Preta's Realm (31 page)

“I guess so,” Tilla said.  She dropped the bow to a forty-five degree angle, keeping the arrow drawn.

“Pa,” the girl mumbled, her tears created white streaks on a brown face.

Its cute now, but what happens when it grows up?

The head of snakes cowered.  The silent sobs shook the fragile frame.  Tilla slung her bow over a shoulder and placed her hands on her hips.  She scanned the area for others and determined they fled deep into the forest, living to die another day.

Hunger pangs tugged at Tilla like the shakes of detox.  They pushed her feet towards the broken girl at the foot of the human roast.  Tilla squatted low; her black leathers creaked in protest.  With one hand on her knife, the other touched the shoulder of the girl.

Tilla jumped and held her breath when she crawled into her lap.  The girl nestled her head into the crook of Tilla’s arm, pulling both knees up into a fetal position.

Tilla pushed the girl’s hair to the side, revealing a bright, white neck.  With dilated pupils, her hands gripped the child’s shoulders.  Tilla’s incisors burst through the gum line, spilling the coppery taste of blood into her mouth.  She leaned over the whimpering savage and licked a bead of sweat from the girl’s ear.  Her mass of black hair enveloped the child’s head.

“Go.  Get away from here.”

The child dashed from Tilla’s lap on all fours.  She hissed and sprinted deep into the ancient trees.

When the child left, and when Tilla was no longer able to smell her, she sat down in the bloodstained dirt next to the fire.  She stood and vaulted after the child, ran a few paces, and returned to the fire.  Tilla kicked the dead man’s leg.  She threw a fifty-five gallon drum high into the air, dispersing fire and an ungodly scream across the dead ground.  Tilla gathered her weapons.  She pulled arrows from the slain and climbed to her stronghold on the east side of the valley, cursing the encroaching dawn.

***

Tilla left the cave in time to see bands of orange, red, and yellow wash across the western sky.  The salty taste of the child’s sweat resonated on her tongue.  Venus climbed from the horizon to keep a watchful eye on the dark mistress.  Two hawks circled high above, screeching, and scouting for their next victim.

She gazed into the valley where the fires of the previous night left piles of smoldering charcoal.

They buried the dead.  When did that start again?

Tilla’s tongue felt like a roll of gauze bandage.  Her vision wavered as if she stood in the middle of the Mojave.  The belt on the leather pants sagged lower.  She yanked the buckle hard to her left and sunk the pin through the last hole.  Tilla ignored the numbness in her legs as the mountain helped her descend into the valley.

Movement caught her eye.  A metallic surface reflected the rays of the setting sun.

You just made a costly mistake.

Tilla walked down the steep incline.  Her ears tuned to the noises of the wilderness, concentrating in the direction of dusk’s reflection.  She detected two voices taking flight, paused at the site of the previous night’s battle, and dropped to her knees.  With an index finger, Tilla scooped the reddened, moist soil.  She placed the finger in her mouth and licked the shot of adrenaline.  The voices burst into her head like a strong radio station brought to point on the dial.  To her left, she felt movement.  From behind a gnarled oak stepped the girl Tilla released the night before.  The child smiled at Tilla and skipped into the woods, giggling and laughing into her hands.  She tuned out of the voices and locked her eyes on the reveler.

Tilla’s instincts screamed at her from rejected, vacant spaces.  She dropped into a crouch and sprinted after her prey.  Tilla flung her bow to the ground, ripped the knife from its ties, and slashed at the branches in her path.  The girl’s dirty blond hair bounced as Tilla chased her.  The child dropped over a crest and further into the valley of dark foliage.  Tilla gained with every step.  She bared her teeth and flared her nostrils.  The girl stopped, turned to face her, and spoke.

“C’mon and play.”

Tilla froze.  She shook her head and peeled a moist leaf from her forehead.  Cold sweat covered Tilla’s face and sounds washed through her ears like the unforgiving tide.  Tilla licked her lips, trying to coat her dry tongue with some moisture.

“What?”

“C’mon and play with me.  Please?” the girl pleaded with Tilla.

“Who taught you to speak?”

The girl did not reply.  She stood, unfurled a bony arm, and beckoned Tilla closer.

Tilla rolled her red eyes back and roared into the lonely sky.  She launched at the girl, blood flying from her splitting lips.  Her fingers reached for the girl’s neck, but fell short of the intended target.  The child disappeared into a halo of light.  The darkness contracted as Tilla fell into the pit.  The cold earth greeted her with shattered bones and punctured organs.  Tilla closed her eyes as the blood began to repair the damage.

***

“Is she one?”

“Look at her, Samson.  What do you think?”

The burly man leaned into Tilla’s face.  He stood with one foot in front of the other, prepared to flee at the slightest indication.  His braided beard swung low and rested on Tilla’s chin.

“Did she kill the others?”  Samson asked.

“Have you seen a clan member dressed in black leather, sticking arrows in people’s chests?”  Thebault lifted his eyebrows while pointing to Tilla.

Samson backed away.  He reached for Tilla’s wrists and yanked on the rope to ensure the knots held.

“When will she wake?”  Samson asked.

“Hard to say.  It’s a long way down to the bottom of the pit.  I heard crunching bones.  It could take weeks for her to regenerate.”

Samson moved his hand from her bound wrists to Tilla’s left breast.  He caressed the black leather holding back an ample chest.

“What is your problem?”  Thebault slapped at Samson’s hand, bruising his fingers and his ego.  “She isn’t a woman.”

“And I’m no longer a man.”

Samson turned and left Thebault to guard Tilla.  He lit the coffee can torch, and collapsed into the stained, ripped front seat of a 1982 Dodge Ram.  Samson’s heavy frame sunk to the springs, casting out remains of mites and an aromatic mist of mold.  He closed his eyes before the flames of the torch died.

***

“You can’t kill them.  They always come back.”

Thebault tossed the milky, plastic water bottle to the ground.  It crinkled as it rolled in lopsided waves to rest on a rock.  Thebault creased his eyebrows and dropped to one knee to reach for the cloudy water.

“So do rats.  That don’t mean we let them live.”

Samson nodded.  A vague memory of his wife’s face passed through his head, chased away by the regenerating body of the woman in black.  Since The Fall, he almost forgot what she looked like.

“Have we ever caught one alive?”

“Alive is an interesting word.  I can’t remember ever catching one in a trap.  They sniff those out and avoid them.”

The child stood ten paces behind the men as they spoke, staring into the face of Tilla.  She wrinkled her nose and swatted a cloud of smoke that followed her from the fire.

“When she gets stronger, she’ll break free and get me.”

Samson looked back at the orphan and laughed.

“We’ll take care of her long before that happens.  Now get the hell out of here and leave us alone.”

The girl furrowed her eyebrows and vanished into the trees on the edge of the clearing.  Samson shook his head and turned back to Thebault.

“I hate kids.”

Thebault stared at Tilla’s face.  Her lips twitched during the past two nights, and he witnessed her dark bruises retreating into smooth, white flesh.

“I said, I hate kids,” repeated Samson, with as much authority in his voice as he could muster.

“When?” asked Thebault.

“The way you’re gawking at her, sooner rather than later.  You imagine her nails scraping down your back, her legs wrapped around you.  Then you wake up to find your throat ripped open.  Would you step away from her, please?”

Thebault ran a hand through thinning hair, which broke his gaze on Tilla.

“I’m going on legend here.  We got no other resources.”

“You mean the head, the stake, the burning, which one?” asked Samson.

“More than one couldn’t hurt.  I don’t want to take any chances on this one coming back with a vengeance,” replied Thebault.

Samson rose and shuffled to Thebault.  He landed a burly hand on the man’s shoulder.

“Can’t we just leave her out here and wait for sunrise?”

Thebault shook from Samson’s touch and glared at him.

“Even Stoker wasn’t sure about that.  I’d feel better if we did it ourselves instead of leaving it to the forces of nature.”

“So be it.  Let’s do it now.  I’m having a hard time looking away from that fine body of hers.  Seems like I can hear her whispering dirty words in my head, things she wants me to do to her.”

Thebault spat on the ground and reached into the rusted remnants of a shopping cart.  It stood motionless, the wheels lost to oblivion.  He reached inside and pulled out a machete.

“Head first?”

Samson did not reply.  He shrugged his shoulders at Thebault.  Thebault placed the machete on the stone slab holding Tilla and returned to the ancient cart.

“That machete is as dull as your brain.  I’m going to stake her through the heart first.  Let’s get her on the ground.”

Thebault waved at Samson.  Thebault reached under Tilla’s shoulders and Samson lifted her by the ankles.  A shock of desire, power, and adrenaline raced through their system.  Flashes of skin and glistening bodies filled their mind’s eye.  Thebault dropped her first, walked to Samson, and slapped him across the face.  He dropped Tilla’s ankles and raised a fist to retaliate.

“She’s coming round.  Hurry up!”

The blood in Samson’s face subsided.  He walked towards Tilla’s head and stood on her shoulders.  His faded Doc Marten’s pressed down on the bare, white flesh, pushing Tilla’s breasts together into a sensual pillow.

“Stand there until its done.  No skin to skin contact.”

Thebault raised the wooden shard and positioned the ragged edge over Tilla’s heart.  In his right hand, he held a primitive tomahawk, complete with a stone head.  Samson looked at the North Star and turned his right hand in circles, urging Thebault to get on with the deed.  Thebault brought the tomahawk down on the wooden shard with as much force as he could muster.

Tilla’s eyes burst open.  Her bright red lips parted as a piercing howl shocked the night into submission.  Thebault could not look away.  Her sharpened teeth glistened in the moonlight and her body thrashed in the bindings.  Tilla’s convulsions threw Samson off her shoulders and into a tree.  Her head snapped back and forth, sending spasms of silken hair to caress Thebault’s face.  She smelled like lust, a battered whore left to die in the gutter.

Thebault lunged for the machete and hacked at Tilla’s throat, trying not to hit the wooden stake bobbing in her chest.  Tears streaked his face as he struck multiple times, swinging until the machete buried itself in the profane soil beneath her.  Samson observed, unable to will himself back into position, even with the protective layer of his boots between him and Tilla.

Her screams died away and her eyelids closed.  Thebault grabbed her hair and tossed the head into the fire.  The blood popped and crackled in the heat, sending green smoke into the air.

The child watched in horrid fascination.  The two men hugged and sobbed after the killing.  The girl’s bloody mouth twisted from frowns to grins through contortions of pain that could no longer conceal her lengthening incisors.

Bonus excerpt from the
The Seventh Seal

Chapter 1

Every strand of Sarah’s hair shocked John Burgoyne like voltage from downed electrical wires.  He needed to be in her, envelope her.  The room glowed through the darkness.  The hypnotic guitar of Threefold Law’s “Old Dominion” pulsed through the speakers on tentacles of golden vibrations, surrounding and stifling the other sounds in the house.

The pill dissolved in John’s stomach, quickened by gulps of Great Lake’s finest.  The beer settled at the top of his throat and he fought the acidic burn.

Sarah pushed him back on the couch and unbuckled her black leather belt.  John spilled the remainder of his warm beer, dropped the bottle to the floor, and moving his hands to her hips, slid down the garter straps and pushed the miniskirt up to reveal the tops of white fishnet stockings.  John’s body slid beneath hers and into a familiar position.  His vision blurred and Sarah’s words took on a wavering quality, as if she spoke underwater.  He felt her hands tugging at his underwear and he saw black pants at his ankles.  John’s cell phone slid from his pocket and hit the cement floor, punctuating his pang of sexual guilt: Jana.