Warlock Wolf / Bring The Night / Chapter 8

Sleep was fitful; Lizzy’s consciousness drifted in and out, her awake mind close to the surface, sometimes even breaking for air, her eyes fluttering in the darkness of her sorority bedroom. And then at other times her sleep went deep. Deep into a moist and lubricious place that had her heart fluttering in her chest.

At times she could feel Special Agent Black’s hands on her. Could feel the touch of his fingers over her skin, she could feel his kisses on her neck. It had her legs stroking up and down underneath her blankets, bare heels grinding and digging into the mattress. Her hands moved down over her tummy, pulling up the bottom of her nightdress. She hadn’t showered when she got home from the mansion because she was a bad girl.

She could feel Agent Black entering her body again, could feel that warm slick pleasure as he put his hardness inside her. Then as her mind reeled and tumbled with a vivid reliving of the awful things she’d done—but felt so much pleasure from—her dreams became surreal . . . 

She could see Agent Black for more than what he was. Besides that boyish charm and that sweet face, that innocent look in his eyes, there was something else inside him—something dark and powerful. So powerful it was overwhelming, a titanic obelisk standing on a foggy beach as the world’s oceans lapped around its shore. And then that obelisk was no longer black stone wet from salt water, it was hard, aroused flesh, blushed pink; turgid manhood, warm and slippery, pulsing with life and lust. No longer dead stone, it was Agent Black’s implement of sexual penetration, the thing he’d put inside her tonight, only now grown tall as a chimney. She couldn’t put her arms anywhere near around it but she tried because she loved it, pressing her cheek against its hard surface and feeling it throb and thrum against her body. Liquid pleasure spread between her thighs and her own mewling woke her . . . 

Eyelashes fluttering, the dimness of her bedroom came to gray morning life. She thrashed at the sheets because she was overheating. She sweated not just between her legs, but all over; her nightdress clung to her, hair hung in tangles around her neck. Her eyes narrowed with rising fear and she croaked, feeling something awful impending . . . Eyes on her.

She bolted upright and saw a man at the foot of her bed. Ghostly, wavering, standing a foot off the floor. His face was drawn in horror, his mouth open, eyes wide but unseeing. He was stepping up, one foot raising higher as if he might mount her bed and get in there with her; he wore nightclothes, a man’s long dressing gown, three buttons open at the neck; his hair fluttered at the sides of his head and there was a moan of horror and regret slipping past his lips. It was Otterman; it was Otterman . . . 

And now at his side, a frightening monster, climbing on her bed along with Otterman, its clawed forepaws pressing down on the quilt, quiet but coiled with power. A wolf, a black shaggy beast, all silhouette and impending doom, staring her down with glowing red radium eyes; its maw opened, exposed its fangs, white gleaming daggers in the dark, a foggy roll of breath fell around her, blood and hunger filling her senses . . . 

She shrieked, jumped, kicked herself up into her pillows.

Maddie bolted out of the bed next to her, screaming as well, pivoting and twisting on her pillows to protect herself from whatever danger she wasn’t aware of yet. She scrambled over her headboard, grabbed the curtain and flung it open. Dim early morning light, the barest opening moments of the predawn, filled their small dorm room . . . 

There was no one there. Otterman wasn’t there. No wolf at all.

She breathed heavily, back heaving, tears rimming her eyes. She grabbed handfuls of hair at the side of her head and squeezed it and pulled it around her neck as if it were a scarf to keep herself warm, protect her skin from the harsh elements.

Maddie was on the bed now, putting a knee down, snaking her arms around her saying, “What was it, Lizzy?—what happened?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Nothing.”

“Just a bad dream?”

“Yes,” she sighed, feeling herself quiver in her friend’s clutch. “Just a dream.”

***

When Black woke, it was after ten in the morning. He’d fallen asleep sitting upright in one of the high-back chairs with his arms folded and feet propped up on the couch. Wasn’t the most comfortable position, but he somehow managed to wake feeling refreshed despite the agitation of the impending visit from his girlfriend.

As soon as he thought of Amy he jerked out of the chair like he was trying to escape those thoughts. He washed the pie plate in the sink, rubbed his face with his hands, and when the thoughts came back again, he went to the shower.

The apartment had a single bathroom; a small turquoise-tiled room with matching toilet and sink. There was a bathtub in turquoise too, with a vinyl shower curtain printed with sunflowers. Water nice and hot, he stripped out of the shirt and suit pants he’d slept in, and slipped under the stream. Somewhere in the building a boiler began to clank, and the pipes groaned but soon eased.

He stayed in a good long while, giving his bod a solid scrubbing. There was a lot he needed to get off his skin. Last night he’d been tainted by the feeling of black magic; at least according to the girls. He’d sweated fear when confronted with the most insane thing he’d ever seen in his life: a living doll bent on terminating his existence. And then, of course, there was the beautiful girl, a young occult student from the nearby college, called Lizzy. He scrubbed away all their scents.

In the shower’s pale light he noticed the veins stood out more prominently on his arms. The first year of college he’d hit the weight room three times a week with his buddy Steve. The progress wasn’t great, but he was into it. And that’s what he looked like right now; leaner, more definition. He felt stronger, too. It had been a mad week since he got this crazy promotion, going from a regular Special Agent to S.A.I.C., and a budding romance with a pretty agent called Amy, the daughter of a powerful Executive Assistant Director. Maybe he’d been missing meals. It didn’t feel like it, though, but given the hunger last night when he devoured an entire pie and didn’t even feel full when he was done, he was obviously lacking nutrients.

He went into the bedroom next, a circular high-ceiling room that was the top half of the manor’s turret. Even though he was on the second floor, the ceiling soared high above and came to a point. The bed was a double with two night stands and lamps, and two dressers. He put away a few of his things, hung up his suit. He’d have to get the one he was wearing dry cleaned, but he’d deal with that later.

The bureau phone rang while he was buttoning up a freshly laundered shirt from his luggage. He stood by the kitchen table looking out the window at the bright gray day over the ocean. It was lifeless out there, everything sleepy and covered with snow, no signs of human life.

He answered, “Agent Black.”

It was Boston, saying, “You get a good night sleep?”

“Like a baby,” he said.

“Impressive.”

“How about you?”

Boston told him he’d got his head down for two-and-a-half hours but his wife Noreen was up for work at seven, she was a substitute teacher working at the high school since they’d become empty nesters, and then asked him if he could get down to the Emerald Hill Funeral Home.

He asked, “Where is that?”

“In the village. It’ll be in your GPS.”

“What’s going on?”

“That’s where we got last night’s body.”

Black told him he’d be right over.

He unzipped the suit from its vinyl sleeve, put it on. He checked his gun, eased the slide back, made sure it was moving properly. Hair combed and gun holstered he sat on the couch and unlaced his shoes but had trouble squeezing his feet in them. Either his feet had grown overnight or the snow and the wet had shrunk his shoes and made them stiffer.

Feet flexing and wiggling against the tightness, he slipped out of his apartment and went quietly down the steps. But coming out of the first floor apartments’ doorway was one of his neighbors, and it stopped him in his tracks.

Halfway up the stairs now he watched this woman backing out and closing the door behind her. She was middle-aged but vivacious. She was dressed sedately but couldn’t hide her voluptuous figure. Wool cardigan, a tweed skirt, and knit leggings; her red hair was tied back in a bun, and though she wore no makeup, when she turned and saw him coming he could see she was beautiful.

“Oh,” she said with subdued excitement, clasping her hands together over her bosom. “You must be Mr. Black.”

“I am,” he said. “I’m Porter Black.”

She smiled for him, leaned an elbow on the hand-railing waiting for him to come down. She said, “I’ve been expecting you, Mr. Black. I’m Eleanor.”

He stopped where he was, looking at her and unable to hide a stunned expression.

She said, “What is it?”

“You’re Eleanor . . . ”

“I am. Eleanor Abel-Watson,” and then with an all-encompassing gesture of both hands moving around her, meaning the entire manor, she said, “I am the home mistress, as one might say.”

“This is your place?”

“It is,” she said.

“Wait—you’re the Eleanor that baked me that pie?” She was not what he’d expected.

“I did, but I know you got in late last night so I imagine you didn’t get a chance—”

“No,” he said, “I did get a chance, I tried some. I was so hungry.”

“Well, I hope you didn’t give yourself nightmares eating sugar so late.”

“No, I didn’t—no nightmares at all.” And shit, Eleanor, I ate the whole thing.

This Eleanor was the opposite of what he’d pictured. She did have a matronly nature, but she was so feminine and young. One thing he got right: she wore reading glasses around her neck and they hung from a beaded chain.

Amused, he said, “I like your glasses.”

She smiled, her hand touching the tortoiseshell frames absently, giving him a flirty, timid look, but her green eyes not bashful at all. She said, “I don’t. I remember a day when my peepers were working perfectly.” Now she made a funny expression with her eyes, looking left and right, narrowing and opening them wide. It got him laughing. She said, “You arrived home hungry last night, I bet you’re hungry this morning. A piece of pie isn’t going to sate a strapping young man like you.”

He said, “You know what?—I am actually hungry, but I have to get going.”

“Nonsense, come with me, we’ll just be a minute.”

“I don’t really have time.”

“You can’t head out for the day without having breakfast, Mr. Black.” Now she was walking away, motioning over her shoulder with her wiggling fingers for him to follow. Only he wasn’t watching her hand, he was watching the sexy sway of her rump in its woolen skirt; some kind of burlesque catwalk like a pinup girl from the nineteen-fifties. And for whatever reason, even though he should be in the Tahoe by now, he found himself following along behind her, going through the apartment door from where she came and heading down a narrow hallway that opened into a big kitchen and a formal seating area.

Standing on the far side of the counter and leaning her elbows on it, she said, “What can I make you?”

He said, “It has to be fast.”

“Fast, slow, I can do it whatever way you want,” she said, keeping her eyes steady on him and he stood there unthinking, watching her.

“Eggs?” she asked.

He said, “Bacon?”

“You’d like me to cook bacon?”

He nodded. “Only if you have some.”

“I can make whatever you like. Have a seat.”

He did, sitting himself at the end of a polished walnut dining room table. A cabinet edged the wall on his left with intricate carved scrollwork, its shelves lined with Royal Dalton figurines and porcelain curios. The room was formal but somehow friendly. There were plates on the walls with painted cherubic young faces, a floral wallpaper, the window hung with a valence and long drapery. Eleanor worked quickly, frying bacon, making toast and coffee, scrambling eggs. She was saying while she cooked, back when they were busy she was in here most of the day. Her husband tended the house and she would cook for all of their guests. He asked her if there was a busy season and she said there used to be; used to be they would be bustling in the tourist time, but they would still be busy in the winter. But these days it just always seemed like the winter and he asked her where her husband was. She told him he died a long time ago, and he told her he was sorry. She tut-tutted him and said it’s all in the past, took a thermos out from underneath the kitchen counter and filled it with hot coffee. He wolfed down his breakfast. Ten strips of delicious bacon and a mountain of scrambled eggs with cheese. He had two pieces of toast and his first cup of coffee for the day. She watched him admiringly, and when he was done, he came to thank her. She patted his cheek and said it was her pleasure. She gave him a pinch with thumb and forefinger saying, “Look at those cheeks. Such a handsome boy.” He could feel his face flush and he grinned at her dumbly, hugging the thermos she’d filled for him to his chest and leaving the kitchen while she watched him warmly with her hands on her hips. The whole exchange had been just over ten minutes which didn’t make sense, and he left there under some spell feeling like he’d been with her for an hour or more.

Warming up the Tahoe, he poured himself another quick cup of coffee. She’d put in cream and sugar and he swore he could smell that she’d added nutmeg or something to the brew as well. He shook his head, feeling foggy; bewildered but happy. He punched Emerald Hill Funeral Home into the Tahoe’s GPS, backed out of the lot and headed along the snowy beach road, aiming for the town of White Chapel.