The Knight at the Lockdown Ch. 02

Rub the palms of your hands together.

Harder.

That's what it feels like to me, now.

The same rule applies to women. No delicate touch, or gentle sensation can stimulate or quench the hunger of my lust.

Flick your tongue against your knuckles... that's what it's like for me. My body will not react to anything, it's like some one shut off the switch that let me feel the pleasures of simple human beings.

Have I become more complex—or have I digressed down the ladder of evolution?

To achieve the levels equal to—or sometimes even beyond that of a climax—I have to take a life. I can't just feed here, and there; no taking a little from column "A", and a little from column "B".

I have to kill—the very last bit of that person's essence must leave their body.

I must feed on a person to the point of murder to achieve what I could have achieved so easily, had I not been killed as I was. I can only achieve that incredible, undeniably wonderful sensation by the feeding until I have murdered.

To be honest, I have killed without regard before. I don't care who lives, and who dies... but I am in no way a slave to my lusts, and so I am in no way a slave to my hunger. If anything, I respect life—all life—if only to spite my curse.

I did not choose this. As I said before, my life was stolen, and just when I was in the cradle of Death's arms, I woke up. Nothing could quench my thirst, or sate my dry throat.

So I killed my maker. I fed on her until there was nothing left but a dried husk of a once beautiful creature. I fed until she was dryer than packing foam.

I fed until there was nothing more I could pull out of her; not a drop from anywhere. I emptied her.

Then, I cut her body down, and buried the pieces in separate places.

I am sure she was dead, but I wanted to make sure that the monster that made me into a monster never had the chance to do it to anyone else again.

I promised myself I would never.

I left her when I was done.

It was the first time I had ever experienced such a sensation.

Something that shook me so violently, like an earthquake—like an explosion—like a bomb had gone off—like the world itself had blow up—it shook me like the dawn of creation and the end of the world all at once.

The sensation was indescribable, and I knew it right then, as the aftershocks of heaven rolled out of me, two things. I was damned... and I must not become a slave to these sensations.

There were a few here, and there. Without regard. Girls here at The Lockdown, pretty girls, competing with my wages.

Even a monster has to pay for a place to live sometimes. Thus far it has been seven. Seven times I felt the dawn of creation, and the Armageddon go off inside of my whole body, and seven times I knew that each time would be my last.

I did not kill for the sensation though.

I killed to insure that my competition would not return. I took Ammielle home once, and I tried to kill her too.

It was the first time since I had been killed that I felt true horror. Drinking just a drop of her blood was like walking into a sunrise or a fire.

The slightest taste made me feel that touch of Death again, but this time Death was not so kind. I felt the burning in my veins and I knew that my demise lie inside the store of Ammielle's blood.

It's ironic really. Most of us "high class" girls, upstairs, are monsters of some sort. Ammielle, Lust, Me... not the Gypsy though.

Not the fucking devoutly holy Gypsy.

Oh no, not God's little handmaiden.

I hate her.

She can make more money than me in an hour of her shift than most of us girls can make in a night. Her bullshit charms and Goddamned Gypsy talismans.

She's so beautiful.

I'd kill her if I could, but every time I've ever approached her I get the sunrise feeling in my veins.

In my heart.

I work my preternatural ass off, dancing my cold naked goddess body over every sort of man who pays the right price, and she's never had to take her top off.

So yeah, I'm scared.

Why now?

Fuck.

I'm glad you asked... I thought you never would.

I couldn't kill Ammielle, but from my cell I watched four mortal men literally rip her out of reality.

I watched them pull her, struggling and fighting all the time, and then they were gone. It horrified me. What was worse, is, I realized that Braun knew it all along—he fucking set her up.

So I did the only thing I could do in my panic. I ate him.

Oh, God.

The climax.

It's still rolling through me.

All I can do now is think—barely—and wait until my aftershocks come, and then subside.

Until then, I'm just an idiot, writhing like a cat in heat on the floor of my bloodless boss's office, his dried shell of a body lying cold next to me, eyes colorless.

His skin tastes so good in my mouth—my mouth still clamped firmly to the gaping hole I'd torn in his neck—clamped firmly, tightly around it.

It's about now that I should tell you.

I just fucked up.

Anyone—no—everyone in Driftwood's underbelly knows about the different social orders. The owner here is allied with the Hunters—and those godforsaken bastards of man, those sons of the city—those City-Walkers.

Braun was masterful in creating this place. Something that would draw in every type of cretin with money. He greased the right elbows, and struck the right accords, and now we'll all suffer for it.

Even those poor girls, probably, who are not monsters in the sense that us "higher class" girls are. Everyone here is a monster, dancing the sex dance to nothing for that dollar, or those hundred dollars—it doesn't matter—they sell their souls the way we already sold ours—but hey—as they say, it pays the bills.

If I could only stop this climax.

I'm laying here, still writhing, but I've let go of his neck.

He enjoyed it.

All the way until he fell into Death's gentle embrace. What a serene way to go—to leave his mortal coil in the fit of pleasure he received—but it wasn't for hunger that I ate him.

If I could have made it hurt, I would have.

Fuck.

The Lockdown belongs to the Hunters now.

O O O

It excited me to watch that hellish Angel disappear. How painful it must have been to her pride to have been so easily overcome by mere men, when she was once one of the sons of God, as I believe the bible called them.

How horrible it must be for her to have to be in that world—the world where I was conceived—not a succubus, but not a mortal soul. I was the manifestation of The Dead God's lust.

His living equivalent to a wet dream.

I escaped much like the soul of the Terror that overtook that Hunter boy.

The boy who the mangled girl is in love with—you know the one—him. I learned how to do it, because I watched it happen. I escaped from the Valley of forgotten Shadows, and leapt through a mortal man just as that Terror had forced the soul out of that poor boy.

Except I am not so cruel as to kill a host for their body. I can accept being a parasite because of the gifts I offer.

Before The Dead God, I did not exist—the massive sleeping giant—this terrible slumbering Angel—he is my father, and I, his creation. I have no true face, or gender.

I only know one sense; one emotion; one instinct. I am male—but I am female—I am whatever I enter and will be damned if I ever have to go back to that world.

Oh, but what I wouldn't give to see her beautiful, cruel and angelic face.

To see her recognize her defeat. I think that I might peak a bit if I saw that.

But.

If I ever had to face one of those Goddamned Terrors who protect that tree, they'd tear my host up, and devour my soul—me. I have seen these things... eat... a man's soul... before.

It looked agonizing.

I would rather experience the pleasures I was created for. I am worth it... I am worth dying for. My hosts are always fully aware of the things I do—that we do—that I do through them—but I am in control.

They are merely a back seat driver, along for the delicious ride of my habitation of their body. They are aware, but I rob them of the painful emotions, like guilt or remorse, or inhibition. I steal the notions of right or wrong, and they never, ever fight me for it. I give them what they always wanted.

Free, unreserved, boundless pleasures.

Once I am inside a host, I cannot leave that host until he, or she dies.

I am responsible for some of the most horrendous scandals in the churches.

The priests.

The Nuns.

I especially like being women—as a woman you have so much more power than a man—they say that this is a man's world, but it is women who steer the men.

Even the strongest men, I have seen give into my charms. Only that fucking Gypsy—that sanctimonious do-gooder has ever simply told me "No." and walked away.

Without looking back.

So what is one person out of a hundred, or a million? I do not have pride, only lust. I inhabit people, and I am the gift that frees a person's soul.

Ever hear of John Wayne Gayce?

Hah, hah. Not me—but man, I liked his style.

Oh baby, I take the sin out of pleasure so that my hosts may love the savage, basic instincts that nature gave to them—the very core of their humanity—I let them feed it, so that they may enjoy their short existence, and so that I may not have to starve.

Yes, I am the Spirit of Lust. Death is the only way that one may escape—and I use the term loosely—my embrace once I inhabit their mind. The sad fact is, a host of any gender, age, color, or creed will have about one to five years to live once I am inside of them. I devour their energy—their life—but what a way to go.

Speaking of which.

If I could only have Crimson.

That poor damned girl would kill us both with her incapability to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh. Speaking of Crimson... It looks like her time is up.

There are Hunters here, in The Lockdown somewhere. They've just come in—I can't see them—but I can smell their lust for blood.

They have come with a City-Walker. I would flee right now, if I could, but this facility has become a trap.

It is only now that I realize that The Lockdown is a trap.

My realization comes too late.

Of course.

Why would a predominantly religious social order ever allow a club like this in Driftwood.

They knew all along.

All of them did.

I can hear Crimson scream for only a moment, and then all is silent in the Boss's office.

I would fight if I thought I could survive this, but whoring my host is all I can do. Fighting was never, ever my forte. I am calm still, my nude body sitting tranquilly. The cement stage is cold on my bare ass.

My legs are open wide, my hands on my thighs.

It is usually an enticing view, but even I can smell the fear on me. I'm not excited anymore. I'm not wet, and I don't look or feel sexy at all.

Usually fear would only turn me on, but not now. I'm not just afraid.

I'm fucking terrified.

I'm horrified beyond words, and if I get any more afraid I may wet myself. There is nothing fucking sexy about the mindfield—there is nothing there that I could twist my perverse desires around, or tempt, or destroy.

I am so scared.

Scared of the Terrors.

Scared of my creator... I am scared of the Hunters and that fucking City-Walker.

I pee.

I thank God that I'm naked.

I am positive he doesn't even hear my thanks.

It smells like pee now. Fear is mixed in the smell. You don't have to be an animal to catch the scent either.

I close my legs, reflexively—unconsciously—as if I feel shame suddenly—and I do. I feel like I am in the presence of God Himself, but I know that is not the case.

I am in the presence of killers, and it makes me afraid.

My hands cover my sex, and my breasts as the men appear in the corridor, three of them holding poor Crimson.

They haven't sent her yet. I can see her eyes, and there's fear in them. I suspect that if she were capable of it, she'd piss herself too.

I'm not embarrassed, but my pride is a little more than hurt.

I shouldn't even feel pride, but these men are humbling me down to my core. My host is terrified and I can't even promise her things will be alright, because they won't.

And I know it.

Crimson's looking at me like I can offer her some reassurance, but I can't. She sees the terror in my eyes too, and her head goes limp as she sobs.

My poor, beautiful, pale vampire. Goddess statue; marble wonder. This is the first time I have ever felt pity beyond myself. This is also the first time I have ever known fear, and terror.

These are emotions I cannot take away from my host. I can hear her voice in my head. She's as scared as I am, and not yet resigned to the reality of this situation.

I feel a tear roll down my cheek. Crimson is crying too, thin streams of pink water—bloody tears that trickle down her perfect cheeks.

It hasn't even been a full day yet, and they're already back.

It's a fucking inquisition in here, and they're not done yet. Apparently the title Hunter goes beyond "Witch" Hunter. Apparently anyone not their faith is a witch.

I'm so fucked.

This whole situation is so fucked.

Behind them, I see the form of Judge Grifford. The head of their social order. He's handing an envelope—a thick envelope—to the Gypsy.

You fucking sellout do-gooder bitch. I can't believe you.

...But I can.

I believe it entirely. She was placed here. That's why she never took the dive. Never stripped down.

It's why she was so good and so graceful.

She's got to be one of them, or at least some one sympathetic to them.

To their cause.

I'm so fucked. I keep saying that, don't I? Well it's the truth. I am.

"Get dressed." One of the hunters says as they approach me. He's a handsome, tall man in a traditional hunter's fatigues—but there's no cowl and there's no cloak or duster. None of them have it on, but they're armed to the teeth, even if only with blades.

I couldn't take them.

Each of the three, of four hunters, restraining Crimson have a dagger to her throat. Two of the three have one pinned inside each of her shoulders, using them like handle bars to control her. She's bleeding, but not much.

The Hunter who told me to get dressed tosses some old, worn out huntress's fatigues at me. I dress quickly, fitting into them as if they were made for me—they're not—but it's a close fit. "You have been accused of heresy." Grifford says aloud as though he's recited it a million times before this. "The punishment for your crimes is death."

Grifford knows he can't kill me.

"Usually." He continues. "Considering the special circumstances, your punishment—if found guilty—will result in a sentence fitting to the nature of you and your abomination here." He said.

The hunters holding Crimson jerked the blades in her shoulders a little, and she let out a cry of pain.

"How do you plead?" The handsome hunter says to me. He's increasingly becoming less handsome to me.

I don't answer.

"Do you confess your nature before me?" Grifford asks. This mirrors something that I only heard of through my host. Something that has not—should not have been around—since the dark ages. I hear Crimson cry out again, a little louder.

They're hurting her.

I don't care... but I do.

Why do I care? Because if there is any help I am going to have on the other side, she's going to be it... Crimson will be all I have. I had better start caring.

Fuck.

"I can't go back! I can't go back!" I hear myself plead.

"Your statements have been noted. Have you anything further to say in your defense?"

I shake my head.

"Crimson Louise Rosso; Blanca Estelle DiSantos, better known as Lust, or as The Spirit of Lust," Grifford says to us. His voice is steady, not to waver, nor raise; not to falter, nor drop in tone.

He delivers our sentence. "For the crimes of Heresy, Murder, and the suspected murder of no less than fifty men and women in Driftwood, California: you have been found guilty.

You are hereby sentenced to exile. As you are in a location of convenience within the city limits, your sentence shall be carried out immediately."

Crimson is weeping now. I could feel my eyes tearing up.

This guy was cold. Colder than I've ever been in my life... and they call us monsters.

"Do you have any last words?"

"Please," I beg him. "Show me mercy and I will leave Driftwood forever."

"You will leave Driftwood forever, whether I show you mercy, or not." Grifford says to me with a bemused smile.

You son of a bitch.

I swear to God I will kill you if I ever get the chance.

Crimson's weeping now.

Sobbing.

That poor blood-sucking bitch—she never asked for what she became. This wasn't her fault, and there was nothing she could do about it. I didn't choose my life, but I chose to engage in it. I choose to. "I will not forget this."

"Good." Grifford says. "Then you will have much to think about after your sentence is carried out." He says to me. "City-Walker, take the condemned..."

The fucking City-Walker does exactly as told.

He comes between Crimson and I.

He grabs her throat.

She doesn't even try to bite him.

They twist their daggers in her shoulders for good measure anyway. He looks at me, and smirks, taking me by my throat too.

I gasp for air, but his grip is tight.

My lungs lock up... Fucking City-Walkers.

Goddamn their soulless lives—the power they have—the power—

I feel my stomach lurch, and twist, and turn, and...

It is lonely here in the mindfield...

O O O

Here, and again we gather...

The collective thoughts of our brethren before us lie here in shattered fragments, shards of time and eternity in a land where neither time nor eternity. Beautiful darkness roams these broken wastes, dangerous and deadly—and lovely so that it may draw you in.

Here, and again we gather; as we did in the days of war; as brothers, hand in hand. Fallen as those who fell with the stars... here we roam; lost in the Valley of Forgotten Shadows.

The collective memories of those lost in the Dominion of Realm echo through my mind.

They tangle what is, and what is not.

I find myself in a place where mind is matter, and those ghosts who only come when it rains, roam freely here, corporeal, in this place that they called The Valley of Forgotten Shadows.

O O O

Winds blew through the valley, though neither a tree nor a weed would bend before it; indeed nothing would feel its cool grace, nor feel its soft push or sweet caress. There were no comforts in the Valley. The only way that anyone knew there was wind at all, was the echo of its sound. It was the ghost of wind. There was no kindness; there was no calm. There was only the agony of remembering, and the inability for those within to let go of what was. It was the people, here, who could not let go of their loves, or former lives that haunted Driftwood.

"They only come when it rains! They only come when it rains!"

That's what you'll hear from the few believers in Driftwood, ranting and raving about the connection between the torrents of our storms and their "indisputable proof of the afterlife", for they understand that there are those who have an unrelenting mortal coil, and so have trapped their selves in that valley; they are no more able to escape it, then they were their fates that led them there.

Those who wander, but are unwilling to let go of the lives they knew, will find a difficult climb out of the valley, and right back into it.

Crimson Rosso and Blanca collapsed together in unison as the City-Walker delivered to their final destination. He was there, and gone, leaving them behind to suffer the world of Realm; the Mind Field.

On shaky legs, Blanca, once known in Driftwood as Lust, and The Spirit of Lust, rose to her feet. Extending a hand she helped Crimson rise up.