Black Friday: An Elders Keep Collection Special Edition

  BLACK FRIDAY

  An Elders Keep Collection

  Jeffery X. Martin

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  SHADOW WORK PUBLISHING

  Copyright © 2013, 2016 by Jeffery X Martin

  All rights reserved.

  Author Photo © Jeffery X Martin, 2012

  Cover Design by Hannah Martin

  Also by Jeffery X Martin

  Short Stories About You (collection)

  Tarotsphere (collection)

  Visit www.elderskeep.com

  (Ask for Babs.)

  and Amazon

  Acknowledgements & Dedication

  I had tons of support and encouragement during the writing of these stories. Therefore, I have some people to thank. Who knows? You may be one of them.

  Thanks to Jim Branscome, for always having the time to read a story and give good suggestions. Cassie Moore gave particularly helpful insight into the story, Naughty, and I am greatly appreciative of it. More thanks to Kathy McGilvray, Beren Weil, Ashley Montgomery and Jenny Eng for never failing to spread the word about Elders Keep. A big shout-out goes to Mark Scofield for keeping me tobacco-free during the writing of these stories. Thanks, Ma, for reading my gross stories and still claiming me as your own.

  My biggest thanks of all go to my wife, Hannah, who has talked me down from the proverbial ledge more times than I can count, helped with formatting and editing, read every single line of every single story I wrote, set things on fire and took pictures of them and helped me construct and refine my vision for the weird town of Elders Keep. She’s the best creative partner I could hope for. She’s also one hell of a bartender. It is with all my love that I dedicate this book to her.

  Oh, and thank you for reading. Yes, you.

  Jeffery X Martin

  10 November 2013

  Knoxville, TN

  Table of Contents

  Godwyn

  Jars

  Swear Words

  Be Sweet

  Sniffer

  Mouth

  Candy

  Black Friday

  Naughty

  Bamelyn

  Godwyn

  ‘TWAS NEARLY THE Witching Hour, and Lady Godwyn was almost ready to go out for the evening. Her pale skin glistened in the candlelight as she gazed into the looking glass. Her lips were stained a deep crimson and her hair, dark as pitch, was pulled up into an elegant bun. The velvet corset she wore was tightly cinched and her bosom, already full, almost touched her chin. Lady Godwyn had never been waifish, but the constricting garment and her gauzy black skirt hid her imperfections from the casual eye. She daintily applied a false beauty mark to her cheek, then stepped back to admire herself. Yes, she thought, surely I can bring someone into the fold tonight. She smiled, baring her sharp fangs.

  It was a Thursday and the moon was new. Lady Godwyn was going hunting.

  ***

  SOME GENTLEMENT OF her kind had recently acquired an old dungeon, sheened with glorious filth, decay and neglect, and with some of the ancient torture accoutrements still in working order. These gentlemen had seen fit to make it a place of dark merriment, where Godwyn’s kindred could dance to the sounds of mourning, revel in cries of human pain and delight in the wild, maniacal laughter of those who had been taken past the edge of sanity.

  When there was a soirée, those on the Refreshment Committee made sure there many mortals there to choose from. It was a corral, a slaughterhouse, bedecked with many kinds of meat. She smiled when she thought of it. All the throats ready to be torn, like pounding a tap into a barrel of red ale. She could feel herself salivating at the very idea. Lady Godwyn’s hunger had been ignored for too long.

  She arrived at the heavy dungeon doors and gave a slight nod to the doorkeeper. He nodded back at her, with a secretive smile of recognition. She gave him her mark, and the door swung open wide for her.

  ***

  THE ROOM WAS already filled with both the Stalkers and the Stalked, each side sizing each other up and making silent, hopeful decisions of how the evening would be spent. The music was gloomy and loud, echoing off the solid oak walls. Candlelight flickered and the tables were filled with Lady Godwyn’s kind, all of them silently leering at the unfamiliar men and women, standing about awkwardly, suddenly unsure of why they had come. They were simple sheep to the slaughter, surely, all of them nothing more than vessels for blood, existing only to sate the hunger of the wolves.

  Lady Godwyn danced slightly, barely shuffling to the music, gazing about the crowd, scanning her prey for the evening. There was a tap on her shoulder and Lady Godwyn turned. It was her lady friend, the Mistress Tamyra. Lady Godwyn and Mistress Tamyra had shared their blood – and other bodily essences – in days past. They kissed each other gleefully, licking each other’s lips and stroking each other gently through their clothing.

  "’Tis been too long, my Lady," whispered Tamyra.

  "Indeed it has, my Mistress," replied Lady Godwyn. "Shall we hunt together tonight? Perhaps you and I could share a meal."

  "My love," said Tamyra, shaking her head, "I’ve already found my sustenance for the eve, a young innocent lad from the village. See how he waits for me by the stretching rack?"

  Lady Godwyn did look, and there stood Mistress Tamyra’s victim, staring at her, entranced. Tamyra waved at him. In response, he clutched his chest over his heart and beckoned her to come forth. "See how he longs for me?" Tamyra said, amused and delighted. "If only he knew how this night will end, with his blood in my belly and his soul damned to an eternity of night."

  They laughed together coquettishly, and kissed again with a promise of soon going on the hunt together and bringing home some fine fresh flesh for the sharing.

  Tamyra walked back to her evening’s entertainment, licking her lips in anticipation. Lady Godwyn began moving easily across the dungeon floor, searching past the familiar faces and empty eyes of her kind for a mortal, a new toy to bat around between her paws before devouring.

  There was a man in the middle of the dungeon floor, spasming, attempting to dance. He obviously had no ear for the threnody, and was horribly out of rhythm. He was a buffoon, and Lady Godwyn struck him off her list of potentials. She continued to glide through the room, past the naked girl on the St. Andrew’s Cross and her appointed inflictor; past the initiate, bound at the wrists and ankles, still softly bleeding from the eyes; past the portly gentleman, a man of means, with the silken cord tied around his member and attached tightly to the pendulum of a grandfather clock. He was weeping, and he knew not whether it was from ecstasy or pain or the delightful humiliation of the whole situation. Even as much as Lady Godwyn hungered, she knew that if she did not choose carefully, she would not enjoy her meal and her delicate system would be upset.

  The crowd parted with a shift in the music and she saw him. She knew he was the one as soon as she laid eyes upon him. Lady Godwyn straightened her spine and moved slowly, purposefully towards the man who would be hers.

  He was tall and thin, dressed completely in black. His cheeks, though, were ruddy. He was full-headed and his eyes were a bright green. She perceived him as healthy, probably an eater of red meat, full of life. His eyes danced around the dungeon as if he had neither seen nor conceived of such sights as were parlayed before his eyes that very night. Yet he seemed not afraid; rather, curious about the cavalcade of depravity that surrounded him.

  Lady Godwin stepped directly in fr
ont of the man, taking up his entire scope of vision. "Tell me, lad," she said. "Is this your first time in our fair dungeon?"

  The man met her gaze directly. "You know it to be, fair one. That is why you ask."

  She cocked an eyebrow. "You," she said, "are cheeky. Impertinent. Perhaps one ought to teach you a lesson."

  He lowered his head slightly. "I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, M’Lady, but if there is a lesson to be learned, it would be only proper for you to be the one to teach it. If you see fault in me, then you should be the one to dole out the necessary corrections."

  "What is your name, lad?" she asked.

  "They call me Michael," he replied.

  "I am the Lady Godwyn," she said, and extended her hand, wrist down. Michael took it gently in his own hand, and kissed it.

  "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Godwyn," he said, and he slowly let go of her hand and watched it drift back to her side.

  "Your hands are empty, young Michael," she said, "and your lips are dry. Do you fancy some mead?"

  "I would be pleased with a cup of water, M’Lady."

  "Then you shall be twice as pleased with a flagon of mead, young Michael." Godwyn made a quick motion to the barkeep with her finger and, quick as a switch, she was handed a wooden drinking horn filled with sweet honey wine. This, she gave to Michael. "Drink this," she said, "and do so quickly. There is merry to be made and time grows fearsome short."

  Michael did as he was instructed and barely had time set the empty container down before Lady Godwyn had pulled him out to the center of the floor. The music was unbearably sad, and Michael tried to move along with Lady Godwyn as she swayed, slowly yet gleefully. Godwyn took Michael’s hand and pulled him close to her. She maneuvered his leg in between her legs and began to ride him as one does a horse, grinding and writhing as if in the throes of passion. Michael stared at her, amazed, as her eyes rolled back in her head and her movements grew fevered and intense. This went on for a full minute until Michael stopped trying to dance. He tensed the muscles in his leg and let Lady Godwyn do all the moving. The pressure of her body grew stronger and her movements more wild, until she suddenly reared back her head and cried, "Ye gods!" into the air. She breathed deeply; nostrils flared, and then lowered her head and stared into Michael’s eyes.

  "I am not finished," she said, her eyes black and crazed with desire. "I want more."

  "What do you suggest, Lady Godwyn?"

  "Let us retire," she said. "Let us leave this place and go somewhere so all my hungers can be sated in private, where none but the gods can see the way we enjoy ourselves and each other."

  "A place in the dark?" he asked.

  "Indeed, young Michael. Someplace very, very dark."

  "And this is what you want, M’Lady?" he asked.

  "At this moment," she said, "it is all that I want."

  Michael hesitated, and then extended his hand. "Let us go, then."

  She took his hand and let Michael believe he was taking her away, knowing full well the opposite was true. She was leading him to his doom, like a child enticed with candy. Filled with anticipation of what is to come, she went with Michael, out of the charnel house and into the welcoming night.

  "Before we away, M’Lady, there is something I must ask you to do," Michael said.

  "Of course, young Michael," Godwyn replied. "And what would that be?"

  He stopped and turned the Lady Godwyn to face him. "I want you to look into my eyes. Just for a moment."

  She laughed. "And why is that, my beautiful young Michael?"

  "The poets claim that the eyes are the window to the soul. I want to see."

  "Then gaze away, young Michael."

  He peered into her eyes intently, almost furiously. It seemed as if he were reading her mind, flipping through the pages of memoirs she had yet to write. He swept into the non-Euclidean corners of her most horrid thoughts, all the difficult things she tried to keep inside, things she tried to keep from herself. Then, as soon as he shifted his gaze, the feeling of probing and invasion left, leaving Godwyn shaky and confused.

  He chuckled. "Prolonged eye contact, of any kind, is enough to make one weary. I can tell by your expression that you are still a bit bedazzled. It will pass soon, I’m sure. Come now, to my carriage."

  Although her vision was blurry and she felt faint, Lady Godwyn was pleased to have collected her prey so easily. Soon she would feast, blood up to her elbows and splashed over her naked body. She would writhe in the entrails and then settle into some well-deserved sleep while the sun made its first orange splashes across the accursed daytime sky.

  "My Lady Godwyn?"

  "Yes, beautiful Michael?"

  "You realize, of course, that you’re doing this wrong."

  "I beg your pardon?" she asked. "Doing what wrong?"

  "Well, M’Lady, you have the language down fairly well. I mean, you talk like a thrift-store romance novel, and I guess that’s what most people want, so you’ve got points for that. But the clothes! This corset? Vintage clothes cost vintage prices, M’Lady. You don’t have that kind of money. Did you get this online? Was there a sale at some fat girl clothing outlet? Did you make it yourself? You did, didn’t you? Tried to make it yourself, fucked up the boning and wore it anyway?"

  "Young Michael, I don’t understand what you’re saying to me! These words! What do they mean?"

  "They mean it’s time to quit fucking around. What’s your real name? Peggy? Betty? You smell like a medical receptionist. I’ll bet you’ve got more scrubs with cartoon cats on them than you do corsets and capes."

  Lady Godwyn placed one hand over her heart. "Michael!" she whimpered."You are offending me!"

  Michael rolled his eyes. "Jesus! Are you still doing this? Oh, and by the way. Those fake fangs? Fucking terrible. Terrible and cheap. You could have at least spent some money on the tools of the trade."

  With that last insult, Michael opened his mouth, leaned in and ate her throat. She tried to scream, but did nothing but shoot atomized blood into the air through her jaggedly torn esophagus. It was like listening to a dolphin. Michael chewed and drank Lady Godwyn, keeping his mouth over her spurting carotid arteries like he was doing a kegstand.

  When he was full, Lady Godwyn was barely alive, and he held her like a drowned dog. Again, he looked into her eyes, this time with an amused pity. "You fucking Victorian wanna-be vamps. You make the rest of us sick. But you make the quest so easy. And here’s the shitty part: you’re going to die believing that you love me. That this is the way it had to be. That even the hunter becomes the prey. Some ‘circle of life’ crap. Ridiculous twat."

  Even as Lady Godwyn’s life leaked out, she knew that what he said was true. She did love him, as a wounded dog loves the one who delivers the killing blow, putting her out of misery, out of the fading world.

  Young Michael, whose sweet wife was a cashier at a nearby department store, dropped Lady Godwyn’s dry empty body behind the dumpster in the gravel parking lot. He got into his carriage, a customized Chevy van from the mid-1980’s, and drove away fast from Thursdays at The Dungeon ("The finest and freakiest fetish club in the Southeast"), happy and full, back to his lair, a two bedroom apartment, somewhere in the festering wilds of Elders Keep.

  Jars

  THE LOBBY OF the Highlander Lodge, all wood and windows, produced hellacious acoustics. Whispers sounded like normal conversation, and normal conversations sounded like screams. Terry, the night clerk, tried not to belie with his facial expressions that he could hear everything everyone said from where he sat, but sometimes he couldn't help but smirk or raise a salacious eyebrow.

  Take, for example, the man on his cell phone, pacing along the far side of the open lobby space, trying to explain to someone what had happened.

  "I know I'm not where I'm supposed to be," the man said. "That's why I'm calling you to tell you where I actually am. Elders Keep. No, it's about half an hour away from Bell Plains. Because there's some convention in Bell
Plains. All the hotels are full and I got bumped. Why would I lie about that?"

  He looked at Terry and shook his head, eyes rolled. Can you believe this bitch?

  Terry shrugged his shoulders. What are you gonna do, man?

  "The Highlander. No, Highlander. The Highlander Lodge. Yeah, like a Scottish guy. Room..." He snapped his fingers while trying to remember his room number. He looked at Terry with a wild desperation on his face.

  "Two thirty-seven," Terry whispered. The man smiled and nodded his thanks.

  "Room two thirty-seven," the man said into the phone. "No, I'm tired. There's a bar here. I'm gonna get a few drinks and then go to bed. No, Regina, I'm not going to drive. I'm at a fucking hotel in a town I've never even heard of before. Where am I going to go? This place is in the middle of nowhere."

  The man lowered his shoulders and continued pacing while Regina yammered at him from where ever. Terry felt bad for the guy. He seemed like a decent enough fellow. A little disheveled, maybe, and in need of a shower, but he didn't come across as a smarmy liar. He had been wrong before, but Terry didn't think the guy deserved the ear-chewing he was getting.

  "Well, then why don't you give me forty-five minutes to get to my room, take a shower, and then you can call the room phone? Look up the number yourself, Regina! That you'll know I didn't make it up! No, you know what I want, Regina? I want to be left alone. It's been a shitty week, I've been on the road nonstop, and all I want is to be left alone. I'm tired and thirsty. Some booze and some peace. That's all I want."

  He began nodding his head, non-stop, silently agreeing to whatever Regina said. "Fine. Fine. It's fine, Regina. I'll be home tomorrow afternoon. Love you, too. Good night."

  The man approached the desk. "Sorry about that, man."

  Terry handed him a small clipboard with a registration card snapped down upon it. A pen on a small beaded chain was attached. "Don't worry about that," Terry said. "Sometimes I'm paid to listen. Sometimes I'm paid not to."