Bride of the Stone: Circle of Nine Trilogy 2

by Josephine Pennicott

  Her apartment was crammed with books. In every space Simeon looked, there was a book or pamphlet of some description. Rudmay walked around caressing them, acting as if they were personalities, but Simeon privately thought they were overpriced dust collectors and that she couldn’t possibly read them all. When he had pointed this out to her, she had flown into a rage and insisted that he was missing the point: books weren’t just to be read. Which only goes to show she was a bit cracked after all, Simeon thought privately. But there was no denying he owed his life to her, and he still found himself dazed that one of the Tremite Scribes had rescued him. He, Simeon, of no known last four names, had been rescued by a celebrity.

  Rudmay had brought him back to her luxurious apartment, which was in walking distance of the harbour. The tiny tree-lined street contained some of the most exclusive addresses in New Baffin but, looking at the mess her small apartment contained, Simeon would never have guessed.

  ‘Why don’t you get yourself a server?’ He had been repeating the question from the moment he had stepped inside its cluttered interior.

  ‘And what? Have all of New Baffin knowing all my secrets?’ she had demanded.

  ‘What secrets, Rudmay? All you do is work and read your books!’ Simeon replied. He was both frustrated and intrigued by somebody who didn’t have to venture outside her own door to be entertained.

  He had been at Rudmay’s for three moon-ups before the shock of what had happened to him broke, and then he had burst into tears, remembering that tiny reptilian head and immense body as it lunged towards him in the water. Rudmay and her Athena owl, Horus, had returned from work to find him sobbing, head bowed and shoulders heaving, and had sat watching him until the outburst had ceased.

  ‘It’s the shock, Simeon,’ she had said gently. ‘You have to cry it out of your body.’

  ‘How could they have done it?’ Simeon wailed. ‘How could they have killed Kaliegraves in the way that they did?’

  ‘The histories of all the known worlds are filled with similar tales,’ Rudmay said matter-of-factly. ‘We know of other similar energies, but the Lightcasters are the best known of the malignant forces. If we only had more knowledge, then we might know how to defeat them. Energies that incite evil, energies that incite good. We are all vulnerable to them, Simeon. We must be ever vigilant. As Selexa, the cat poet, said in The Hook of Cat Lore:

  Evil, foul evil

  Twin brother of Good;

  From Good springs Evil

  And in the heart of Evil rests Good.

  The Moons favour both with their light.

  Simeon smiled. ‘You are a strange one, Rudmay.’

  Rudmay fluffed her shocking pink hair out in front of one of the hundreds of mirrors that adorned the house, while Horus imitated her preening in one of his little gold mirrors. The bright-pink hair trend was already being imitated by the young girls on the streets of New Baffin. Even Horus had some of his front feathers dyed pink.

  Simeon found himself intimidated by the Athena owl. He had seen him over the Turns of the Wheel in the society pages, and there were many among Simeon’s acquaintances who liked to poke fun at the dandy owl. But there was no denying the intelligence that lurked in his eyes, and Simeon could not escape the uncomfortable feeling that the owl resented his intrusion into his house, despite Rudmay’s insistence he remain with them until she was certain he was safe from the mob that had attacked him.

  The only two things that did seem to adorn the house, Simeon thought, were mirrors and owl sculptures. Both Rudmay and Horus seemed to spend a lot of time looking at themselves.

  ‘I have to go out tonight, Simeon,’ she said. ‘An art opening, a series of modern sculptures that I have to attend. Would you like to escort me?’ Simeon almost refused, but suddenly changed his mind, and Rudmay looked pleased. ‘I loathe these occasions,’ she said. ‘But it’s bread-and-butter work for my column. Hopefully, I’ll be able to sneak away quickly, so I can come home and study the ancient Greek writers.’

  ‘You really like to live dangerously, don’t you, Rudmay?’ Simeon smiled.

  *

  The art exhibition was exactly as Simeon had expected it would be. Filled with gushing, overfed, over-educated people he felt he had little in common with. The sculptures were a disappointment: modern representations of Aphrodite that looked to Simeon like wooden cubes of stone with a curious bulge in the centre. He had even mistaken a server for another piece in the collection, much to Rudmay’s chagrin. There were a few paintings on display that were slightly more interesting, but the violent slashes of purples and blacks didn’t really convey to Simeon the Storm over New Baffin as the artist had hoped. Rudmay and Horus, of course, were snapped up by a group of overdressed people who were eager for gossip on the Scribes, and also details of the latest series of murders of elderly men and women.

  Simeon was relieved to see he was not the only hermaphrodite attending the exhibition. There were quite a few in the gallery, but far more grandly dressed than he was, and they looked disdainfully down their noses at him. He might have arrived with Rudmay, but they were not easily impressed by even Tremite Scribe celebrities, and their expressions told him he still had to prove himself in this elite artistic community.

  An Islae couple stood in front of him, examining a painting earnestly. ‘Well, I ask you!’ Simeon heard one of them say indignantly. ‘They call this art! Why, an Islaet could do a better job. Storm over New Baffin, indeed! Faecal matter over New Baffin, more like!’ His partner hushed him quickly, and Simeon grinned to himself.

  Flashbulbs exploded, and he saw Rudmay posing happily with her cronies. The New Baffin Daily photographers shot reel after reel of the socialite group. How did she stand it — the same old superficial small talk, the same old false smiles? A Crone walked past, wearing a large pentacle around her neck, and he automatically bowed his head respectfully to her. She had a small ergom on her shoulder, his bright eyes glinting as he surveyed the artistic crowd.

  Suddenly a look of fear shot across the ergom’s face, and he began to gibber to the Crone. She nodded, her lined face serious, as she hurriedly began to exit the gallery, long dark skirts swishing around her. What on Eronth had caused the ergom to panic? Simeon craned his head to look around, confused. The art was woeful, but surely not so bad as to cause that reaction?

  ‘Simeon!’ Rudmay signalled to him from across the gallery. ‘Come and have your photo taken for the New Baffin Daily!’ Obediently Simeon went to stand in the middle of the perfumed group. Rudmay’s arm snaked around him, and Horus’s wing batted in his eye as they posed for the camera, smiling widely. The flashbulb exploded, and he blinked, trying to clear his eyes. Then Simeon saw him.

  He was standing, watching the group. Simeon had not recognised him at first because he blended so easily into the crowd. Dressed in black, he wore a large belt with a buckle of a dragonhead on it. His boots shone, and he had a long ponytail. There was nothing that particularly distinguished him from the rest of the crowd, but Simeon knew him instantly for who he was and, more disturbing to the Herm, he appeared to recognise Simeon as well. He smiled briefly when he saw Simeon looking at him, shrugged an elegant shoulder, and went back to studying the painting he had been looking at as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

  ‘Rudmay! It’s him!’ Simeon hissed, digging his nails into her arms.

  ‘Who?’ Rudmay said, looking over the crowd. ‘Who?’

  ‘The Lightcaster! He’s here!’ Simeon whispered, almost beside himself with fear. ‘Over there!’ Rudmay narrowed her eyes, looking at the back of the Lightcaster as he continued to move around the gallery.

  ‘Are you sure? Did you get a good look at him?’

  ‘Yes, and he got a good look at me!’ Simeon cried, nearly oblivious to his surroundings in his panic. The socialites began to glance curiously in their direction.

  ‘Pull yourself together!’ Rudmay said. ‘Get another look at him. Make sure he’s not just another critic or something!’<
br />
  Simeon had broken out in perspiration. He felt faintly nauseous, and knew he didn’t have to look again at the Lightcaster to recognise him for what he was. Granted, he looked slightly different from the last time he had seen him. He was more bloated in the face and body. There was no evidence of the scales that previously had covered him, but he could easily have used Glamour to disguise them.

  More telling was the manner in which the atmosphere in the gallery swiftly changed. A tangible heaviness now hung over the air. The socialites began to look slightly glazed, as if they had eaten too much. The enjolis, who had been singing noisily in the gallery garden outdoors, had fallen eerily silent. A woman, highly made up, and with bleached blonde hair cut into spikes, glanced around. ‘Did anybody see that Crone who was just here? My dears, wouldn’t you think they would keep off the streets with all those murders happening? She obviously has no regard for her own safety!’

  ‘Perhaps they simply don’t care,’ a rat-faced little man with three eyes said as he took a glass of raspberry wine from a server. ‘When you reach a certain age, things like personal safety just don’t have the same priority.’

  There were nods of agreement all around. Simeon looked at Rudmay uneasily. He didn’t like the way the conversation was disintegrating. He could see the Lightcaster from the corner of his eye, and he seemed to be growing more bloated every second. He was feeding on them, Simeon realised. He had gorged himself recently on the murders in New Baffin, and now he was beginning to feed again.

  A pretty young Geldoz snorted through her large nostrils, nodding her horns vigorously. ‘She shouldn’t have come out at all!’ she said. ‘It’s dangerous at the moment. She could attract . . . things.’ She ended vaguely, staring into space.

  ‘Come on!’ Rudmay grabbed him by the arm, making for the exit. Simeon didn’t need to be told twice. The negative energy in the room was intensifying. He could actually see an ominous black energy beginning to form around them. He grabbed Rudmay’s arm, with Horus perched precariously on her shoulder, and they half-ran through the gallery and out the main doors. At the front, where vocal modern sculptures welcomed people to the New Baffin Modern Art Gallery, they nearly tripped over the artist, who was sitting moodily on the step, finishing a glass of Baffin ale while a server waited. ‘Is it over yet, Rudmay?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘No, Ashwillom. But get out of here quickly! Run for your life while you still can!’

  The artist went pale and placed his drink down. ‘Great Goddess’s tits! Did they hate my work that much?’ he stammered, beginning to run after Rudmay and Simeon.

  The Lightcaster smiled as he walked slowly around the art gallery. His powers were increasing every day. It was exhilarating! Not since the European Renaissance had he felt this much energy coursing through him. He admired the work of art that he had contributed to the gallery, all the tiresome socialites he had posed in various stages of movement. They were semi-frozen, but still their mouths attempted to move slowly as their brains spewed out their poison.

  ‘If you think of it properly, it’s almost euthanasia.’

  ‘For too long, the Crones and witches have held too much power. Why do we tolerate them?’

  ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. Even the primitive Bluite tribes knew that basic truth.’

  The Lightcaster smiled. This was far more interesting than the art he had previously been looking at. It was fortunate he had managed to sniff the Herm out before he had fled with that meddling fashion-plate Scribe. But he would be able to locate him easily, now that his scent was still in his nostrils. The Scribe was a nuisance, but easily crushed. He was more disappointed that he had lost the Crone; the sly old bitch had sniffed him quickly, and left. Oh well, the night was still young. He moved towards the group of living statues, the hair on his back prickling in excitement.

  As his power increased, so did his appetite. The snarling beast within him demanded to be fed. He should be patient, play with them, track down the Crone who had escaped him tonight and set them onto her. But he was hungry now. He let his Glamour slip. His fangs bared and his skin pushed outwards into scales that formed across his body. Black fluid began to ooze from his ears and nostrils. The socialites continued to talk in nonsense fragments, their eyes glowing red.

  ‘Look!’ the Lightcaster screamed suddenly. ‘A witch!’

  Each looked to the other with accusing eyes. They began to move towards each other, screaming insults, throwing drinks at one another. Fists were flying and nails were reaching for eyes. All they could see when they looked at people who had been sociable drinking companions a few moments before were snarling witches, and they were bent on destroying them. The Lightcaster began to grunt with pleasure, noting the hair being pulled out by the roots, and blood flowing from an eye cut with broken glass.

  ‘More,’ he pleaded. ‘Give me more! The witch still breathes.’

  Thankfully they understood, and began to increase their violence.

  Screams of pain filled the gallery as they began to tear each other to pieces. The servers stood silently among the chaos, still offering glasses of wine and nut flans. The blonde woman with the spiky hair fell to the ground, her dress torn from her. The crowd seized her moment of vulnerability and began kicking and tearing at her with their nails. Encouraged by the howling crowd, the Geldoz woman knelt over her and savagely ripped her stomach open with her horns.

  ‘The witch is dead!’ The cry of triumph was barely over before they began to turn on each other. The Lightcaster moaned his satisfaction, recalling with pleasure his time at the magnificent Roman amphitheatres. In a way this was even more impressive, because these people were normally so placid, yet he had set them at each others’ throats so quickly. The currents running through his body felt divine, throbbing, hot, feeding the insatiable energy within him. He stepped carefully over a puddle of blood, not wanting to get his boots dirty. He smiled to himself when he saw the society photographer still taking photos of the crowd as they bayed for blood. This was one series of photos that was never going to make the New Baffin Daily. Nobody here tonight was leaving alive.

  When Rudmay, Horus and Simeon got home, they were too wound up to sleep and were still up talking at dawn.

  ‘If a Lightcaster is here, we will need to summon help,’ Rudmay said. ‘If he has already infiltrated New Baffin, we will have to look outside for guidance. The only person in Eronth with that sort of power is Khartyn the Crone. She was in New Baffin recently, staying with Kaliegraves. No doubt she has already scryed news of her death. I cannot leave the city, Simeon. As you know, it is forbidden for the Scribes to leave, and although Horus and I are guilty of breaking the rule, it’s impossible for me to sneak away in the present climate. I am going to have to follow events closely now. It’s up to you to make the journey and locate Khartyn. I feel that she is close to Faia village at the moment, so she shouldn’t prove difficult to locate.’

  Although Simeon knew the sense of Rudmay’s words, he was still unhappy to be leaving her. Despite their many differences, he had quickly formed a strong friendship with the stylish Scribe. Although he had known their living arrangement was only temporary, it was still a wrench to have to leave so soon. Also, and he hated to admit this to himself, he was afraid of the Lightcaster. He had smelt him, and made a mental note of his essence. The Lightcaster knew him. If he came after him . . .

  ‘Don’t think of it,’ Rudmay said sharply. ‘As the great Old Baffin writer, Akom, said, “He that listens to the treacherous ghosts of fear suffers the affliction of believing his terrible dreams.”’

  Simeon could not have cared less what a long-dead writer said, but knew Rudmay would be horrified if he voiced that sentiment.

  ‘Why can’t this Crone just see the Lightcaster in her scry?’ he asked. ‘Or perhaps we could send her a message bird.’ His voice trailed off when he saw the expression on Rudmay’s face.

  ‘There is no choice,’ Rudmay said. ‘Eronth is in danger, I can sense it eve
rywhere. The land is whispering its discontent. We have to banish the Lightcaster from Eronth before his poison spreads. Now that blood has been spilt, the tekti that normally holds the peace we have enjoyed has been shattered. If the Dreamers are awoken, we will all be lost.’

  She began looking through one of the many files in a wooden tallboy. ‘Somewhere among this mess, I have a pass you can use on the sky mobile,’ she said. ‘One of the many freebies given to me that I can never use. Now, where is it? Aah! Here it is!’ She flourished the green-and-gold ticket in front of Simeon.

  ‘It’s your destiny, Simeon,’ she said quietly. ‘We are both pawns in this scene, and must play the prescribed parts.’

  There was sadness in her eyes when she passed him the ticket. ‘I should know,’ she said. ‘For I translated the original prophecy for the book.’

  Simeon watched her, feeling uneasy.

  ‘How will it end, Rudmay?’ he said. ‘Have you translated that?’

  She avoided his eyes, and did not answer.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  This place is terrible.

  — Inscribed above the entrance at Rennes-le-Chateau, taken from Genesis 28: 17

  Leura, Blue Mountains, Australia

  Connie Erskine was furious when she left the schoolyard. Trembling, she pulled out a battered packet of cigarettes from her blazer pocket, and lit one up. Too bad if Bullfrog Ellis drove past and saw her. ‘I’d love to kill that old bitch,’ she said out loud. For a second it was as if the sun had turned to purple, and she blinked. Shit, the nicotine must have gone straight to her head. She giggled, taking long drags on it, pretending it was a joint.

  ‘Hello, Connie.’

  The voice behind her made her jump. She panicked for a second. Fuck, it was one of those freaks from the spook house. ‘How do you know my name?’ she scowled. The freak smiled, and a small chill ran up Connie’s spine.

  ‘I know everything, Connie.’ The wind suddenly got up, whipping Connie’s hair around her head, obscuring her vision, as if snakes twisted around her. She took a step backwards. ‘Yeah, sure,’ she said, sensing she was being made fun of. She felt suddenly childlike. A strong, shameful desire for her mother and father came over her, and she wanted to flee. ‘There is no need to fear me,’ the freak continued. ‘Quite the contrary. I have come to give you great gifts.’