CHAPTER FOUR

Ms. Wickman smiled at the boy on the floor. His name was Terry. His dead sister’s name had been Sherry. Such unimaginative parents. No wonder, then, that the siblings had crumbled so predictably through the course of the evening’s long and bloody festivities. Refugees from the shallow end of the gene pool, these children. Not that it mattered. Ms. Wickman had a slight preference for more intelligent victims, but in the end she was an equal opportunity sadist.

This Terry had a blandly handsome face, though its handsomeness was offset somewhat by a pudginess she found distasteful. He stared up at her with wide, pleading eyes. Snot dribbled from his nostrils. A large red welt on his left cheek further marred his bland good looks. His bleeding lower lip trembled uncontrollably.

“Please d-don’t hurt me…again.” A whimper issued through his sputtering lips. “I d-did it. Did what you t-told me.”

Ms. Wickman’s smile broadened. “Yes, you did.” She clapped her hands in a slow, mocking way. “And congratulations on the murder of your sister.” She leaned over him, her long, brown hair falling over her shoulders. “I did so admire the gusto with which you committed the act. Such savagery. Why, one would think there’d been more to it than the cowardly exchange of your life for hers.”

She looked at the boy kneeling at Terry’s head, a broad, gleaming knife clutched in his three-fingered left hand. “Dean, did it seem to you that Terry enjoyed killing his darling sister?”

Dean looked at her through hollow, sunken eyes. Long strands of greasy hair hung over those eyes. “Yes, m’am.” He laid the edge of the knife against Terry’s trembling throat and drew forth a trickle of blood, making the doomed boy squeal.“Matter of fact…I think he was getting off on it.”

Ms. Wickman nodded. “You know, I believe you may be right. You see, Terry, one of the things that most interests me is exposing the barbarian that exists in all of us. Human beings are taught to live behind a mask of civility, to govern their lives by an arbitrarily imposed set of concepts of right and wrong. You lived all eighteen years of your miserable life with that mask wedged firmly in place, but tonight we stripped it away. Tonight we saw the ugly, craven beast that’s always lurked in the depths of your now thoroughly tainted heart.”

Anger flashed in Terry’s eyes. “Fuck you. Fuck you and fuck all of your evil little helpers. Are you going to lecture me all damn night, or are you going to fucking kill me?”

“Boys, hold Terry very still, please. Dean, make certain he is unable to move his head.”

Terry’s abrupt surge of anger died, terror again twisting his features. “No. I’ll do anything. I’ll kill anyone. Whatever you want.”

“So sorry, dear. I’m afraid I find you too boring to join the ranks of my Apprentices.” Ms. Wickman’s voice conveyed boredom, with an undertone of mock regret, a parody of an interviewer turning down a job applicant. “So now, yes, you die.”

Then she positioned herself so that she was standing directly over Terry’s head. “Now, no peeking up my dress, you naughty boy.”

Terry sniffled. “You’re…crazy.”

“Perhaps. But I’m not the one about to die helpless and broken.”

Two Apprentices worked to keep Terry’s legs pinned to the floor. Two more of the black-clad boys kept his arms still. Dean kept the big blade pressed to his throat, while his other hand was wound in the boy’s sweat-soaked hair.

Ms. Wickman lifted her right foot and placed the sole of the black stiletto against the boy’s forehead. The point of the long, narrow heel hovered just above his dancing eyeball. Normally she wore a more modest heel, but she’d worn the stilettos tonight with this very purpose in mind. She watched the jittery dance of his eyes a moment longer, savoring his terror, enjoying his helplessness.

One of the apprentices snickered and said, “Oh, look, he’s pissing his pants.”

Ms. Wickman directed a last bit of mocking laughter at her victim. “Pathetic. You’re clearly too worthless to continue existing in this world, Terry. Convey my regards when you meet your sister in hell.”

She eased the point of her heel down and it touched his eyeball. Terry squealed and jerked against the grip of his captors. But it was no use. The Apprentices managed to keep the boy still as she continued to press down. She watched in almost breathless fascination as the point of the heel dimpled the surface of the eyeball, causing the tissue to well up around it. Then she increased the pressue still more and there was an audible, liquidy pop as the point of the heel pierced the eyeball. Terry screamed yet again and jerked harder against his captors, almost dislodging the boy pinning down his left arm.

But it was too late to matter now.

Ms. Wickman bit her lower lip and thrust the heel downward, angling it so that it pushed through the eye and into his brain. Blood jetted from the socket and the boy convulsed violently for a moment before going still. The curved back end of her shoe conformed against the curvature of the dead boy’s eye socket in a way she found aesthetically pleasing. She wished someone had a camera to take a picture of it. Ah, well. She admired the darkly delicious juxtaposition of shoe and eye socket a moment longer before extracting her heel, which emerged slick with blood and tissue.

A breath of shuddery, sensual satisfaction issued through her lips. She straightened her dress and brushed back her hair. “Dispose of this trash, children. I’ll be retiring to my quarters for the evening.”

She exited the living room without another word and continued through the gleaming foyer to the ornate staircase that led to the many floors above. She had learned many useful things from the Master, among them the ability to manipulate aspects of the physical world. The necessary magical energy was derived from appeasement of the death gods, entities that derived power from suffering and death, which she happily supplied in generous portions on a daily basis.

This house was outwardly decrepit. When glimpsed from the bottom of the long, dusty driveway, the abandoned farmhouse looked as it always had to generations of locals-like an uninhabited, decaying thing, a rotting collection of ancient timber and drywall that through some miracle managed to remain upright.

But any wanderer unlucky enough to step through the front door would instantly know they had entered a strange place far removed from the natural world. On the other side of that creaking front door was the interior of a huge mansion, a place far too large to be con tained by the ancient farmhouse. And yet, once inside, there was no denying the apparent reality of it.

And once inside, Ms. Wickman reflected with a stiff smile, no could ever hope to escape.

She had learned from the Master’s mistakes. Her new kingdom was formidable in its own right, but it was not so large and out of control that she was unable to maintain a firm ruling hand. The slaves she had were not allowed to talk to each other, lest they have their tongues removed and fed to them. The silence rule drastically reduced the possibility of a revolt.

Everything was so very close to perfect now. The lone remaining large task was the ongoing effort to hunt down the surviving House of Blood revolutionaries. But the hunt was going well and she knew she’d have them all soon, kneeling before her and begging for mercy.

She entered a long corridor lit by candles flickering in wall sconces. Each side of the corridor was lined with doors that opened to bedrooms that doubled as torture chambers. Ms. Wickman glanced through one open doorway and saw a thin blonde girl in skintight black leather.

“Hello, Gwendolyn. Enjoying your work tonight?”

The girl flashed a smile as she flicked a bullwhip at a middle-aged man strapped to a four-poster bed.“Loving it. As always, Mistress.”