Austin After Dark

This is a continuing excerpt from the play-by-email game Austin After Dark.

The beginning can be found here:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

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Relief, hope, and a grim sort of determination suddenly surged in alongside the overwhelming pain.  She might be able to do something about that pain now…numb the nerves, muffle the signals to her brain…but that wasn’t quite at the top of her list just yet.

She glared at the silver band, telekinetically crushing it beyond recognition, just in case Mardmor returned before she made her escape.

Then with a simple thought the bonds flew from her wrists, and she was free of the restraints.

She sprang from the chair that had been her prison…

…And stumbled to her knees, head spinning and stomach churning.  The spirit was willing, but her trembling body was appallingly weak.

Having viewed her hands on the other side of the restraints allowed her to view them as something not her own. But now, seeing the rough hewn appendages with freedom of movement…? It was a whole ‘nother kind of horror.

She was drenched in her own blood, and her hopelessly maimed and burned hands had begun to throb with a hellacious new ferocity in time to the revived pounding of her heart.  

She was forced to delay her escape while she attended to her physical needs.  Manipulating nerves wasn’t her area of expertise — her one and only foray into that province had resulted in the unintended but spectacular destruction of the Ogre’s entire optic system — but at this point she was willing to destroy what was left of her hands if only they’d stop hurting long enough to let her get the hell out of there.

She took a deep breath, and focused on numbing the damaged tissues of her hands.  Ideally this would be a temporary effect, but she’d settle for permanent if that was all she could manage in a hurry.

She concentrated… Her senses turning inward, feeling out the nerves, chasing the pain to its source.

“Ahh…” She startled herself, then cried out in sudden pain, “AIGH!”

And the pain was gone.

The wounds had healed over.

She stared at her scarred, fingerless but pain-free hands for a long, befuddled moment.  

No time to wonder about it now.  She rose shakily to her feet, glancing over at the toppled cart and its scattered load of bloody implements.  Searching briefly through the mess, she located the heavy blade that the Goblin King had used to remove her fingers.  At her bidding it flew to her, then slid with slow, careful precision down between her leather belt and leather pants just behind her hip.

Mardmor might need that back.  She intended to personally ensure that he got it.

Stepping cautiously across the blood-slick floor, she approached the head.  “I owe you more than you know, Mr. Houseman.  What can I do for you before I go?”

“Tell me it’s worth it,” he said in a small voice. “The secrets you’re protecting? They’re worth it?”

“They’re worth it,” she said simply.  “Anything else I can do for you?”

“That is enough,” he said.

But it wasn’t his voice.

Rather, it was Mardmor’s.

And Casey was not standing free, she was back in the chair restrained – headband still firmly on her head.

Mardmor stood close-by, beside the cart of blades – all of them pristine.

Houseman looked on at her, sympathetic, no blood on his chin.

And she looked down to her hand. Miraculously, her fingers – they were all there.

The Goblin King smiled, “You have confirmed for me now… that you do indeed have secrets worthy of the most precious protection. Now then…”

He leaned forward, drawing up a blade.

“…If I can work that kind of pain in your mind, what do you think I can do to you for real? Tell me your secrets, Casey, and I will spare you further torment.”

Casey found that, for the moment at least, her capacity for terror had been utterly expended.  In its place she felt only a dull fury, kindled by Mardmor’s smug words and fueled by her body’s restored strength and health.  It had been one mind-game after another since their first meeting in the Cake & Ale this evening, and still no end in sight.

“Well,” she commented evenly, if rather hoarsely. Apparently all the screaming had been real, anyway. “At least we’re skipping that whole ‘You must believe I don’t want to hurt you’ spiel this time.  I don’t think I could listen to that again.”  

He arched an eyebrow at that, an amused smile playing at the edge of his mouth.

The trace of dry humor faded from her tone, replaced by a thread of cool steel.  “Listen to me, you psychotic freak.  I’ll keep this short, because I have no doubt that five minutes from now I’m going to be gushing blood and begging for death…or maybe I’ll just think I am, who the hell knows.  Anyway, there’s nothing I can do about that, so let’s not pretend otherwise.  I’m telling you right now, while I can still string words together in a coherent manner:  Yes, I have secrets.  Yes, they’re worth suffering and dying to protect.  Do you think you and I would still be here doing this interminable song and dance if they weren’t?  Do you honestly think I would have gone through all of that without talking if there were any possibility that I could be compelled to give up my information?”  Her blue eyes flashed with ire and disdain.  “You might as well kill me now, Mardmor, because I am completely useless to you.  Or, we could keep this up for the rest of the night; I’m happy to keep you occupied in here instead of out overthrowing the world.  But whatever you’re going to do, just do it already, unless you’re planning on talking me to death.  And I’ve gotta tell you, I think I’d prefer the knife thing.”

“And the girl becomes a woman,” he said softly. He pondered her, “Very well then. I believe we will begin with your brain.”

He drew a vicious looking corkscrew device.

Casey blinked, her wrath faltering into startled alarm at the sight of this new instrument.

The Goblin King provided it a crank, nodding with satisfaction.

“We’ll begin…with my…what?”  The last of the fierce anger drained away as dismay and fear made a dramatic return appearance.  Merciful heavens, what had she been thinking to goad him like that? 

***********************

Part 6

Part 7

If you’re still reading this, you know the drill: blood, torture, pain, etc. It ain’t Disney.

This is a continuing excerpt from the play-by-email game Austin After Dark. If you haven’t yet, you should read Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3 first.

*******************

She huddled back down, a sob wrenching her.  The pain was unbelievable–and getting worse as outraged nerve endings shrilled their febrile protest around the already-swelling wound.  Hot, pounding throbs began to rise excruciatingly up her arm.

But even in the midst of that agony, a tiny detached part of her mind offered a flicker of hope.  This wasn’t the sort of torture that could be dragged out indefinitely.  Maybe half an hour, forty-five minutes tops…and then she’d have bled to death and her secrets would be safe forever.  She only had to hold out for that long.

The squalling, throbbing agony that used to be her right hand made thirty minutes sound like an eternity.

“I’ve told you the truth,” she choked out bitterly.  “My grandfathers are dead.  My powers aren’t working anyway!  Why don’t you believe me?”

“Because…” He leaned in, his left hand grabbing her up by the hair. His face filled her field of vision, lips pulled back in a vicious snarl, “…I *heard* you. You talked to this man! You spoke of Usi. Where are they? Who are they? Tell me now. ANSWER ME!”

She was limp in his grasp, weak with pain and dismay.  “Please…I–I don’t–”

His eyes blazed, as the blade in his right hand removed her left index finger.

“AAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIGGGGHHHHHHHH!  AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!”  The screams tore at her throat, but she barely even knew she was shrieking.  All of her attention was consumed by the searing pain blossoming in her left hand, adding its fiery agony to the throbbing torment in her right.  It left no room for thought or reason, nothing but the overpowering desire for it to cease.  The mere possibility that he might bring that blade down again, take another finger, ignite a new fire in one of her maimed and raging hands, was too much to bear.  Half-crazed with pain and dread, she started to tell Mardmor what he wanted to know….

…and came up against Falco’s failsafe in her mind: a solid barrier, impervious to pain or coercion.

She’d actually forgotten.  But now a flash of memory came to her — had it only been that morning?  It seemed like a lifetime ago.  “A mental barrier that will prevent you from being…compelled to share this information,” her mentor had offered, and she’d accepted without a second thought.

Even through the overwhelming physical anguish that was consuming her now, the full import of that sank in.  She could *choose* to betray Falco’s secrets, but they could never be wrested from her against her will.  She would have to consciously decide that telling Mardmor was the right thing to do.

And that was never going to happen, no matter how many pieces he cut her into.

Despair and relief mingled sharply with the agonizing torment her captor had inflicted, breaking the last fragile threads of her self-control.  Helpless in the Goblin King’s merciless grasp, she closed her eyes and let the sobs come freely.  She was beginning to feel the first tell-tale lightheadedness of blood loss; it was only a matter of time now.  The burden of fear that she might break down and betray Falco’s confidences had been lifted from her.  There was nothing left for her to do now but try to endure the pain until death set her free.

It went on. And on. And on.

Until finally, she was slumped in the chair, head bowed and not a finger left on either hand. Through the process Mardmor had burned her wounds to slow the bleeding.

She was chilled, shuddering, battling shock.

She screamed.

She sobbed.

She begged.

But she never talked. She never gave it up. Her choice. Her choice.

In fury, Mardmor flipped the cartful of bloody knives. It exploded against the far wall. The Goblin King exited the room, leaving a worn and abused girl to attempt to gather herself.

The only sound in the room — a ragged, beaten sound — was Casey’s wet, near hysterical breathing.

Tears, blood, and terror were her companions. Well, those and the reanimated severed head of a vampire she aided in the rescue of the night before.

“Casey?”

She flinched, then vaguely recognized Houseman’s voice.  It was a distant, unimportant sound; not real enough to draw her focused concentration from the one question on what was left of her mind.

The Head’s voice was tentative, “Casey, we can get out of this…”

The words echoed her own crippled thoughts.

I can get out of this.  I can just…go.

The question is, can he follow?  Is he out of range now?  

Is that even a place he can go at all…?

After everything I just went through, would I be leading him to his answers?

She didn’t know.  

There was no way to know without trying.

Someone just said something…what…? 

Oh, yes.  Houseman’s remains were speaking to her.  Something about getting out of this.

It felt like too much effort to reply.  But then, it felt like too much effort to keep breathing, and her body seemed to be handling that chore with damnable regularity.  “I’m listening,” she mumbled quietly without looking up. Her throat was raw from screaming; the words came out as a hoarse croak.

“Look at me, girl.” His voice was soft, but commanding. “Look at me, and tell me what you see.”

For a long moment she didn’t show any sign of having heard him.  

Then, with a painful slowness, as if every movement brought fresh torment, she straightened and turned her head to look at him. She saw a severed head resting on the spike. His chin was soaked in her blood.

“I see a dead man,” she said distantly, “denied his rest and clinging to the delusion that he still has a say in what happens to him.”

The Head frowned.

The night had not been kind to Casey.  She wasn’t feeling particularly kind herself at the moment.  Looking at the blood on Houseman’s face and her own drained fingers and thumbs littered about him, she did manage to resist a bitter impulse to ask him if he’d enjoyed the snack.

Then, because it occurred to her that his request may have been an actual plea for information, she added bluntly, “I see a vampire’s severed head impaled on a Necromancer’s spike.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, mouth pressed in a grimace, horror forcing his lower lip to tremble. It was a long moment before Houseman’s strained voice said, “I… thought so. I achieved some clarity. And remembered… Remembered the axe.”

His eyes were dark, cold with hatred, frigid with hellish rage.

“This Mardmor thinks I’m done,” Houseman’s voice was ice. “I can’t do a damned thing for me. But I can help you.”

He focused on her right wrist. She could feel invisible fingers tugging at the band there…

She stared blankly at Houseman, then slowly lowered her gaze to the restraint.

The Head strained… and didn’t seem to be getting anywhere…

Comprehension filtered slowly into her battered mind.

It hurt to move.  It even hurt to hope.  But Casey gathered what was left of her strength and pulled with all her trembling might against the band holding her right arm.

The strap of metal shuddered under Houseman’s intense concentration, but even with Casey’s assistance it failed to give.

“Dammit!” Houseman surrendered, his eyes bloodshoot and bleary. “I… I can’t do it. I can’t do it.” His face softened, looking upon the abused girl across from him. “Oh, Casey… I am so sorry.”

She didn’t reply.  As painful as the reawakening of hope had been, it had stirred something back to life that Mardmor had nearly succeeded in crushing out of her.  This new sensation demanded her full attention.

Unexpectedly, she realized that she wasn’t quite ready to die yet after all.

For the first time since her powers had been blocked, she found herself with the time and opportunity to test the exact nature of the muffling effect.  She knew that there was at least one ability that Mardmor hadn’t been aware of, and so hadn’t thought to interfere with.  She wasn’t ready to risk using that one just yet, but there might be others…or, just maybe, his presence is required to maintain the blockage?

Just as she was attempting to summon enough mental focus to budge the wrist restraint herself, it hit her.
  
“Casey, you’re an idiot,” she muttered under her breath, even as fresh hope leapt up unbidden in her.  “Talk about going at things the hard way.”  

She turned to look over at the remains again.  “Mr. Houseman, there’s something on my head.  I don’t know what it is, but I can feel something there.”  Or I used to be able to, before my hands became the sum total of my sensory experience.  “Can you lift it off?”

“I… I’ll try.” He focused on a point just above her eyes…

Suddenly, a silver band flung off her head, tumbling to the floor. At once, she felt her abilities return to her control.

***********************

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Seriously, don’t read this if you’re eating or have a weak stomach.

Also I guess it helps to know that Gerard Houseman is/was a vampire.

This is a continuing excerpt from the play-by-email game Austin After Dark. If you haven’t yet, you should read Part 1 and Part 2 first.

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Casey flinched at the unexpected shriek.  Apparently even the true death hadn’t ended Houseman’s torment.

“And who was it you were speaking to just a moment ago?” Mardmor repeated.

Her eyes cut back to him, widening.  “There was no one here!  What made you think I was speaking to someone?”

“Who is Usi?” he asked.

Crap.

Crap crap crap crap crap.

“I have no idea.  Why do you ask?”

Mardmor smiled at her, his green eyes spark with dark knowledge.

Houseman’s eyes fluttered, his jaw working…eyes widening, he looked about the room, finally they fell on Casey. “I…I know you.” The head stuttered, “You drove the truck. With Falco.”

“Falco?” Mardmor asked.

Casey stared at the talking head in appalled dismay.  Whoever said dead men tell no tales had apparently never been to Austin.

But a moment later she seemed to shake herself out of her speechless horror of the grisly object and pull herself together.  “Um, yeah.  Brandon Falco, he’s a regular customer at the bar where I work.  I gave him a ride home last night.”

Mardmor smiled.

“Ohhhhh…” The head groaned. “…Ohhh… I feel awful.” It grimaced, eyes flashing to Mardmor. “I can’t move…” Houseman’s head looked to Casey. “We’re both prisoners, then? Of this guy?”

Casey struggled to conceal her frustration.  She knew she should probably be feeling sorry for the unfortunate Mr. Houseman, but all she could think is that one incautious statement from him could snowball into ruin.  “Yes.”

The head frowned.

For the first time, she addressed the head directly, keeping her tone as neutral, even pleasant, as she could manage.  “Forgive my manners.  Mr. Houseman, this is Mardmor, the Goblin King.  He has aspirations to take over the world and end life as we know it.  He’s the reason why your Prince betrayed you.  Mardmor, have you been properly introduced to Gerard Houseman yet?”

“I have not,” Mardmor smiled. “Thank you for preserving the niceties, Casey. And you wound me. I do not seek to take over the world. Why would anyone want that? My goal is to change the world. I don’t want to end life. I seek to liberate it. Certainly, some have died… and others must need follow, but they are an unfortunate, necessary few.”

Houseman’s eyes were wide on Mardmor. They flicked over to Casey, “Oh, this guy’s nuts.”

Casey was inclined to agree, but it didn’t show on her face.  “Your pardon, Mardmor; I only know what I’ve heard.  Rumors, conjecture, speculation…I know how things can get twisted, especially when people are frightened.  Small incidents get blown all out of proportion.”  She could barely summon the nerve to say that last bit aloud in the presence of Houseman’s dismembered head.  “I’d like to hear your side of things; will you share your vision of the new world with me?”

“For too long,” Mardmor said, “My people have suffered under the burdensome yoke of artificial limitations for hundreds of years. We are cut off from our homeland. We are foreigners in a land that dulls our senses, aliens in a world that abhors us, that drains our very souls. I will change all that. I will restore the trods and throw wide the gates of Arcadia. A new age will dawn and my people will take their rightful place.”

“And my people,” Casey observed coolly, “will perish.” 

“Oh yeah…” The head muttered, “This guy’s a nut.”

“No,” Mardmor shook his head, “Not at all. Your people will in fact thrive. For the most part.”

“For the most…no, never mind.  Tell me about Kilarothes.  Where do he and his armies fit into this brave new utopia?”

“We have mutual goals,” Mardmor answered, “At this time. I have need of his sword and he has need of my insight. We have agreed to part company when our business is concluded.”

“Yeah…this is the part I’m having the problem with,” Casey said wryly.  “For one thing, you wouldn’t need his sword if you didn’t expect the path to your new golden age to be piled with the bodies of this world’s rightful occupants.”

Mardmor shrugged, “People are always resistant to change. Force is often required.”

“In my experience, when that sort of radical change is imposed on people by force, it rarely sticks. Or if there’s no going back, then the eventual outcome usually bears little resemblance to the original intent.”

The Goblin King smiled, “Every plan no matter how well conceived must need change at implementation. I am flexible. This is our time, Casey. The world you knew last night, will not be the same one that dawns in the morning.”

That struck home.  “You…your plan…it’s happening tonight?”

He simply nodded.

Despair seeped in, like a chilling fog. 
 
Tonight. 

We’ve already lost.

But she pressed on, even though she was starting to wonder if there was any point. “And for another thing…I’m guessing Kilarothes is still going to *be* here, even after the two of you have concluded your business and parted company?”

The Goblin King shook his head, “You misunderstand Kilarothes’ desire. He wants nothing more than to return to his homeland. Just as many of my people do. There truly is no more powerful call than that of home. Kilarothes will leave.”

Casey strongly suspected that to be a gross oversimplification–and she figured there was probably a good reason why the demon prince was exiled in the first place — but she also recognized a closing door when she heard one. “You know, it occurs to me,” she said thoughtfully, shifting gears, “that I don’t really know anything about goblins, Mardmor. I think you’re the first one I’ve ever met, and people don’t seem to talk about them much. What kind of conditions do your people live in now, that you’re wanting to free them from?”

“My people?” Mardmor shook his head, “All of the fae are my people. ‘Goblins’ are not a race, per se. Rather, it is a classification of ideology among our people.”

“Really?”  Casey’s interest was genuinely piqued now.  “What kind of ideology is it?”

“My detractors,” his green eyes flashed, “Have characterized it as an ideology of madness. But it is more correctly described as a political philosophy rejecting the status quo. We seek to take destiny into our own hands, to liberate our oppressed brothers and sisters, and destroy the corruption of the High Court.”

“You could be describing a noble revolution or chaotic and violent anarchy,” she shrugged.  “I don’t suppose you could be more specific about your beliefs?”

Houseman’s eyes kept flashing down and to his sides.

She glanced over at him.  It was only a matter of time before he realized what had been done to him, and–well, ‘lost his head’ probably wasn’t the right phrase, but close enough.  She didn’t know of any way to break it to him gently, though, so she let him figure it out on his own.  

He frowned, eyes darkening.

“Absolutely,” Mardmor’s tone was gracious as he replied to Casey’s question, “But first, tell me of your grandfather.”

She looked surprised by the non sequitur.  “Both of my grandfathers have passed away.  Which one did you want to know about?”

“The one you were speaking to just a few moments ago.”

“Mardmor,” she said gently, “we keep coming back to this.”

The Goblin King strolled slowly to her, picking up a blade from the cart.

“…Um…” The Head cautioned.

“You have shut down my psionics.  If you hadn’t, I still couldn’t read through the walls of this room.”

Mardmor nodded, rolling the handle of the heavy surgical knife in his hand.

She tilted her head, considering.  “And even if I could…my grandfathers would both be in their eighties now if they were still alive.  I don’t think you need to worry about them mounting some kind of geriatric commando rescue mission on my account.  Especially since, as I mentioned before, they are in fact dead, both of them.”

“Which is why I find your conversation with this grandfather so fascinating.”

He laid the cold blade against her right thumb.

She stiffened, pulling ineffectively against the restraint.

“I’ve no more time for your lies, Casey.” His eyes blazed with emerald fire as a chill ran down her spine. “Now is the time for truth.”

“I don’t–”

“No!” Houseman cried, “Wait!”

CHOK!

In an instant, her thumb was off!

Casey blinked, stunned to see her thumb gathered up by the Goblin King. She stared in disbelieving horror as blood sprayed from the severed artery, a vivid crimson fountain where her thumb was a moment before.

“You rotten bastard,” Houseman growled, “I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!”

“Shut up, Mr. Houseman.” Mardmor crossed to The Head.

“What’re you…?” Houseman made a pitiful gurgle, “…Oh God…”

Hungry slurping sounds drew Casey’s focus.

The pain setting in, she watched in abject horror as Mardmor fed her bloody thumb to the decapitated head of Gerard Houseman, who seemed himself horrified that he was sucking hungrily on the severed digit.

The sight was too mesmerizingly gruesome to look away from, even as hellish agony roared to life in what was left of her hand.

Nausea swept through her.  A cold sweat broke out on her suddenly clammy skin, and she turned her head to vomit helplessly over the side of her chair.

“You have many fingers,” Mardmor whispered to Casey. “And he is quite hungry. The truth! Now!”

***********************

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

This is a continuing excerpt from the play-by-email game Austin After Dark. Part 1 can be found here.

*************

He seemed pleased, leaning back.

Drawing another implement from the cart, he asked: “Do you remain a maiden?”

It took her overwrought brain a moment or two to make sense of the question.  When his meaning sank in, the shock spread like numbing ice through her soul and body.  She looked up at him now, stunned blue eyes wide in an ashen face.  “You said you didn’t want to hurt me.”

“You misunderstand me,” he responded. “While I will admit you are pleasing to the eye, my interest in you is far from carnal. Please answer the question.”

Her eyes dropped to the utensil in his hand.

There.  At last, a flicker of anger licked though the ice in her chest.  It was the weakest of flames, beset all around by cold fears…but still enough to revive the possibility of courage within her.

His interest may not be carnal, but he intended to use her just the same.  In some capacity, he believed that she or her powers would further his cause in this war.  He thought he would coerce or seduce her into aiding him, maybe even into joining his cause.  Like the Talons, like Bronwen, like Kilarothes.

Like Percyndi, maybe.  A Duke’s daughter could be a valuable addition to Mardmor’s covert army.  Casey wondered if the rest of the missing Fae were of noble birth or influential station as well.

She resisted the urge to tug at her bonds.  She hated how helpless they made her feel, how utterly vulnerable to any assault Mardmor may choose to inflict upon her.

She wasn’t, though, not completely.  She may have been bound, her powers may have been taken from her, but she wasn’t completely helpless.  She was still herself, she still had choices.  She could betray the trusts that had been placed in her or not.  Ultimately that was still up to her.

She forced herself to sit up straight in the hard wooden chair.  She couldn’t do anything about the chalky pallor of her skin or the trembling that still shook her, but damned if she was going to let Mardmor see her cowering in her terror any longer.

“Yes,” she said bluntly, in a voice as steady as she could make it.  “If I understand your meaning, I ‘remain a maiden.'”  She hesitated, then strove for a more conversational tone.  “That was quite an impressive feat, persuading the Red Talons to ally with Prince Bronwen.  No one saw that coming.”

Even as she spoke, she was searching within herself for the elusive portal to Other Memory.  It was possible that accessing the ancestral plane was a separate gift, unrelated to her psionics.  Or that Mardmor didn’t possess knowledge of that particular ability, and so hadn’t thought to block it.  

**Grandpa?**

:: Yes, babygirl.  I’m here. :: At once, her Grandfather’s voice calmed and soothed…

Relief flooded through her.  But a moment later it was tempered by instinctive caution: this could be her grandpa, or it could be another of Mardmor’s deceptions.  Casey resolved to phrase her questions in terms that wouldn’t compromise her allies, just in case.

That was going to make her first request rather tricky.  While she was carefully composing the words, she skipped ahead to her second request.  **Someone told me that time passes differently on your plane.  He said I could spend an hour there, while an instant or a week passed in the physical plane.  I…I don’t know if you can ‘see’ where I am, but I’m probably about to be tortured for information.  If that happens, I’d prefer to be somewhere else for the duration…with you, for instance.”

:: Absolutely, honey. You can come here. I’ll watch after ya’. ::

**Thanks, Grandpa.  I’ll give a holler when I need you.  Probably a really loud one.** A new thought occurred, “or maybe there’s someone in there that has some special knowledge of this war?”

:: The war? With this Goblin King? I dunno, but I’ll check around. ::

She paused, considering his statement.  That makes her first request easier to phrase, whether it’s her grandfather or Mardmor she’s actually talking to.  **I guess you’re up-to-date on my situation.  I need to ask one more thing.  Usi knew my mentor in his youth; maybe he knew his parents or grandparents as well.  I don’t know if…you all…can communicate with one another, but is there any way for you to get a message to him?  To my mentor, I mean, to fill him in on everything I’ve learned about the war since we parted ways.  There’s a good chance I’m not going to survive this, and I’d hate to think it was all for nothing.**

:: No, sweety. We’re all contained within you. We can speak to each other and to you… but never outside of you, unless you allow us to take control. ::

Well, crud.  **Okay.  Thanks, I’ll probably be back in touch very soon.**

She returned her focus to her physical surroundings.

Mardmor was staring at her, brow furrowing. Suddenly, he looked about the room. “Who were you speaking to then?”

She blinked.

Flushed.

“You.  I said it was impressive, the way you managed to ally the Talons and the Vampire Prince.”

“No,” he grew annoyed, “You were speaking to someone in your mind. Who was it?”

“You’ve completely blocked my psionics,” she reminded him, frowning slightly.  “Trust me, if I get them back you’ll be the very first to know.”  Right before your brains start leaking out your ears, she resisted adding aloud.  “Besides, even if my telepathy were working, I can’t read through Sanctuary’s walls.  And there’s nobody in here but you and me.”

He scowled, muttered something. Then cocked his head, “You cannot use your mental powers through the walls?”

She shook her head.  “Something about them blocks me.  Upstairs too.”

“Interesting.” He carried a black box with a silver lid over to the table across from her, setting it down.

Her stomach turned over at the sight of the familiar box.  Did he want to show her Houseman’s head again, or was there something even worse in there this time…?

He opened the box, laying the lid aside. Drawing Houseman’s disembodied head out, he set it atop to the table.

Her mouth twisted in revulsion.  “You’re becoming quite attached to that thing, aren’t you?  I hear they keep better if you boil them down.”

Another item was produced. It was a long black spike, glistening in the dim light, set on a heavy dark wooden base.

“I’ve heard the same,” he answered as he skewered the head atop the black spike, “But then, they’re not generally so conversational after you’ve boiled them.”

“I’ve got a recent acquaintance that would say differe–”  She broke off abruptly as the grotesque trophy started showing signs of life.

A gurgling could be heard, then…

“Aiiiiiiiiiiiiigh!” The head that was Houseman screamed.

***********************

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7