Free Ghostwalkers by Jonathan Maberry Page A

voice was soft and she had a faint German accent. “Would you like to come in?”
    â€œIf there’s cold beer, a hot bath, and a rare steak,” said Grey, “then we surely would.”
    â€œA bath, a beer, and a bite?” laughed Mircalla. “And maybe a bed?”
    â€œI haven’t slept in a bed in so long I forget what a pillow’s for.”
    â€œSlept? Lordy-lord, gentlemen, surely you didn’t come here to sleep.”
    Everyone laughed again. Same flavor as before. Once again Grey was sure there was some bottom layer to her joke that he wasn’t quite grasping.
    â€œI think we can accommodate whatever pleases you,” said Mircalla. “If it’s your wish to enter, then come on in—we can provide everything a man could ever hope to want.”
    Before he could comment on it, Mircalla turned, shimmied her way between them, hooked an arm in each of theirs, and began guiding them toward the batwing door.
    As they stepped across the threshold Grey flinched. It was a strange feeling, but he did not know what he was reacting to. The brothel was well-lighted and cool, there were aromas of perfume and cooking meat, of beer and firewood. The women inside were all beautiful and they all smiled at the two men.
    So, why, he wondered, did he suddenly feel that he wanted to run?
    To go back outside.
    Into the sunlight.
    Mircalla’s arm was locked around his and he felt that he was not so much walking into the place as being pulled.
    Behind him the batwing doors slapped shut with a loud, hollow crack.

 
    Chapter Fifteen
    Grey soon forgot his unease. Mircalla ushered them into an alcove furnished with gorgeous chairs decorated with red pillows. Chinese tapestries hung from the walls, their delicate floral patterns edged with gold fringe. Candles burned in silver sconces and there was a Turkish brass table laden with bowls of fresh fruits and tall glasses of amber beer.
    Mircalla detached herself from the two men and pushed them down into chairs. She snapped her fingers and two women entered the alcove, both of them carrying ornately patterned plates heavy with steaks and vegetables from which steam rose like pale snakes.
    Grey wanted to ask how the food could have been prepared so quickly, but before he could a crystal beer glass was pressed into his hand by a brunette with burning blue eyes.
    â€œThis will wash away that desert dust,” she said. “Drink … go on, drink deep.”
    He did.
    The beer was ice cold and it felt like liquid paradise as it slid down his parched throat. The woman touched the bottom of the glass and guided it so that he leaned back and drained it. She took it and refilled it. Suddenly he had a knife and fork in his hands—both heavy and ornate—and he was cutting into the tenderest piece of three-inch thick steak he’d ever seen. Blood oozed hot and red from the meat, and when he took his first bite he thought he would cry. It was perfect. Beyond perfect. So hot, so well cooked, so bloody and delicious.
    â€œOh, God…,” he moaned.
    Out of the corner of his eye he saw Looks Away with a blonde on his lap. She was cutting his steak for him and feeding him pieces she held between thumb and forefinger. Her nails were long and painted a dark and gleaming red.
    He cut another piece of his own steak.
    And drank more of the delicious beer.
    He was so dehydrated that the alcohol went straight to his head. The alcove seemed to swirl around him as he ate and drank, ate and drank. Drunkenness came over him in waves, distorting everything. With each new glass of beer the colors around him changed. Became brighter, more garish. There was music somewhere and at first it was soft and subtle, but soon it became grating and harsh.
    Off to his right, somewhere else, somewhere down a hole or on the other side of the world, he heard a voice. Looks Away. Laughing. Speaking nonsense words.
    Then crying out.
    In anger first.
    Then