Free The Devil of Echo Lake by Douglas Wynne Page A

the catch, Rail had revealed surprising strength. He steadied Billy and released him.
    There was a scraping sound of flint and steel—a lighter sparking a flame. Rail’s shadow-painted face floated in the darkness, drawing on a cigarillo. The producer held the flame aloft, raised an eyebrow at Billy, and exhaled pungent smoke through his nostrils. He tilted his head toward the floor. It was hard to tell for sure by the wavering orange light, but before Rail capped the lighter, Billy thought he could discern a thickness in the consistency of the liquid running down the grated gutter at the margin of the tunnel. Not dirty water. Blood. The smell of iron in the air suddenly made sense.
    Rail said, “Watch your step.”
    Billy froze in place. Was it human blood?
    As if reading his mind, Rail said, “It’s not exactly legal or kosher, but trust, me it’s the best steak on the hoof you’ll ever try. They have fresh oysters, too. Keeps you young, consuming things that still have life force in them.”
    They walked on and came into the blue-lit room where a waiter was parading a drugged bull before a table of sharp dressed, clean-cut young men seated with an older woman whose place at the head of the table gave Billy the idea that they worked for her in some capacity. Rail nodded at her as they passed through the room. Billy couldn’t tell if she smiled at him, or if her face was permanently rigged with Botox injections.
    “Don’t stare,” Rail muttered. “It’s not polite.” He put his hand on Billy’s shoulder and guided him to a tread-plate spiral staircase that descended from a corner of the floor.
    The last thing Billy saw before the floor eclipsed his view was the waiter drawing a long, thin blade from his sleeve, and dipping it down his throat like a sword swallower at a circus. The sight of the docile bull made Billy think of the rum Rail had given him on the ride down from Boston. Was he drugged? He couldn’t tell. He felt light-headed, only half in his body. The alcohol, the drive, this dreadful place, the hypnotic voice of his guide—all of it was extinguishing lucidity.
    At the bottom of the stairs, Billy found a black velvet curtain with a heavy, silver silk rope. He tugged on it. The curtain parted in the middle, and from behind him, Rail said, “I called ahead and ordered for you.”
    Billy laughed as he took in the view. It was a harem. The room was made to resemble a large tent. Tapestries were draped from the ceiling and walls. Big, square velvet pillows covered the floor atop several layers of overlapping Persian rugs. The only light came from a star-shaped tin lantern hanging from a silver chain in the center of the room, its myriad pinprick holes emitting the golden rays of a candle burning within.
    Six naked young women lay sprawled around the room on the pillows. Billy’s laughter tapered off when he noticed that the reason they were all so immediately, strikingly beautiful to him was because they all looked like Kate. Even by the uneven candle light, he could tell that none of them looked exactly like her twin, but they all shared her basic body type, her height, her mane of loose, curly red hair, her breasts. One had her eyes—another, her hands—on a third, the lips were just right. The illusion was good enough to cause a tightening of his black jeans. The girl with the perfect hair relieved that discomfort by unbuttoning and unzipping them.
    She led him with a gentle grip into the center of the room where he fell to his knees on the pillows, just below the star lantern and another dangling silk rope. Now the Kates were stripping him of his jacket, shirt and everything else down to his socks with astonishing efficiency. He wondered if they were so well coordinated in everything they did.
    They were.
    Two tongues fluttered at his earlobes while two more did the same at his nipples. Then the mouths at his ears moved down to his nipples to replace the other pair, which in turn brushed across