Lords of Salem (17 page)

Help!
she cried silently to Jarrett, trying to plead from behind her eyes.
Help me!

But Jarrett was lying there out of breath, covered with sweat, exhausted.

The beast within her licked its lips. Licked Maisie’s lips, rather. It was still hungry. She could feel it taking the imagined images of a slaughtered Jarrett into its mouth and rolling them around on its tongue. Yes, they tasted good to it, and since she was there with it, she could taste them, too, could taste what it wanted her body to do to Jarrett next.

“Whew,” said Jarrett. “What was up with that?”

Jarrett
, she cried silently.
Run!

She felt her body throw off the covers. Carefully, as awkward as an automaton, she stood and walked jerkily out of the room.

“Babe, I meant that in a good way!” she heard Jarrett call from the
bedroom behind her.
Please,
she prayed.
Please, dear God, let this be a dream.

The song was ending. Heidi watched the old writer, Francis whatever his name was, leave, still a little perplexed. Strange turnaround there at the end. Why the sudden interest in the Lords, and in the note? He didn’t exactly seem like the type to be a headbanger, but it took all kinds, she guessed.

As the song faded, Whitey clicked over to the first caller.

“Okay, are we dealing with a smash or a trash?” he asked.

“Come on, dude,” said a gruff male voice. “I’m at work right now listening and it’s making my day worse. That is fucking shit!”

“Whoa!” said Herman. “No F bombs or S bombs please. One for trash. Next caller.”

Whitey clicked over to the next one. “Smash or trash?” he asked.

“What?” said a voice that might belong to a man, might belong to a woman. “I just wanted to make a request. Air Supply’s—”

Whitey cut the call off, went on to the next line. “Smash or trash?” he asked.

“Trash!” said another male voice, angrily. “Total trash! My band Tuesday Weld Overdrive kicks ass over that! We are playing—”

“We already did a smash or trash on Tuesday Weld Overdrive and the verdict was trash. Next!” said Heidi, just as Whitey cut the call.

“Trash it or smash it?” asked Whitey.

“Oh my God, it’s beautiful,” said a woman. Her voice was breathy, almost fluttery.

“Beautiful?” said Herman. “Lady, you might like it, but there’s no way in hell anybody can think of that crap as beautiful.”

But the woman didn’t take the bait. “Keep playing it… Please play it again…”

Who is that?
wondered Maisie briefly, feeling sluggish and then thought,
Oh God, it’s me.
She was looking out at her body all right,
staring at her reflection in the mirror. Only it didn’t quite look right, didn’t quite look like her. There was something wrong; the lines of her face were a little off, the tilt of her head different than normal. Something glowed in her eyes, too, something that she’d never seen there before. Her naked body was holding a small porcelain cat, stroking it very slowly, as if it were real. It kept running its hands over the cat’s surface, nails clicking against the porcelain.

She tried again to take control of her body, but now that the beast had tasted freedom it wasn’t about to give that up. It kept its thumb pressed to her, holding her firmly pinned, making her squirm.

She watched her reflection in the mirror as if through a red haze.

In the background, the radio rambled on.

“Smash or trash,” said Herman’s voice.

“Smash!” screamed a woman’s voice. “Smash! I love it!”

Yes,
she heard the beast think:
Smash. Time to smash.
Her hands swiveled and held the cat out over the hardwood floor. For a moment they held it there and then they let go.

The cat tumbled end over end and then struck the floor, breaking into thousands of pieces.

“What was that? Are you all right, dude?” she heard Jarrett call out. She didn’t answer. Instead, she tentatively lifted one foot, brought it down among the broken bits. She ground the foot down, feeling the pieces cut into her flesh. She brought it away and then stepped down on it again, and when she lifted it the beast within her was pleased to see the red stain that was left behind. She watched her body smile, and then watched it open the top drawer in the dresser below the mirror and reach in. Within her, the beast smiled. In the reflection, her face smiled in exactly the same way.

When her hand came up, it was holding a pair of scissors. It lifted them slowly, lethargically, turning them, examining them, watching how the light caught and glittered on them. Her hand spread them open and snapped them together. And then she watched her reflection open its mouth and give a short, barking laugh.

Slowly, her hands lifted the scissors and opened them, then put her neck in the V the spread blades made.
No
, thought Maisie, and she heard the beast laugh inside her head. She felt the blades tighten, felt the pressure on either side of her neck, her carotid artery pounding against the sharp blade. Her hands left them there a moment and then slid them away. In the mirror she saw where blood had beaded on one side of her neck. Slowly, it formed a drop and slid down. The beast used her mouth to lick its lips.

Her hands lifted the scissors again, higher this time, and began to cut away her black curls. She watched her locks fall down, all her lovely hair going away.

The cutting continued up and around the back until her hair was shorn down nearly to the scalp in some places, irregular and a little longer in others. She looked like a mental patient. It was a look the beast liked. Again her mouth smiled.

I’m dreaming
, she told herself.
I’m dreaming. Soon I’ll wake up.

But there within her she heard the beast chuckle.
No
, it said in a deep voice.
You’re not dreaming, child. You belong to me.

She tried again to struggle, tried again to take control of her body, but the beast held her effortlessly. It laughed within her, and she saw the laughter bubbling like blood from her own mouth. No, there was blood, too; the beast had bitten partway through her tongue and she could feel the new cut in it. If she bit again, she’d probably bite it clean through. Her mouth was full of blood. She could taste it, distantly. As she watched, it began to slip out of her mouth and down her chin, spattering over her bare breasts.

Her hands opened the scissors and held them spread, bringing one point down close to her chest. It hesitated there, over her heart, and then pushed slowly against the skin until it was uncomfortable to breathe. She could feel the blade there, just on the edge of her breast, tight against the skin, and then she saw in the mirror a drop of blood form on the end of the blade, then a line of blood begin to flow.

All I need to do
, she heard the beast within her say,
is push this a little farther, then a little farther still, and then that will be the end of you.

She waited for the beast to do just that. In her head she felt it watching her, smiling, waiting.

But, Maisie
, it said,
that would bring an end to all our fun. No, I have so much more in store for you.

Her hands lifted the scissors away and then brought them down again between her breasts, cutting deep through the skin this time. It carved a slow, meticulous channel through the skin as her mind filled with pain. The face in the glass stared at her the whole time, smiling.

Feel that?
asked the beast.
Are you having fun now? Self-mutilation is always the heart of the party.

When the scissors were lifted away, she saw that the beast knew exactly what it was doing. It had hurt her, had done permanent damage, but had not carved deep enough to incapacitate her. She was bleeding, yes, lines of blood now oozing down her stomach, and the muscles in her breast hurt, but she wasn’t going to die any time soon. At least not from these cuts. No, it wanted her to suffer before it killed her, wanted to light her mind up with pain. And each time she experienced pain, she realized, the creature seemed larger within her, seemed to have grown in size and in confidence.

It smiled again at her with her mouth, and then lifted the scissors again.

May I have this dance?
it asked her. And then, without awaiting a response, began to carve again. A straight, vertical line starting just above the midpoint of the circle and descending through it to close the bottom of the circle. Then a crosspiece near its top, painfully tearing through the muscle. Then a kind of head, but open at the top, a U, and legs, too, with the bottom of the vertical line of the cross like a tail between it. The pain was almost unbearable. She felt it, could hardly stand it, but her body seemed not to notice it at all. Inside, she was screaming and panting, trying not to lose consciousness.
Outside, she was calm and collected, almost meditative, as she carved the symbol into her own chest.

The beast stopped for a moment, regarded its handiwork in the mirror. Then it smiled. Very carefully, near each end of the crosspiece, it used the end of the scissors to bore a tiny round hole. Her chest was slick with blood now, but even with all the blood, the symbol was still visible, its lines darker, more definite. She watched her mouth twist, then smile again.

“You belong to the Lords now,” the beast whispered with her voice, her mouth, to her reflection. Or maybe it was the reflection whispering to her.

“Maisie, where are you?” she heard Jarrett call from the other room. “Are you coming back or what?”

She heard the beast within her prick up its ears. It had forgotten about Jarrett, but now that it had been reminded, it felt hungry. It licked her lips.

“Coming, honey,” she called back. Or the beast within her called back.

But there was something weird about her voice, something strange about the way the beast used it. It was too deep, not right somehow. Jarrett heard the difference.

“Are you all right?” he asked. But she didn’t answer. Instead, she closed the bloody scissors, took a firm grip on the handle, and went back into the bedroom.

It’s fucked-up
, thought Whitey. Sure, there were always disagreements over whether something should be smashed or trashed, particularly when they did local music and the bands tried to get their friends to call in and support them, but it never was as wide a range as this. People either loved the shit out of this track or they hated it and wanted to crucify the Lords. No middle ground.

And it was still going, still a line of people queuing on the phones, wanting their opinions to be heard.

He took the next call. “Smash or…,” he started, but then let his voice trail off.

The woman on the other end was weeping.
Shit
, he thought,
some psycho
, and reached to disconnect her.

“Please play it again…,” she managed to say before he cut her off. “I need to hear it again.”

Shit, he thought, her voice, the longing in it. She’d heard the song only once but it was like she was already addicted to it. Was she crying out of disappointment that the song had ended or out of joy that she’d been lucky enough to hear it? It was like all the crazies were coming out tonight.

“The chicks love it,” Whitey said. Yeah, that was right. Every woman who called in loved it. That was weird. Every man who called in seemed to hate it. That was weird, too.

“I guess it’s a girlie smash,” said Heidi.
Girlie smash
, he thought. That was a good one. He’d have to file it away and use it sometime himself.

“What can I say?” said Herman. “It’s obviously the new ‘Sexual Healing.’ ”

Little different sound, though,
thought Whitey. A lot more aggravated—hardly a good track for bedroom fun, unless you happened to be Jack the Ripper.

He reached out and connected another line.
Let it be a woman who hates it
, he said.
Break the pattern.
It was a woman all right, but she didn’t hate it. As usual, being a woman, she loved it, thought it was a smash.
Messed up
, he thought,
and a little creepy
, and then he went on to the next call.

He’d turned over, was lying on his side now. He was still naked but he was covertly checking his phone, something she hated him to do after sex.
Look up!
she silently begged.
See what’s happened to me, and then run.

But he didn’t. He kept checking his phone as she came slowly in and clambered into the bed and spooned him from behind.

“Mmm,” he said. “Back for more?”

She didn’t say anything. Her body started kissing him on the shoulder, the neck, leaving bloody mouth prints with each kiss.

“Feels great,” he said. He arched his back a little, rubbed his shoulder blades against her breasts. She felt the symbol carved on her chest tear a little, the wounds bleeding more freely. But her body pushed back, acting as though nothing was wrong.

“Are you wet?” he asked. “Splash yourself with water or something?”

She didn’t answer, just reached around him and put her hand on his cock, began to rub her thumb up and down its shaft. That distracted him a little, made him worry less. He tried to turn around and get where he could kiss her, but she kept holding on, tightening her hand around his cock and squeezing.
Shhh
, the beast said through her. The whisper sounded a little weird, but not so weird that he noticed.

“Okay, okay,” he said, giving up. “We’ll do it the way you want to do it. But honestly, I don’t know if I have another go in me quite yet. But sure, why not, we can play around.”

She kept rubbing his cock, rubbing her body up and down his back, tearing her wounds open. Everything was getting bloody. Everything was growing wet with blood. The beast inside her took a deep breath through her nose, enjoying the smell of her blood.

“Why are you sticky?” Jarrett asked. “Did you get something on your chest? Honey or something? Is this part of the game?”