Women Scorned (27 page)

“You can take Aludra here. We’ve been waiting for you, you know. Waiting for you to come and take Aludra. You can have her but you have to do it this way. Almost there, now.”

Rory wasn’t stupid and knew the High Priestess was trying to trick it somehow, but wouldn’t let on that it knew. It ducked through the low opening at the far end of the cave, directly across from the altar. A red velvet cloth was laid out in a long strip like an aisle leading to this low entryway.

Inside, Rory came face to face with a tall man in a robe the color of midnight.

“You’ve finally come,” he said. “We’ve been waiting.”

With its new vision, Rory saw the spirit within, and recognized the spirit guide from the first level of the spirit world, the one who’d sent it and Libitina back through the gateway. It had known then and knew now who this spirit was but didn’t think it had gone to these lengths for revenge.

“You,” was all it could manage in her growling voice.

“The waiting is finally over.”

It turned to run, but the man grabbed its upper arm. The grip burned its flesh like fire. It tried to scream, but no sound came from her mouth. It called for help, but though its mouth made the words, he’d muted it somehow. It turned and kicked at the man, leaving bloody footprints on his robe.

The entity, the one it had sensed the moment it entered the manor, the one suffused all through this place, held her firm. It couldn’t fight against him.

Because it was pointless to struggle, it relaxed. Besides, Aludra waited to be tasted

Rory decided it didn’t matter what came next so long as it could take Aludra’s breath, and free the angry spirits.

Nothing mattered but the Dark Virgin’s breath.

*  *  *

Invisible bindings held Rory’s male half as the High Priestess levitated it forward. Weakened by their will, it didn’t struggle. It sensed the presence of its other half waiting up ahead.

What would it be like to take breath from its female half, to feel the other half of itself as it took its own spirit? Part of it sensed the self-destructiveness of this action, but another part yearned for it.

When it finally looked up, it found itself in a vast cavern. Though its eyes were glazed, it could still see well enough to note the altar before it and the stone slab at its knees.

The High Priestess left it there, still bound. It looked across the room at the redhead stuck, like it, to the left of the altar.

She saw it and screamed. Her shrieks hurt its ears and it flinched from the sound, but the pull of its other half soon overwhelmed interest in the screaming redhead. It could feel its other half, behind it, could almost see it back there. It longed to tear the spirit holding it to pieces, wanted to watch it bleed while trapped in the flesh, would watch it bleed.

The Order trapped it here all these years, the body rotting away to uselessness. It needed another body, stronger, fresher, needed to avenge all the male spirits against those who wronged them. Needed to taste its other half. Oh, it couldn’t wait to feel its lips sealed over Camilla’s, drawing its other half’s breath, feeling alight with its spirit. And would the breath be pulled by both halves, power transferred to both sides of Rory at the same time?

It waited, head drooped.

*  *  *

Aludra trembled behind the High Priestess. Time for the ritual. Time was up. She knew what she had to do. The High Priestess didn’t speak to her on the way down to the altar room, then took her place on the right hand side of the podium.

With an effort, she took a step outside herself, observing her emotions with an almost scientific air. Would she be able to do it? Would she be able to spill the High Priestess’s blood before the High Priestess spilled hers?

Nausea made it all but impossible to function. After all the pain she’d inflicted on others, one would think the thought of spilling the High Priestess’s blood would be nothing. She almost couldn’t continue standing with the candles making the air so thick and hot. Rosemary and other spices nearly gagged her. She tried not to glance at the knife resting next to her grandmother’s right hand on the altar.

*  *  *

“Dearly beloved,” the High Priestess began. “We, The Order of Merlin, are gathered here today to celebrate the rejoining of the two halves of Rory, the entity bent on avenging all the angry souls in the spirit world. A lofty goal, I must say.” She gazed at the male half slumped in front of her. Disgusting thing. She didn’t believe the High Priest when he said the body would be dead, but here it was. The night they’d caught him, it had been a tricky thing. She’d needed to be the bait. At the High Priest’s command, she’d spent a week torturing a young man from the nearby village, killing him when the Dark One allowed her to release his angry spirit.

The male half had been close, sensed her right away, and came to the manor for her that night. The Dark One bound it just as it had been about to seal its lips over hers in that life-ending kiss. And there it slumped in front of her, once again. Only this time, it would be the one getting kissed. And it would kiss back. She continued her greeting.

“You, Rory,” she said, pointing to the male half, “are responsible for trapping the angry spirits in the spirit world, forcing them to remain vengeful, preventing them from gaining bliss. You, Rory, are responsible for sealing the gate into the living world, forcing the living to exist without the aid of spirit power, forcing the souls away from their loved ones and a world they might have been able to enjoy. You, Rory, will join your two halves on this night and open the gates once and for all, destroying yourself so that all may benefit from the use of magic in this world once again.

“The living will have magic. The days of Merlin have returned thanks to the faithful Order.”

The male half didn’t appear to have heard anything she’d said. She’d expected it to thrash, to scream, to try and get away, begging to remain in this world doing as it had been doing. It did none of these things, only took a step back and looked to the back of the cavern. Once composed, she continued. “Let the black wedding commence.”

Aludra shifted behind her. The High Priestess noticed, but didn’t turn to look. If that child tried something to stop the ritual, she would pay the ultimate price for her treachery. All the way to the altar room, Aludra had seemed resistant, distant, as if she didn’t want to go through with the ritual. Maybe this much was true. She probably did know more about what was going to take place than she’d let on.

What was going on in that child’s mind? What secrets was she hiding? The High Priestess figured she’d know soon enough. If her plan was to stop the ritual from happening, she would make her move soon.

The woman to the High Priestess’s right struggled against the masochistic slaves holding her. The High Priestess had needed to release her from the invisible binds, unable to maintain her focus on Rory, the ritual, and the redhead. The slaves held her firmly, though, one on each arm. The girl’s eyes had been wide with fear when the High Priestess had come back with Aludra. The redhead probably knew the truth now - that she wasn’t simply there to witness this thing, but to be part of it in the end.

The ceremony wouldn’t fall apart. She wouldn’t let it. She would have power, eternal life, would be the mother to all the spirits coming back to the living world. She would use magic and be Satan’s bride.

All had to go as planned. And it would. She knew it would.

Chapter Twenty-One

A sense of wrongness reached for Camilla through the darkness of her mind. The moment she started gaining consciousness, she felt herself thrust into her body again, a strange void filling her thoughts where once she’d felt another presence.

A tall man draped with a blue robe held her arm in a burning grip. The pain penetrated to the bone. She screamed and tried to pull her arm away, but couldn’t make a sound even as the burning intensified. She tried to scream again but stopped struggling.

Her composure ripped apart, fear shredding the way a gremlin would destroy an electrical system. She sobbed, the cry catching in her throat, the skin around her eyes pulling as her face contorted.

“Stop making this worse, Rory.”

“I’m Camilla,” she tried to say, mouthing the words. Then she turned and looked the man in the face. His white eyes, those black pupils staring into her empty eye sockets, made her cringe. She remembered what her face looked like, how others saw her, but she felt his colorless eyes were more horrifying than her mangled face. They held something darker.

She had no idea who this man was, why he was holding her there, or how to get away. A pulling sensation brought her attention to her belly button. Two cords extended from her now. Acid green—that was the green-eyed witch, the bitch she fully intended on destroying before the day was done—and a smoky cord that both pushed and pulled her.

The knowledge that the smoky cord belonged to Rory’s other half was simply there the way air was when one drew breath. The male half, up ahead, waiting. A ceremony. The ritual. She could finally rid herself of Rory.

But she wanted to taste the dark virgin first, wanted to feel her lips pressed into the bitch’s, wanted to feel her scream stolen away, wanted to watch her go mad as her spirit left.

The ceremony began. The man in the dark blue robes pulled her out of the antechamber and into the larger cavern. Camilla saw everything for the first time, the candlelit room, the altar, the stone slab in the center. A frail looking woman stood in front of the altar, draped in dark red robes. Face hidden in the shadows of her hood, her white hair cascaded down her front in straight sheets. Beautiful, like something from a dream.

Two robed figures held Libitina to the left of the frail woman. Shock bit into Camilla’s throat and shook her when she recognized the green-eyed witch from her many nightmares standing to the right. Both women, Libitina and the bitch, appeared transfixed by the display before them, both also looked terrified, their eyes wide, foreheads creased, barely holding back screams.

The spirits who loathed Aludra swarmed and pushed their stories into Camilla’s mind once again, the green cord pulsing with their rage. The dark virgin. The kiss.

Libitina also looked sad. Her clothes were torn and dirty, her face filthy with several days’ worth of dirt. Her gaunt features showed how little food she’d eaten in the last week. But those blue eyes, so bright in contrast to her red hair, they looked faded, a mere shadow of their former vibrancy. Camilla could tell the guards were hurting Libitina as they squeezed her arms, but this thought drifted through her mind as something of little interest, worth observing, but nothing more.

Something else called to her.

What drew her attention more than the smaller details in the room, even more than the dark virgin, was the decaying man standing before the stone slab in front of the altar. His drooping head, his naked body, his matted hair, all whipped through her mind with sudden familiarity. She knew this man somehow, had seen him before. The smoky cord extended to him. She became many women kissing, being drawn into slow madness, feeling her mind slip a hundred times over as her breath was pulled from her slack body. This man was the same as she was. A wraith, forced to do another spirit’s bidding. Rory. The other half.

He—no, it—turned and faced her as her captor led her down the red velvet aisle. His milky eyes fixated on her and that look of familiarity crossed his face as well. His mouth fell open. Nothing remained of the man that once inhabited this form. She knew it was Rory through and through. What became of the man’s spirit, she wondered? What would become of hers?

She wanted the visions to end. It would all be over soon. The urge to kiss the rotting man before her pulled her onward without the robed man needing to guide her any further. She wanted to draw in Rory’s male half, wanted to avenge the women he’d turned mad, wanted to feel his life force pulsing within her, his lips sealed against hers.

And he’d draw her, too. Of this, she was certain. He licked his lips, an eager look on his face. He would feel just as alive as she would. Their bodies would come together and in this purpose, they would be one, each devouring Rory together, destroying the spirit while also reuniting the spirit, forcing it to eat itself. But, the thoughts of her destruction remained distant, unimportant.

Good. Let the spirit destroy itself in its need to destroy others. Let it taste of itself. Let her be released from this hell. And then there was the pull of the electric, that high, that buzz, that orgasmic sensation that would envelop her entire being. How intense would it be to taste an entity as powerful as Rory’s other half? She licked her lips.

One more step brought her as far as she could go. She tried to walk further and felt something push her backwards. The man at her side pulled her arm, a strained look on his face.

“Come on,” he growled. A murmur broke out among the small congregation of witnesses and participants in this ceremony as they stared at her. A strange sensation of stage fright consumed her. She was messing up the ritual. Everyone would be angry with her for not doing it right. They would point. They would laugh. Then she realized how stupid the thoughts coursing through her mind were. Did it really matter if she messed up now? And who were these people to her? Strangers, all of them. Even Libitina. She hardly knew the woman enough to care if she was disappointed or amused.

Her rotten bridegroom turned. He reached for her. He tried to step toward her, licking his lips, his panting breaths coming in whistling gasps. One step and he, too, was thrust backward, like the positive poles of magnets being forced together, compelling rather than drawing.

Camilla grew impatient, also reaching for him across the unseen barrier, every part of her will bent on holding him, kissing him, becoming one with him. She lived for this. She would die for this. The room darkened, her bridegroom the only thing illuminated in front of the altar, reaching for her, waiting for the embrace that would kill them both.