Bryan Smith - Queen Of Blood

She heard a cough and turned her head to see a bare-chested man with a studded leather collar around his throat. The man was lean and sinewy, the exposed flesh of his torso a map of scars and abrasions. He stared at Giselle with eyes that were wide with fear and confusion.

Giselle eyed him coldly. “Stop your gawking, boy, and go fetch your Mistress.”

The man flinched as if slapped, then turned and hurried across the room. He tripped and tumbled to the floor, smacking his head against a marble pedestal. A sculpted bust of someone Giselle failed to recognize rolled off the pedestal and split in half as it struck the floor. The man scrambled to his feet and resumed his flight from the room.

Giselle closed her eyes and allowed her mind to drift. It was amazing how at peace she felt now. Life was so much easier minus the tiresome complications of moral concerns. The apparent obliteration of her conscience did not alarm her. One risked these things when making deals with gods, especially of the darker variety. She fell into a sleep state, entering a dream in which she sat on a high throne made of gold. An audience of slaves knelt in rows below her, chanting, their arms extended in praise of their queen.

Then the creak of a door opening roused her from the dream state, and her eyes fluttered open. She turned her head and saw Ms. Wickman and a coterie of followers enter the room. Ms. Wickman, as always, was elegantly attired, wearing a simple black dress with a hemline just above her knees. She wore black stockings and black heels. A single strand of glittering white pearls encircled her throat. The last time Giselle had seen Ms. Wickman she’d worn her long brown hair down, but now her hair was gathered in a bun at the back of her head, the way she’d always worn it during her time as the Master’s top servant and de facto second-in-command.

Two of Ms. Wickman’s entourage were muscular men clad in black, militaristic uniforms, complete with gleaming black jackboots and crisp black caps. These men flanked her. Both were armed, one with a machine gun, the other bearing a sidearm in a holster. Giselle felt a faint flicker of amusement. In so many ways Ms. Wickman had exactly resurrected aspects of the Master’s former regime. Behind the guards was an assortment of Apprentices and servants, among them the bare-chested slave Giselle had sent to fetch Ms. Wickman.

Giselle stifled a giggle as Ms. Wickman paused next to the pedestal and stared at the shattered bust. There was a subtle atmospheric change in the room, a gathering of energy sensed by all present. No one said a word, but some of the Apprentices were smirking, sensing what was coming. Even Giselle felt a surge of excitement as she felt Ms. Wickman’s always considerable anger build and build.

Ms. Wickman at last lifted her gaze from the shattered bust and looked in Giselle’s direction. She smiled. “I’ll deal with you in a moment, dear, but I need to address a housekeeping issue first.”

She turned and brushed past the armed guards, her head down like a bull’s as she strode purposefully toward the cowering, bare-chested slave. He shook his head, whimpered, and held his hands out in a beseeching way. He backed away, but Ms. Wickman moved fast. In a moment she had the man’s head locked in her strong hands. Then there was a sickening snap and the slave fell dead to the floor.

One of the Apprentices, a young girl with pale skin and golden blonde hair, applauded. “Bravo.”

Ms. Wickman smoothed her dress and smiled at the girl. “Thank you, Gwendolyn. Could you get rid of this…mess for me?”

Gwendolyn smiled. “Of course.” She unfurled a whip and snapped it at two nearby slaves, barking strident instructions at them as the whip peeled away strips of their flesh. The slaves worked together to hurriedly haul the dead slave from Ms. Wickman’s quarters. Gwendolyn and two other Apprentices followed them out.

Ms. Wickman made eye contact with Giselle now, holding it as she circled the bed and came to a stop on the side nearest the French doors. Giselle shifted position slightly, rolling to her left a bit to better observe her adversary.

“I’m impressed by what you’ve accomplished, Giselle.” Ms. Wickman’s tone was even and devoid of any hint of emotion. Amazing. The woman’s self-control was remarkable. “Clearly you possess magical capabilities far beyond what I suspected. In retrospect, I should’ve had you killed immediately.”

The guard with the sidearm moved toward the bed.

“Should I execute this woman, Mistress?”

Then Ms. Wickman smiled again and said, “No, Captain. This…girl…presents no threat. Stand back, please.”

The guard nodded and retreated to his former position.

Ms. Wickman said, “You puzzle me, Giselle.”

Giselle arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Oh, yes. I suppose I should have you killed now, as the Captain suggests, but my curiosity has been aroused.” She licked her lips and allowed her gaze to slowly travel the length of Giselle’s naked body before again settling on her face. “I would like to know some things. For instance, with your level of ability, you could easily have escaped this place already. Instead you summoned me. Why?”

Giselle smiled. “Because I do not wish to escape.”

Now it was Ms. Wickman’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Oh? That’s surprising, given the nasty things that have been done to you here.”

Giselle raised one of her restored hands, bending it at the wrist for better display. “Nothing that was permanent, as you can see.” She lowered her hand and smiled again. “You’ll want to know about that, of course. A god assisted me. Do you have any direct experience with the death gods, Ms. Wickman?”

Ms. Wickman’s gaze hardened. “I do not.” Her terse manner indicated this was an admission she was furious to have to make in front of her followers. “But I know a death god would not assist you without a suitable offering…”

“A sacrifice, you mean.” Giselle moved a hand over the empty patch of bedsheet next to her, enjoying the feel of the smooth silk beneath her restored flesh. “Yes, a death god granted me temporal transport to a location far from here. There I made the required sacrifice by killing one of the men instrumental in the Master’s demise.”

Ms. Wickman grunted. “How very fitting.”

“The Master should never have died,” Giselle said, the sincerity in her voice surprising even her. “I’ve changed. And I’ve seen the error of my ways. I want to serve here with you, Mistress, to honor and exalt you. I want to kill for you. Torture for you. Anything you desire…”

Ms. Wickman continued to regard her coolly for several long moments, her expression giving away nothing as she mulled over Giselle’s words. Then she said, “Is there anything else you want, Giselle?”

Giselle patted the smoothed-down silk sheet and said, “I would like for you to lie here with me for a while.”

Something subtle sparked in Ms. Wickman’s dark eyes. Giselle felt a deep satisfaction at having prompted it. Without moving her eyes from Giselle’s face, Ms. Wickman barked out a single command:“Leave us!”

The others in the room reacted as if slapped. They scurried almost as one out of the room, even the guards, responding to the undeniable imperative in their Mistress’s tone. The big door slammed shut, the sound echoing in the large room for a moment.

They were alone. At last.

Ms. Wickman held Giselle’s gaze a short moment longer. Then she turned her back on Giselle, dipped her head, and said, “Unzip me.”

Giselle got to her knees and moved to the edge of the bed. She took the tiny zipper tab at the collar of Ms. Wickman’s dress and began to slowly draw it down, unveiling a wedge of flesh nearly as pale as Giselle’s own. Then a surprise, a hint of color as she pulled the zipper further down. Then further still, Giselle’s breath catching in her throat as she slid the zipper all the way down to Ms. Wickman’s waist.