Read Online The Hellbound Heart by Clive Barker - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Clive Barker
Tags: SF
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them. For an instant she was almost overwhelmed by self-revulsion. All that she had done, and dreamed of doing, in the last few days rose up in front of her: a parade of seductions that had ended in death-all for this death that she had hoped so fervently would end in seduction. She was as damned as he, she thought; no fouler ambition could nest in his head than presently cooed and fluttered in hers.
Well...it was done.
"Heal me," he whispered to her. The harshness had gone from his voice. He spoke like a lover. "Heal me...please."
"I will," she said. "I promise you I will."
"And then we'll be together."
She frowned.
"What about Rory?"
"We're brothers, under the skin," Frank said. "I'll make him see the wisdom of this, the miracle of it. You don't belong to him Julia. Not anymore."
"No," she said. It was true.
"We belong to each other. That's what you want isn't it?"
"It's what I want."
"You know I think if I'd had you I wouldn't have despaired," he said to her. "Wouldn't have given away my body and soul so cheaply."
"Cheaply?"
"For pleasure. For mere sensuality. In you..." here he moved toward her again. This time his words held her; she didn't retreat. "In you I might have discovered some reason to live."
"I'm here," she said. Without thinking, she reached across and touched him. The body was hot, and damp. His pulse seemed to be everywhere. In every tender bud of nerve, in each burgeoning sinew. The contact excited her. It was as if, until this moment, she had never quite believed him to be real. Now it was incontestable. She had made this man, or remade him, used her wit and her cunning to give him substance. The thrill she felt, touching this too vulnerable body, was the thrill of ownership.
"This is the most dangerous time," he told her. "Before now, I could hide myself. I was practically nothing at all. But not anymore.
"No. I've thought of that."
"We must be done with it quickly. I must be strong and whole, at whatever cost. You agree?"
"Of course."
"After that there'll be an end to the waiting, Julia."
The pulse in him seemed to quicken at the thought.
Then he was kneeling in front of her. His unfinished hands were at her hips, then his mouth.
Forsaking the dregs of her distaste, she put her hand upon his head, and felt the hair-silken, like a baby's-and the shell of his skull beneath. He had learned nothing of delicacy since last he'd held her. But despair had taught her the fine art of squeezing blood from stones; with time she would have love from this hateful thing, or know the reason why.
EIGHT
1
There was thunder that night. A storm without rain, which made the air smell of steel.
Kirsty had never slept well. Even as a child, though her mother had known lullabies enough to pacify nations, the girl had never found slumber easy. It wasn't that she had bad dreams; or at least none that lingered until morning. It was that sleep itself-the act of closing the eyes and relinquishing control of her consciousness-was something she was temperamentally unsuited to.
Tonight, with the thunder so loud and the lightning so bright, she was happy. She had an excuse to forsake her tangled bed, and drink tea, and watch the spectacle from her window.
It gave her time to think, as well-time to turn over the problem that had vexed her since leaving the house on Lodovico Street. But she was still no nearer an answer.
One particular doubt nagged. Suppose she was wrong about what she'd seen? Suppose she'd misconstrued the evidence, and Julia had a perfectly good explanation? She would lose Rory at a stroke.
And yet, how could she remain silent? She couldn't bear to think of the woman laughing behind his back, exploiting his gentility, his naïveté. The thought made her blood boil.
The only other option was to wait and watch, to see if she could gain some incontrovertible evidence. If her worst suppositions were then confirmed, she would have no choice but to tell Rory all she'd seen.
Yes. That was the
Well...it was done.
"Heal me," he whispered to her. The harshness had gone from his voice. He spoke like a lover. "Heal me...please."
"I will," she said. "I promise you I will."
"And then we'll be together."
She frowned.
"What about Rory?"
"We're brothers, under the skin," Frank said. "I'll make him see the wisdom of this, the miracle of it. You don't belong to him Julia. Not anymore."
"No," she said. It was true.
"We belong to each other. That's what you want isn't it?"
"It's what I want."
"You know I think if I'd had you I wouldn't have despaired," he said to her. "Wouldn't have given away my body and soul so cheaply."
"Cheaply?"
"For pleasure. For mere sensuality. In you..." here he moved toward her again. This time his words held her; she didn't retreat. "In you I might have discovered some reason to live."
"I'm here," she said. Without thinking, she reached across and touched him. The body was hot, and damp. His pulse seemed to be everywhere. In every tender bud of nerve, in each burgeoning sinew. The contact excited her. It was as if, until this moment, she had never quite believed him to be real. Now it was incontestable. She had made this man, or remade him, used her wit and her cunning to give him substance. The thrill she felt, touching this too vulnerable body, was the thrill of ownership.
"This is the most dangerous time," he told her. "Before now, I could hide myself. I was practically nothing at all. But not anymore.
"No. I've thought of that."
"We must be done with it quickly. I must be strong and whole, at whatever cost. You agree?"
"Of course."
"After that there'll be an end to the waiting, Julia."
The pulse in him seemed to quicken at the thought.
Then he was kneeling in front of her. His unfinished hands were at her hips, then his mouth.
Forsaking the dregs of her distaste, she put her hand upon his head, and felt the hair-silken, like a baby's-and the shell of his skull beneath. He had learned nothing of delicacy since last he'd held her. But despair had taught her the fine art of squeezing blood from stones; with time she would have love from this hateful thing, or know the reason why.
EIGHT
1
There was thunder that night. A storm without rain, which made the air smell of steel.
Kirsty had never slept well. Even as a child, though her mother had known lullabies enough to pacify nations, the girl had never found slumber easy. It wasn't that she had bad dreams; or at least none that lingered until morning. It was that sleep itself-the act of closing the eyes and relinquishing control of her consciousness-was something she was temperamentally unsuited to.
Tonight, with the thunder so loud and the lightning so bright, she was happy. She had an excuse to forsake her tangled bed, and drink tea, and watch the spectacle from her window.
It gave her time to think, as well-time to turn over the problem that had vexed her since leaving the house on Lodovico Street. But she was still no nearer an answer.
One particular doubt nagged. Suppose she was wrong about what she'd seen? Suppose she'd misconstrued the evidence, and Julia had a perfectly good explanation? She would lose Rory at a stroke.
And yet, how could she remain silent? She couldn't bear to think of the woman laughing behind his back, exploiting his gentility, his naïveté. The thought made her blood boil.
The only other option was to wait and watch, to see if she could gain some incontrovertible evidence. If her worst suppositions were then confirmed, she would have no choice but to tell Rory all she'd seen.
Yes. That was the
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