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The
galon:v:yu appeared out of the sun,
soaring high above the thick-forested valley floor. Eyes of the raven were a
light gold, the irises black, cold beady specks. The feathers were black, so
black they appeared blue under the westering rays of the sun.
The
crossroads. Yesss. Evil there, now, again.
Through
bleak, ominous hemlocks, the spirit-bird could see a blood blackened ‘Stone,
squared and roughly trimmed into a massive rectangular block. It lay behind a
small, ramshackle green house.
Flapping
a little, it hissed in consternation and soared heavily down the
tar-and-gravel Sandy Valley Road to a white cottage.
The
clearing behind the small house was huge, covering several acres, most of it
in now frost-blasted vegetable and flower gardens, as if the occupants
disliked the wasteful vanity of lawns.
The
bird grumbled. An aging greenhouse was attached to the south-facing wall. From
experience it knew the amber roof was too slick to rest on while watching the
house.
It
shied away, flapping into the top of one of three ancient white pines standing
sentinel before the house.
Mossy,
twisted by wind and time, the trees were over a century old, possibly older
than the house, but certainly far younger than the malignant hunger contained
by this one small valley. During the ages before the Flood, the ‘Stone had
been an alter in the temple of Mohawk:Buu, the night-stalking Cannibal Owl.
This was all that remained of his domain. One valley that was his unholy
place.
The
raven settled into a gently swaying top, the pine nearest the door of a broad,
screened-in porch. Pines whispered a greeting. It fluffed ebony feathers and
hissed.
The
boy lived here, in this house.
Through
the gathering darkness the raven stared closely and gave a hoarse croak.
A
long black Deusenburg of another century rolled over the ruts and potholes of
the dirt road. Leda stood tense and angry.
In
a shrill voice, she screamed, “Bedammed and thrice-dammed bog-boy. Fucking
Irish trash.”
In
a cloud of reddish tan dust, the Deusenburg rolled to a halt. The man driving
the car shot a look of cold hate at Leda so powerful she took a step back.
“Fuck
you, nig. Where’s the Spider?”
In
soft southern accents, the man said, “Master Ryan could not attend, Miss
Leda. He sent me to inform you that he requests your presence at his home
later this evening. He’s giving a small suare` to celebrate this turn of
fortune.”
“In
other words, his pet judge tossed his cookies.”
“A
regrettable choice of words from a lady.”
“Fuck
you.”
“If
you so desire, I’m certain the master will give it to you. I, though, have
more class than to touch you. Still, ma’am, I would not sneer at Mr.
Ryan’s ability to use bribes. We have a far better chance of taking Benny
than you.” His eyes not leaving her face, he backed the Deusenburg into the
grass and left her and Tommy standing tight-faced and bitter.
Gibbous
Moon
But a
week from fullness, night-sun arose in all her blood-red glory. A murderer’s
moon. In battle with the afternoon sun, she tipped her light through the
hemlocks. Joyful cries echoed throughout the glen.
Leda
Melancowski raised her naked body over the straining flesh of a Cu’alani boy.
Teased and drugged to the point of agony for release, he whimper and bit off a
scream as hot, moist flesh parted for him.
Squatting
over him, Leda stroked the sweat-chilled brow. Though of different races, the
boy’s resemblance to Benny was nothing short of remarkable. That was why she
had bought him from the White Rose coven’s breeding farm in the Willies
Mountains of West Virginia.
Thoughts
of Benny and the times he had escaped this part of the ceremony, and what lay
beyond, took much of the smoky pleasure from her eyes. The boy under her
grinding hips shivered, and not just from the chill of the ‘Stone. Leda bent
down, allowing pendulous breasts to brush his gaping mouth.
The
boy complied and she rode him to an earthquake completion. But not the boy’s
fulfillment. As the warmth of the October night touched his ridged flesh he
cried out in pain and protest. On the verge of boredom, Leda motioned another of
the clan to take her place.
Cocaine
worked like a charm. There was no way the Cu’alani would be able to succeed.
He was in such pain now he would view the end of the nightlong ceremony as a
blessing. If his heart didn’t explode. Every nerve quivered in the direction
of his groin. So much so he hardly felt Frieda Right’s eight fingernails claw
him from shoulders to stomach.
Only
ten more hours until the end.
Idiot.
So eager to please. They raised them right, down there. Leda smirked at the boy.
Of all the people here only that arrogant, over-sexed little stud didn’t
realize how it would end. Almost a pity.
But
not quite.
©2002 StoriesByEmail.com
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