a distinct dull thud audible even in the street below. Gregg heard the sound of breaking glass and a wail: he opened his eyes to see a body strike the hood of a car and topple into the street. The body was bent at an obscene angle, the spine broken. Mariu was looking down from the window above.
Yes, that was good. That was tasty. This will taste good as well.
Puppetman let the rage slowly fade as Mariu ducked back inside. Now he toyed with the feelings for Cara. He diluted the binding respect, let the affection dim. You need her. You've always wanted her. You looked at those hidden breasts as she walked by and wondered how they would feel, all silken and warm. You wondered at the hidden place between her legs, how it would taste, how it would feel. You
knew it would be hot, slick with desire. You'd stroke youself at night and think of her writhing underneath you, moaning as you thrust.
Now Puppetman turned derisive, mocking, modifying passion with the residue of Mariu's anger. And you knew that she'd never want you, not looking the way you do, not the joker with the needled quills. No. Her body couldn't be for you. She'd laugh about you, making coarse jokes. When Joao possessed her, he'd laugh and say, "This would never be Mariu; Mariu would never take pleasure from me."
Cara screamed. Gregg heard cloth tear and felt Mariu's uncontrolled lust. He could imagine it. He could imagine him bearing her down roughly, uncaring that his barbs gouged her unprotected skin, looking only for release and imagined vengeance in the violent, agonizing rape.
Enough, he thought, quietly. Let it be enough. But Puppetman only laughed, staying with Mariu until orgasm threw his mind into chaos. Then Puppetman, sated himself, withdrew. He laughed hilariously, letting Mariu's emotions drop to normal, let the joker look in horror at what he'd done.
Already there were more shouts from the building, and Gregg heard the sirens in the distance. He opened his eyes-gasping, blinking-and ran.
Inside, Puppetman eased himself into his accustomed place and quietly let Gregg place the bars around him. Satisfied, he slept.
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 26, 1986, SYRIA:
Misha sat bolt upright, sweat-drenched from the dream. She had evidently cried out in fear, for Sayyid was struggling to sit up in his own bed.
"Wallah, woman! What is it?" Sayyid was hewn from a heroic mold, fully ten foot tall and muscled like a god. In repose he was inspiring: a dark, Egyptian giant, a myth given life. Sayyid was the weapon in Nur al-Allah's hands; terrorists such as al-Muezzin were the hidden blades. When Sayyid stood before the faithful, towering over all, they could see in Nor al-Allah's general the visible symbol of Allah's protection.
In Sayyid's keen mind were the strategies that had defeated the better-armed and supplied Israeli troops in the Golan Heights, when the world had thought Nor al-Allah and his followers hopelessly outnumbered. He had orchestrated the rioting in Damascus when al-Assad's ruling Ba'th Party had tried to move away from Qu'ranic law, allowing the Nur sect to forge an alliance with the Sunni and Alawite sects. He craftily advised Nur al-Allah to send the faithful into Beirut when the Christian Druze leaders had threatened to overthrow the reigning Islamic party. When the Swarm Mother had sent her deadly offspring to Earth the year before, it was Sayyid who had protected Nor al-Allah and the faithful. In his mind was victory. For the jihad Allah had given Sayyid hikma, divine wisdom.
It was a well-kept secret that Sayyid's heroic appearance was also a curse. Nor al-Allah had decreed that jokers were sinners, branded by God. They had fallen from shari'a, the true path. They were destined to be slaves of the true faithful at best; at worst they would be exterminated. It would not have been wise for anyone to see that Nor al-Allah's brilliant strategist was nearly a cripple, that Sayyid's mighty, rippling thrws could barely support the crushing weight of his body. While his height had doubled, his mass had increased nearly fourfold.
Sayyid was always carefully posed. He moved slowly if at all. When he must go any distance, he rode.
Men who had seen Sayyid in the baths whispered that he was as heroically proportioned everywhere. Misha alone knew that his manhood was as crippled as the rest of him. For the failure of his appearance Sayyid could only blame Allah, and he did not dare. For his inability to stay aroused