitches.”

Dream opened her mouth to tell the intruders they were messing with the wrong people. But the words never made it past the
tip of her tongue. Things started happening. She saw it develop like a slow-motion scene from a cheesy ’70s cop movie. But
the impression was a false one. It was happening fast. Too fast. She felt a hot surge of panic as Ellen rolled off the bed
and made a grab for Marcy’s Glock, which was on the nightstand now. The wiry kid flipped the blade in his hand and snapped
his arm back. His arm came forward as Ellen brought the gun around. A scream filled the room. Marcy. The knife was a blur
as it spun through the air. The blade buried itself in Ellen’s side. Her finger jerked on the Glock’s trigger, squeezing off
a reflexive shot that sent a bullet whizzing by Dream’s head. The bullet punched a hole through the television and Ellen dropped
to the floor.

Marcy screamed again and rushed to her sister’s side. The man in the suit aimed his gun at her back. He was going to kill
her. Dream understood this in a flash. Anyone close to the Glock was a threat. She saw his finger begin to exert pressure
on the trigger. A thought formed in her head.
Heat.
The gun glowed red. The man’s flesh started to sizzle. He yelped and dropped the gun. It hit the floor and the carpet ignited.
Dream looked at it and another thought filled her mind.
Ice.
The temperature in the room plummeted and the incipient fire fizzled. Dream felt a mixture of astonishment and exhilaration.
She’d never so precisely controlled and directed the power inside her. She felt capable of anything. The feeling was at least
partially attributable to the cocaine rush, but a larger factor was this sudden epiphany—the impression that she had at last
become the thing she was meant to be from the beginning. Not a human being, but a thing. A supernatural monster of some sort,
just as the Master had been. And Alicia’s words rang truer now—she did feel invincible.

The man in the suit edged close to the door and reached for the doorknob. Dream focused her will again and the doorknob turned
hot in the man’s hand. He shrieked and let go. The scraggly-haired boy’s fingers were moving toward another concealed weapon,
something tucked in the waistband of his pants. The grasping hand was missing two fingers. It was the same hand that had sent
the knife on its lethal trajectory toward Ellen. A grin that hinted at madness spread across the boy’s face as his fingers
slipped beneath the dangling tail of his shirt and emerged with another knife.

The switchblade snapped open.

Dream looked into his eyes and felt his pain. He’d suffered immensely in the past. But any good he might once have harbored
had been eradicated through torture and brutalization. This impression formed in less than the space of a second. She knew,
then, that the interlopers were no ordinary predators.

Another wail of anguish spiraled out of Marcy’s tortured lungs.

Dream rushed the boy and seized him by the wrist. She pried the knife from his fingers with ease. And she thought of Ellen
as she slammed the blade into his abdomen. Poor Ellen. The girl she’d once victimized and whom she’d come to regard as a friend.
She’d blossomed in the two months they’d spent on the road, becoming stronger and more confident. And now she was crumpled
on the floor. Maybe already dead.

The boy’s only reaction to the pain was a wince. His grin remained in place as the fingers of his other hand came around to
claw at her face, grasping for the soft tissue of her eyes. Dream swatted the hand away and slammed him against the dresser,
rattling the mirror mounted on the wall behind it. She yanked the knife out of his stomach and punched it in again. And again.
The mirror’s reflection showed her a black-haired, wild eyed woman in the grip of a murderous frenzy. A woman who had embraced
madness and had no desire to turn back. Not anymore.

She threw the boy to the ground and straddled him. His eyes turned glassy. But still there was no fear reflected there. He
grinned. A soft burble of laughter emerged between pale pink lips.

The man in the suit made another move toward the door, but Alicia intercepted him. The gun he’d discarded was in her hand
now. She whipped it across the man’s face and blood leaped from his smashed nose. She dragged him further into the room and
threw him down at the foot of the bed.

Dream shifted her attention back to the boy. His grin broadened and he even stuck his tongue out at her. Dream forced his
mouth open and plunged the knife inside. The pain at last took its toll on the boy. He tried to jerk his head out of her grip,
but he failed to budge her at all. Blood bubbled from his mouth, along with a mewling, inarticulate plea. Dream turned his
head carefully to one side, allowing the blood to flow out rather than letting him choke on it. Then she pushed the blade
into each of his eyes, penetrating just enough to blind him. More mewling. More inarticulate pleas. She worked on him with
the knife for a long time, molten rage driving her to mutilate the body of her friend’s murderer in the most obscene ways
possible.

And finally he was dead.

Dream stood up and looked at her reflection again. Her thrift-store clothes were covered with blood. Blood was everywhere.
She turned away from her reflection and saw Marcy sitting on the floor against the side of the bed, her sister’s motionless
body cradled in her arms. She looked up at Dream, her face shiny with tears.

Marcy’s anguish melted some of the hardness that had seized her soul.

“Is she—”

Marcy nodded and sniffed. “Yes.”

Dream felt her own anguish rising up, but she clamped it down. A member of her adopted family was dead and there would be
real grief to deal with, but for the moment there were more pressing matters at hand. She yanked the man in the suit to his
feet and leaned in close, their faces separated by no more than an inch.

“Who sent you?” Her voice was low, her tone even, but the ruthlessness beneath came through clear as a bell. “Was it Ms. Wickman?
It was, wasn’t it? I saw it in that boy’s eyes before I blinded him.”

The man swallowed with difficulty. His bloodshot eyes danced in their sockets. His breath reeked of cheap beer and cheaper
cigarettes. He licked blood from lis lower lip and swallowed again. He sensed her implacable determination and understood
there was no room for anything but the truth.

“Not Ms. Wickman. She’s gone. Dead.” He licked his lips again and shivered. He was afraid of Dream, yes, but he also clearly
feared whoever had sent him. “Another has taken her place. Mistress Giselle.”

Alicia was on her feet again. “The bitch is dead? For real?”

The man nodded. “Yes. And she’s worse than Ms. Wickman. The old broad sent her people after House of Blood survivors. I figured
that’d be off with her dead, but no, the new Mistress wants you, too. I don’t know why and that’s the whole fucking truth.”

Dream smiled. “I believe you. What’s your name?”

The man coughed. “Harlan Dempsey. People call me Dempsey.”

Dream heard sirens rising in the night. A lot of them. Drawing closer by the moment. Then a sound of tires squealing in the
parking lot. She let go of the man’s shirt and pushed him away. He stumbled over the edge of the bed and flopped down on the
mattress. She heard voices in the parking lot. Shouts and commands. Flashing red and blue strobe lights were visible at the
edges of the window blinds.

Alicia shot her a worried look. “Dream?”

“It’s okay, Alicia. I’ll deal with it. And after I’ve taken care of things, Harlan here will take us to whatever pit of hell
this Giselle cunt is holed up in. Isn’t that right, Harlan?”

Harlan’s gaze flicked from the windows to Dream and back again. He swallowed hard and nodded. “Sure. Yeah. Whatever.”

Dream looked at Alicia. “The quest isn’t over. Ms. Wickman’s dead, but we still have a destiny to meet, okay?”

Alicia nodded slowly. “Yeah. I hear you, Dream. And I’m with you all the way.” She glanced at the front door. The level of
frantic activity outside was increasing by the moment. “But are you sure you can get us out of this?”

Dream’s eyes glittered. “Yes.”

Marcy was on her feet now, the Glock in her hand again. “I’ll help you.”

Dream smiled at her. “Thank you. But that won’t be necessary. Just stand back and watch the show.”

She went to the front door and grasped the knob, which had cooled again. Then she steeled herself with a deep breath and opened
the door.

More shouts.

A voice squawked through a megaphone, issuing commands she ignored. Dream stepped outside and moved fearlessly toward the
array of raised handguns and rifles. She smiled and spread her hands wide. Someone yelled at her to get down on the ground.
Then there was a pop from behind her. Marcy at the door, firing the Glock and ignoring her instructions to hang back. Driven
by rage over her sister’s death to lash out at any enemy. Fire erupted from the barrels of the guns pointed at the motel room.
Dream flexed her will and the bullets went astray.

Then the real fireworks began.

When it was over, the cops were all dead, their cars smoking ruins.

And Dream and her companions vanished into the night before reinforcements could arrive.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The cabin in which Camp Whiskey’s leaders conducted business was twice the size of the next largest cabin. Chad had jokingly
referred to the large main room as an echo chamber. But now it felt too small, the air stale and the walls too close. The
problem was all the extra people in the room—three Order of the Dragon representatives and several rifle-toting Camp Whiskey
guards. The Order people sat at one end of the long wooden table that occupied the room’s center. Jim sat alone at the opposite
end of the table, his arms crossed over the front of a thick wool sweater. He and the old man who was the obvious leader of
the Order delegation glared at each other across the length of the table. The tension between them made Chad jittery.

So he abandoned his front-row seat at the staredown of the ages, rising from the table to wander over to the fireplace at
the rear of the cabin. A fire crackled in the stone recess, a small pile of logs shifting as the flickering orange flames
consumed them. Logs Chad might well have cut himself. He examined his palms as he held his hands out to receive the fire’s
warmth. Calluses formed over the course of two and a half months of hard physical labor made them look like a stranger’s hands.
How strange now to look at these work-roughened hands and feel so good about the deceptively simple things he’d accomplished
in his time at Camp Whiskey. He’d built new cabins with the other men, becoming skilled in the basics of construction and
rudimentary plumbing. At some point he’d begun to genuinely enjoy the hard physical work, taking more pride in the things
he’d built with his hands than he ever had in his ability to skillfully push around numbers in a cushy white-collar environment.

Which partly explained why he felt an instinctive hatred and distrust of the Order people. What they were proposing would
mean an end to the new lifestyle he’d come to love. It also reeked of a suicide mission, with the people of Camp Whiskey serving
as a kind of cannon fodder. Chad wasn’t a coward. He had proven that during the House of Blood revolt. But the circumstances
here were different. The people at Camp Whiskey didn’t live each day at the mercy of brutal overlords. No one’s life was being
sacrificed in the name of obscure ancient deities. But now these mysterious emissaries from some arcane organization were
working to convince them to give up the safety and comfort of the camp in favor of a headlong march into a lion’s den. Essentially
asking them to give up their lives to help avenge the death of a woman they had all despised.

The fire crackled and the silence lengthened. Chad picked up the fire poker and prodded the dwindling logs. The flames grew
higher as he imagined sinking the hooked end of the poker through one of the Order leader’s eyes.

The back of his neck tingled in a weird way and he turned away from the fire. The female Order representative was eyeing him
closely. She was seated to the old man’s left. Her eyes narrowed, projecting an intensity that made Chad gulp. She had very
fine Asian features, with high cheekbones and a small, sensual mouth. Her hair was thick and dark, glossy like that of a model
in a perfume ad. Unable to bear the withering stare a moment longer, Chad forced his eyes in another direction. He had the
disturbing sense that she could see his thoughts and it made him want to bolt from the cabin.

Jack Paradise stalked the room like a caged beast. The big ex-marine’s jaw was a tight line of tension. He circled the table
with his hands clasped behind his back, as if he didn’t trust what he might do with them if he didn’t keep them there. Halfway
through yet another circuit around the table, he came to an abrupt stop and his hands came away from the small of his back.
He leveled an index finger at the old man.

“Fuck this and fuck the lot of you. Your bullshit plan is a nonstarter on every level.” He pounded a fist into an open palm.
The palm an obvious substitute for the old man’s face. “Basically we’re the Northern Alliance and you’re the U.S. Army. But
this ain’t Afghanistan, mother-fucker. It ain’t our grudge and it’s not gonna be our fucking war. No way I’m getting ninety-plus
percent of my people killed so you fuckers can prance in afterwards and take this bitch out.”

Jack’s jawline quivered. The big man was fighting to maintain any semblance of control. Chad had never seen the man in the
grip of such fury. Jack Paradise had always seemed the embodiment of a Marine Corps lifer—a resolute and extremely self-disciplined
hard-case, a man who wouldn’t rattle easily, if ever. But he was rattled now and it was clear the Order people appreciated
the full range of possibilities this implied. The woman pushed her chair backward several inches and placed a small hand on
the hilt of her sword. The young man seated across from her did the same. The swords were in black scabbards, but Chad had
a feeling they could be drawn and put to lethal use in the blink of an eye. The Camp Whiskey guards shifted their feet and
repositioned their weapons, pointing in the general direction of the Order representatives.

Chad’s heart felt ready to leap into his throat. Blood was in the air. But his people were the ones with the guns. Firepower
trumped old-fashioned steel. Or did it? The Order people were an unusual lot. An understatement. They seemed from another
world altogether, some place wholly alien, and whatever purpose or cause they served was as inscrutable as the face of God.
They were dangerous and not to be underestimated.

Chad took a deliberate step backward. He wanted to feel the fireplace poker’s solid heft in his hands again. It would be no
match against Order steel, but it was better than nothing. The woman looked at him again and did something that made his balls
shrivel. She smiled. Her eyes remained cold, but the smile seemed to promise she would be coming for him if the tension in
the room did escalate to actual conflict.

Jim’s audible sigh defused some of the tension. He leaned forward and propped his elbows on the edge of the table. “There’s
no need for this. Jack, have your men leave the room.”

Jack wheeled on him. “What? Have you gone insane? We can’t trust these people. No. My men are staying put.”

Jim stared into the old Asian man’s eyes for another moment. Then he smiled and rose from his seat. “Pardon me. I’ll be just
a moment.” He moved away from the table and headed for the front door, throwing a glance in Jack’s direction on the way. “A
word, please. Outside.”

Jack glared at Jim’s retreating back a moment longer.

Then he sighed and spoke to a black man positioned next to the door. “Keep things under control, goddammit. Anything hinky
happens…you know what to do.”

The guard nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Then Jack was gone. The door flapped shut and Chad was alone with the guards and the Order people. He felt abandoned. The
strange people in black sat silent and unmoving. To Chad they looked like incredibly precise and lifelike sculptures of human
beings. The unsettling impression lasted until the woman again sensed his scrutiny and turned her head to observe him.

And she smiled in that utterly humorless way again. “You must convince your superiors of the wisdom of our plan.”

Chad blinked in surprise. It was the first time any of them had spoken to him. “Um…ok ay, one, they’re not my superiors.
Two, I’m not personally convinced of the wisdom of your plan. In fact, I think it’s pretty half-assed and want nothing to
do with it.”

The woman shrugged. “Your comments are fueled by emotion and not informed by rational thought. Our proposal is your only true
path to salvation. In the end, you will set emotion aside and do as we say.”

Chad sneered. The woman’s smug words rankled. “In the end, we’ll do whatever the hell
we
want, and if that turns out to be a choice you deem ‘irrational,’ well whoopty-fucking-do, too bad.”

A corner of the woman’s mouth turned slightly upward, indicating only mild amusement at Chad’s speech. It was a little thing,
but it was just enough to send Chad over the edge. Offense shifted to anger. His hands curled into fists. But he couldn’t
lose his cool in front of them.

That would lend the “emotion” comment more credence than it deserved. So he turned away from them and stalked out of the cabin,
banging the door open with the base of a clenched fist.

The sharp chill of the early December evening made him shiver. Jim and Jack stood near a picnic table some twenty yards away.
They stood close to each other, their heads bent as they spoke in muted tones. Wisps of fog drifted from their mouths. Chad
zipped up his jacket and set off in their direction. The other men glanced his way as he neared them.

Jim smiled. “Chad.”

“Fuck this, I’m done with them.” Chad was shaking and he realized as he spoke it wasn’t solely from the cold temperature.
“I say we reject their suicide mission and send those assholes packing. We’ve got a good thing going here and there’s no reason
to throw it all away. Okay, so our location isn’t a secret anymore. Our supposed enemy knows where we are. Great. Let them
bring the fight to us if there’s to be one. We’ll kick their fucking asses.”

Jack nodded throughout Chad’s speech. He struck a wooden match with his teeth and applied the flame to a hand-rolled cigarette.
“Exactly what I’ve been saying.” He blew a stream of smoke at the dark sky and looked Jim in the eye. “Let’s say everything
they’ve said about Giselle is the truth. So what? If there’s to be a fight, it should be on our own ground and our own terms.
If she’s stupid enough to send a force after us, they’ll be in a universe of fucking hurt.”

Jim pursed his lips and slowly stroked the beard he’d been growing for the last few weeks. “I see the sense in what each of
you says. I’ll admit I found the notion of eradicating the remaining threat against us a tempting one. And I might have been
swayed if not for the passion you’ve displayed. So we will reject their proposal.”

A grim smile etched a tight curve across Chad’s face. “Good.”

But Jim’s expression remained thoughtful. “But we can’t be complacent. If we’re to believe the Order, Giselle has a formidable
paramilitary unit at her disposal as well. We’ll need to beef up our own forces and rethink our defensive strategies.”

Jack grinned. “I’ll take care of that.”

Jim managed a small smile of his own. “I’m sure you’re up to the task.” He sighed and rubbed his hands together. “Let’s get
back inside and break the news.”

Jack pinched the end of his cigarette and snuffed the flame. He dropped it in a pocket and said, “Yeah, let’s do it. Can’t
wait to see the looks on their fucking faces.”

Chad shook his head. “Go without me. I don’t want to see any of them ever fucking again. If you guys don’t mind, I’m gonna
head home and let you take care of it.”

Jack shrugged. “Cool with me.”

Jim nodded. “And with me. Evening, Chad.”

“Night, guys.”

Chad turned away from them and started up the hill toward the cabin he shared with Allyson. But an impulse carried him past
the cabin, sparing it only a quick glance as he hurried by. The lights were out, so Allyson was probably asleep anyway. He
still felt agitated and was not yet ready to join her in bed. The steep ground began to level out and he soon arrived at the
site that functioned as an informal communal gathering place for the denizens of Camp Whiskey. He sat on the ground near the
large campfire pit and crossed his legs beneath him. There was no fire tonight, but the pit contained a few blackened logs
left over from earlier in the evening. Chad pushed his hands into his ja cket pockets and hunched his shoulders forward. He
peered beyond the pit at the rows of cabins down the hill. A few soft lights still glowed in some of the windows.

He’d initially found it strange that the founders of Camp Whiskey had decided to establish their compound in the mountain
country of east Tennessee, so near the Master’s former territory. But the feeling had diminished with time. Really, it was
kind of perfect. Once they had been prisoners here. And now they had returned to the country of their nightmares, transforming
it into something fresh and life-affirming. The Order had no right to be here. They were intruders. Interlopers. Their presence
tainted the good things everyone here had worked so hard to accomplish.

He sat there thinking about these things for an indeterminate period of time. Perhaps a half hour. Perhaps only as long as
ten or fifteen minutes. But it had been a long day. At some point physical exhaustion caused his eyes to close and he began
to drowse. Then the crunch of a twig caused his eyes to snap open. He sensed movement to his left and turned his head in that
direction. Then a hand seized him from behind, gripping the collar of his jacket and yanking him roughly to his feet. He let
out a startled yelp as the same hand spun him around. He tottered for a moment on the edge of the pit. Then the Order woman
grabbed the front of his jacket and pulled him away from the hole.

Chad let out a gasp. “Jesus fucking Christ! Where did you come from?”

“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.