Queen Of Blood by Bryan Smith Page A

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    His voice was fierce and hot against her ear, full of venom and so unlike anything she’d ever heard from the proper British
     man, “You’re not going anywhere, cunt.”
    Then he shoved her inside and the hands of her enemies were upon her. She was too stunned to fight back instantly—as she should
     have—and by the time it occurred to her to strike at them with her magic it was too late, her powers blunted by the elaborate
     web of counterspells spun by Ms. Wickman. And when one of the men produced the machete from an inner pocket of his tux, Giselle
     knew that the battle was lost.
    She cringed at the memory of the heavy blade punching through her wrist, the awful grind of steel on bone, then the blade
     passing into the upholstery beneath. And her hand coming away from her wrist, the explosion of blood across black seat leather.
     She screamed and thrashed, to no avail. And through it all remained the wild and desperate belief that one or more of her
     many servants would come running to her rescue.
    It didn’t happen.
    Her assailants were able to go about their grisly work unimpeded and unhurried.
    Ms. Wickman raised the blade again.
    And one of the men holding her down thrust his crotch against her ass as steel chopped through flesh again.
    She’d been sure she would bleed to death there in the back of the limo, but then Ms. Wickman calmly accepted something passed
     to her from outside the car by Mr. Thorne. There was a glint of light on some metal object. Then she discerned the cylindrical
     shape of the object and knew at once they weren’t here to kill her after all. They wanted her to suffer, though. There was
     a whoosh and the acetylene torch grew a bright blue and red tongue of flame. Another hoarse exhalation of purest terror tore
     out of her as the flame was lowered to her violated flesh. And yet another, shriller scream as the flame made contact and
     burned brighter, cooking her flesh as the limo’s interior filled with the aromas of smoke and burning meat.
    The flame burned and burned and it seemed like the torture would go on forever. Then there was a click and the whooshing sound
     stopped. Giselle saw her hands, one on the seat next to Ms. Wickman, the other on the shiny black floormat. A glimpse of protruding
     bone made her stomach knot. Her blood was everywhere. Splattered across the upholstery and all over the tinted windows. A
     zigzag pattern of coagulating gore across the front of Ms. Wickman’s black dress. Everywhere.
    Instinct caused her to aim a strike of lethal dark energy at the grinning madwoman, but the anticipated blast fizzled and
     the energy dispersed. Giselle had forgotten about Ms. Wickman’s web of blocking spells. And the removal of her hands had eliminated
     her most powerful method of focusing and unleashing magical energy.
    Ms. Wickman laughed. “Your power is gone and you are mine now, you pathetic whore.”
    And Giselle had choked back the tears long enough to say, “Damn you.”
    Ms. Wickman’s eyes gleamed with amusement. “Oh, that’s right. The former mute can speak now. Bonus.” Her smile vanished then.
     She seized a handful of Giselle’s long black hair, twisting it and eliciting a yelp. “Righteous hypocrite. What do you deserve?
     How many people did you torture and kill while in the Master’s employ, hmm? Including your own brother, as I recall.”
    Giselle didn’t reply because the answer to Ms. Wickman’s question was obvious. And because the pain was coming back, overwhelming
     the temporary numbness of shock. Instead she’d said, “Just kill me. Be done with it.”
    Ms. Wickman threw her head back and laughed again, long and heartily, until she was almost crying. “Oh, you of all people
     should know better than that, Giselle. We’re taking you to a special place, dear. You’ll be there for a very, very long time
     and your suffering will go on forever.”
    And so she was brought to this place, many hundreds of miles from