Deathstalker 06 - Deathstalker Legacy

."
    "Why the corpses?" Rose said to the Spider Harps, with her customary bluntness.
    We cannot leave this place. And we're always hungry. Growth must be sustained. Tissues must be replenished. Don} shy away, little Random, We are what we were made to be, by one far greater than any of us. We have worked wonders, in our time. Our thoughts have traveled on paths unguessable to mere humans. The ELFs understand. We don't want to be found by the oversoul They would want to save us. Make us sane again. Separate us. We would rather die. We are great and marvelous, and we will not be denied our revenge, our long-delayed triumph.
    "This just gets better all the time," said Brett. "All right; why Spider Harps'!"
    The two figures slowly raised their outer arms, with loud creaking noises, until their long bony fingers could reach the delicate strands fruiting from their opened heads. And then they plucked at the taut strands of the webbing, and note after perfect note rang in the underground cavern, forming an awful, entirely inhuman music, played on the outgrowths of centuries-old minds. Brett slapped both his hands to his ears to keep the terrible music out, but the sound invaded his mind, harsh and strident and full of terrible significances. Brett dropped to his knees, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. He tried to shout something, but his voice wouldn't work. It was too small, too human, too sane. Rose moved in beside him, put a comforting hand on his shoulder, lifted her disrupter and pointed it directly at the head of the figure on the left.
    "Stop that," she said loudly. "Stop that right now."
    The Spider Harps let their hands fall away from the neuron-studded strands, and the music stopped, though the echoes seemed to linger unnaturally long on the still air. Brett slowly took his hands away from his ears. There were smears of blood on his palms. Rose hauled him to his feet again with one hand, while still keeping her disrupter carefully trained on her target.
    "You all right, Brett?" she said, without looking around.
    "I don't know. My head hurts. Makes a change. Didn't that music do anything to you?"
    Rose shrugged. "I've never understood music.
    "Figures. Bless the Lord for his small mercies and pass the ammunition." Brett glared at the Spider Harps. "I ought to let her shoot you."
    You both have very interesting minds, said one of the Spider Harps, or perhaps both, unmoved either by
    Brett's threat or the gun in Rose's hand. You have strong shields, Brett Random. And we can't make sense of you at all, Rose Constantine. You're just too . . . different. We had planned to possess you both, make you ours, take the Durandal's location from your minds, and then ride you back to him, and have you kill him slowly. For our pleasure. But since that isn't possible, we will hear your proposal What do you have to offer us?
    Brett told them. There was a long pause, and then there was a new sound in the chamber, a ragged sighing. The Spider Harps were laughing.
    We agree. Tell your master that the ELFs will work with the Durandal, on this occasion, to destroy the Paragons once and for all You may leave now. But do come again. Your minds fascinate us. We can't wait to get our teeth into them.
    Brett finally broke. He turned and ran, plunging back through the tunnel in the webbing, past the great open door, and out into the corridor beyond. Rose backed slowly out, holding her disrupter on the Spider Harps all the way. But even after they'd both left that room, that chamber, that living Hell, even after the door had slammed shut again, the dry rustling laughter of the Spider Harps followed Brett and Rose all the way to the surface.
    Hellfire Club meetings always began with an orgy. Satisfy the body and its appetites, to clear the mind.
    Indulge your every need and whim, so that the mind is free to concentrate on other matters. So that the subtler joys of plotting and treason are not overshadowed by the more immediate pleasures of the flesh.
    The devils of the Hellfire Club made it a point of principle to deny themselves nothing.
    The huge hall's floor was covered from wall to wall with cushions and silks and all kinds of textures that might please. The air was thick with heady perfumes and generated pheromones, and raucous music issued from the blindfolded orchestra tucked away in one corner. There was all kind of drink and every kind of drug, and everywhere . .. bodies, moving together, clothed and unclothed as tastes and preferences