Devil to Pay, page 15
part #25 of Cherry Delight Series
The men and women had withdrawn from the room by this time, they had gone clumping off down the hall.
They didn’t hear Guy Pascal tell me this; not that it mattered, I figured. Those men and women had to be in on the secret, obviously. Otherwise he couldn’t have called on them for help with me.
Guy Pascal walked around the room, halted to stare out the window. Finally he turned, looking down at me.
“You will be our sacrificial victim this night,” he nodded. “I will possess you—as the devil, of course.”
Here he gave me a smile, as his eyes ran over my body. My sweater was torn, part of one breast peeped out at him, and where my slacks had been ripped, he saw some of my leg. This case had been damn hard on my clothes, I reflected as I lay there.
He went out, closed the door, and left me alone.
I told myself I was a fool to have walked into this trap. I should have suspected that he was the villain, even though it had seemed at first that Henri Neige had been the guilty man.
And yet—
What about Denise Pascal?
She was his daughter—wasn’t she? Would he select his own daughter to rape, there on that altar? And afterward, had he—killed her?
Other than for such a stumbling block, it all added up. Guy Pascal was the titular head of the surrounding lands. It had been his family which had ruled here for centuries. Nowadays he had not the power of life and death—legally, that is—nor the right of the first night.
Yet he held sway over the peasants. It was he who had first suggested the idea of the Black Mass, in all probability, blackmailing those people who refused to join in those hellish rites. If they did not pay, a daughter was chosen to be taken on that altar by this same Guy Pascal, posing as the devil.
I should have guessed. Despite the fact that Pascal had come to Paris for help—something he had to do lest he draw suspicion on himself—he had been quite confident. If the Parisian police had sent an inspector, that man would have been killed in mysterious circumstances.
He had let me live because he did not believe that a mere girl could threaten him. Now that I’d discovered his secret, I had to die.
Or did I?
It was all very well for Guy Pascal to choose me to be the sacrificial victim of the Black Mass, but maybe I had something to say about that. I was no cowering virgin, that was for sure.
My eyes went around the room. There was nothing here to help me. My Gucci bag had been tossed across a chair, but with my hands tied behind my back—
Hold it, Cherry!
My stare was caught and held by that fireplace. Guy Pascal burned logs in that huge hearth. Was it possible that, beneath those ashes, there were a few embers still burning?
I rolled toward the fire, telling myself that a burned wrist or two would make no never mind to me if I could get free and pick up my Gold Cup Colt. But when I got there and poked around in the embers with my fingers—my hands were still tied behind my back— I found no heat at all. There was nothing to help me here.
Under my breath, I snarled.
My eyes moved toward the Gucci bag. Could I get my Gold Cup in a hand, somehow wriggle it around so as to shoot the ropes loose? I started to roll and crawl.
I was almost to the chair when the door opened and Guy Pascal entered. He saw where I was headed, and he chuckled. In a few strides he was at the chair and lifted the Gucci bag. With it in a hand, he swung on me.
“I intended keeping you here until it grew dark,” he said slowly. “I think it would be best if we changed those plans.”
He left the room, but was back almost instantly with two big men. “Pick her up, wrap her in a blanket, and put her in her car. I’ll drive the car myself, but you will come with me, to make certain she doesn’t escape.”
The men picked me up, carried me like a sack of clothes along the hall and out to the car. They shoved me onto the floor in back, and then they got in. Guy Pascal slid behind the wheel.
In moments we were driving along.
They drove for hours, it seemed. When we stopped, we were at the edge of a woods. I was lifted out, carried along by the men, until we came to the edge of a glade. They dropped me just as if I had been that bundle of clothes I mentioned.
I lay there for hours. The men sat near me or moved around the little clearing. They ate sandwiches and drank some coffee, but they didn’t offer me any. Naturally, seeing them eat made me all the hungrier.
All things come to an end. It grew dark eventually, and I began to hear feet moving in the underbrush.
Those two guardians of mine yanked me to my feet and then undid the ropes that held my legs so tightly.
I would have kicked at them, but my legs were so numb that I could scarcely stand up. Then they unfastened my belt and started dragging down my slacks.
They pulled off my slacks, which left me in garter-belt and stockings. Their faces got red when they saw me half-naked like that. Then they drew out knives and began cutting the rest of my clothes off.
I stood naked in the moonlight, with them running their hands over my body, getting the feel of it. The lust-fires were strong in their eyes, and at any other time I might even have welcomed their attentions. But not right now.
I was too worried.
I didn’t have the chance of a snowball in hell, the way I looked at it. Naked, with my hands tied behind my back, I was going to be sacrificed on that stone altar. I had managed to escape other tight situations in the past, but it seemed to me that my luck had run out.
I waited between those two big bruisers, watching the people gather at the edge of the woods, staring at the stone altar in the clearing. The devil would come soon, and then their fun and games would begin.
The pyx, the chalice, and the sacrificial knife were already on the altar. Everything was in readiness—or almost.
A hand pushed me. I walked forward, breasts bobbling, buttocks waggling, toward that flat stone. It was hard for me to walk. My legs felt as if they were asleep.
But those goons on either side of me held me up, and when we came to the altar, they lifted me and plopped me down on it.
That stone altar felt cold, but I forgot about that as the people began to chant and out of the corners of my eyes I saw the goat-being prance closer. I stared at it, knowing now it was Guy Pascal.
Then I remembered the time I had rescued Blanche Soustelle. I had not known then, of course, that this was Guy Pascal, but I remembered the little dancing steps this goat being had taken, and I realized that this was because Pascal was walking on stilts.
The devil-goat came and stood looking down at me.
I saw his eyes, filled with lust. I thought to myself how other girls had lain here, waiting to be raped. They had been virgins, poor things.
The mass began, the chanting started and grew louder. The naked girl acolytes came up on either side of the priest, and I noticed that their eyes were running over my body.
The congregation was getting worked up. Some of them were already starting to strip in anticipation of the delights to come. I saw breasts that were little nubbins and breasts that were big, hanging sacks. The men too, were undressing, and most of them were already aroused.
Somebody grabbed my naked legs and started dragging me forward. I felt cold metal under me, that slid along right with me on the altar.
The devil waited, his huge erection exposed.
In a minute, that thing would be in me.
Now I am a girl who is never averse to a bit of sex. I thrive on it. But I like to pick and choose my men. I didn’t like Guy Pascal, not at all. But I was in no position to refuse him, not with those big bruisers clinging to my legs and opening them as wide as possible.
He slid into me. He was big, he was all man down there and he sure filled me up. I didn’t want to do anything to pleasure him, but my body began betraying me.
Pleasure slid into all my erogenous zones. I felt that pleasure sweep me from head to foot. My behind lifted to let him enter even more.
I heard him chuckle.
Damn him! Damn all these people around me!
Hell! I might as well enjoy myself. I was going to be dead in a little while. Why not go out with all flags flying?
I moaned and groaned, letting them all know that I was having a ball. Again that devil-goat chuckled.
My hips lifted and bounced.
As they did—
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I felt coldness under me. What the hell was it? I wasn’t in such good shape to be trying to think, because no matter how I felt about Guy Pascal, he was all man and that rod of his was plunging in and out of me as though it had gone berserk.
I responded to it, hips arching, flying.
The two bruisers on either side of me were slobbering, staring down at what was happening, there in my crotch. They weren’t paying any attention to any other part of me.
So I felt around with my bound hands.
There was a knife under those hands. And then I remembered the sacrificial knife that had been on the altar, the knife that was to be used to kill me. Those goons hadn’t noticed the knife, they had been too interested in various parts of my naked body as they put it on the altar.
“Let go my legs, boys,” I panted. “I just want to get them around this guy.”
The devil-goat laughed. “Let them go. She can’t do anything now.”
As if to prove the truth of what he said, he jabbed himself into me even harder. And I surged up to meet him, legs about him, giving as good as I was getting.
My hand caught the knife by its handle, turned it slightly so the keen edge would be against the ropes that held me. I began to saw with the knife just as I was sawing with my hips.
We went on and on.
I had to give it to Guy Pascal. He sure knew how to screw. There was no pause in his movements, he kept his rigidity, and he worked with me as though we were long-time lovers.
Meanwhile, that knife was doing its job. I felt the ropes loosen, start to fall away.
I locked Guy Pascal closer to me with my legs.
He stared down at me. “It is a shame I will have to kill you. Never have I known a woman such as you.”
Well, that was true enough.
We went on plunging back and forth. I could feel his flesh begin to expand even more inside me, which told me he was close to his orgasm. Now I put my inner muscles to work, those muscles that help a girl milk a male organ inside her.
The devil-goat was panting and sobbing, his hips driving. He was spaced out with my activities. I told myself I was bringing him joy he would never know again. Then he collapsed on top of me, heaving and pushing and grunting.
As he fell, I lifted the knife and slid it into him.
I don’t think he felt it, not at first.
He was too deeply relaxed after his orgasmic throes. He was in that aftermath of sex when all is dreamlike around one, when all one wants to do is close the eyes and rest.
I doubled up my legs, and getting my soles against his chest, I heaved him away from me. Almost in the same instant, I whirled and ran that knife blade into the belly of the bruiser on my right.
He screamed, bending double.
I swung around and stabbed upward at the other bruiser. It all happened so quickly that he had no chance to get away from that bloody steel as it went ripping into his guts.
He threw back his head and screamed, both hands to his middle where I was busy jerking the knife upward to cut as much of him as possible. His eyes were like Saucers, staring down at me.
“Dirty bastard,” I whispered.
The rest of the congregation was too busy to notice what I had done. They were screwing like crazy, here and there and everywhere. I saw a woman spreadeagled on the ground with one man between her fat thighs driving himself into her while another man was bent over her open mouth that held his lancette. Another man was being set on by two women, one sitting on top of his erection, the other on his mouth.
They weren’t the only ones. By twos and threes, those men and women were having themselves a good time. Nobody was paying any attention to me. Even the defrocked priest who had been celebrating that Black Mass was busy with his girl acolytes.
I paused a moment to study his position. He was kneeling between the widespread thighs of one girl, chewing away, while the other girl lay on her front in front of him, performing her rite of gober le merlan.
I slid from the altar.
The devil-goat was half across the big stone, and he was making bubbling sounds as he drew breath into his lungs. There was blood in his throat, I figured. I cast a glance at where my clothes had been taken off me.
My Gucci bag was there. It had been carried there by one of the musclemen who were guarding me. When I had been killed, it probably would have been put with my body—in the drowning pool, or wherever.
Nobody was paying me any attention, so I ran, bent over and stark naked, to the bag. I fumbled about in it until I lifted out my Gold Cup Colt. I cast my eyes around the clearing.
It seemed a shame to break up this love-in. Everybody was having such a swell time. But I was getting chilly without my clothes, and I wanted to see to Guy Pascal.
I didn’t know how badly he had been hurt. I had stabbed him as deeply as I could, and it was a long knife blade, but I wanted to save him for the guillotine if possible. So I lifted the Gold Cup in the air and pumped off a shot.
That shot sounded like a thunderclap.
I’d have bet it made a couple of the men shoot their loads. Or maybe it made them shrink. I didn’t know, and didn’t care.
“The flics,” I screamed. “The police are here.”
Everybody froze. Just for a moment, however, because you never saw such uncoupling that went on right then. Girls and women jerked away from men and men from women. They didn’t even bother to grab up their clothes, for the most part.
Everybody ran, then.
I stood and watched the jiggling buttocks of naked women and girls, the bare backs of men, as they raced off into the darkness and between the trees.
When the glade was empty save for myself and the dead bodies and Guy Pascal in his devil outfit, I moved forward wincing as a weed or two jammed into my bare soles. The moon was still as brilliant as before, yet it seemed to me that the shadows in this glade were darker, more ominous.
I knelt beside the goat-thing.
Guy Pascal was still breathing. I could hear his breath catch raspingly in his throat. After examining the costume he was wearing, I discovered that I could remove the head.
It took me several minutes, but I managed it, lifting it off and tossing it aside. Pascal’s face was white and Strained. His eyes were closed at the moment, but he opened them and stared up at me.
A faint smile touched his lips.
“You have won, ma petite,” he whispered.
“Why?” I asked gently.
He frowned. He drew a breath, then sighed. “It was because I needed money.” Those eyes of his, in which I could read pain, glinted up at me. “Oh, yes. Mine is an old family, I am the owner of a fine chateau, eh? But the income—bah! There is no income. I was down to my last few francs when I conceived the idea.
“The farmers who lived around the chateau were all very well to do, they are thrifty Bretons. I must find a way to get them to give me money and—voila! The idea of the devil worship was conceived.”
He broke off and lay gasping.
I said: “No more now. I’ll have to get you into a hospital, get a doctor to patch you up.”
He laughed, coughed up blood. “It is—no use. That knife of yours—stabbed deep. I will not live to see the sun come up.”
I tried to cheer him, but he shook his head. “It is better this way,” he whispered. “I could never stand the shame of a trial.”
His hand lifted, touched mine, clung to it. “Just let me talk.” His eyes were mocking. “You fooled me you know. I did not believe that a mere girl could do—what you have done.
“It began, I guess, with my daughter. Oh, Denise was not my true daughter, she was—adopted. My wife and I learned to love her, but in different ways. My wife looked on her as a true daughter, but I—
“I saw her as a desirable girl. Yes, yes. I admit it. I —what is the expression the Bible used? Yes. I lusted after her. But I hid it well from my wife. Then when my wife died and Denise and I were alone together, I thought of that white body of hers.
“She was a modest girl, but she regarded me as her true father. She would wear the thinnest nightgowns, under which I could see all her body. I would stare at her developing breasts, I would see her legs and the joining of her thighs where the hair was forming. And I wanted her.
“It was too much of a temptation.”
He was silent for a time, withdrawn. He coughed more blood, and I wiped it from his lips. The night was very still around us. Only his harsh breathing disturbed that silence.
Guy Pascal began again.
“I began the Black Masses to get money. It was very easy. I made converts from among the poorer classes, the men and women who worked for the well-to-do farmers. At first we used willing farm women on the altar.
“I had been a long time without a woman. After my wife died, I sought no female company. I performed as the devil himself might have performed. I was very potent. And in the back of my head was the notion that one night Denise herself would lie naked before me, for my possessing.
“I had hoped that, once I had taken her, she and I might live as husband and wife. I intended to reveal to her the fact that she was not my true daughter.
“But after that night when I had her on that altar, she—killed herself.”
He nodded. “Yes, it was her own hands that drove the knife across her wrists. Denise committed suicide. I would have prevented it, but it was not to be. Searching for her, to bring her back to the chateau, I found her dead body with her hand about the handle of that knife.”
Tears came into his eyes, crept down his cheeks. He sobbed once or twice. I knelt there, his hand clutching mine, and my heart went out to him.
Oh, he was guilty of all the crimes that had happened, I knew that. Yet something made me realize he was only a human being who had been tempted beyond his capacity to resist. He had needed money. He had needed Denise.
