Witch Water Part 24

There was no vocal response but- What-what's that?

Fanshawe heard the faintest sound, like a m.u.f.fled, hot thumping...

A heartbeat!

Someone was in the room.

He raised his flashlight, was about to turn it on- From behind, some form of garrote looped around his neck and tightened. A chuckling like bubbling tar gurgled. Fanshawe's tongue shot out of his mouth from the tightness of the noose; he had no choice but to drop the flashlight so that he could raise his hands to hook his fingers under the rope.

"Might this break thy starch?" a man's voice slithered up. Then Fanshawe's eyes bugged when he was kicked from behind between the legs. Pain bloomed. He doubled over.

He began to choke at once. His heels pummeled the floor; he was being dragged by the noose across the floor, through horrid darkness, then- thunk, thunk, thunk -dragged up the stairs.

Fanshawe's face ballooned as his attacker tugged him along as though he were a sack of feed. He continued to kick, twist, and contort in resistance, all for nothing.

"So," the mocking voice resumed, "ye venturer desires to be a warlock, aye? He dares quest to be one with ye Squire?"

"No!" Fanshawe croaked out. "I just came to-"

A hard yank of the rope cut off the rest of his garbled words. Up another flight of steps, Fanshawe was hauled, then the last flight, and then down the hall. Splinters from the wood floor lanced through the rump of his slacks and into his flesh; he could only gargle his torment against the noose.

He was dragged to the left, into a room. For a moment, the noose's pressure lessened; a needed rush of blood shot into his head. Got to get up! he realized, and he'd almost accomplished that when- whap!

He toppled again when his attacker rammed a fist into his stomach.

If Fanshawe hadn't summoned the strength to get his fingers back under the noose, he probably would have strangled, because just after the blow, his attacker began to climb the now-familiar rope ladder with one hand, while keeping the noose-rope attached to Fanshawe's neck in the other.

"Up, up goes ye venturer!"

Fanshawe's eyes could've popped out now: his back and then his feet left the floor as he was suspended aloft by his neck. In hard jerks, he was hoisted up into a room he'd seen three hundred years in the future...

Fanshawe's vision dimmed, and the pressure made his face fit to erupt. Just as he thought he would die, he was slammed down onto a floor of wood planks.

The noose was taken off.

Fanshawe heaved in air while coughing at the same time. His mind spun like a child's top; no coherent thoughts formed, which seemed understandable. But as his vision brightened, he was able to see exactly where he was: the secret section of the attic.

He sensed his attacker's bulk just behind his head. Fanshawe was enraged now; he wanted to fight, as implausible as that instance was. Play dead, he thought.

And so he did.

He lay as if unconscious, while the man who'd dragged him up here puttered with some task. Fanshawe kept his eyes open only to the most narrow slits. He glanced in s.n.a.t.c.hes, each glimpse revealing more of the hidden room: the book shelves, only new and clean, bereft of cobwebs and dust; rows and rows of lit candles; the woodstove, with fire-light showing in the grill-slits of its hatch; and the long tables which housed all manner of the laboratory apparatus of another day. An awful odor permeated the warm room, and that's when Fanshawe guessed what its source might be: A large cauldron sat atop the woodstove, eddying ribbons of steam.

He let his eyes veer to the right, and in the wall of candlelight, he got a full look at the man who'd hauled him up here.

Callister Rood.

He can't be here! Fanshawe thought in consternation. I just saw him on the street!

"I know thy prank, sir," the thick-jawed man said down to him. "Yet there be reason why feigning death wilt fool me not," and then Rood leaned over and grinned broadly down at him.

Fanshawe leapt up, grabbed a knife from a rack on the table, then lunged at Rood.

Rood's mouth ejected words thick as half-formed objects: "Nard'gurnlut do'blyn srug..."

Fanshawe fell limp. He could see and think, he could feel, but he couldn't move. Had the alien words really caused his paralysis or had his neck been broken during the hoist into the attic. Suddenly rough hands were on him- "Venturer, first, thy garb must be got rid of," Rood said, amused. Fanshawe felt his shoes pulled off, then his slacks, then his underpants, and his sports jacket and s.h.i.+rt. Then- SPLAT!.

-a bowl of something warm suddenly slapped Fanshawe's face. The copper-salt taste that leaked into his mouth told him it was blood.

"Now," Rood's voice fluttered from above, "thine fit and proper anointment."

Blood drooled down Fanshawe's face and stung his eyes.

"And afore ye most unholy of imprecations-as mine Squire sayeth-thy gullet must be filled," and then another bowl was wielded, and put to Fanshawe's lips. "Drink all this up, good sarvant."

Revolted, Fanshawe kept his lips sealed; he shook his head no. He knew it wasn't merely blood Rood wanted him to swallow, but baby's blood.

"Nay? Why dare displease the Squire?"

The edge of the bowl pushed at the seam of his lips.

"Heed, and take this down into thy belly, stranger. Thy worth must first be proved."

Fanshawe kept shaking his head, eyes squeezed shut as tightly as his lips.

"Be an enc.u.mbrance not, or suffer..." and then Rood picked up a hand-forged linoleum knife whose inner curve had been honed to the sharpness of broken gla.s.s.

The knife was hooked under Fanshawe's s.c.r.o.t.u.m.

"Many's the time, sir-and believeth it-ye pleasure's been mine to skive a man's groin bare." A chuckle fluttered. "'T'will make a woman of thee if thou refuse to drink."

Fanshawe tensed as the blade's edge threatened to break the skin.

The bowl nudged his lips. "Drink with faith."

Shuddering, Fanshawe gulped the bowl's contents down.

"Fine, fine Rood," another voice seemed to sing. A graceful shape pa.s.sed before the wall of candlelight. "A glorious christening it is thee've achieved."

A lithe figure towered over Fanshawe. Evanore, he knew by the voice. She giggled, gliding a bare foot up the inside of his thigh. When she leaned over, he could see she was not only naked but feverishly intent on him. "A handsome one, isn't he?"

Rood, still behind Fanshawe, only grunted.

"Calm thyself, Rood. Our ilk has naught for jealousy, hmm? Our Benefactor hath spoken it," but her words were a mockery of their meaning. Fanshawe saw the woman's large bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s moving closer-she was kneeling between his splayed legs. "Yea, I'll pleasure in filching the cream from this one. Do taketh away thy knife, friend Rood. You'll wither him to nothing, and what use have I of that?"

More giggles sailed off as Rood put the knife away; even in his paralysis, Fanshawe relaxed...but only for a moment.

Terror had shrunk Fanshawe's genitals, but now Evanore purred as she applied some oily fluid to them. "Surely this even-time's events hath affrighted our venturer out of his vitality." Her hands worked the slick oil all around Fanshawe's groin. "But this shall resurge him a'plenty-the juice of many blister beetles, b'mixed with but a half-dram of nightshade oil..."

Beaten, hanged, forced to drink infant's blood, and a knife held to his genitals-it was understandable that Fanshawe had completely lost his s.e.xual responses. In only moments, however, Evanore's arcane concoction succeeded in arousing him.

"There now!"

Fanshawe was sick to death. Nothing in his mind was s.e.xually aware, yet his erection throbbed, if anything, larger than ever. Evanore's grin turned greedy when she squatted down and impaled herself on it. All the while, Rood's hand clamped to Fanshawe's throat, fingers pliered around the adam's apple.

Licking her lips, Evanore began to ride Fanshawe up and down.

Slick sounds rose; Fanshawe's eyes crossed at the abominable act. She's raping me... Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s bounced with each hard impact of her groin to his. She began to moan and even drool.

"Now, Rood! Lend some spark to his spirit!" she panted.

Fanshawe's tongue shot out of his mouth the noose was put back around his neck; Rood gave it a twist. The sight seemed to rile Evanore-her groans began to blend with muted shrieks, and in the carnal delirium, her finger reached out. First she made the sign of an upside-down cross in the blood on Fanshawe's forehead, then a pentagram on his scarlet chest. She rode him harder and harder.

Rood gave the noose's knot another twist.

Almost no air got into Fanshawe's lungs. He felt worse now than when he was being hanged. His face expanded; his neck beat. When he started to gag again, Evanore touched a fingertip to the top of a tiny bottle. "My moment's nearly beside me!" came more words through more panting.

The slick sounds drew on with the lewd motion. Fanshawe's vision was dimming but he was able to see the glimmer of a drop of fluid on Evanore's fingertip. "Yes, yes!" and then she drew her finger along the inside of his lower lip. Instantly, he felt a tingle.

He thought of shooting his thumbs backward, to target Rood's eyes, but he couldn't raise his hands off the floor. A harder thought, then: grabbing Evanore's white, sweat-sheened throat and wringing it till a vertebra snapped, but, still...

He couldn't move at all.

Then he began to convulse.

"The potion's so vital!" Evanore seethed.

Fanshawe's convulsions came like electrocution. His body began to flop beneath Evanore's weight, causing his pelvis to lurch repeatedly up. Evidently, this was the effect she wanted. She wanted to be penetrated violently, by the throes that just preceded death...

"Just the tiniest bit of spike-fish poison can kill a man," she drooled in glee, "but half that? It makes a man flop and flip quite a fish out of water!"

Fanshawe's body bucked hard now, and as if on cue, Rood tightened the noose further. Evanore's bosom heaved in and out as her climax drew near. "Yea, to the very brink he must be brought!"

Fanshawe felt her s.e.x spasm in fits around his erection. He continued to twist on the floor, veins beating in his head. A scream of the most demented ecstasy burst from Evanore's throat; Fanshawe's heart beat so hard if felt as thought it were trying to churn its way out of his chest. Then his entire body heaved on the floor as his own climax broke, bringing a sensation of pleasure more potent than anything he'd ever felt.

A sound more like a death-rattle than a scream ground out of his own throat when his vision turned black and he felt heat so intense he could've just been dropped into a slag furnace- -and then Fanshawe was sitting wide-eyed and fully dressed at a round wooden table inlaid with pearls. Several candles flickered; the same centuries-old paintings that hung in his suite at the inn now surrounded him, but they looked brand-new.

A gla.s.s of wine sat before him, and sitting beyond it, across the table, was Jacob Wraxall, his green eyes glittering.

"Pray, pardon the viciousness of my attendant's hectoring," the old man said. "His orders to do so were mine alone."

Fanshawe could only stare.

"And an equal pardon I'll hope you to grace upon my rather randy daughter, and ye fervid eccentricities that be her wont when coupling with a man."

"Eccentricities is putting it mildly," Fanshawe finally managed to speak.

"But before interview could be granted, it was required in the utmost that thy faith be proved." Wraxall smiled ever-so-slightly. "And so it has been."

Fanshawe's mind felt riotous with questions; and Wraxall seemed to read this in his face.

"I can only conjecture, friend," the man began, "what might addle thee firstmost. All these matters will be answered to thee. As anent to ye chase by Sheriff Patten and his nincomp.o.o.p a.s.signees, and ye great eruption of light, additives of sartain mineral salts provided ye strange and startling hue its illuminance-lo, just a flashpot-while ye vicious cur's progress was forestalled forthwith by an ably bespoken Confoundment Hex. Its disorienting effect remains vital for only the pa.s.sage of seconds, but seconds, as your presence indubitably ostends, were sufficient to spare thy neck. In all, *twas a simple thing-little more than a parlor trick, same as the Stasis Spell bespoken to you next-"

Without even thinking of it, Fanshawe remembered the words that Rood had said, words that seemed to have semi-solid substance: Nard'gurnlut do'blyn srug...

"'Twas necessary, to keep thee compliant for thine anointment, and, yea, the sequent entertainment of my most lovely and awful daughter."

But now Fanshawe's confusion was beginning to gain a form of coherence. "How could Rood haven't gotten in the house so fast?"

"Thy meaning, sir?"

"The sheriff's men and that d.a.m.n dog were chasing me through the alley!" Fanshawe yelled. "But after the flash, I got into the house. It was Rood who threw them off my direction-he ran down the street with the sheriff, but the second I got into the house, Rood was waiting for me! It's impossible! He didn't have time to get back inside!"

"Time, good student, is a notion of which you'll become more apprized sooner than later, I say." Wraxall stroked his trimmed Van d.y.k.e, as if amused. "But I should think such possibilities would already have come to thee."

Fanshawe pounded his fist on the table. "What are you talking about!"

"'Twas the Bridle which thee rode to come hither."

The Bridle, Fanshawe thought.

"'Tis a genius mechanism given men as me by the great dark Benefactor, whom I live to sarve. A man such as thyself, possessed of understanding, should surely see this."

"It-it's some occult thing... that manipulates time," Fanshawe said to himself.

"Far more than mere manipulation it is of which we be speaking. It is an instance of one's spirit being united with the ways of our Benefactor. Such knowledge be bestowed upon only a precious few." Wraxall pointed. "You."

Fanshawe continued to stare.

"Yea, you. But I shall give thee witness, to further embolden thee," and with that, Wraxall seemed to grit his teeth and squeeze his eyes shut, and- Now Fanshawe was standing in the silent hall, Wraxall smiling at his side. "Time? s.p.a.ce? Such things these, thought to be constants, but to those so gifted, they be but playthings to ye minister of Lucifer"-and then Wraxall made the facial gesture again, to leave himself and Fanshawe standing in a small bedroom occupied by a high, veiled poster bed. "Behold," Wraxall said.

It was Evanore who lay there, with Rood standing by, leaning over intently. Evanore grunted, her face a grimace. She was nude and- Holy s.h.i.+t, Fanshawe thought.

-very pregnant. But after several forceful shrieks, her belly collapsed. Rood reached between her legs and raised up a wet, new-born infant.

Fanshawe trembled. "That's not..."

"Ye child of thy seed shared with my daughter-"

"But that was just a few minutes ago!"

"So to thee it may seem, for ye Bridle skews time, venturer, yet he who masters it owns it."

Fanshawe looked again. The squalling newborn lay now at Evanore's bosom. As the tiny thing suckled, Evanore grinned...right at Fanshawe.

Again, the warlock transplanted them, this time, to the foyer. A dog was heard barking outside, along with the shouts of men. Rood grinned at Fanshawe as he set down a b.l.o.o.d.y knife. Behind him on a shelf lay an indiscernible shape-a tiny shape-yet before him on a table sat two bowls of blood.

"Back, I take thee, forward-any and all!" Wraxall said. "Like a jester who juggles pins amid ye air, so do I juggle time!"