Giselle blinked rapidly for several moments. "How dare you--"

"Oh, shut up." Dream eyed her up and down, a mocking glint in her eyes. "I'd tell you not to get your panties in a knot, but you're not wearing any, are you?"

The younger black-haired girl cackled. "Yeah, that's some robe, baby. s.h.i.t, it's like she's the female Hugh Hefner and this is the house of horrors version of the Playboy Mansion."

The comment enraged Giselle even as it evoked a round of laughter from the girl's companions. Even the drooling, slack-jawed girl made a chuffing sound that might have been mirth. She continued making the sound for several moments after the laughter of her friends faded. Giselle put her rage on hold as she stared in helpless fascination at the pathetic creature. She looked outwardly normal, but it was apparent her mind was functioning only at the most basic level.

Giselle scowled. "What's wrong with that one? The ugly, drooling idiot, I mean." She lifted an arm to point at the girl with the slack jaw and gla.s.sy eyes, who turned her head slowly to stare blankly in Giselle's direction. "That one, I mean."

Dream's smile remained in place, but her eyes turned cold. "Oh, that's Ellen. She's a work in progress."

Giselle frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Dream drained her wine gla.s.s and filled it again. "Oh, nothing much. She died recently. Was murdered, actually. By one of your men, the late Harlan Dempsey."

Giselle shrugged. "I don't know the name. Many of our field operatives are still working under orders issued by the woman I...replaced."

"Yeah, okay, whatever. Doesn't matter. He's f.u.c.king dead now."

The younger dark-haired girl grinned and the fingers of her right hand a.s.sumed the shape of a gun. "Pow. Right between the eyes."

Dream chuckled. "That was right at your doorstep, as soon as we were sure ol' Harlan had guided us to the right place. Anyway, I brought our dead sister back to life. Actually, I created a whole new Ellen. We had to leave the original body behind. Physically, she's perfect. The trick is getting her mind to work again. It's slow work, but I'm getting there. Marcy is the key." She nodded at the other young girl, who was still aiming the finger-gun in Giselle's direction. "She's bound to Ellen by blood and carries a touch of her sister's essence with her. I'm drawing on that to restore her personality and memories."

Giselle nodded. "Uh-huh. Right."

She knew what was happening now. It was a little unnerving, but the mere knowing made her feel somewhat better. She had lived amongst s.a.d.i.s.ts and pract.i.tioners of dark magic for so long it had taken her a while to recognize simple madness when she saw it. It was a fine distinction, the line between deliberate indulgence of dark desires and the helplessness of lunacy. Dream and her friends were dangerous, yes, but only in the manner of any other roaming pack of maniacs. And she just didn't have the time or patience to deal with babbling lunatics.

So she marched further into the room and yanked a submachine gun from the shaking hands of a startled Black Brigade soldier. She broke the trembling man's neck with a hard chop of her left hand and he fell dead to the floor. Then she got a proper grip on the gun, slipped a finger through the trigger guard, and aimed the weapon at the crazy women sitting at her table.

"I've enjoyed our visit, but I'm very busy, so I'll be killing you now."

Her finger squeezed the trigger. Fire erupted from the muzzle. The weapon chugged and spit sh.e.l.l casings as the barrel tilted toward the ceiling. Bullets slashed through a chandelier and a rain of glittering white shards spattered the table like crystalline rain. Giselle eased her finger off the trigger and stared at the weapon with an expression that made her look like a befuddled child. Her first instinct was to blame the weapon itself. Recoil. The gun had a strong kick and she was not used to handling firearms.

But then she saw Dream's devilish grin.

Her eyes went wide and her breath caught in her throat. She felt a moment of fear. Then she shoved the fear down and a snarl transformed her face, animal fury twisting her natural prettiness and turning it into something almost ugly. She brought the weapon to bear again, aiming it straight at Dream's face. She squeezed the trigger again and waited for the thing she ached to see more than anything else, Dream's pretty face blowing apart beneath the onslaught of a hail of high-velocity steel.

The barrel tipped toward the ceiling again and the bullets etched a jittery pattern of holes in the wood. She kept her finger down on the trigger this time and struggled to bring the barrel down, the muscles in her arms and neck bulging with the strain. But her arms seemed frozen, as if held in place by the hands of some invisible puppet master. The gun's magazine clicked empty and only then did Giselle become aware of the mad, continuous roar emerging from her open mouth. The force holding her hands in place retreated, and she threw the useless weapon across the room with a cry of helpless rage. The gun's stock struck a long, wall-mounted mirror and shattered it.

Dream's black friend--who seemed vaguely familiar--laughed. "Look at that. Seven years bad luck. You done f.u.c.ked up, b.i.t.c.h."

The one called Marcy laughed.

The drooling lobotomy case made that unsettling chuffing sound again.

And Dream just kept on smiling, utterly unfazed by all the gunfire and drama.

Giselle's teeth were clenched and her hands were curled into tight fists at her side. From the corners of her eyes, she could see the faces of the soldiers. Here and there she was able to discern tell-tale hints of smugness. Of a grim satisfaction. There, they were thinking. Now the b.i.t.c.h knows why the hard men are afraid.

And they were right, d.a.m.n them to h.e.l.l.

She exerted a considerable effort of will and slowly composed herself. In a few moments she was able to regulate her breathing. The flush faded from her face. Her fists uncurled and her jaw relaxed.

She forced a smile. "Okay, Dream. I know that was your doing. I can feel it." She moved a few slow, deliberate steps toward the seated women. "Why don't you tell me how you did it?"

Dream chuckled. "Oh, you know. If you think about it hard enough, that is."

Giselle moved another step closer. And another. Slow. Casual. As sublimely cool and confident as a stoned surfer riding the crest of an early morning wave. Her eyes were locked on Dream's. The rest of the world faded. There was only the two of them now. There was a sweet tension in the air that was almost s.e.xual. She was putting herself out in the open, making herself as vulnerable as she'd ever been, clearing the channels to allow only pure truth to flow between them. In those moments she learned all she needed to know about Dream, and Dream saw the extent of Giselle's own formidable powers.

Yet another step closer.

"The Master. Of course." Giselle's smile was almost radiant now. He showed you some things, awakened a dormant power within you. A power that grew beyond your ability to control and direct." She laughed. "You're not really human. Not purely. Somewhere in the distant past one of his kind mated with one of your ancestors. This is why you have become so strong without schooling yourself in the dark arts."

Dream's smile became a smirk. "Interesting theory. Might even be the f.u.c.kin' truth. Thing is, I don't really give a f.u.c.k. Not anymore."

Giselle was within six feet of them now. Close to striking distance. Certain muscles began to subtly coil. "Is that so?" She arched an eyebrow, a faintly mocking expression. "Or are you just too much of a drunken mess to wrap your stupid head around any idea more complex than a knock-knock joke?"

Dream's face turned hard. "Stop right there."

And Giselle felt that force rise up against her again. It was impressive, the sheer ease with which Dream wielded her ability. But Giselle had been expecting it this time. And she was not without ability of her own. She threw up a psychic shield that repelled Dream's energy pulse and knocked the woman back in her own chair. Dream gaped at her. Shock radiated from her every pore.

NOW.

Giselle loosed a shriek of fury and dove across the surface of the table, her right hand extended, long, sharp nails seeking Dream's sky-blue eyes. Dream's friends tried to intercept her, but another blast of energy sent them tumbling to the floor. Giselle slid across the table at high speed, her body knocking aside the wine bottle and gla.s.ses. Then she was on Dream, her left hand closing on the woman's slender throat as the fingers of her other hand shot toward those gaping, stupid eyes. And for a flashing instant, Giselle felt her own smug satisfaction, thinking, stupid cow.

Then Dream's hand snapped up and seized Giselle's outstretched wrist. Giselle's momentum alone should have been enough to finish the job anyway, and the power flowing through her should have sealed the deal.

But Dream's strength blunted her momentum. The woman's hand moved backward perhaps half a centimeter. Then stopped. Giselle's wrist was frozen in place, but the rest of her body kept moving. Dream leaped to her feet and moved with the direction of that energy. She shifted her grip on Giselle's wrist and exerted some force of her own. Then Giselle was airborne and flying toward the wall with no way to stop the impending crash. The top of her head smacked the wall, and an instant later she hit the floor with a hard, undignified thud. The pain was immense. Before she could even begin to consider her next move, she was yanked to her feet and slammed against the wall.

Dream put a hand around her throat and slammed her against the wall again. "How's that feel, b.i.t.c.h! How's that f.u.c.king feel!" Dream's eyes were wide and bulging, pulsing with insanity and unmitigated fury. "Does it f.u.c.king hurt! Does it f.u.c.king hurt!"

Giselle's vision blurred and she realized with shame that she had tears in her eyes. She didn't bother to answer the crazy woman's question. Of course it hurt. But the pain wasn't the worst of it. The thing that really got to her was how powerless she was to stop this abuse. And she almost felt like laughing, despite everything, because now she had the gift of clarity and could see how arrogant she had been. Had she really felt like a G.o.d? As if nothing or no one could ever hurt her again?

She bit her lip. Hard. Tasted her own blood.

And called out to the void.

Azaroth! Help me!

No answer from the void.

Just the sound of her head banging repeatedly off the wall as the world turned fuzzy. She wondered if she was about to die and felt a moment's perplexion at how little she cared. As she neared unconsciousness, she thought of the essential ways in which the blood sacrifice of Eddie King had changed her. Maybe she'd really died back then, the real Giselle, and the thing she was now was just some magical construct, a joke played on her by a malicious G.o.d. Azaroth. The silent one. Her former coconspirator against the Master. Her restored hands. A body, whole again.

Construct.

Giselle's laughter approached madness. Now who was the crazy one? Dream continued to scream at her, the words losing any meaning now.

Then, just as she thought death might take her, she glanced over her shoulder and saw a new shape enter the room. She blinked hard. Dream wasn't banging her against the wall anymore. Just screaming. Raging. Her hand squeezing. The shape came into focus as it moved closer.

Giselle's heart lurched.

Ursula.

Still nude. So beautiful. So tall in those ridiculous platform heels. The jut of her mouth so insolent. In that moment Giselle felt a rush of love and desire. It was all still there, the purity of all she'd felt for the girl over these months. It hadn't really faded at all. And seeing the fright and concern in her lover's eyes only intensified the feeling.

Ursula locked eyes with her and Giselle saw the same depth of emotion within her.

It was a beautiful, aching, glorious moment.

And it pa.s.sed in a nanosecond.

Ursula screamed and came running toward her, ridiculous big heels clomping on the marble floor.

And the young girl with the black-as-night hair--Marcy--rose up and strode purposefully forward, a real gun, a gleaming, nickel-plated 9mm pistol, in her hands now. She aimed the barrel point blank at Ursula's face and fired once. The bullet hit her between the eyes. An explosion of red bloomed behind her head even as her body flew backward. Giselle squealed anguish and tried to flex her power one last time, reached down deep inside herself and tried to kickstart the core of that power. But it was unreachable. Something was in the way. Still she kept reaching, kept straining...

Dream grinned and said, "No."

Giselle's vision blurred again. "Kill me. Please. Finish it...."

Dream laughed. "No." She increased the pressure around Giselle's neck, reducing her air pa.s.sage to perhaps the width of a straw. "You're not getting off that easy."

Of course not.

Giselle's fading gaze went to the trembling soldiers. No smugness on their faces now. Just terror. Disbelief.

Helplessness. Trembling hands unable to wield their weapons. Giselle wasn't sure they'd choose to use them if they could.

And there, just inside the archway, good old Schreck. As afraid as the rest of them, but with a hint of a smirk playing at the edges of his mouth. She had another insight then. Another bit of truth she'd been too stupid and arrogant to discern. He was the traitor. The Order of the Dragon plant alluded to by Gwendolyn in her last moments. And he must have seen the recognition in her fading vision, because now he was baring his teeth. Cackling, the jackal exposed at last.

Giselle sucked more blood from her torn lip into her mouth.

Called out one last time.

Azaroth...why have you forsaken me?

And this time she received a response.

Disembodied, mocking laughter that boomed in her head like thunder.

Thunder that rolled on and on as the world faded away at last.

PART III:.

NEW YEAR'S DAY.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

The caravan departed Camp Whiskey at the break of dawn, six vans and two Jeeps packed with weaponry and ammunition, carrying some two dozen pa.s.sengers down a winding, snow-encrusted mountain path. They traveled all through the day and the whole of the night that followed, arriving somewhere in the approximate center of Wyoming at dawn of the next day.

Allyson blinked and emerged from the drowse she'd fallen into some fifteen minutes earlier. She sat up straight and stared through a window at the gray sky and the pa.s.sing countryside. The Jeep's engine rattled and chugged, its big tires bouncing in and out of potholes as it followed the snaking stretch of rural highway. There were no houses to be seen anywhere. Just trees and more trees, their branches denuded by the season, pale and angling toward the sky like the outstretched arms of worshippers.

The Jeep was at the rear of the modest column of vehicles. Allyson shifted in her seat and peered between the front seats for a glimpse of the road ahead. The other vehicles were staying close, none of them separated by more than a car length. The van directly in front of them was old and painted olive green.

Just like a for-real army truck, Allyson thought, smirking.

But as far as she was concerned, the van's color marked the end of any similarity between this insane glorified Boy Scout mission and any real military operation. They lacked strength of numbers, for one thing. In the wake of Jack Paradise's murder and the imprisonment of Jim, the tenuous connections that had held together the always fragile Camp Whiskey community frayed and came apart. An attempt to repel the usurpers from the Order of the Dragon lacked cohesion and direction and was put down in spectacularly brutal fashion. The camp's mysteriously cowed faux-military wing stood by and let it happen. The bulk of the people saw that the Order could not be overcome and a ma.s.s exodus ensued. Allyson had felt a strong urge to run with them, but could not bring herself to do so without Chad, who was riding now in one of the forward vehicles.

Only a small, hardcore group chose not to flee. These were mostly men, and mostly members of the paramilitary unit a.s.sembled by Jack Paradise. Most of Jack's men died alongside him that night. The ones who remained took orders from the Order people, and did so without question. Chad was being held against his will by the Asian woman, but Allyson had a feeling he would have stayed regardless, at least as long as Jim remained alive.

Thinking of that stirred Allyson's anger anew. The b.i.t.c.h treated him like a piece of property, or a pet, dragging him along wherever she went, striking him whenever he dared to open his mouth. Allyson felt embarra.s.sment on Chad's behalf any time she witnessed this behavior, and a part of her withered inside every time it happened, as she thought of how humiliating the ordeal must be for him. Doubly frustrating was her utter inability to do anything about it.

The Asian woman forbade any contact between them. Allyson initially wondered why Chad's new keeper allowed her to stay at Camp Whiskey. She eventually realized the woman was deriving a s.a.d.i.s.tic enjoyment from Allyson's predicament, taunting her by flaunting her ownership of Chad. It was a petty, cruel thing. But it was also a good thing. Proximity meant there would one day be an opportunity to exploit. She kept her eyes open. The chance to get away with Chad in tow would present itself. And she d.a.m.n well intended to make the most of that opportunity.

But now things had changed. Again.

The order to saddle up and head out to the final battle of good versus evil (although Allyson had decided evil versus evil was a more accurate description at this point) had been handed down. Many hundreds of miles later, Allyson was still looking for that perfect moment. The circ.u.mstances complicated things. She no longer had an indefinite period of time to work with. She was separated from her man and surrounded by well-armed hostiles.

Still, she wasn't ready to give up just yet.

She kicked the back of the seat ahead of her and said, "How much farther?"

The man in the seat turned to look at her. He was clad in camos and sported black shades despite the overcast sky. "Not sure. Maybe fifty more miles." He grinned and licked parched lips. "And hey...k ick my seat again and I'll come back there to teach you a lesson."

The man in the driver's seat--a black man also clad in camos--glanced at the rearview mirror and grinned broadly. "I'd like to tear me off a piece of that, my ownself."

Allyson snorted. "Either of you pukebags touch me, I'll tear your f.u.c.king eyes out. And anyway, you don't have time for p.u.s.s.y. You've got a big battle to be dying in soon, remember?"

The driver laughed. "Listen to the mouth on her."

The man in the shotgun seat leered at her. "Don't worry, baby. I can always make time for p.u.s.s.y, one way or another."

Allyson slid a hand into a pocket of the heavy winter jacket she was wearing. Her fingers curled around the handle of the big switchblade she'd stashed there earlier. She eased her hand out of the poc ket and clicked the little b.u.t.ton on the side. The blade popped out and she lunged forward, slamming the blade into the man's exposed throat. The man's shades popped off his face as blood jetted from the hole in his throat. He gaped at Allyson in disbelief even as she yanked the blade out and slammed it into one of his eyes. Allyson did all of this without thinking, instinct driving her, a moment of pure awareness in which she understood on a primal level that the "perfect" moment she hoped for would never arrive. It was much like those fevered moments in the dark kitchen of Chad's house as she'd slaughtered those men in black, her mind and body operating with surprising efficiency in stripped-down reptile-brain mode.