Chris Claremont, Alan Moore and Clive Barker created many
of the characters featured herein, and Marvel Comics, DC Comics and
Dimension Films control the rights to them. This story was
written purely for the free entertainment of its readers. It
contains graphic imagery, adult language, mature themes
and is not meant for children. Feedback is appreciated at
XanderDG@hotmail.com.
______________________________________________
HELLRAISER: HELLFIRE
by
XanderDig
_______________________________________________
1
The salad days of Studio 54 had come and gone well
before I had the chance to enjoy them. In the late '70s, it
was the center of celebrity culture. Film stars mixed and
mingled with the darlings of literature. It would not have
been uncommon to see a major sports figure chatting up a
stunning model in one of the VIP booths, or to enter a
bathroom stall and find a rock star and a disco queen
coming to a carnal truce. The beautiful people here were
not confined to those at home in New York. No. This was
a world-wide terminus for the glitterati.
Normal folks, everyday Joes and Janes would line up
for blocks to gain admittance, to bask in the reflected
celebrity glow. Entry was more than simply a matter of
waiting your turn. The doormen were gatekeepers to a
fiefdom whose feudal lord accepted tribute in the form of
golden, youthful skin. They would stroll down the lines,
handpicking only those who would look right on the dance
floor, splitting marriages when it suited their caprice. Those
lucky enough to be selected would be paraded in front of
Steve Rubel, the owner of 54, and he would play Caesar:
thumbs up. Thumbs down. Once inside, the chosen would
gyrate and sweat to the throbbing rhythms spun by the djs,
clouding the great hall in their scents. Occasionally, the
very lucky would be noticed by one of the deities seated
above and might be ushered upstairs to make a more
personal exaltation of gods named Nicholson or Halston or
Gibb.
Even if I had come into the City during that time, I
never would have made it into the club. I was thick and
muscled in a time when the fashion leaned toward a more
feminine musculature, and the calluses on my large hands
would not have met with any manicured scrutiny. Besides,
it was not as though I owned any clothes appropriate to 54.
I didn't even own my first suit until after I'd joined the
Club. Of course, I wasn't aware that I was missing
anything.
Shaw Industries was still Shaw Homebuilders at that
point. Dad had me roofing in the summer of 1978, the apex
of the culture that 54 embodied. I didn't mind the work.
My skin was deeply tanned and girls in Philly liked a rough
looking fella even if the ones in New York did not. It was a
good time to be a kid. When my father died at the end of the
season, tumbling off a roof as I watched, nobody expected
the twenty-year-old college dropout to be able to take over
the business and keep things going. They really didn't
expect the company to corner the speculative housing
market before the end of the year. I fired my dad's partner,
Doug Burton, when he told me that trying to develop
property in New York was a fools errand. When he and his
sons came to collect his share of the corporate assets the
lesson I taught them was brief but memorable.
My father always told me what a noble profession
building houses was. That it was great because nobody
could ever get hurt when you were making people homes.
He walked his whole life with his head held high, he said,
because being a builder was the most essential thing to any
community. I held out that being an owner was somewhat
more lucrative. By the autumn of 1980, two years after
dad's passing, I owned half of Manhattan's waterfront and
made my first billion. The calluses on my hands had long
since disappeared.
By the time I had finally attained enough to bypass
the line and step behind the velvet rope at 54, to look down
on the dance floor from the VIP deck, it was a much less
auspicious occurrence than if I'd been born a couple years
earlier (or if my father hadn't waited so long to take his
tumble). It was a Friday night, but the crowd below was
thin. In 1981, people were no longer turned away at the
door regardless of what they looked like, and the only
celebrity in evidence was a chubby young porn star.
"Here you are, Sebastian," said Donald Pierce,
handing me a martini glass filled with something brown.
Donald's accent was colored by an education at Exeter and
Yale, but his temperament was much less refined. "Come
over and sit down. My God! You must see this blonde."
"Oh?"
"Ron Jeremy had her brought upstairs. I'm sure
she's working, but still . . ."
"Go ahead. I'll be right there." Donald sauntered
into the circle of cracked red couches. I met him about a
year before at the Club, and though it was clear he was a
shallow man of limited ambition, he was fun to be around.
He knew places in Chinatown where one could indulge
nearly any proclivity.
I looked back down at the floor for a moment,
staring at lithe bodies swaying rhythmically to the last dying
strains of disco. As it often did at this removed vantage
point, my mind slipped toward things Roman and Greek. I
imagined the Bacchanal such a place might have been in
more classical times when something caught my eye. In the
midst of the floor there was a stillness. The crowd seemed
almost to be swirling around it like the animals of a
carousel. With the beating of the strobes and colored lights
it was difficult to fix on the figure, so I put down my drink
and leaned over the safety rail, frowning.
My concentration was so focused that the music
seemed to fade. It was like listening through water. There
was something in the crowd, right in the center, yet not a
soul came near. Not within three feet. It was a man. I was
sure of that. The coat he wore was wrong for the season,
intolerably so for the inside of a hot club. It was black and
it glimmered as though it was plastic. Or it was wet. He
stood there, unaffected by the crowd or the lights, holding
my attention in an almost preternatural way. Then he
looked up and seemed to stare at me, except that he had no
eyes. The figure's gray face had no features of any kind
except for an inhuman smile. There was no mirth to the
look, though, for the man only grinned because he had no
lips to cover his teeth.
The figure raised a gloved hand in front of his face
and extended a slim index finger. No flesh could be that
gray, my mind screamed. Not alive. It must have been the
strobes. The creature tapped the center of his head, where a
third eye would be.
"Jesus Christ," I hissed. The words came unbidden,
and I stepped back from the balcony. I knocked my drink
from the bannister and the glass bounced when it hit the
floor. I looked down and watched the cold bourbon soak
into the dark carpet, and couldn't help but think of blood.
I looked back at my assembled peers in the VIP
suite. I thought of grabbing Donald to show him this living
nightmare, to prove its existence was not my imagination
bowing to late nights in the Club's library. When I turned
back downstairs, the figure was moving away across the
dance floor, the crowd seeming to part before him. For a
moment, I thought to give chase.
***
"My dad *says* he's disappointed in me when
mom's around," Ron Jeremy said. "But I have the feeling
that deep down he's proud." Donald laughed at the chubby
kid - not with, at. I had watched a couple of his pictures on
Beta, and as much as the kid might claim that skin flicks
were his ticket to being a real, Hollywood actor, everyone
else in the VIP room knew differently. I suspected that the
only thing the boy's father might be proud of had more to
do with genetics than talent.
The blonde laughed then, as though she read my
thought. I arched my eyebrows and looked over at her.
Donald had been right about the woman on both counts.
She was, very clearly, a working girl. Judging from the men
in the room, she was a very good one. When the time came
to leave, there might be a bidding war. I intended to win it
and see what the seductress was made of.
Again, she grinned at me in a way that seemed to
respond to the thoughts flitting through my consciousness.
I was normally a fantastic poker player with a stoic face that
defied reading, but the man I saw on the dance floor had
clearly bothered me more than I expected. It had to be
someone in make-up. Halloween was right around the
corner, and somebody had put together an exceptional
mask. Still, I could hear the ice tinkling in my glass (vodka
this time, nothing dark). My hand shook slightly as
adrenaline coursed through my system. Fear was a great
motivator, but nearly an hour had passed. Still, when I
blinked I saw that smiling, lipless face . . .
The other thing Pierce had gotten right was the
blonde's beauty. She was stunning, perfect. She wore a
white dress so minuscule that you could see the garters
strapped to the tops of her stockings. Her hair was
practically white, and her skin an alabaster so pure and
unblemished it might have been porcelain. There was just
enough color to her that it was easy to imagine how red her
cheeks would become when I was fucking her. The woman
was also smart. As each of the men in the room spoke to
her, she seemed to be an expert on whatever subject was at
hand. This was not some gutter whore who got lucky
finding an affluent john; this woman was practically a
courtesan.
There were three men in the room besides Donald,
the porn star and myself. Somehow, all the other women
had left. The other gents may not have been aware of it, but
it was late enough in the evening now that we were all
looking at one another as competition for the woman's
affections. The side-long glances from man to man
stemmed from some primal place deep within. "Who is the
alpha-male," the eyes asked. Who would walk away with
the beautiful prize? I looked back over at our own brass
ring of the evening, and as with every other time, she
returned my glance.
This time I held it and she maintained a level stare
with her cold, blue eyes. I felt a tickle in the back of my
skull, as though there were a sneeze building somewhere
deep in the lizard brain. The woman ignored the babble of
the tall man sitting beside her, a tan-line on his finger where
he had removed his wedding ring. He was talking about his
tremendous success in the record industry. Each of the men
in turn had spent time discussing their successes, almost
listing their resumes for the blonde's review. Indeed, as we
looked at one-another I felt an almost overpowering desire
to tell her about my wealth, to brag about my money.
Instead, I held her gaze and chose silence.
"My name's Tabitha," she said to me in a lilting
English accent. Her voice was smokey and hard. The man
next to her ceased his chattering, giving up the fight.
Donald snorted and drained his drink.
"Tabitha?" I asked.
"Tabitha."
"I just bet it is," I said. She tilted her head slightly, a
narrow grin painting the corner of her pink mouth. "I'm
Sebastian Shaw. This is Donald Pierce."
"You're a quiet one, Shaw."
"It's late. Past my bedtime." I stood up, pulling my
coat from the back of the couch. "What about you,
Tabitha? Is it your bedtime, too?" I thought again about
how flushed her face would be if she were coming, and a
smile bloomed fully on her lips. There was something cruel
in it. The blonde stood, a practiced, serpentine motion, and
she walked to me.
"Goodnight, gentlemen," I said to the room. They
looked at me with a jealousy that was positively electric.
"Come along, Donald."
***
It was freezing outside 54, and Donald put his coat
around the shoulders of the woman calling herself Tabitha.
I was inwardly amused by such a chivalrous gesture being
wasted on a harlot, but made no mention of it. The
doorman eagerly accepted the ten I put in his hand and ran
around the building to alert my driver. We stood in waiting
with our steaming breath visible in the air.
"Whose turn is it, Shaw?" Donald asked.
"I believe it's yours."
"Mm." He turned to Tabitha. "Shall we go ahead
and discuss remuneration, my dear?" Tabitha arched her
eyebrows and glanced from Donald to me and back.
"The both of you then?" She looked back at me.
"For the both of you I would expect . . ."
"Yeah?" Donald asked.
"You know," she said, moving close to my friend
but keeping her eyes on me. She whispered wetly into his
ear, sliding her hands from his lapel down, putting on a
show. "You know, I think what I would like to do is put
my faith in you. I think that I'll ask you to compensate me
however much you think is fair."
What was her game, I wondered. She turned
Donald's head and kissed him hard on the mouth, the flick
of her glistening tongue reflecting pale light of the street
lamp. For an instant I could have sworn that I could taste
the sweet, smokey flavor of her mouth. I watched them,
every bit the voyeur until I heard the tires moving over the
slush behind me. I turned, expecting to find my car.
Instead of the Jaguar, there was a nondescript black
sedan. A driver stepped out, walked around the car and
opened the passenger door. The man who got out was one
of the oddest looking men I had ever laid eyes on. Of
course, I had seen him at the Club many times before,
though he had never deigned to so much as look in my
direction. This time, I was all he seemed to see.
"Oh, shit," Donald whispered behind me.
"What?" Tabitha asked. I held up my hand for
silence.
The small man, I knew him only as the Rook, moved
to stand immediately in front of me. He was well within the
shell of what I considered my personal space, well within
the limits of what I would have tolerated from any other
stranger. Yet despite the difference in our size (he was,
perhaps, five-foot-two and a hundred pounds while I stand
six-four and weigh a great deal more), I found him
intimidating. The Rook's eyes were enormous and they
never seemed to blink. His hair was unfashionably cut close
to his scalp, and he wore a black suit with a white shirt.
The hooked edge of a tattoo snuck out above the edge of
his collar, as though it were trying to escape the confines of
some infernal prison. The Rook grinned at me for a
moment.
"Ninety-three," I said at last. The number was a
statement of greeting within the Club. It was heavy with
numerological significance, but had come to mean little
more than the secret handshake at one of Pierce's college
fraternities.
The Rook said nothing, but held up his hand. He
turned it forwards and backwards so I could see both sides.
Then, suddenly, there was a card between his fingers. A
parlor trick. Hedge magic. Tabitha stepped up by my side
leaving the frightened Donald behind us. The Rook's eyes
never left my own, and I noticed that you couldn't tell
where the cornea ended and the pupil began. His eyes were
black as the devil's.
He extended the card toward me and I took it. It
was a simple black, no bigger than a business card. There
was no writing on it, only a single figure. In the middle of
the card was a chess piece. It was a white king.
"When?" I asked the Rook.
"What is he on about?" Tabitha asked. I ignored
her.
The Rook reached forward and plucked the card
from my fingers. With a snapping motion, he flipped it over
and replaced it. "9 AM" was scrawled on the back in a
hatchet script. The Rook continued to stare at me, and I
nodded at him.
"I'll be there." He nodded and began to turn away
when he frowned, the small smile leaving his face for the
first time in the exchange. He looked at me for a moment,
seemed to change his mind, then looked at Tabitha perched
on my arm. His smile returned and he held one finger up,
wagging it back and forth.
"Wha . . ." Tabitha cried out before she could finish
her thought. She screeched and jolted back, her hand flying
to her left temple. "Jesus bleeding Christ!" she shouted.
Pierce went to try and help but she shoved him away.
I turned back to the Rook, but he was already sitting
down in the sedan. He didn't look back in our direction and
the driver shut the door, trotting around to the front and
clambering in. The car sped away. I had been summoned.
"Tabitha, are you alright?" Donald kept asking. My
tone would be less conciliatory.
"What the hell did you do, woman?" I shouted. I
grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her around. To my
surprise, her nose was bleeding and a look of genuine terror
strained her features. Still, I had to know. I shook her.
"Well?"
"Nothing! I did nothing!" Her hands were
reflexively smoothing my lapels, and I felt a calming buzz,
like a vibration in the back of my head. "Please," she said.
Though I wanted to believe her, to get on with my night, my
anger was too entrenched.
"Tell me, woman! What happened just now?" I
shook her again, and now I saw that the fear on her face
was directed at me. That was fine.
"Ease up, old man." Donald put his hand on my
shoulder, and I turned around sharply, fully prepared to bite
my companion's head off. A crowd was gathering around
us, and my car had returned. I was making a scene.
I looked back at Tabitha, and I noticed that there
was something else mingled in with her fear. Something
appealing. Something I had done had struck a cord. I
reached into my jacket and gave her my handkerchief for
her nose. She took it, her hand lingering on mine for a
moment too long.
***
She finished Donald off with ease. He was a
preliminary and we both knew it. I watched the woman
calling herself Tabitha take my friend on the couch of my
living room. I watched her make him believe he was taking
her. When it was finished, she put him to bed like a child
and there was almost a chaste beauty to the moment. After
she closed the door to the guest bedroom, she turned
around to face me. She was good, this strange English
darling, but she would find my appetites much more difficult
to satisfy.
We stood in the dark for a moment, less like two
lovers than predator and prey sizing each other up across a
shimmering African water hole. Then we came at each
other. A cat-like noise escaped her throat and she struck
out, her nails raking across my chest, raising welts.
Strength flowed into my limbs and when she reared back to
lash out again I deflected the blow. Tabitha twisted,
surprisingly strong, determined to throw me to the floor, to
remain the carnivore. The force of her writhing only added
to my own, endorphins flowing, my pulse quickening. I
held her fast, squeezing her wrist hard enough to hurt
without damaging her too badly. An involuntary smile
stretched my mouth.
I raised my other hand and grabbed under her jaw,
lifting her face to the city lights shining through the window.
He skin was rose petal soft. I wished for a moment that my
manicured hands were callused again. Her teeth were
barred, and she hissed. I tilted her face back and forth,
appraising.
Tabitha relaxed under my gaze and I released my
grip on her arm. She pulled it close to her, between her
breasts, massaging her bruised wrist with her other hand. I
drew her closer to the window, never loosening my hold on
her chin, her tender throat. I put my other hand between
her legs, feeling the slickness born of Donald's exertions.
Her brow furrowed, narrowing her wet, blue eyes. She
moaned as my hand did its work.
"What is your name?" I whispered. "Your true
name." Her breath hitched in her throat and she reached
down, placing her hand on top of my own.
"Emma. It's Emma," she said. She leaned forward
and bit me softly on my chin. Then she attacked. This time
when Emma twisted, she succeeded in throwing me hard to
the floor. She leapt down on top of me, a creature of tooth
and claw. When she next bit down, it drew blood.
The sun was high by the time we were spent. I was
right when I imagined that the blonde's skin would flame
when she came. Before the night was done, though, I
realized that I had underestimated my own ability to blush.
It had been too long.
She slept in my bed, beautiful despite the marks left
on her skin. I pulled a thousand dollars from the wall safe in
my study and left it on the pillow next to her. The woman
seemed to know my every fantasy, my every desire and she
met each with as much enthusiasm as I. It was more than
worth the money. I stared at her for a moment, then put my
card on top of the bills. What the hell.
After showering and looking in on Pierce (his
slumber was an alcoholic one, and he would not rise from
the stupor for some time), I went to my wardrobe. Hidden
in back, far behind the designer suits and formal wear was
an outfit protected by dry cleaner's plastic. I tore away the
covering and pulled on the breaches, pulled the shirt over
my head and put on the ridiculously tight jacket. I went to
the dresser and sat before the mirror, pulling my hair back in
to a tight ponytail. The shoes were the worst, and I dealt
with them last, buckling the clunky things to my feet.
My preparations complete, I called my secretary to
reschedule the morning, then my driver, telling him to bring
the Jag around. I had never met this man before, not alone
at any rate, and I had no intention of being late. I stood
again before the mirror - I might have been a member of the
landed gentry in the late 18th Century. Perfect.
I looked at the appointment card again. There was a
power and simplicity to this figure of a simple chess piece.
Though its rituals and religion were cloaked in secrecy to
younger members, there were a few things that were
perfectly clear. The foremost was that any meeting with the
Inner Circle required formal dress. I knew on some level
that the hand of destiny was at work, that a great
opportunity was presenting itself to me. If any occasion
required ceremony, it was first meeting with the White King
of the Hellfire Club. I took a deep breath and went
downstairs.
______________________________________________________________
To be continued . . .
of the characters featured herein, and Marvel Comics, DC Comics and
Dimension Films control the rights to them. This story was
written purely for the free entertainment of its readers. It
contains graphic imagery, adult language, mature themes
and is not meant for children. Feedback is appreciated at
XanderDG@hotmail.com.
______________________________________________
HELLRAISER: HELLFIRE
by
XanderDig
_______________________________________________
1
The salad days of Studio 54 had come and gone well
before I had the chance to enjoy them. In the late '70s, it
was the center of celebrity culture. Film stars mixed and
mingled with the darlings of literature. It would not have
been uncommon to see a major sports figure chatting up a
stunning model in one of the VIP booths, or to enter a
bathroom stall and find a rock star and a disco queen
coming to a carnal truce. The beautiful people here were
not confined to those at home in New York. No. This was
a world-wide terminus for the glitterati.
Normal folks, everyday Joes and Janes would line up
for blocks to gain admittance, to bask in the reflected
celebrity glow. Entry was more than simply a matter of
waiting your turn. The doormen were gatekeepers to a
fiefdom whose feudal lord accepted tribute in the form of
golden, youthful skin. They would stroll down the lines,
handpicking only those who would look right on the dance
floor, splitting marriages when it suited their caprice. Those
lucky enough to be selected would be paraded in front of
Steve Rubel, the owner of 54, and he would play Caesar:
thumbs up. Thumbs down. Once inside, the chosen would
gyrate and sweat to the throbbing rhythms spun by the djs,
clouding the great hall in their scents. Occasionally, the
very lucky would be noticed by one of the deities seated
above and might be ushered upstairs to make a more
personal exaltation of gods named Nicholson or Halston or
Gibb.
Even if I had come into the City during that time, I
never would have made it into the club. I was thick and
muscled in a time when the fashion leaned toward a more
feminine musculature, and the calluses on my large hands
would not have met with any manicured scrutiny. Besides,
it was not as though I owned any clothes appropriate to 54.
I didn't even own my first suit until after I'd joined the
Club. Of course, I wasn't aware that I was missing
anything.
Shaw Industries was still Shaw Homebuilders at that
point. Dad had me roofing in the summer of 1978, the apex
of the culture that 54 embodied. I didn't mind the work.
My skin was deeply tanned and girls in Philly liked a rough
looking fella even if the ones in New York did not. It was a
good time to be a kid. When my father died at the end of the
season, tumbling off a roof as I watched, nobody expected
the twenty-year-old college dropout to be able to take over
the business and keep things going. They really didn't
expect the company to corner the speculative housing
market before the end of the year. I fired my dad's partner,
Doug Burton, when he told me that trying to develop
property in New York was a fools errand. When he and his
sons came to collect his share of the corporate assets the
lesson I taught them was brief but memorable.
My father always told me what a noble profession
building houses was. That it was great because nobody
could ever get hurt when you were making people homes.
He walked his whole life with his head held high, he said,
because being a builder was the most essential thing to any
community. I held out that being an owner was somewhat
more lucrative. By the autumn of 1980, two years after
dad's passing, I owned half of Manhattan's waterfront and
made my first billion. The calluses on my hands had long
since disappeared.
By the time I had finally attained enough to bypass
the line and step behind the velvet rope at 54, to look down
on the dance floor from the VIP deck, it was a much less
auspicious occurrence than if I'd been born a couple years
earlier (or if my father hadn't waited so long to take his
tumble). It was a Friday night, but the crowd below was
thin. In 1981, people were no longer turned away at the
door regardless of what they looked like, and the only
celebrity in evidence was a chubby young porn star.
"Here you are, Sebastian," said Donald Pierce,
handing me a martini glass filled with something brown.
Donald's accent was colored by an education at Exeter and
Yale, but his temperament was much less refined. "Come
over and sit down. My God! You must see this blonde."
"Oh?"
"Ron Jeremy had her brought upstairs. I'm sure
she's working, but still . . ."
"Go ahead. I'll be right there." Donald sauntered
into the circle of cracked red couches. I met him about a
year before at the Club, and though it was clear he was a
shallow man of limited ambition, he was fun to be around.
He knew places in Chinatown where one could indulge
nearly any proclivity.
I looked back down at the floor for a moment,
staring at lithe bodies swaying rhythmically to the last dying
strains of disco. As it often did at this removed vantage
point, my mind slipped toward things Roman and Greek. I
imagined the Bacchanal such a place might have been in
more classical times when something caught my eye. In the
midst of the floor there was a stillness. The crowd seemed
almost to be swirling around it like the animals of a
carousel. With the beating of the strobes and colored lights
it was difficult to fix on the figure, so I put down my drink
and leaned over the safety rail, frowning.
My concentration was so focused that the music
seemed to fade. It was like listening through water. There
was something in the crowd, right in the center, yet not a
soul came near. Not within three feet. It was a man. I was
sure of that. The coat he wore was wrong for the season,
intolerably so for the inside of a hot club. It was black and
it glimmered as though it was plastic. Or it was wet. He
stood there, unaffected by the crowd or the lights, holding
my attention in an almost preternatural way. Then he
looked up and seemed to stare at me, except that he had no
eyes. The figure's gray face had no features of any kind
except for an inhuman smile. There was no mirth to the
look, though, for the man only grinned because he had no
lips to cover his teeth.
The figure raised a gloved hand in front of his face
and extended a slim index finger. No flesh could be that
gray, my mind screamed. Not alive. It must have been the
strobes. The creature tapped the center of his head, where a
third eye would be.
"Jesus Christ," I hissed. The words came unbidden,
and I stepped back from the balcony. I knocked my drink
from the bannister and the glass bounced when it hit the
floor. I looked down and watched the cold bourbon soak
into the dark carpet, and couldn't help but think of blood.
I looked back at my assembled peers in the VIP
suite. I thought of grabbing Donald to show him this living
nightmare, to prove its existence was not my imagination
bowing to late nights in the Club's library. When I turned
back downstairs, the figure was moving away across the
dance floor, the crowd seeming to part before him. For a
moment, I thought to give chase.
***
"My dad *says* he's disappointed in me when
mom's around," Ron Jeremy said. "But I have the feeling
that deep down he's proud." Donald laughed at the chubby
kid - not with, at. I had watched a couple of his pictures on
Beta, and as much as the kid might claim that skin flicks
were his ticket to being a real, Hollywood actor, everyone
else in the VIP room knew differently. I suspected that the
only thing the boy's father might be proud of had more to
do with genetics than talent.
The blonde laughed then, as though she read my
thought. I arched my eyebrows and looked over at her.
Donald had been right about the woman on both counts.
She was, very clearly, a working girl. Judging from the men
in the room, she was a very good one. When the time came
to leave, there might be a bidding war. I intended to win it
and see what the seductress was made of.
Again, she grinned at me in a way that seemed to
respond to the thoughts flitting through my consciousness.
I was normally a fantastic poker player with a stoic face that
defied reading, but the man I saw on the dance floor had
clearly bothered me more than I expected. It had to be
someone in make-up. Halloween was right around the
corner, and somebody had put together an exceptional
mask. Still, I could hear the ice tinkling in my glass (vodka
this time, nothing dark). My hand shook slightly as
adrenaline coursed through my system. Fear was a great
motivator, but nearly an hour had passed. Still, when I
blinked I saw that smiling, lipless face . . .
The other thing Pierce had gotten right was the
blonde's beauty. She was stunning, perfect. She wore a
white dress so minuscule that you could see the garters
strapped to the tops of her stockings. Her hair was
practically white, and her skin an alabaster so pure and
unblemished it might have been porcelain. There was just
enough color to her that it was easy to imagine how red her
cheeks would become when I was fucking her. The woman
was also smart. As each of the men in the room spoke to
her, she seemed to be an expert on whatever subject was at
hand. This was not some gutter whore who got lucky
finding an affluent john; this woman was practically a
courtesan.
There were three men in the room besides Donald,
the porn star and myself. Somehow, all the other women
had left. The other gents may not have been aware of it, but
it was late enough in the evening now that we were all
looking at one another as competition for the woman's
affections. The side-long glances from man to man
stemmed from some primal place deep within. "Who is the
alpha-male," the eyes asked. Who would walk away with
the beautiful prize? I looked back over at our own brass
ring of the evening, and as with every other time, she
returned my glance.
This time I held it and she maintained a level stare
with her cold, blue eyes. I felt a tickle in the back of my
skull, as though there were a sneeze building somewhere
deep in the lizard brain. The woman ignored the babble of
the tall man sitting beside her, a tan-line on his finger where
he had removed his wedding ring. He was talking about his
tremendous success in the record industry. Each of the men
in turn had spent time discussing their successes, almost
listing their resumes for the blonde's review. Indeed, as we
looked at one-another I felt an almost overpowering desire
to tell her about my wealth, to brag about my money.
Instead, I held her gaze and chose silence.
"My name's Tabitha," she said to me in a lilting
English accent. Her voice was smokey and hard. The man
next to her ceased his chattering, giving up the fight.
Donald snorted and drained his drink.
"Tabitha?" I asked.
"Tabitha."
"I just bet it is," I said. She tilted her head slightly, a
narrow grin painting the corner of her pink mouth. "I'm
Sebastian Shaw. This is Donald Pierce."
"You're a quiet one, Shaw."
"It's late. Past my bedtime." I stood up, pulling my
coat from the back of the couch. "What about you,
Tabitha? Is it your bedtime, too?" I thought again about
how flushed her face would be if she were coming, and a
smile bloomed fully on her lips. There was something cruel
in it. The blonde stood, a practiced, serpentine motion, and
she walked to me.
"Goodnight, gentlemen," I said to the room. They
looked at me with a jealousy that was positively electric.
"Come along, Donald."
***
It was freezing outside 54, and Donald put his coat
around the shoulders of the woman calling herself Tabitha.
I was inwardly amused by such a chivalrous gesture being
wasted on a harlot, but made no mention of it. The
doorman eagerly accepted the ten I put in his hand and ran
around the building to alert my driver. We stood in waiting
with our steaming breath visible in the air.
"Whose turn is it, Shaw?" Donald asked.
"I believe it's yours."
"Mm." He turned to Tabitha. "Shall we go ahead
and discuss remuneration, my dear?" Tabitha arched her
eyebrows and glanced from Donald to me and back.
"The both of you then?" She looked back at me.
"For the both of you I would expect . . ."
"Yeah?" Donald asked.
"You know," she said, moving close to my friend
but keeping her eyes on me. She whispered wetly into his
ear, sliding her hands from his lapel down, putting on a
show. "You know, I think what I would like to do is put
my faith in you. I think that I'll ask you to compensate me
however much you think is fair."
What was her game, I wondered. She turned
Donald's head and kissed him hard on the mouth, the flick
of her glistening tongue reflecting pale light of the street
lamp. For an instant I could have sworn that I could taste
the sweet, smokey flavor of her mouth. I watched them,
every bit the voyeur until I heard the tires moving over the
slush behind me. I turned, expecting to find my car.
Instead of the Jaguar, there was a nondescript black
sedan. A driver stepped out, walked around the car and
opened the passenger door. The man who got out was one
of the oddest looking men I had ever laid eyes on. Of
course, I had seen him at the Club many times before,
though he had never deigned to so much as look in my
direction. This time, I was all he seemed to see.
"Oh, shit," Donald whispered behind me.
"What?" Tabitha asked. I held up my hand for
silence.
The small man, I knew him only as the Rook, moved
to stand immediately in front of me. He was well within the
shell of what I considered my personal space, well within
the limits of what I would have tolerated from any other
stranger. Yet despite the difference in our size (he was,
perhaps, five-foot-two and a hundred pounds while I stand
six-four and weigh a great deal more), I found him
intimidating. The Rook's eyes were enormous and they
never seemed to blink. His hair was unfashionably cut close
to his scalp, and he wore a black suit with a white shirt.
The hooked edge of a tattoo snuck out above the edge of
his collar, as though it were trying to escape the confines of
some infernal prison. The Rook grinned at me for a
moment.
"Ninety-three," I said at last. The number was a
statement of greeting within the Club. It was heavy with
numerological significance, but had come to mean little
more than the secret handshake at one of Pierce's college
fraternities.
The Rook said nothing, but held up his hand. He
turned it forwards and backwards so I could see both sides.
Then, suddenly, there was a card between his fingers. A
parlor trick. Hedge magic. Tabitha stepped up by my side
leaving the frightened Donald behind us. The Rook's eyes
never left my own, and I noticed that you couldn't tell
where the cornea ended and the pupil began. His eyes were
black as the devil's.
He extended the card toward me and I took it. It
was a simple black, no bigger than a business card. There
was no writing on it, only a single figure. In the middle of
the card was a chess piece. It was a white king.
"When?" I asked the Rook.
"What is he on about?" Tabitha asked. I ignored
her.
The Rook reached forward and plucked the card
from my fingers. With a snapping motion, he flipped it over
and replaced it. "9 AM" was scrawled on the back in a
hatchet script. The Rook continued to stare at me, and I
nodded at him.
"I'll be there." He nodded and began to turn away
when he frowned, the small smile leaving his face for the
first time in the exchange. He looked at me for a moment,
seemed to change his mind, then looked at Tabitha perched
on my arm. His smile returned and he held one finger up,
wagging it back and forth.
"Wha . . ." Tabitha cried out before she could finish
her thought. She screeched and jolted back, her hand flying
to her left temple. "Jesus bleeding Christ!" she shouted.
Pierce went to try and help but she shoved him away.
I turned back to the Rook, but he was already sitting
down in the sedan. He didn't look back in our direction and
the driver shut the door, trotting around to the front and
clambering in. The car sped away. I had been summoned.
"Tabitha, are you alright?" Donald kept asking. My
tone would be less conciliatory.
"What the hell did you do, woman?" I shouted. I
grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her around. To my
surprise, her nose was bleeding and a look of genuine terror
strained her features. Still, I had to know. I shook her.
"Well?"
"Nothing! I did nothing!" Her hands were
reflexively smoothing my lapels, and I felt a calming buzz,
like a vibration in the back of my head. "Please," she said.
Though I wanted to believe her, to get on with my night, my
anger was too entrenched.
"Tell me, woman! What happened just now?" I
shook her again, and now I saw that the fear on her face
was directed at me. That was fine.
"Ease up, old man." Donald put his hand on my
shoulder, and I turned around sharply, fully prepared to bite
my companion's head off. A crowd was gathering around
us, and my car had returned. I was making a scene.
I looked back at Tabitha, and I noticed that there
was something else mingled in with her fear. Something
appealing. Something I had done had struck a cord. I
reached into my jacket and gave her my handkerchief for
her nose. She took it, her hand lingering on mine for a
moment too long.
***
She finished Donald off with ease. He was a
preliminary and we both knew it. I watched the woman
calling herself Tabitha take my friend on the couch of my
living room. I watched her make him believe he was taking
her. When it was finished, she put him to bed like a child
and there was almost a chaste beauty to the moment. After
she closed the door to the guest bedroom, she turned
around to face me. She was good, this strange English
darling, but she would find my appetites much more difficult
to satisfy.
We stood in the dark for a moment, less like two
lovers than predator and prey sizing each other up across a
shimmering African water hole. Then we came at each
other. A cat-like noise escaped her throat and she struck
out, her nails raking across my chest, raising welts.
Strength flowed into my limbs and when she reared back to
lash out again I deflected the blow. Tabitha twisted,
surprisingly strong, determined to throw me to the floor, to
remain the carnivore. The force of her writhing only added
to my own, endorphins flowing, my pulse quickening. I
held her fast, squeezing her wrist hard enough to hurt
without damaging her too badly. An involuntary smile
stretched my mouth.
I raised my other hand and grabbed under her jaw,
lifting her face to the city lights shining through the window.
He skin was rose petal soft. I wished for a moment that my
manicured hands were callused again. Her teeth were
barred, and she hissed. I tilted her face back and forth,
appraising.
Tabitha relaxed under my gaze and I released my
grip on her arm. She pulled it close to her, between her
breasts, massaging her bruised wrist with her other hand. I
drew her closer to the window, never loosening my hold on
her chin, her tender throat. I put my other hand between
her legs, feeling the slickness born of Donald's exertions.
Her brow furrowed, narrowing her wet, blue eyes. She
moaned as my hand did its work.
"What is your name?" I whispered. "Your true
name." Her breath hitched in her throat and she reached
down, placing her hand on top of my own.
"Emma. It's Emma," she said. She leaned forward
and bit me softly on my chin. Then she attacked. This time
when Emma twisted, she succeeded in throwing me hard to
the floor. She leapt down on top of me, a creature of tooth
and claw. When she next bit down, it drew blood.
The sun was high by the time we were spent. I was
right when I imagined that the blonde's skin would flame
when she came. Before the night was done, though, I
realized that I had underestimated my own ability to blush.
It had been too long.
She slept in my bed, beautiful despite the marks left
on her skin. I pulled a thousand dollars from the wall safe in
my study and left it on the pillow next to her. The woman
seemed to know my every fantasy, my every desire and she
met each with as much enthusiasm as I. It was more than
worth the money. I stared at her for a moment, then put my
card on top of the bills. What the hell.
After showering and looking in on Pierce (his
slumber was an alcoholic one, and he would not rise from
the stupor for some time), I went to my wardrobe. Hidden
in back, far behind the designer suits and formal wear was
an outfit protected by dry cleaner's plastic. I tore away the
covering and pulled on the breaches, pulled the shirt over
my head and put on the ridiculously tight jacket. I went to
the dresser and sat before the mirror, pulling my hair back in
to a tight ponytail. The shoes were the worst, and I dealt
with them last, buckling the clunky things to my feet.
My preparations complete, I called my secretary to
reschedule the morning, then my driver, telling him to bring
the Jag around. I had never met this man before, not alone
at any rate, and I had no intention of being late. I stood
again before the mirror - I might have been a member of the
landed gentry in the late 18th Century. Perfect.
I looked at the appointment card again. There was a
power and simplicity to this figure of a simple chess piece.
Though its rituals and religion were cloaked in secrecy to
younger members, there were a few things that were
perfectly clear. The foremost was that any meeting with the
Inner Circle required formal dress. I knew on some level
that the hand of destiny was at work, that a great
opportunity was presenting itself to me. If any occasion
required ceremony, it was first meeting with the White King
of the Hellfire Club. I took a deep breath and went
downstairs.
______________________________________________________________
To be continued . . .