Dominion

  Dominion

  Bentley Little

  OLD FRIENDS TERRORS…

  Dion Semele is a teenager trying to make friends in a new school and meet the girl of his dreams. But something is happening deep inside him:

  a powerful force is struggling to escape. His sleep is disturbed by dreams of a past world that seeks to control him.

  Penelope Daneam is smart and pretty and trying to be normal, despite her unusual family. Since birth she has been cared for by a sisterhood of women who own a local Napa winery. It is here that Dion and Penelope will meet their true fate. Not as lovers, but as catalysts for a reign of incredible terror.

  Dominion has risen.

  DOMINION

  BENTLEY LITTLE

  Girls!

  They were all girls, every last damn one of them. He stood at the top of the stairs, staring down into the dimly lit basement below. The infants crawled through the blood and mud and filthy, rancid water, mewling, crying, screaming. The mothers, chained to the wall, lay limply against the stone, heads lolling, half dead, their nude bodies still smeared with blood and afterbirth, gnawed umbilical cords angling stiffly from between their spread legs.

  His eyes darted from one newborn to another, searching hopefully for a penis, but he saw none, only small, hairless cracks.

  Mother had been right. He was not a man.

  He began to cry. He could not help it. Hot tears of shame forced their way out from under his eyelids, streaming down his cheeks, only adding to his humiliation. An unintentional sob escaped from his mouth, and one of the women looked dazedly up at him. He saw her through the blurred curtain of his tears. He did not know whether she knew what was happening, but he didn’t care.

  “It’s your fault!” he screamed at her, at the others.

  One of the women moaned incoherently.

  Still crying, he retreated into the kitchen, where he opened the cupboard doors underneath the sink and unwound the hose. He turned on the water full force and carried the hose back across the floor through the basement doorway, dropping the streaming snake end down the stairs.

  He would fill up the basement and drown them all.

  The water poured from the hose in a steady flow, coursing down the steps before merging with the low, dirty puddle which already existed at the bottom. Three of the women heard the splash-babble of the water and groggily raised their battered heads, expecting their daily hosing off, but when it didn’t come, their heads slumped again with a muted rattling of neck and arm irons.

  He watched as the water level in the basement slowly rose, his tears stopping, drying, disappearing. He wiped his eyes. It would be two hours, maybe three, before the basement filled up above their heads and drowned them. He would come back later, after it was done, and drain the basement and dispose of the bodies.

  He stepped into the kitchen and closed the door, standing uncertainly for a moment before walking down the dark, narrow hallway toward the front of the house. Outside, he could hear the loud rumble of motorcars on the street, the excited screams of children at play. He stood for a few minutes at the front window, staring at the lawn outside, before realizing that the spot in which he was standing was the precise spot in which Mother used to stand while spying on the neighbors.

  Blackness rushed over him, and he stepped away from the window, taking slow, deep breaths until he again felt all right. He looked down at his hands. Mother had always said that his hands were too big for his arms, were out of proportion compared to the rest of his body, and he had always tried to keep them hidden in pockets or behind his back. Now, though, they didn’t seem that large, and he found himself wondering if they had shrunk. He wished Mother was here so he could show her his hands, ask her.

  He wandered disconsolately through the empty house, past the drawing room, down the hallway, up the stairs, and found himself, as always, going to Mother’s bedroom.

  Mother’s bedroom.

  He sat on the red silk bedspread and picked up the leg chains attached to the tall wooden posters at the foot of the bed. He had not opened the windows since Mother died, and the room still smelled strongly of the mingled odors of wine and perfume and old sex. He breathed deeply, inhaling the delicious fragrance, at once sweet and sour, tangy and musky. He glanced around the room. The Oriental carpet was still stained with blood from the last time, dark red now faded to a dusty brown which blended in with the multihued rococo pattern. On the dresser in front of the oversize mirror were empty flagons. The soiled undergarments of various ladies and gentlemen were strewn about the room, many of them torn and tattered, ripped off willing bodies in the heat of passion.

  His eyes were drawn to the door next to the closet, the door to the room where the unwilling participants had been brought.

  He stood up and took the long brass key from its hook above the bed, using the key to unlock the door. This was the room in which she had worshiped, in which she had given herself over to her rituals. Precisely what these rituals were he did not know; she had always refused to tell him. He knew only that they demanded many sacrifices, that he had been forced to find for her two, three, sometimes four victims each time.

  Mostly men. Women if necessary. And he knew that the rituals were loud.

  He’d been able to hear the cries echoing through the halls of the house, feel the bodies being flung to the floor, slammed against the wall. It was good that they lived in such a large city. Otherwise the sacrifices Mother had required would have been missed, the noises heard by all. As it was, the victims’ absences had seldom been noticed (he’d always chosen them well), and the sounds had merely blended in with the noises of the street.

  Mother, however, always said that having to perform the rituals in this room, instead of in their proper place, was what had perverted their purpose, was what had led to his mistaken birth.

  He stood in the doorway and slowly scanned the silent room. Broken bones were still scattered about the floor in no particular order, as if thrown there in a frenzy. The bones were clean, all flesh stripped. The walls of the room were painted with pictures of trees, painstakingly detailed renderings of forestation for which Mother had paid a substantial amount to a local artist who had later joined her for two days in the bedroom.

  He stepped into the room and breathed deeply. The odor here was stronger due to the fact that the room had no windows, but it was more blood smell than sex smell and was not nearly as pleasant as the scent of the bedroom. He walked forward, kicked a jawbone out of the way. He had brought in the sacrifices, but he had never had to dispose of them.

  After Mother had finished her rituals, there had never been anything left to dispose, only these cleaned bones and blood and occasional isolated bits of meat.

  He had often wanted to join Mother in her rituals, but she had told him bluntly that he could not participate. Only in the last year, after she had reread the prophecies, had she decided that he should be allowed to carry on after her death. Only then had she fully regained her faith.

  Only then had she told him what he must do.

  Now even there he had failed her.

  He thought of the infants in the basement. He would give them another hour, then check to make sure they had all drowned.

  After that he would try again.

  There was nothing more he could do.

  He regretted that he’d had to dispose of the mothers as well. It had felt so good when he took them, when he beat them and forced them to submit to his will, when he felt the hot animal passion rising in them as well. Then he had truly felt that he was his mother’s son.

  But there would be more. He would find them the same way he had found these, and he would take them the same way, make them bear his children.

  And if they failed to give him a boy, he would try
again.

  And again.

  An hour later, he returned to the basement. The women had all been drowned—he could see their hair spread outward across the top of the filthy, bloody water like twisted lilies—but the babies were alive and happily swimming.

  He stood there, shocked. This could not be!

  Furious, he leaped from the top of the stairs and jumped into the cold, dark water, anger coursing through him. He grabbed the head of the nearest infant, pressing her down. There was a sudden sharp pain in his index finger, and he cried out, jerking back, letting the baby up. The thing had bitten him! He shook his hand to clear it of the hurt, then pressed the infant down again, gratified to see small bubbles percolate upward through the water.

  He felt a stab of pain in his back and whipped his head around. One of the other infants was digging into his lower back with claw-like fingers. Another baby bit down on the fleshy part of his arm, teeth clenched hard around skin and fat.

  The other infants were paddling forward. Laughing excitedly, their little mouths filled with tiny teeth newborns didn’t have teeth —they splashed through the water toward him.

  Frightened now, he let up the first baby, which promptly bit into his stomach. He screamed with pain, then screamed louder as tiny fingers dug into his crotch.

  How many babies were there? He could not remember. One of the women had had twins, he thought. His feet touched a box underneath the water, and he pushed off, trying to reach the stairs. A tiny grinning infant head popped up directly before him, and thin hands lashed out at his eyes. He batted the baby away, but she bit into his too-big hands even as she was knocked back.

  “Help!” he cried, and his voice sounded high, feminine.

  He was not a man.

  “Help!”

  But no one heard.

  And his children took him down.

  OK It was hot as they prepared to leave Mesa, the temperature well into the eighties though the sun had not yet risen. The pale brightening above the Superstitions would soon bloom into a typical August morning, Dion knew, and by noon the lighted display on the side of the Valley National Bank building would be flashing triple digits.

  He helped his mom carry the last of the luggage out to the car—the bathroom suitcase, the sack filled with trip snacks, the coffee thermos—then stood next to the passenger door as she locked up the house for the last time and deposited the keys in the mailbox. It felt strange to be leaving, but he was surprised to find that he was not sad at the thought of their imminent departure. He had expected to feel some sense of loss or regret, depression or loneliness, but he felt nothing.

  That alone should have made him depressed.

  His mom walked purposefully across the brown grass to the sidewalk. She was wearing a thin halter top which barely constrained her large breasts, and shorts much too tight for a woman her age. Not that she looked like a woman her age. Far from it. As more than one friend had admitted over the years, she was the closest thing to a real-life sex symbol any of them were ever likely to meet. He had never known how to respond to that. It would have been one thing if they were talking about a stranger, or someone’s cousin or aunt, but when it was your own mother … Sometimes he wished his mom was fat and plain and wore frumpy old lady clothes like everyone else’s mother.

  His mom unlocked his door and he got into the car, stretching across the seat and pulling up the lock on her side. She smiled at him as she positioned herself in front of the wheel. A thin trickle of sweat was cutting a path through the makeup on the far right side of her face, but she did not wipe it off. “I think we have everything,” she said brightly.

  He nodded.

  “Ready to go?”

  “I guess.”

  “Then let’s hit it.” She turned on the ignition, put the car into gear, and they pulled away from the curb.

  Their furniture was already in Napa, but for them it was going to be a two-day trip. They were not going to drive for eighteen hours straight but were going to stop off in Santa Barbara and then continue on to Napa the next day. That would give them a little more than a week to unpack and get settled before he started school and his mom started work.

  They turned onto University and drove past the Circle K, where he and his friends had said their final farewells the night before. He looked away from the convenience store, feeling strangely embarrassed. Saying goodbye last night had been awkward not because of the emotions involved but because of the lack of them. He’d supposed he should hug his friends goodbye, tell them how much they meant to him and how much he would miss them, but he’d felt none of that, and after a few hesitant, misguided attempts on all of their parts to drum up that sort of emotion, they had given up and parted in much the same way they always had, as though they would see each other again tomorrow.

  None of them, he realized, had even promised to write.

  Now he was starting to feel depressed.

  They drove down University toward Tempe and the freeway. As he watched the familiar streets pass by, the familiar stores and personal landmarks, he found it hard to believe that they were really going, that they were actually leaving Arizona.

  They passed by ASU. He had wanted to see the university one final time, to say goodbye to the walks and bikeways where he had spent so many weekends, but for once they hit all green lights, and the car sped by the campus inappropriately fast, denying him even the opportunity to savor his last look. Then the university was behind them.

  He had half hoped that he’d be able to attend ASU, though he knew realistically that his mother could not afford to send him to anything but a community college. Now he knew it would never come to pass.

  A few minutes later, they hit the freeway.

  A half hour later, they were in the desert and Phoenix was in their rearview mirror.

  Ten minutes after that, no buildings at all could be seen silhouetted against the orange globe of the rising sun.

  They took turns driving, trading off at the infrequent rest areas they encountered. For the first hour or so they were silent, listening to the radio, each lost in private thoughts, but when static finally overpowered even the rhythm of the music, Dion-turned the radio off. The lack of conversation, which had seemed normal and natural up to a few moments ago, suddenly seemed tense and strained, and he cleared his throat as he tried to think of something to say to his mom.

  But it was she who spoke first.

  “Things are going to be different,” she said, glancing over at him.

  “This is going to be good for both of us. We’ll be able to start over.”

  She paused. “Or rather, I’ll be able to start over.”

  He felt his face reddening, and he looked away.

  “We have to talk about this. I know it’s hard. I know it’s difficult.

  But it’s important that we communicate.” She tried to smile, almost succeeded. “Besides, I have you trapped in the car and you’re going to have to listen.”

  He smiled halfheartedly back.

  “I know I’ve disappointed you. Too many times. I’ve disappointed myself too. I haven’t always been the type of mother you wanted me to be or I wanted me to be.”

  “That’s not true—” he began.

  “It is true, and we both know it.” She smiled sadly. “I’ll tell you, there’s nothing that hurts me more than seeing the disappointment in your eyes when I lose another job. It makes me hate myself, and each time afterward I

  tell myself that I’m not going to do it again, that things are going to change, but … well, they don’t change. I don’t know why. I just can’t seem to … you know.” She looked at him. “But they’re going to change now. We’re going to start a new life in California, and I’m going to be a different person. You’ll see. I know I can’t just tell you; I have to show you. And I will. It’s all over now.

  All that’s behind me.

  It’s in the past. This is a fresh start for both of us, and we’re going to make the best of it. Okay?”
/>
  Dion nodded.

  “Okay?” she said again.

  “Okay.” He stared out the window, at the sagebrush and saguaro passing by. It sounded good, what she said, and she obviously meant it and believed it herself, but it also sounded slightly familiar and more than a little pat. He found himself wondering if she had taken it from a movie. He hated himself for thinking such a thought, but his mom had given him these sorts of reassurances before, with equal conviction, only to abandon them when she met a guy with a bottle and good buns.

  He thought of Cleveland, thought of Albuquerque.

  They were silent until they reached a rest area. Dion got out and stretched before walking around to the driver’s side. He leaned against the hood of the car. “I don’t understand why we’re moving to Napa,” he said.

  His mom, adjusting her halter top, frowned. “What do you mean, you don’t understand why? J got a job there, that’s why.”

  “But you could’ve gotten a job anywhere.”

  “You have something against Napa?”

  “No,” he admitted. “It’s just … I don’t know.”

  “Just what?”

  “Well, it seems like people usually have a reason for moving.” He glanced at her, reddening. “I mean moving to a specific place,” he added quickly. ‘They have family there or they grew up there or they really love the area or their company transfers them or … something. But we don’t really have any reason to be going.”

  “Dion,” she said, “shut up and get in the car.”

  He grinned at her. “All right,” he said. “All right.”

  *

  They spent that night in a Motel Six in Santa Barbara, staying in a single room with twin beds.

  Dion went to bed early, soon after dinner, and fell asleep instantly. He dreamed of a hallway, a long, dark hallway at the end of which was a red door. He walked slowly forward, certain that the floor under his feet was soft, slimy, and not stable, though he could hear the clicking of his shoe heels on the hard cement. He continued to walk, looking straight ahead, afraid to look to the left or to the right. When he reached the door, he didn’t want to open it, but he opened it anyway and saw behind it a stairway leading up.