Ceremony In Death

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Athame slicked a high-gloss sheen over depravity, like the baby-kissing smile on a corrupt politician. One scan convinced Eve she'd have preferred to spend an evening in a low-level dive, smelling stale liquor and staler sweat.

Dives didn't bother with disguises.

Revolving balconies of smoky glass and chrome trim ringed the main level in two tiers so that those who preferred a loftier view could circle slowly and check out the action. The central bar speared out in five points, and each was crowded with patrons perched on high stools fashioned to resemble optimistically exaggerated body parts.

A couple of women decked out in micro skirts sat spread-legged on a pair of bulging, flesh-toned cocks and laughed uproariously. A skinheaded bar surfer checked them out by prying his hand down their snug blouses.

All the walls were mirrored, and they pulsed with cloudy red lights. Some of the tables flanking the dance floor were tubed for privacy, some were smoked so that silhouettes of couples in various states of fornication wavered against the glass to entertain the crowd, and all were coated with a shiny black lacquer that made them resemble small, dark pools.

On a raised platform, the band pumped out harsh and clever rock. Eve wondered what Mavis would think of their wildly painted faces, tattooed chests, and black leather codpieces studded with silver spikes. She decided her friend would probably have dubbed them mag.

"Do we sit?" Roarke murmured in her ear, "or case the joint?"

"We go up," she decided. "For the overview. What's that smell?"

He stepped onto the auto-stairs with her. "Cannabis, incense. Sweat."

She shook her head. There was something under that mix, something metallic. "Blood. Fresh blood."

He'd caught it as well. That broody underlayer. "In a place like this, they put it in the air vents for mood enhancement."

"Charming."

They stepped off onto the second level. Here, rather than tables and chairs, there were floor pillows and thick rugs where patrons could lounge as they sipped their brew of choice. Those on the prowl leaned on the ornate chrome rail, scoping, Eve imagined, for a likely partner to lure into one of the privacy rooms.

There were a dozen such rooms on this level, all with heavy black doors bearing chrome plaques with such names as Perdition, Leviathan, and – more direct, in Eve's opinion – Hell and Damnation.

She could too easily imagine the personality type who would find such invitations seductive.

As she watched, a man whose eyes were glazed with liquor began to slurp his way up his companion's legs. His hand snuck under her crotch-skimming skirt as she giggled. Technically, she could have busted them both for engaging in a sexual act in public.

"What would be the point?" Roarke commented, reading her perfectly. His voice was mild. Anyone taking a casual glance would have seen a man faintly bored with the ambiance. But he was braced to attack or defend, whichever became necessary. "You've got more interesting things to do than toss a horny couple from Queens in lockup."

That wasn't really the point, Eve thought as the man tugged apart the self-stick fly on his baggy blue trousers. "How do you know they're from Queens?"

Before he could answer, a young, attractive man with a flowing mane of blond hair and bare, gleaming shoulders, hunkered down beside the busy couple. Whatever he said had the woman giggling again then grabbing him into a sloppy kiss.

"Why don't you come, too?" she demanded in an unmistakable accent. "We could have ourselves a manage and twas."

Eve lifted a brow at the borough massacre of the French term, and at the easy skill with which the bouncer disengaged himself and led the staggering couple off.

"Queens," Roarke said, smug. "Definitely. And that was smoothly done." He inclined his head as the couple was taken through a narrow door. "They'd add the price of the privacy room to the tab, and no harm done." There was a scream of female laughter as the bouncer came back out and secured the door. "Everyone's happy."

"Queens might not be in the morning. The cost of a privacy room in a place like this has to hurt. Then again…" She scanned the crowd. Ages varied from the very young – many of whom she was sure had gained entrance with forged ID – to the very mature. But from the wardrobe and jewelry, the tone of faces and bodies that slyly hinted at salon enhancements, the clientele was solidly upper middle-class.

"Money doesn't look to be a problem here. I've spotted at least five high-credit licensed companions."

"My count was more like ten."

She quirked a brow. "Twelve bouncers with low-grade palm zappers."

"On that count, we agree." He slipped an arm around her waist and walked to the rail. Below, the dance floor was packed, bodies rubbing suggestively against bodies. Wild laughter bounced off the mirrored walls and shot upward.

The band was into their performance mode. The two female vocalists were being bound to dangling silver chains with leather straps. The music pounded, heavy on the drums. The dancers surged forward, closing in, as eager as a mob at a lynching. Audience participation was realized as a man was brought forward and accepted the invitation to strip the women out of their flimsy robes. Beneath, they were naked but for glittery stars over nipples and pubes.

The crowd began to chant and howl as he coated them with thick oil, and they writhed and screamed and begged for mercy.

"That's skirting the line," Eve muttered.

"Performance art." Roarke watched the man scourge the first vocalist with a velvet cat 'o nine tails. "Still within the law."

"A simulation of debasement encourages the real thing." She set her teeth as a band member began to lightly slap the second vocalist as their voices soared in fervent duet. "We're supposed to be beyond this kind of female exploitation. But we're not. We never are. What are they looking for?"

"Thrills. Of the cheaper and meaner variety." His hand soothed the base of her back. She knew what it was to be bound, to be abused. There was nothing artful and nothing entertaining about it. "There's no need to watch this, Eve."

"What makes them do it?" she wondered. "What makes a woman let herself be used that way, in simulation or in reality? Why doesn't she kick his balls into his throat?"

"She's not you." He kissed her on the brow and firmly turned her away.

The railing was thick with people, now straining to see the show.

As they took a quick tour of the top floor, a woman in a sheer black gown glided up to them. "Welcome to The Master's Level. Do you have a reservation?"

Enough was enough, Eve thought. She flipped out her badge. "I'm not interested in what you're selling here."

"Fine food and wine," the hostess said after only a quick hitch at the sight of police identification. "You'll find we're completely within code here, Lieutenant. However, if you wish to speak with the owner – "

"I've already done that. I want to see Lobar. Where do I find him?"

"He doesn't work this level." With the subtlety and discretion that would have made the poshest maitre d' proud, the hostess steered Eve back toward the stairs. "If you will go to the main level, you will be met, and a table provided. I'll contact Lobar and send him to you."

"Fine." Eve studied her, saw an attractive woman in her mid-twenties. "Why do you do this?" she asked and glanced at one of the screens where a woman screamed and struggled as she was strapped to a raised slab of marble. "How can you do this?"

The hostess merely glanced down at Eve's badge, then smiled sweetly. "How can you do that?" she countered and drifted away.

"I'm letting it get to me," Eve admitted as they headed down to the main level. "I know better."

The band continued to play, the music a frenzy now. But the performance aspect had switched to a huge view screen that filled the wall behind the stage. It took Eve only a glance to see why. The club wasn't licensed for live sex acts, but such minor inconveniences were transcended by video.

The female vocalists were still bound, still singing their hearts out without missing a beat. But they were behind the stage now, on camera, along with the man from the audience and a second man who wore nothing but an ornate mask of a boar's head.

"Pigs," was all Eve had to say, then looked into gleaming red eyes.

"Your table is this way." The young man smiled, revealing gleaming teeth with incisors sharpened to vicious fangs. He turned. His hair streamed down his naked back, black, tipped with red like flames. He opened the rounded door on a privacy tube, stepped in ahead of them.

"I'm Lobar." He grinned again. "I've been expecting you."

He might have been pretty without the affectation of vampire fangs and demon eyes. As it was, Eve thought he looked like an overgrown child dressed up for Halloween. If he was of legal age, she deduced it couldn't have been by much. His chest was thin and hairless, his arms slim as a girl's. But she didn't think it was the red tint of his eyes that took away his innocence. It was the look in them.

"Sit down, Lobar."

"Sure." He dropped into a chair. "I'll have a drink. You're buying," he told Eve. "You want my time during work hours, you gotta pay." He punched out a selection on the electronic menu, adjusted his chair so that he could see the view screen. "Great show tonight."

Eve glanced over.

"The script could use work," she said dryly. "You got ID, Lobar?"

He peeled his lips back from his fangs, lifted his hands, palm out. "Not on me. Unless you think I got secret pockets in my skin."

"What's your legal name?"

His smile disappeared, and his eyes were suddenly the sulky eyes of a child. "It's Lobar. That's who I am. I don't have to answer your questions, you know. I'm cooperating."

"You're a real sterling citizen." Eve waited while his drink slid out of the serving slot. Another show, she mused, as the heavy glass chalice smoked with some murky gray brew. "Alice Lingstrom. What do you know about her?"

"Not much, except she was a dumb bitch." He sipped the drink. "She hung around for awhile, then went crying off. It was fine with me. The master doesn't need any weaklings."

"The master."

He sipped again, smiled. "Satan," he said, relishing it.

"You believe in Satan?"

"Sure." He leaned forward, slid his hand with its long, black-painted nails toward Eve. "And he believes in you."

"Careful," Roarke murmured. "You're too young and stupid to loose a hand."

Lobar snorted, but he slid his hand back again. "Your watchdog?" he said to Eve. "Your rich watchdog. We know who you are," he added, fixing his red eyes on Roarke. "Big fucking deal. You don't have any power here. And neither does your cop bitch."

"I'm not his cop bitch," Eve said mildly, shooting a warning glance at Roarke. "I'm my own cop bitch. And as to power…" She leaned back. "Well, I've got the power to take you down to Cop Central and slap you into Interview." She smiled, letting her gaze run over the naked chest and gleaming nipple rings. "The guys would just love to get a load of you. Cute, isn't he, Roarke?"

"In an apprentice demon sort of fashion. You must have a very… interesting dentist." As it was a privacy booth, he took out a cigarette, lighted it.

"I could use one of those," Lobar said.

"Could you?" With a shrug, Roarke slid another cigarette onto the table. When Lobar picked it up, looked at him expectantly, Roarke grinned. "Sorry, you want a light? I assumed you'd shoot flame out of your fingertips."

"I don't do tricks for straights." Lobar leaned forward, sucking on the filter as Roarke flicked his lighter at the tip. "Look, you want to know about Alice, and I can't help you. She wasn't my type. Too inhibited, and always asking questions. Sure I banged her a couple of times, but those were like community fucks, you know? Nothing personal."

"And on the night she was killed?"

He blew out smoke, sucked more in. He hadn't had real tobacco before, and the expensive drug made him lightheaded and relaxed. "Never saw her. I was busy. I had a private ceremony with Selina and Alban. Sexual rites. After, we fucked around most of the night."

He took another deep drag, holding it in as he would a toke from a prime joint, then exhaling lustily through his nostrils. "Selina likes double bangers, and when she's done, she likes to watch and get herself off. Was dawn, easy, before she'd had enough."

"And the three of you were together the entire night. No one left, even for a few minutes."

He moved his bony shoulders. "That's the thing about three people. No waiting." He lowered his gaze suggestively to her breasts. "Want to try it?"

"You don't want to solicit a cop, Lobar. And I like men. Not skinny boys in silly costumes. Who called Alice and played the recording. The chant?"

He was sulky again, his ego pricked. If she'd come alone, he thought, he'd have shown her a few things. A bitch was a bitch as far as he was concerned, badge or no badge. "I don't know what you're talking about. Alice was nothing. Nobody gave a shit about her."

"Her grandfather did."

"Heard he was dead, too." The red eyes gleamed. "Old fart. Desk cop, button pusher. Means nothing to me."

"Enough to know he was a cop," Eve put in. "A cop who rode a desk. How'd you know that, Lobar?"

Realizing his mistake, he crushed out what was left of the cigarette in quick, vicious little jabs. "Somebody must've mentioned it." He exposed his fangs in a wide grin. "Probably Alice did, while I was banging her."

"Doesn't say much for your performance rating, does it, if she was talking about her grandfather when you were… banging her."

"I heard it somewhere, all right?" He grabbed his drink, gulped deeply. "What's the big fucking deal where? He was old, anyway."

"Did you ever see him? In here?"

"I see a lot of people in here. I don't remember any old cop." He waved a hand. "Place rocks like this most every night. How the hell do I know who comes in? Selina hired me to keep the occasional asshole in line, not to remember faces."

"Selina's got quite the enterprise going here. Is she still dealing? She deal for you?"

His eyes went sly. "I get power from my beliefs. I don't need illegals."

"Have you ever participated in human sacrifice? Ever slice up a child for your master, Lobar?''

He polished off his drink. "That's an outsider's hallucination. People like you like to make Satanists out to be monsters."

"People like us," Roarke murmured, skimming his gaze over Lobar from the fire-tipped hair to the nipple rings. "Yes, obviously we're biased when anyone can see you're simply… devout."

"Look, it's a religion, and we've got freedom of religion in this country. You want to push your God down our throats? Well, we reject him. We reject him and all his weak-kneed creeds. And we'll rule in Hell."

He shoved back from the table and stood. "I've got nothing more to say."

"All right." Eve spoke quietly, looking up into his eyes. "But you think about this, Lobar. People are dead. Somebody's going to be next. It might just be you."

His lips trembled, then firmed. "It might just be you," he shot back and slammed out of the booth.

"What an attractive young man," Roarke commented. "I do believe he'll be a delightful addition to Hell."

"That may be where he's going." After a quick glance around, Eve nudged the empty glass into her bag. "I want to find out where he came from. I can run his prints at home."

"Fine." He rose, took her arm. "But I want a shower first. This place leaves something nasty coated on the skin."

"I can't argue with that."

– =O=-***-=O=-

"Robert Allen Mathias," Eve stated, reading data off her monitor. "Turned eighteen six months ago. Born in Kansas City, Kansas, son of Jonathan and Elaine Mathias, both of whom are Baptist deacons."

"A PK." Roarke put in. "Preacher's kid. Some can rebel in extreme manners. Looks like little Bobby has."

"History of problems," Eve continued. "I got his juvie file here. Petty theft, break in, truancy, assault. Ran away from home four times before he hit thirteen. At fifteen, after a joy ride that landed him a grand theft auto, his parents had him termed legally incorrigible. Did a year at a state school, which ended with him being kicked to a state institution after an attempted rape on a teacher."

"Bobby's a sweetheart," Roarke murmured. "I knew there was a reason I wanted to jab his little red eyes out. They kept latching onto your breasts."

"Yeah." Unconsciously, Eve rubbed a hand over them as if to erase something vile. "Psych profile's pretty much what you'd expect. Sociopathic tendencies, lack of control, violent mood swings. Subject harbors deep, unresolved resentment toward parents and authority figures, particularly female. Displays both fear and resentment toward females. Intelligence rating, high, violence quotient, high. Subject displays complete lack of conscience and an abnormal interest in the occult."

"Then what is he doing out on the street? Why isn't he in treatment?"

"Because it's the law. You have to kick him when he turns eighteen. Until you nail him as an adult, he's clear." Eve puffed out her cheeks, blew out the air. "He's a dangerous little bastard, but there's not much I can do about him. He corroborates Selina's statement for the night of Alice's death."

"He'd have been instructed to," Roarke pointed out.

"Still sticks – unless I can break it." She pushed back. "I've got his current address. I can check it out, knock on doors. See if his neighbors can give me something on him. If I can get him in on something, lay on some pressure, I think little Bobby would break."

"Otherwise?"

"Otherwise, we keep digging." She rubbed her eyes.

"We'll deal with him. Sooner or later, he'll revert to type – bust somebody's face, assault some woman, kick the wrong ass. Then we'll lock him in a cage."

"Your job is miserable."

"Most of the time," she agreed, then looked over her shoulder. "Are you tired?"

"Depends." He glanced at the screen where Lobar's data scrolled. He had an image of her diving deeper, spending the quiet hours of night wading through the muck. He didn't bother to sigh. "What do you need?"

"You." She could feel her color rise as he lifted a curious brow. "I know it's late, and it's been a long day. I guess I was thinking of it kind of like the shower. Something to wash away the grime." Embarrassed, she turned back, stared hard at the screen. "Stupid."

It was always hard for her to ask, he mused. For anything. "Not the most romantic proposal I've ever had." He laid his hands on her shoulders, massaged gently. "But far from stupid. Disengage," he ordered and the screen went dark. He turned her chair around, drew her to her feet. "Come to bed."

"Roarke." She put her arms around him, held tight. She couldn't explain how or why the images she'd seen that night had left something inside her shaky. With him, she didn't have to. "I love you."

Smiling a little, she lifted her head and looked into his eyes. "It's getting easier to say. I think I'm starting to like it."

With a short laugh, he pressed a kiss to her chin. "Come to bed," he repeated, "and say it again."

– =O=-***-=O=-

The rite was ancient, its purpose dark. Cloaked and masked, the coven gathered in the private chamber. The scent of blood was fresh and strong. The flames spearing above black candles flickered to send shadows slithering over the walls like spiders hunting prey.

Selina chose to be the altar and lay naked, a candle burning between her thighs, a bowl of sacrificial blood nestled between her generous breasts.

She smiled as she glanced toward the silver bowl overflowing with the cash and credits the membership had paid for the privilege to belong. Their wealth was now her wealth. The master had saved her from a scrabbling life on the streets and brought her here, into power and into comfort.

She had gladly traded her soul for them.

Tonight there would be more. Tonight there would be death, and the power that came from the rending of flesh, the spilling of blood. They would not remember, she thought. She had added drugs to the blood-laced wine. With the right drugs, in the right dosage, they would do and say and be what the master wanted.

Only she and Alban would know that the master had demanded sacrifice for his protection, and the demand had been happily met.

The coven circled her, their faces hooded, their bodies swaying, as the drug, the smoke, the chanting hypnotized them. At her head stood Alban, with the boar's mask and the athame.

"We worship the one," he said in his clear and beautiful voice.

And the coven answered. "Satan is the one."

"What is his, is ours."

"Ave, Satan."

As Alban lifted the bowl, his eyes met Selina's. He took up a sword, thrust it at the four points of the compass. The princes of hell were called, the list long and exotic. Voices were a hum. Fire crackled in a blackened pot set on a marble slab.

She began to moan.

"Destroy our enemies."

Yes, she thought. Destroy.

"Bring sickness and pain on those who would harm us."

Great pain. Unbearable pain.

When Alban laid a hand on her flesh, she began to scream. "We take what we wish, in your name. Death to the weak. Fortune to the strong."

He stepped back, and though it was his right to take the altar first, he gestured to Lobar. "Reward to the loyal. Take her," he commanded. "Give her pain as well as pleasure."

Lobar hesitated a moment. The sacrifice should have come first. The blood sacrifice. The goat should have been brought out and slaughtered. But he looked at Selina, and his drug-clouded brain shut off. There was woman. Bitch. She watched him with cold, taunting eyes.

He would show her, he thought. He would show her he was a man. It wouldn't be like the last time when she had used and humiliated him.

This time, he would be in charge.

He cast aside his robe and stepped forward.