The Converging: Mark of the Demon

Prologue

The light was draining from the sky, casting the western horizon in a reddish pink hue that was a photographer's dream. A solitary man sat before a campfire that he had taken great pains to start. It was not the beauty of the western sky that held his attention. No, his eyes were riveted to the eastern horizon which had begun to fade to twilight. He could feel the pervasive chill gradually creeping through his white snow suit, caressing his fevered flesh with its icy fingers. He leaned closer to the fire attempting to escape its glacial kiss.

Though the temperature was well below zero, he realized that this chill had been induced more by recent events and the prospect of the horror to come than by the frigid air around him. He could clearly recall the screams of his dying companions in the instant before they had been snatched by the slathering jaws of death. The sound reverberated in his mind incessantly as if some continuous computer sound bite had been switched on deep in its dark recesses. They had all died and he was still alive. Something, some force had willed it to be so. He had been spared for a reason and he suspected that tonight all things would be revealed. He was alone and if he were being totally candid with himself, he was very afraid. He had an inescapable feeling that he was being watched. The frigid night air was alive with vague menace. Still he was alone, knowing that the other creatures that inhabited the night were not human.

The wind, which had been a whisper, abruptly escalated to a howl, startling the man into dropping his metal coffee cup, spilling the steaming liquid into the snow. He staggered to his feet and pivoted, trying to isolate the source of the sound that had come to him on the wings of the wind. There was movement in the trees at the edge of the clearing. He sensed this more than he actually heard or saw it. She was coming and he was alone, these were the two intrinsic truths of his universe. Not quite alone, he remembered, running his fingers over the reassuring shape of the dagger against his thigh. He withdrew the jewel encrusted weapon, brandishing it before him as if it were a mystical talisman. It occurred to him that this was precisely what the dagger was.

The quality of the howling wind suddenly shifted and with the bullet force of revelation, it came to him that what he was hearing was not the wind at all. Neither was it the cry of a human, but the haunting, forlorn howl of a wolf. Fear coursed through his veins like a thundering freight, spurring his heart to pound painfully in his chest. Through the lattice of branches he could see a countless number of red dots floating in the night air. The sheer number of dots, which he knew to be eyes, terrified him. The horror of the afternoon sprung to his mind with sickening clarity.

Nath drew a raspy breath and thumbed the carbine’s safety. This did little to instill confidence in him as a rough count of the pairs of dots in the trees told him that he was vastly outnumbered. The rifle was a lever action Winchester and he lifted it into firing position, preparing himself for the attack. They moved out of the trees slowly, with their heads bent low and their intense eyes fixed squarely upon him. Their breath billowed out around them in white plumes, rising into the night air. Clutching his rifle to his chest, he took an involuntary step towards the fire. The wolves surrounded him but seem disinclined to come any closer. They remained in this position for a long time; the wolves in a rough circle with the man as the circle's center. He could feel his nerves begin to dominate him as hot sweat began to run down his forehead despite the cold temperature. There was a ruffle of branches off to his left and he turned to face the sound. A distinct anxiety rippled through the ranks of the night beasts. They became skitterish; some pacing and prancing, others simply howling. He could sense her imminent arrival. Holding the rifle in one hand, he again drew the dagger. The scar on his chest thrummed like a tuning fork, alerting him to the approaching menace.

Now the wolves began to bay and howl; some running around the perimeter of the clearing in distracted little circles. The very air around him seemed to congeal as the witch approached. There was a sharp crack behind him and he whirled, training his rifle on what he judged to be the source of the sound. At first he saw nothing, but then a tiny flicker of light drew his attention. A small fire had erupted in a small section of underbrush and as he watched it, the flames leapt into the nearby branches, igniting the entire tree before spreading to its neighbors. He viewed the spectacle with a mixture of dread and fascination as the flames traveled in two directions, forming a perfect circle. When the spread of the flames had ceased, the perimeter of the clearing was alive with a wall of flame. Though the fire encircled him, the flames did not come together, instead leaving a six foot gap through which the legion of wolves briskly passed. Again, he found himself alone.

The flames had risen to create a crackling wall that was at least ten feet high. The snow on the ground around him had melted and the flattened grass beneath appeared pale and dispirited in the silver moonlight. Though the flames melted the snow and heated the night air, he, himself, could feel no warmth, as though some invisible cloak of ice had insulated him from the warmth. Beneath the howl of the wind he could hear a soft voice whisper his name, Nathaniel.

He briefly considered attempting to flee through the gap in the flames, but correctly deduced that the wolves were stationed there to forestall any hope of flight. He was trapped like an animal inside a pen awaiting slaughter. There was nothing he could do but sit helplessly and await the witch's arrival. He could divine her presence the way that one senses a malignant tumor growing deep within the chambers of their own body. He peered through the opening of his corral but could see nothing. No, he had jumped to that conclusion too hastily as in a distant shadow, a nebulous form took shape. A single spark of golden light had ignited and was fanning out, gaining form and substance as it grew. It continued to spread until it had grown to about six feet in width. To Nathaniel it seemed to have assumed the shape of a carpet. This carpet began to elongate, moving directly towards the gap in the fire circle. Nathaniel retreated towards the rear of his enclosure; heart pounding like a drum as he went. The carpet of light moved through the opening, coming to a halt about ten feet from where he stood clutching the dagger in both hands.

The night air had grown pregnant with expectation as if the normally insouciant gods had been drawn to the dark drama that was unfolding beneath them. Nathaniel's agitation increased with every second that Cynara elected not to appear.

Goddamn you show yourself! he cried, no longer able to contain his anxiety. As if in answer to his summons, a figure appeared on the opposite side of the wall. The shadows, combined with the golden glow, made it impossible to identify the figure, though he had little doubt that it was the dreaded Night Queen. The shudders that wracked his body and the icy lump in the pit of his stomach heralded her imminent arrival. Then she stepped over the threshold and Nathaniel's jaw unhinged, as his mind screamed a denial of the thing that his eyes kept insisting to be the truth. The dagger slipped from his grasp, forgotten as his whole being focused upon the woman standing imperiously upon the carpet of golden light. She was clad in a white fur wrap, over which her golden hair spilled; the array of loose curls glowing like a corona. His emotions were at war; joy battling fear and denial battling acceptance. His mind sifted through the layers of memory recalling an image from his distant past. That image and the face of the woman before him were identical. Hot, salty tears trickled down his face as he whispered the single word of greeting, Mother.

Chapter One

1

Bright sunlight streamed through the large windows of the Conly Building on Wilshire Blvd. Magnified by the glass, the sun's rays ignited the interior in a blaze of heat and light that was well near blinding. The Conly Building was a newly erected complex of shops and offices designed with an open space concept. The main concourse of the complex had been intended to reflect a harmonious blend of nature and modern architecture. A large ornamental fountain dominated the main floor. The fountain was surrounded by a profusion of various plants, big and small. A shopper, entering the plaza for the first time, might well have thought he had just stepped into a jungle. To the occasional shopper, this environment might seem rather pleasant, but for the people who worked there on a daily basis, the effect rapidly lost its minimal charm. Something about all of that lush vegetation caught in a prison of marble and lacquered wood was inexplicably depressing.

The ascending levels were enclosed by tinted Plexiglas to attenuate the sun's glare. Directly across from the main entrance, on the opposite side of the concourse, the main bank of elevators stood ready to convey patrons to the upper levels. There were three spacious glass elevators that connected the ground floor to the eight floors above. These elevators provided their occupants with a spectacular view of the building's interior, unless of course, the occupant suffered from acrophobia.

On this Monday afternoon, the middle elevator was in the process of descending, carrying two riders to the ground floor. The first was a pretty blonde named Roberta Morgan, an Executive Secretary for the firm of Mason, Carruthers and Associates. The other was Dan Wells, an Advertising Director for the Forsythe and Miller Advertising Agency. Dan sported rugged good looks, accentuated by a deep California tan. His hair was black as were his piercing eyes, which gave him a deceptively intense appearance. This ruggedness was further enhanced by a thick moustache that had been clipped to points at the corners of his mouth. He possessed the kind of animal magnetism that had earned him the reputation of a lady-killer; a reputation which he took great pains to foster.

The elevator descended with what seemed like a contrived slowness, as if the designers were intent on providing the user with a prolonged view of their work. Dan took the opportunity to thoroughly inspect Roberta Morgan's considerable attributes. His eyes crawled appreciatively over the firm curves of her buttocks and the side swell of her ample breasts. His mind's eye automatically constructed a picture of what that body would look like once divested of the drapery; glorious no doubt. He had heard rumors about Roberta. The office players (of which he considered himself to be the king) proclaimed that she was most definitely beddable, with a preference for the straightforward, aggressive type. 'Me in a nutshell,' he thought proudly.

On the pretence of getting a better view of something on the main floor, Dan leaned forward, venturing closer to Roberta, who continued to stare directly forward. She wore a navy, knit dress which was hemmed at a rather conservative knee length. Leaning slightly, he touched the silk covered skin just behind her right knee. He felt her tense and was prepared for an indignant outburst. Instead, she turned towards him and flashed a receptive smile. A mischievous twinkle danced in her lovely eyes. Dan could see an open invitation in those limpid blue depths. He was not a man given to hesitation in the face of such a frank invitation.

Marvelous view, wouldn't you say? Dan intoned conversationally. Roberta gave him a long appraising once over, pursing her lips and arching her right eyebrow. The invitation was undeniable now. It was a simple matter of reeling in his catch.

Yes, I'd say it's a rather spectacular view indeed, she breathed. There was a sighing quality to her voice that spoke directly to his prick. He could easily conjure up the image of Roberta upon her knees, consuming him inch by pulsing inch. Slowly, he moved his hand upward, along the length of her thigh, so pleasantly smooth and firm. At last he came to the slope of her exquisite ass, fondling and squeezing the flesh tenderly as he made casual conversation. A dreamy expression had come over her face and he knew that she was his for the taking. His fingers found her lace covered vagina, caressing it lovingly. She adjusted her stance to allow him easier access to his target. He continued to massage her, until they came to the second floor, where he withdrew his hand while giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. Roberta smiled appreciatively as the two stepped out of the elevator and into the throng of shoppers on the main floor. By the time that they had reached the facility's parking lot, Roberta agreed to meet him for a drink later that night, much to his delight, but not surprise.

As he made his way to his Mustang Cobra, Dan could feel his mood lightening. The prospects for an entertaining weekend had improved significantly. If all went well, he and his latest conquest would be doing the horizontal rumba well before midnight. He climbed behind the wheel and gunning the eight cylinder engine, reversed into early afternoon traffic on Wilshire Blvd. The traffic was heavy and this congestion served to sour the mood of the average driver, but not Dan's. Very little could sour Dan's mood. He was far too serene. Why? Quite simply, Dan had the world by the balls and in that position it was impossible not to be happy. One of the few pearls of wisdom that his old man had imparted to Dan (between random thrashings) had been precisely that. Dan could remember the many occasions when, half in the bag, the old man would tell him, Danny lad, in this world there are two things that you can do; you can let life get you by the balls or you can beat it to the punch by getting it by the jewel sack. One thing that I can tell ya, if you do manage to get a good hold on this bastard life, give it a good sharp tug and don't let go.

That was about the only advice that the old bastard had bothered to give him. It didn’t really mattered though because Dan always hated his fucking guts and was ecstatic when the old fucker finally gave up the ghost. All of that aside, that simple piece of advice had given him a maxim by which to live his life. At thirty three, Dan could say, with implacable certainty, that he had the world by the grapefruits in a grip of steel. As he jockeyed his way through the thickening traffic, heading north along Cold Water Canyon Drive, he reflected on his rise at the Miller Forsythe Agency. A little work, combined with a small degree of creative flare, had rapidly propelled him up the corporate ladder. He had a knack for selling, but more importantly, he had a knack for selling himself. He viewed his work with a well concealed indifference. It was a means to an end and nothing more. People were both stupid and gullible and, should you package it properly, most would pay a king's ransom for a pound of pigshit.

It was much more than simple salesmanship that had allowed him to advance as far as he had in the seven years that he’d been with the agency. Dan was a master of discreet innuendo and subtle suggestion. It was amazing what a few well placed words could do. He recalled an episode two years earlier, when he had been competing with a fellow Junior Executive named David Mathis. It had come to Dan’s attention that David had liked to tipple a few drinks during business hours and from that point on, Mathis was a has-been at Forsythe. How had he phrased it? Perhaps it had been something like, Dave's a good man. Hope he can keep a handle on those three martini lunches.

This dropped in the ear of a Senior Executive and it was game over for the career aspirations of David Mathis. A month later, Dan was given his promotion and Mathis was yesterday's news. Wells had no qualms about resorting to such tactics to get what he wanted. In this world, you figured out what you wanted and did what you had to do to get it. You never made apologies for doing what you had to do. Never! That was why he was the youngest man ever to hold the position of Advertising Director with this company. He knew that he was well liked and that his future was all sunshine and roses. Even those who disliked him were shrewd enough to keep their dislike hidden and dance when he called the tune.

He turned off of Coldwater onto B.R. 101, heading west towards the Pacific. He was making excellent time and it wasn't unreasonable to think that he would be back at his Woodman Avenue home before six. With the Cobra's engine purring like a tiger and a warm breeze blowing through the open window, it was a simple matter to feel great, to feel lucky, as if the world was a card table and he was turning black jack on every deal. The notion of feeling lucky made his thoughts turn to Roberta Morgan and the promise of those delectable thighs and that high, curvaceous ass. The vivid memory of her dreamy blue eyes came back to him. Its clarity awakened his penis, turning it to stone against his thigh and causing him to press down a little harder on the Mustang's accelerator. The prospect of having Roberta was pleasing. Not because he felt anything for her…in truth, he viewed her as just another bit player to be used and discarded at his leisure. No, to Dan, she would be just another conquest in a long line of conquests. He found it impossible to take women seriously or to ascribe any real importance to them. In general, he regarded women as items to be used and when the situation demanded it, abused. It wasn't as if he would ever seriously beat a woman, but he saw no harm in the odd slap or two, just to keep their role in things perfectly clear.

It never really caused him any concern, because Dan was convinced that most women harbored the secret desire to be dominated, to be commanded…by the right man, of course. As far as he was concerned this entire assertive, independence litany was a lot of feminist bullshit. His experiences with women had gone a long way towards substantiating this theory. He could remember only one woman who had refused to be subjugated or bend to his will. They’d been divorced some eight years ago and that failure grated on him like a stubborn wound that refused to heal. He thought of her as an ungrateful bitch, but was forced to admit that she had been the finest piece of ass he’d ever had. Roberta was ground round compared to Elizabeth's angelic beauty. He’d never been able to make her understand how fortunate she was to be rescued from the mess he’d found her in after that Stillman loser had folded up his tent and ran. If she were still alive, he would have been tempted to make amends for that rare defeat.

Though she was dead, he had been plagued lately by a premonition of his ex wife and could not escape the impression that she was nearby…watching him. Several times over the past few weeks, he would turn, half expecting to see her standing there. Of course, she wasn’t, but he still had the disquieting impression that he was being closely scrutinized. Naturally, all of this paranoia was ludicrous. Elizabeth had died in Semelar over five years ago. Officially she wasn't dead and wouldn't be for another two years. Her body had never been found and so she was still classified as a missing person. Dan, however, knew that nothing would keep her away from her son. He very seldom thought about Nathaniel. The boy was a mistake and the first sign of Elizabeth's defiance of his will. He had specifically told her that there would be no children, but she hadn’t taken precautions and ended up pregnant. He never accepted the boy as his son and in the end this refusal had been the ruin of their marriage. Years ago, Child Services had approached him about taking custody of the boy, but he emphatically refused. A child would have been a hindrance and there was no room for excess baggage in his rise to the top. He had eagerly agreed when some do-gooder displayed a willingness to assume the burden. It was the ideal solution to a bad situation and an unexpected bit of good fortune, but Dan had come to expect as much from life. There were times when he entertained the idea that he was the only real person in the world and that everyone else had been created for his amusement. It was thoughts like these that occupied his mind as he turned north onto Van Nuys Blvd., heading for home.

2

He pulled the Cobra into his long driveway, made up of geometrically cut pieces of slate set into concrete, and activated the automatic garage door opener. The door retracted on its tracks and he pulled into the garage. He could have entered the house through the door connecting the garage to the kitchen, but instead decided to go back outside and check the mailbox before entering the house. The mailbox was empty and as he came to the front door Dan had the first inkling that something was amiss. He inserted his key into the lock and turned, but nothing happened. He stood examining the lock for a moment, his face wrinkling into a perplexed mask. Then it dawned on him that the door must already be unlocked. He tried the handle and the little click told him that his suspicion was correct.

Son of a bitch, he muttered. Indecision and a small measure of disquiet gripped him as he stood on his doorstep. Someone had gotten into his house. It had to be, because he made a point of checking his doors and windows every morning before he left. It was a ritual that he had never allowed himself to forego. Habitual caution was another of Dan's traits. Still, God knows what damage they could have done or what they could have taken. He opened the door and stepped over the threshold. As he did, it occurred to him that the intruder might still be here. His heart thudded painfully at the prospect. Despite his virile appearance and his meticulously cultivated macho image, he had no interest in playing the hero. He had much too much yet to accomplish to take any unnecessary risks.

He glanced around the foyer and found that nothing had been disturbed, nor had anything been taken. He decided to venture a little further into the house, prepared to beat a hasty retreat should the need arise. He could feel the pulse in his temple beating as he crept along the main hall towards the rear stairway. He came to a halt near the archway into his den and glanced quickly into his room. He nearly gasped aloud, stifling the cry at the last second. There was someone sitting on his black leather sofa. The intruder sat, their back to the door, casually browsing through one of his art and advertising magazines as if they were in their own house. His fear turned to indignation (mostly because there seemed to be nothing threatening about the figure).

He glanced about and spotted a large silver candle holder sitting on a side table. He crept over to the table and picked up the holder. Then he moved over to the intruder, fully intending to bash the fucker's head in. He raised the holder over his head and was about to bring it down, a maniacal smile spread across his face, when the person suddenly spoke, I think that it would be wise to reconsider trying to hit me with that.

He halted mid swing, startled that his approach had been detected and astounded that the intruder continued to leaf casually through the magazine. The voice was low, sultry and definitely female. Lowering the candle holder, but not setting it down, Dan stepped around the front of the couch and stood watching the intruder, prepared for any kind of hostile movement. It was indeed a woman. She continued to leaf through the magazine for a moment and then threw it aside, declaring, Trendy garbage. How can you waste your time reading such trash?

She looked up at him and again he gasped…not out of anxiety, but rather sheer delight. She was beautiful. No, that was too mild a word. She was absolutely stunning. She watched him through eyes that were large and brown, set off perfectly by high cheek bones. Set in the brown irises, were small iridescent amber flecks, catching the light and reflecting it in a most fetching way. Her hair fell in a mass of curls, spilling over her shoulders to a point just below her shoulder blades.

Who are you? he stammered, nonplussed by the improbability of the situation.

Why, I’m everything that you've always wanted and so much more, she quipped, her words ripe with sexual challenge. She didn't seem the least bit self conscious or unsettled by the lecherous way in which his eyes were crawling over her body. He could feel his fear melt away and another inherent but no less primal instinct assert itself…lust.

What's your name? he asked, the anxiety gone from his voice. His gaze settled upon the thin white scar that curved from the ridge of her cheek bone to the corner of her sensuous mouth. He wondered how she had come by the scar. It did nothing to detract from her beauty, but rather accentuated it in some complex way.

She continued to watch him and it seemed like she was not going to respond to his question, when finally she said, Not that it matters, but my name is Cynara.

What are you doing in my house? Cynara responded to his question with a perplexing smile. She stood and casually strolled about the room, stopping to inspect objects that caught her interest. He watched her, enjoying the poetry of her movements, fascinated by her tall, well constructed body. He waited for her to finish, saying nothing; fearing that to speak would break the enchantment.

Interesting, she mused thoughtfully. He beamed with pride, interpreting her comment to mean that she was impressed with what she saw. What am I to make of all of this, Dan? She gestured in the direction of the area above the brick fireplace. I see a collection of mounted trophies and a fine array of guns, all suggesting your prowess as a sportsman. Yet you've never hunted, never so much as fired a gun in your entire life.

Dan's face collapsed like a condemned building, but before he could stammer out a protest, Cynara continued, I see a superficial man with a carefully contrived image.

Look lady, I'll ask you again…what the hell are you doing in my house? Dan flared. No bitch, no matter how good looking she might be, was going to come into his house and attack him like that.

I have a close friend who has told me all about you. She portrayed you as more of a myth than a man. I felt compelled to come and make my own judgment. She again looked about the room, her expression conveying a certain degree of disappointment stung Dan's formidable ego. In all fairness, she said that you display your talents in other...areas. She said that you leaned a little more to the physical side. Being a naturally curious woman, I just had to come and see for myself.

She moved closer, her challenge intensifying. For his part, Dan stood riveted to the carpet, unable to drag his attention away from the approaching woman. As she came nearer she undid the clasp at the back of her skirt and sliding the zipper down, allowed it fall to the floor. She stepped out of the discarded piece of clothing and kicked it aside with a graceful sweep of her long leg. Then her hand passed over the front of her blue silk blouse and that too slipped to the carpet. Dan breathed deeply, feeling the room temperature rise dramatically. Her body was flawless, with large breasts, a tiny waist, full hips and firm tapered thighs. Her glorious face was set in an affected blend of seduction and arrogance. His desire and attraction to her were undeniable and he could do nothing to conceal it as his penis expanded along the length of his thigh with purpose. His clothes suddenly felt too constricting.

Cynara’s hands moved nimbly over his shirt and pants and at once he was free of his clothing. Being naked ignited his sense of masculine superiority as his penis sprung to its full rigid length and girth. His size was his greatest source of pride, another of the many ways that he separated himself from the hordes of losers. A brazen smile had come over her face and Dan knew that she was suitably impressed. Taking a step toward him, she grasped his manhood in her hand, cupping it in her palm, while gently running her thumb along its pulsing length. She bent forward slightly, leaning her head on his muscular chest, and whispered, I think that my friend was right.

Now her voice was fraught with emotion and desire. With the scent of jasmine filling his nostrils, Dan knew he had gained the upper hand over this arrogant bitch. Total conquest was within his grasp. He would teach her the meaning of humility. She had mocked him, but he would take the time to impress upon her a bittersweet lesson that she would not soon forget.

He cupped her full left breast and raised it to his mouth, engulfing the nipple as if it were caviar. Hungrily he bit into it, taking her to the very edge of the pleasure pain boundary. He could feel her body tense as she arched her back, closing her eyes and letting her hair fall in a mass of black curls. With her free hand, she encircled his waist and whispered huskily, Let's not wait.

Breathing heavily, she pushed him away and still holding him firmly by the penis, led him towards the stairs. He placed his hand on the firm flesh of her ass, delighted by its firmness. In that delight, he gleaned the way in which he would orchestrate her humiliation. He could feel himself throbbing with anticipation as she led him up the stairs to the darkened bedroom where the shades had been drawn against the southern California heat. At the foot of the bed, she pivoted and embraced him, pressing her full, warm lips to his. Her kiss, combined with the sensation of her nubile body against his, slowly drew him away from all conscious thought. His entire physical and spiritual being had been reduced to the flaming organ that pulsed against the flat of her belly.

She placed her hands on his shoulders and pushed him into a sitting position on the foot of the bed. He caught her in his arms and licked the under swell of her breasts. In the darkness, Cynara closed her eyes and ran her tongue over her lips. His expertise could not be denied. It was a pity that she could not take advantage of his talents, but she had promised him to her lover. She pushed him away from her breast and onto his back. Dipping forward, she tenderly kissed the inside of his thigh, feeling him shiver in response. I have a surprise for you. A rather pleasant one, I think you'll agree.

At once the room was filled with a harsh glare, as some yet unseen person switched on the bedroom light. Dan raised his forearm across his face to shield his eyes from the spears of harsh light. He lowered his arm as his eyes grew accustomed to the brightness. Propping himself up on one elbow, he glanced about in confusion. Cynara had moved off to his left. She stood gazing expectantly towards the bedroom door, her arms folded casually beneath her breasts. His encounter with Cynara must have done something to augment his senses, for he could hear footsteps upon the carpeted risers as clearly as if they were echoing in his own head. The sound stopped as the person paused at the door. Then, with maddening slowness, the door swung open. When Dan's mind registered what his eyes conveyed, he uttered a shrill cry and scrambled up toward the head of the bed.

Hello Dan, Elizabeth Simpson said quietly and floated into the room.

No, you're dead. I know it, goddamn it, you're dead, Dan croaked, his voice distorted by shock. His head wagged back and forth in a constant expression of denial. Cynara moved closer to Elizabeth and kissed her lover's cheek, who favored her with a slight upturning of her lips. Then the raven haired beauty moved behind Elizabeth and slid the white lace robe from Simpson’s shoulders. Dan inhaled sharply. He had forgotten just how exquisite Elizabeth's body had been. It many ways it was superior even to Cynara's, who now spoke to Dan, Looking at this vision, could you really say that she is anything but alive.

She moved her fingers along the velvety skin of the blonde's shoulders, then over the front of her breasts; moving slowly over the tanned, satiny skin, with great ceremony, the way a sculptor feels the magic of his art. Can’t you feel the warmth of her skin and the fullness of these lovely breasts?

With this, Cynara moved her hands over Elizabeth's chest, cupping each breast and raising it to its boldest angle. The delicate pink nipples seemed to swell invitingly before Dan's eyes. Has a woman ever looked more alive? Do you not long to taste the warm promise of her nipples, to savor the texture of her luxuriant skin? I know you do. I can feel your heat and see your throbbing desire.

Upon seeing Elizabeth, his erection had deflated like a burst balloon. Now, however, seeing Cynara caress Elizabeth's magnificent body, it blossomed with furious purpose. He could feel his lust battering upon him from within, demanding release. Cynara's fingers wandered further and further over the tanned bodyscape, until they at last disappeared between Elizabeth's thighs. Do you want her Dan? Do you want to revel in her warmth again?

Cynara’s attention elicited a groan of delight from her lover. For Dan, all thoughts of conquest vanished, as the memory of her touch flooded back to him and it became imperative that he have her again.

I want her, he managed thickly.

No, Dan. If you are to have her, you must speak the truth. For once in your life, you must be totally honest, Cynara demanded. Dan groaned. The pain in his groin made it nearly impossible to think. A small still thinking part of his mind whispered that there was something gravely wrong and potentially dangerous with this situation, but he was too far under the erotic enchantment to pay it any heed. Cynara seemed to expect something from him and he groped desperately to guess what that something might be. Elizabeth was watching him through her glacial, amethyst eyes (hadn't they been blue?), but in the depths of that coolness, Dan was certain that he could discern a hint of raging fire. He had to feel that warmth and that need bred revelation.

I need you, he blurted out.

What was that, Dan? Cynara asked as a teasing smile blossomed upon her lips.

I need her! he proclaimed loudly, all masculine notions of dominance now completely forgotten.

Then you shall have me, Elizabeth intoned gravely and began to float slowly toward the bed. Cynara stood off to the side, handing center stage to Elizabeth. As she watched the other woman move, Cynara was reminded of a stalking panther about to pounce upon its prey. Though she was not capable of such an emotion, she could almost feel a certain degree of pity for Dan. She knew how this elaborately orchestrated seduction was to end. She crossed to the head of the bed and knelt above Dan, gently stroking his shoulders. He seemed oblivious to her tenderness, so intense was his concentration upon Elizabeth. She was nearly upon him now. Placing her hands on his knees, she let her palms glide along the insides of his thighs, closing around his manhood. Her grip squeezed, then relented, squeezed and then relented, but she stopped when she sensed him nearing the brink of explosion. Not releasing her grip upon him, she climbed onto the bed and laid full length against him. His racing heart thundered against her own breast. Taking his ear lobe between her teeth, she snaked her warm tongue in and out of the small opening. He reached for her, running his hands wildly over her thighs and heady swell of her buttocks.

He tilted his head upwards, fixing his glazed eyes upon Cynara. He reached for her, fondling her left breast; lost in the ecstasy that the two women had visited upon him. Elizabeth lowered herself onto him, crying out as she absorbed his full length. Dan's entire body was ripped by a violent contraction that was part joy and part agony. She began to move her hips in a rhythm that was well near maddening. As she did, Cynara whispered into his ear, Do you feel her? Do you feel her limitless passion, her warmth? Can you not feel it radiating through you, stoking the fires of your own passion?

Cynara's evocative patter and Elizabeth's insistent rhythm pushed him into the land of light and white heat, where pressure was the force that moved the universe and release was the ultimate gratification. He burst into her, his seed rocketing upward like a volcano. There seemed to be no end to the deluge as if his entire being were passing through him and into her. Elizabeth smiled down upon him. That smile was enigmatic and unfathomable. Then she exchanged a brief glance with Cynara. With his penis still inside of her, she leaned forward, her warm breasts pressing against his heaving chest, and passionately kissed his lips. The kiss was long and tender. Much to his amazement, Dan could feel himself being aroused. He opened his mouth to accept her probing tongue. As he did, Cynara tightened her grip upon his shoulders and fixed his head in place with her thighs. Elizabeth took hold of his arms and clamped her mouth painfully down upon his. Panic welled up within him and he tried to struggle free of the pair. Each woman seemed to possess incredible strength and he could make no move other than to thrash his legs ineffectually.

He opened his eyes and peered directly into Elizabeth's. He attempted to scream but her mouth was pressed too tightly to his. Her eyes had turned a brilliant, malevolent orange. Dan's mind conjured the image of a malefic jack o lantern glaring down upon him with eyes that blazed with hatred. Something was dramatically wrong but he still hadn't grasped the nature of his peril. All at once he could feel Elizabeth's body convulse against his and abruptly his entire mouth was filled with a hot, bilious mass. ‘She's vomiting. Jesus Christ, she's vomiting into my fucking mouth,’ he realized wildly. His eyes bulged with terror and revulsion as he redoubled his efforts to get free. He began to shake and his face had grown bright red. His eyes strayed up to Cynara, who viewed his torment with malicious glee.

Dan attempted to keep himself from swallowing by breathing through his nose. Upon seeing this, Cynara simply reached down and pinched his nose, causing him to gag after a time. The grotesque mass poured down his throat, burning his insides as it went. Elizabeth continued to vomit into his open mouth and despite his best attempt to do so, Dan could not force his jaw to close. Then she stopped, sat back and drew her hand across her mouth. With a frown of disgust, she dismounted him and Cynara released her grip upon his head and shoulders. Dan turned onto his hands and knees and tried desperately to regurgitate the vile mass. To a certain extent, he succeeded. He opened his mouth wide and a glut of bluish sludge spewed onto the bed. It lay in a steaming pile, glowing blue and bubbling as if it were animated lava. Dan half scrambled, half fell off of the bed as he continued to retch. He heaved and heaved, until he felt as if his throat would burst. His diaphragm ached wickedly, but still it would not come. He could feel it solidifying in the pit of his stomach.

He tried to run then, out into the light, out into the day, where such insanity would surely dissolve in the sunlight. Cynara, however, intercepted him and yanked him back by the hair. He fell heavily onto his back. As he tried to regain his feet, he felt the first contraction in his stomach. He came to grasp that Elizabeth had implanted something in the pit of his guts, something which was very much alive and fighting to break free. He could feel it tearing at his insides. He tried to shriek but found that he could not. His stomach began to swell, the flesh looking as distended as the skin of an over filled balloon. White hot tremors of pain ripped through him and he stumbled around the room, flailing at the air like a lunatic. The flesh on Dan's arms had broken into large mountain ranges of swellings, all pulsing eerily as the venom worked its black magic upon him.

A thin red line appeared at the center of his abdomen in the seconds before the muscles ruptured, spewing blood and intestines everywhere. Gore spattered the walls, as Dan instinctively tried to collect his hanging entrails in the cradle of his arms. Pathetically, he attempted to stuff them back into the ruined cavern, but they were slick with a bluish substance and kept slipping from his grasp. As tears poured down his agonized face, his efforts became frenzied. As he struggled, the remaining surface of his body erupted in similar lumps; all of which ruptured to spew the foul blue fluid all over the room.

Dan's knees buckled and his body went into convulsions, flopping about like a landed flounder. Cynara and Elizabeth watched as the thing that had once been a man went through a rapid transformation; swelling and then bursting. The room became fetid with a noxious odor that resembled propane. When the spectacle was mercifully over, all that remained of Dan Wells was a liquefied pile of jelly. The gelatinous substance radiated a dull blue glow as well as a great deal of heat. The heat only served to further melt the jelly, leaving virtually no trace of what had taken place. Dan's only legacy were the stains on the wall and the carpeting.

Cynara drifted quietly over to Elizabeth, eyes fixed upon what had once been her lover’s former husband. She placed her hand gently on the blonde's shoulder and whispered, You were spectacular Elizabeth.

Cynara's voice echoed the intoxication of the kill; the perverse joy of the predator. Elizabeth, however, felt no such joy. She was, in fact, bereft of any emotion. Since the day of her turning, she had been incapable of true emotion; instead functioning with the machine like precision of a robot. She experienced neither love nor hate... desire nor despair. She turned to face Cynara, who kissed her enthusiastically. You've learned an important lesson, one you must never forget…never leave a debt unpaid. Any enemy left alive is a dagger poised at your back.

Cynara spared the remains one last glance and then led Elizabeth from the room, down the stairs and back into the den. She retrieved her discarded clothes, while philosophizing over the deed. We are the night creatures, darling. These humans are weak and ours for the taking. They are our main source of prey and we need feel neither compassion nor pity for them. They are a lower life form, animals, and it is our avowed obligation to destroy them. You are the most majestic of creatures now. Intuition tells me that you are destined to become the queen of the night. We shall rule, you and I. Our only enemy is the weakness that grows in our own souls. Elizabeth offered no response, only continued to watch Cynara through her strange, inscrutable eyes. Cynara frowned, but decided to say no more. There were times when Elizabeth's alien nature disturbed Cynara; almost frightened her. Almost, but not quite. Then Elizabeth smiled and Cynara could feel her uncertainties and misgivings evaporate. Her lover rarely smiled, but on those few occasions when she did, Cynara could feel her black heart shiver with pleasure. Elizabeth stepped forward and took her hand. Thank you Cynara.

As the two women walked out into the daylight, Cynara wondered what the enigmatic woman had thanked her for.

Chapter Two

As he sat on the wooden bench, resting his arms on the wrought iron arm rests, he gave thanks that the day was warm. He closed his eyes and reclined his head, allowing the warm sunshine to caress his face. Despite the prevailing high temperatures in southern Italy during the summer months, he never felt truly warm. It was as if his skin had grown impervious to the heat. Cardinal Giancarlo Fabrizzi hugged himself in an effort to alleviate the chill.

His arthritis had tightened its grip upon him over the last few years, to the point where he was sometimes incapable of performing his daily duties. Simple acts, such as writing, were now painful and arduous by the disease. And so he was here, in the Church's retreat, which he viewed as a rest home for relics and battle scarred soldiers of Christ. It galled him to think that he had now joined their ranks. He supposed that it was only fitting that he be considered a relic, because in many ways, this was exactly how he perceived himself. There had been a time, not all that long ago, when he had possessed strong Papal aspirations. That was before the onset of his arthritis. Perhaps the disease was a punishment for his ambitious nature, his hubris; he wasn't certain and in the end it had ceased to matter. Now, at the age of sixty seven, he was essentially a has-been, who wasted little time dwelling on failed ambition.

His predecessor and closest friend, Cardinal Rossi, had died six years before and with his death, Fabrizzi had begun to feel more and more removed from the world around him. As he sat, he allowed his mind to burrow down through the sedimentary layers of time and memory; dredging up the peaks and valleys of his life. If it was necessary to find a reason for this protracted bout of melancholy, then he could easily look back to Zved Neghev and the sorry episode of Cynara Saravic. The memory of that incident plagued him in his waking hours and terrorized him through sleep. Sometimes, when his arthritis was at its worst, he could almost hear Neghev's name echoed in the agonized refrain of every tortured joint. He had never discovered just what had befallen the Israeli, but he was convinced that the man was most definitely dead. Neghev's death weighed heavily upon his conscience, because he had presumed to know the will of God in the matter of how to deal with Cynara. That presumption had led directly to the Israeli's death far from his homeland.

There had never been another attempt upon Saravic's life. Fabrizzi saw little point in compounding their error by pursuing the demon and so the matter of Cynara Saravic had been closed. Now Rossi was dead and so was Neghev. He was a degenerating cripple, yet the witch lived. The world was indeed an enigma and if there was a justifiable solution to the puzzle, it was far beyond him.

A cool breeze swept over him. To his surprise and chagrin, a mist had taken form over the small lake. It had appeared near its center and had begun to drift towards the shore. He found it rather odd that a mist would suddenly materialize in the middle of such a warm day. Yet, even that had changed. Fabrizzi glanced down at his arms to find that his flesh had risen in great hackles. The temperature had dropped perceptibly, but when he looked into the distance, he could see the horizon shimmer in the heat. He absently began to massage his protesting knees, while considering the rapid change in the weather. It suddenly occurred to him that some portion of his coldness had been induced by a vague, unfocused dread. He scanned the path and the manicured green fields that were surrounded by stands of trees. He was alone and for no logical reason, he was very afraid. He looked back towards the lake, where the baffling mist had thickened dramatically. It had obscured the opposite side of the small body of water. He looked along the shoreline to see a figure gingerly picking their way along the water's edge. The figure appeared to be moving in his direction. From this distance he could distinguish no specific features but he could see that the approaching figure was that of a nun. Fabrizzi felt a momentary flash of irritation at this intrusion, but then the nun turned along the tree line, apparently engaged in a strolling inspection of the grounds. The cloud of cold air which had engulfed him now dissipated under the steady assault of the sun's rays. He could feel weariness began to take its toll and as his eyelids grew heavy, he drifted into a doze.

Time passed, he had no idea how much, though in his post nap muddled state, he sensed that it must have been at least a few hours. The change in the weather confirmed his first suspicion. Where before it had been brilliantly sunny, now the strange mist had again rolled in off of the lake, submerging the grounds in a milky cloud of damp air. He could feel his joints creak and whine after being still for so long. When he opened his eyes, he was staring directly into the alabaster face of the Blessed Mother, whose statue stood directly across the stone walk from where he sat. Next, his mind registered the fact that he was no longer alone. He felt this more than sensed it. He looked down, startled to see that the nun, whom he had seen earlier, was kneeling on the ground before him, resting her head upon his knee. She was crying softly.

My child, what is the matter? Fabrizzi inquired. He could feel anxiety skirting around the edges of his mind, like demons cavorting in shadows. At first she did not reply, just continued to weep gently. He placed his hand on the top of her head, hoping to comfort her, hoping to put her at ease. It must have had the desired effect, as she finally spoke, I have sinned. I have debased myself. I have had wanton thoughts and engaged in impure actions.

Fabrizzi smiled to himself. The smile was embittered and not particularly pleasant. He had heard this all before, this litany of confessed failings; men and women who had been unable to resist the urgings of the flesh and had found sin in these gnawing desires. Yet this is what we have created, in fact demanded. The Church has deemed the natural to be impure. He felt sympathy for this woman and frustration with her torment. What is your name, sister?

My name is Bathsheba, Jezebel. My name is legion of swine, she spat. There was a mocking quality to her voice that elicited an involuntary shiver from the Cardinal.

Show you, he demanded. The impression that something had shifted into the macabre grew ever stronger. When she did not heed his command, he placed his hands beneath her chin and lifted her face to his. He looked into the very eyes of evil and beyond, into the pits of sulfurous hell. He recoiled as if he had been struck. The face, with its lovely gold-flecked eyes, belonged to the demon, to his demon. She had come home. She seemed to have divined his thoughts, for she said, Don't look so startled Shaman. Did you not think that I would come for you, in time?

Fabrizzi tried to scramble to his feet, but she held his shoulders fast, pinning him to the wooden bench. He blasted her with all of the outrage that he could summon, How dare you come here, to this Holy Place?

Cynara threw back her head and laughed derisively. Do you think that I am afraid of your sheep God's wrath? She looked skyward and bellowed, I am here in your sanctuary. Strike me dead for my impudence!

She raised her arms to the heavens in a gesture of brazen defiance. Cynara stood this way for several seconds, then dropped her arms and looked sadly towards Fabrizzi. Ah well, it is not the first time that he has abandoned one of his flock.

Fabrizzi watched as Cynara removed her habit and cast it aside, shaking out her long flowing tresses. He wondered where she had obtained the robes. Where did you find the robes, witch?

She beamed at him, her smile fraught with malevolent delight. I borrowed it from a nun that I happened to come upon. I promised to return it, though I suspect that she will no longer need it. Don't let that concern you, Cardinal. She was a lesbian slut and hardly worthy of your pity.

What do you want? Fabrizzi asked, feeling real fear for the first time. Cynara looked directly into his eyes, the smile fading from her face. I've come for you, of course. You tried to have me killed and unfortunately for you, your robot failed. Unlike your pathetic God, I do not forgive, nor do I forego my rightful vengeance.

Fabrizzi rose to his feet and began to retreat. Cynara made no move to restrain him. He drew away; five feet, and then ten, then twenty and still she did not move to stop him. The mist around him was so thick that he could barely see five feet into its depths. At once, an eerie howl arose from somewhere within its milky veil. The full throated, visceral quality of that howl conveyed to Fabrizzi that there would be no escape. He turned back to Cynara, who stood beneath the statue of the Blessed Virgin. She was eyeing the Immaculate One with open contempt. As Fabrizzi walked back to her, he saw a notion blossom in her eyes, reflected upon her ethereal face. She turned to the Cardinal with a wicked light flaming in her eyes. There is no escape Cardinal. There is no place in heaven for cowards, Giancarlo. You are here and so am I. I am the prophet of the ancient evil and you are the soldier of your God; the God of Martyrs. This is to be our arena, so come and do battle, Giancarlo.

She spoke with a stiff formality that conveyed her reverence for the traditions of the battle. Then Cynara gestured him forward and he came, seeing no alternative. In the time it took for him to cross the distance between them, a whole succession of thoughts flashed through his mind. In the end, he decided that it was better to suffer whatever death Cynara could inflict upon him, then to endure the long, slow degeneration that awaited him. He felt some titanic force stir within him; an ancient puissance that thrummed through his muscles and limbs, assuaging away his pain. Thus transformed, he became a Holy Warrior, sent to dispatch the serpent. He clutched the cross that hung from his sash and held it out before him. It had developed an eerie glow in the luminescent fog.

As he advanced towards Cynara she gave ground in the direction of the statue. A bewildered look had come into her eyes as if his resistance had been an unexpected factor in her equation. Discerning this, he felt a savage smile break across his own features. If he would have been able to see his own face, he would have seen a shark like grin there; one he would not have thought himself capable of only hours before. He was pleasantly surprised to discover that the role of the combatant suited him and as he advanced upon his adversary, he bellowed, Now Satan's harlot, in the name of God, I command you to the return to the pits of hell where you rightfully belong.

The thrumming in his muscles intensified. Fabrizzi felt as though some power was being concentrated within him and focused through the lens of his faith. The crucifix erupted in a blaze of golden flame, which shot through the heavy air, cutting like a scythe through hay, and struck Cynara in the chest. Fabrizzi stood trembling with anticipation, waiting for Cynara to fall, or to vanish as the case might be. Instead of simply disintegrating, she began to laugh. It was a deep rich laughter that rolled upward through the mist. Giancarlo, you and your ilk are priceless. Do you truly believe that God would intercede on your behalf? Who are you that he should? Are you not a murderer? You killed Neghev as surely as I did. Did you not coerce him into coming after me?

There was an undeniable measure of truth in Cynara's recrimination. He looked at the cross. The golden glow was gone, if indeed it had ever been. He had been abandoned to face the demon. Now Cynara cast her eyes upon him. The mock levity was gone, replaced by an unmistakable predatory gleam. She pounced upon him quickly, sending him sprawling with one savage backhand that shattered his nose. Fabrizzi was stunned by the blow. He turned onto his hands and knees, only to see a stream of blood pour from the ruined mass of bone and cartilage. Before he could scramble away, Cynara caught hold of his rosary beads and wrapping them around her wrist, drew them tightly around his throat. He uttered a strangled cry and pawed ineffectually