Queen Of Blood by Bryan Smith

moving. Giselle gagged and flicked the tattered body away. Coated in goo, the thing’s body clung
     to the cage for a moment, then fell between two of the steel bars and landed with a sickening plop on the stone floor.
    Giselle’s chest was heaving. Sudden tears erupted from her eyes and spilled in hot trails down her cheeks. She pawed at the
     mass of goo coating the center of her body, wiping as much of it away with her stumps as she could. The phantom limb sensation
     returned and she made a mess of the job, spread the goo over a wider area of her body. She managed to gather a fair amount
     of the vile stuff on her stumps and flick it away, but without hands it was impossible to clean herself thoroughly.
    The room abruptly grew colder and her tears turned to frost on her cheeks. The atmosphere in the room was clearly being artificially
     manipulated. Yet another spell constructed by Ms. Wickman, likely designed to start working should Giselle somehow manage
     to thwart the shape-shifter. Knowing the cold was a product of magic did nothing to alleviate the spell’s effects. The temperature
     plunged several more degrees and Giselle moved into a corner of the cage, drew her legs up to her torso, and wrapped what
     was left of her arms around them. Her body shivered uncontrollably in the deepening cold, making the cage sway again on its
     chain.
    And though they shamed her and added to her discomfort, her tears continued to flow, etching icy paths down her cheeks. She
     was so frustrated and afraid, more afraid than she’d been in years. More than that, she felt powerless. She still couldn’t
     accept that this had happened to her. A few years earlier she’d been at the height of her powers, the Master’s mountain kingdom
     destroyed through her efforts and years of patient planning.
    In the aftermath of that triumph, she used her deep knowledge of magic to build a comfortable place for herself in the world.
     She returned to the home of her youth, Boston, where she was able to manipulate wealthy, powerful people in her special way,
     reaching into their minds and convincing them that it was their own idea to hand over large sums of money to the beautiful
     and tantalizing young girl. Money to buy a mansion in an exclusive neighborhood. She led an easy, comfortable existence in
     that big house, her every need and desire attended to by a large staff of well-paid and loyal servants.
    Giselle’s teeth chattered as she recalled with dim bitterness the betrayal of one of these ostensibly trustworthy employees.
     It was to have been a lovely evening out at the opera. One of the world’s leading tenors was performing, and she’d managed
     to procure choice seats and backstage access. Her regular driver, the impeccably mannered and attired Mr. Thorne, pulled up
     to the mansion that evening in a limo. She recalled how he’d smiled and bowed slightly to her as she came down the mansion’s
     steps in her expensive evening gown, a fake fur shawl wrapped about her bare, slim shoulders. She’d felt not the slightest
     twinge of alarm as Mr. Thorne opened one of the limo’s rear doors, allowing her a glimpse of the legs of an elegant woman
     and two men wearing tuxedos.
    These would be her companions for the evening. Her neighbor Angelica Anderson and her husband Henry, and her own date, Robert
     McDowell, a financier who’d been one of the many contributors to her still-growing fortune. As she approached the open door,
     she gathered up the hem of her gown and dipped her head in preparation for sliding into the car.
    Then she froze, her eyes going wide and her heart stopping for an instant as she saw that the woman inside the limo was not
     Angelica Anderson. She was Ms. Wickman, flashing a mad grin as she laughed at Giselle’s shocked expression. The men with her
     were two wild-eyed boys barely into their early twenties. Giselle tried to back away, but then she felt Mr. Thorne’s firm
     hand at the small of her