Norman Partridge - Wildest Dreams

Fangs ripped across my shoulder, chewing a path to my throat.

The guard dog drove me back into the dining room.

My pistols thundered, and three. 45 slugs ripped the Doberman apart, and the dog hit the dining table in sections.

A wet red fire raged over my right shoulder. The dog’s teeth had torn flesh and muscle, and I was bleeding badly.

But I couldn’t slow down. I hurried through the doorway, toward the spiked, twisting staircase.

That sound again, like wild castanets-dog claws on polished oak.

Two guns in two hands. Instinctively I raised them both, and my wounded shoulder exploded in agony.

I stumbled toward the windows. The room spun and threatened to go black. I hesitated for a moment, just to steady myself, but it was a moment I couldn’t afford to waste.

Because Circe’s guard dogs didn’t hesitate for an instant. They closed on me from different directions, three of them, the scent of my blood burning in their black nostrils.

The dogs didn’t mistake me for Diabolos Whistler.

They were smarter than that.

They scented a man’s blood, not the blood of Satan.

The first dog jumped at me, jaws stretched impossibly wide.

I clenched the pistol in my left hand and jerked the trigger as fast as I could. A. 45 slug severed an angry bark as the Doberman’s black head exploded in midair. Teeth and bone chattered against the hardwood floor and the dog thudded dead at my feet, blood pumping over my shoes as the second canine launched itself.

Black lips peeled over barbed white teeth.

I pulled the trigger.

A bullet clipped the dog’s ear.

Yelping, it slammed into me like a bag of cement.

I fell back, still firing, and the dog’s ribs became a red hole, its heart a shredded mess scorched by muzzle flash.

The dog was so much dead weight now, but it carried momentum, momentum that drove me backward.

I lost my balance and the third dog hit me, teeth grinding against my right biceps as its jaws clamped down, hot exhalations blasting my mutilated shoulder as I pumped lead into its belly and we went back, back, back And I crashed against the staircase, and my skull cracked against the wrought-iron bars, and my breath exploded from my lungs as if I’d never draw another, and the wounded dog’s weight carried it down but I could not go with it.

I was pinned to the twisted staircase.

Impaled on the spiked bars like an insect on display.

A dagger of wrought iron burrowed deep in my right shoulder. Another spike bit lower, a thick brutal shaft trapped by my ribs, my bones scissored around it so that the wrought-iron spear sliced my guts every time I drew a breath. But I had to breathe. As long as I was alive, I had to-I dropped both pistols.

The dying dog panted at my feet in a puddle of its own blood, and then it breathed its last.

Silence closed around me like a shadow. A black silence, broken only by black sounds.

The buzzing of flies.

And inside that sound-almost lost in its icy shiver-another.

A siren’s call.

A call I had already answered.

The lights came on. Circe slapped my cheek.

The undertaker’s cheek. She fingered gashed eyelids and pulled the flesh mask from my face. Flies took to it as if it were honey, and she tossed it away.

The undertaker’s face smacked wetly on the floor, twisted and deflated, and flies peppered it until it was black.

Nothing but dead meat. But at least the face was good for something. So few things in this world are.

Circe agreed, but for a different reason. “I’ve got to hand it to you-using old Albert’s face was a smart move. You certainly fooled my guards. You didn’t fool me, though. But don’t feel bad about that-I’ve worn a mask or two in my time. I know all the tricks.”

She smiled, cold and dark and beautiful in jeans and a black crushed velvet top that clung to her like a second skin. I wondered if she’d worn the velvet just for me. Just to make me pay for my insolence.

“I think you’ll take a long time to die,” she said.

Her black nails scraped torn flesh as she brushed flies away from my wounded shoulder. I sucked a shallow breath, and brittle pain shot through me like a bullet.

My blood pattered against the hardwood floor.

The flies took to my shoulder as soon as Circe’s hand slipped away, but she didn’t notice. She was transfixed by the dead man’s face on the floor, a face as empty as Diabolos Whistler’s dream.

“My father’s not coming back, of course,” she said. “He never was. But then, you knew that, didn’t you?”

I nodded.

“I really like you,” she said. “That’s the funny thing. You’re a rock. No last minute conversions, no begging, no prayers. You’re down to counting your breaths the way an old man counts his birthdays, and you still don’t believe in anything. Do you?”

I shook my head.

“Not God?”

I shook it again.

“Not Satan?”

Circe’s blue eyes flashed before I could respond.

She opened her mouth, opened it wider than before, but she did not speak a word.

Fat flies crawled from the dark pit of her throat, crawled over her pink tongue, and took wing on air that stank of blood.

“I think I could change your mind, Clay. Not about God. But about Satan…Lord of the Flies.”

I drew another breath, counting it the way an old man counts another birthday, and when I let it go it was gone and there was no getting it back again.

“If there’s something you want to tell me,” I whispered, “you’d better make it fast.”

“Oh, we’ve got a little time yet,” Circe said. “Enough for a bedtime story.”

I closed my eyes and listened.

“Once upon a time, there was a little girl,” Circe began. “She had a whore for a mother and a charlatan for a father, but she was special all the same. Her name was Circe, and she was a child of prophecy, born to hear a siren’s call.

“One day her mother left her all alone on a bridge. The little girl sat there and waited for her father. She waited very patiently, staring down at the clear water rushing in the creek below, watching fish as they swam upstream to die.

“The fish were so pretty, strong and sleek as they hurried toward death. The creek was pretty too, like liquid glass. The little girl noticed that no matter how fast the water moved, it held her shadow like a mirror holds a reflection. At least she thought it was her shadow that the water held. Soon enough the little girl started to wonder. Because the shadow on the water called to her-”

“A siren’s call,” I said.

“The girl answered it, of course. She was a child of prophecy. What else could she do? She strained toward the shadow…”

Twin memories of the bridge intertwined in my mind-the little girl leaning forward to watch the fish, and Janice Ravenwood staring down at the water as if hypnotized during the strange seance.

“…and the shadow’s voice begged her to come closer…”

I caught Janice Ravenwood before she fell into that cold, clear water.

But no one caught Circe Whistler.

“…and the little girl fell off the bridge and the shadows pulled her under the surface like liquid glass and the creek took her under the bridge and over rocks that never saw the sun…oh, so many rocks…and what those rocks did to her…”

Circe slapped me again. My eyelids fluttered open. “Don’t sleep yet, darling,” she said. “Stay with me a little while longer. There’s not much more to tell.”

Another breath rattled down my throat. Another old man’s birthday. I’d lost count, but I knew there wasn’t any point in starting again.

Circe said, “The rocks hurt her horribly. The little girl died, of course. But her wounds did not matter, for they would pass as she had passed. She was a child of prophecy, a husk to be emptied and repaired by Satan.” Circe leaned close and whispered in my ear as if we were in church. “And the ruin of Whistler’s corpse shall be Satan’s cradle, and Satan will be reborn in flesh and blood to walk the earth once more-”