In Death 05 - Ceremony in Death

nerves pumped back to life. "Yes, they do."
    "And Alice. I was almost sorry when we had to end that. Tormenting her day after day was so arousing. They way she would jump at a cat or a bird. Droids. Easily programmed. We used the cat that night, had it speak to her with my voice. We were waiting for her, we had plans for her, but she ran into the street and killed herself instead.
    "So we'll do to you what we'd planned for her. Here we are now."
    As the car veered toward the curb, Eve tested her hand, forced it into a fist. She struck out, backhanded, felt the satisfying connection with flesh and bone. Then the door was wrenched open behind her, hands clenched around her throat.
    And the world went black.
    "She should be here by now." Though her apartment was filled with people and noise and wildly spinning lights, Mavis pouted. "She promised."
    "She'll be right along." Roarke managed to avoid being butted by a red-robed bull, lifted a brow at the manic call of "Toro!" An angel spun by, desperately dancing with a headless corpse.
    "I really wanted her to see what Leonardo and I have done with the place." Proud, Mavis turned a quick circle. "She'd never recognize her old digs, would she?"
    Roarke scanned the magenta walls with their uninhibited splashes and streaks of cerise and periwinkle. The furniture consisted of heaps of glossy pillows and glass tubes. In keeping with the event, streamers of orange and black swayed everywhere. Skeletons danced, witches flew, and black cats arched.
    "No." He could agree with complete honesty. "She'd never recognize her old apartment. You've done... wonders."
    "We just love it. And we've got the best landlord on planet." She kissed him enthusiastically.
    While he hoped her purple lipstick hadn't transferred to his face, he smiled. "My favorite tenant."
    "Could you call her, Roarke?" With fingers tipped the same shade, she plucked at his sleeve. "Just give her a little goose."
    "Of course. Go play hostess, and don't worry. I'll get her here."
    "Thanks." She rolled off on glittery, red-wheeled shoes.
    Roarke turned with the idea of hunting up somewhere quiet to make his call, then blinked at the apparition. "Peabody?"
    Her elaborately painted face fell. "You recognized me."
    "Barely." With a faint smile, he stepped back to take a full measure.
    Long blonde hair swirled over her shoulders, down her back, over the tiny scallop-shaped bra that covered her breasts. From the waist down, she was encased in shimmering green.
    "You make a lovely mermaid."
    "Thanks." She perked up again. "It took me forever to rig myself out."
    "How the hell do you walk?"
    "I've got a cutout for my feet, the skirt of the tail covers it." She wiggled back. "Pretty restrictive to movement though. Where's Dallas?" She twisted her head to search. "I want her to get a load of it."
    "She isn't here yet."
    "No?" Because she hadn't worn her watch, she peered down at his. "It's almost ten. She was only going to stake out Isis's place for a couple hours then come straight here."
    "I was about to call her."
    "Good idea." Peabody tried to ignore the prickle of nerves. "She's probably stalling. She hates stuff like this."
    "Yes, you're right." But she'd have been there for Mavis, he thought as he slipped into the corner. And for him.
    When her 'link went unanswered, he bypassed security and called through her communicator. There was a humming buzz that indicated it was on standby, but it went unanswered.
    "Something's wrong," he said when he stepped back up to Peabody. "She isn't picking up."
    "Let me get my bag, try her communicator."
    "I already tried it," he said shortly. "She isn't picking up. She was staking out Spirit Quest?''
    "Yeah, she wanted to talk to Isis... let me get out of this costume. We'll go check it out."
    "I can't wait for you." He pushed his way through the crowd as Peabody shuffled and looked for Feeney.
    She thought it was a dream at first when she woke, groggy and hot. Her head spun, and when she tried to lift a hand to it, she found she couldn't move.
    Panic rushed in first. Her hands were bound. He'd often tied her hands when she was a child. Tied her to the bed, clamped a hand over her mouth to hold in her screams when he raped her.
    She pulled at them, felt the vague, faraway pain of the straps cutting into her wrists. Her breath sobbed out as she struggled. Her legs were secured as well, tied down at the ankles so that her thighs were spread.
    She whipsawed her head, trying to see. Shadows