by Alma Katsu
I trotted down the hall as noiselessly as possible and peeked around the corner. The red runner stretched away from me, beckoningly, down the new hallway. This hall was longer, one of those fun house ones that seemed to go off into infinity. I tiptoed up to the first door and pressed my ear against it: there was silence within. I gripped the doorknob, and opened the door.
It opened onto a great, whistling canyon, its walls of craggy yellow rock climbing to the pale blue sky. The canyon itself was narrow, barely wide enough for a man to pass through. I didn’t recognize it at first, but as I crept along the trail, running my hands over the pebbly walls, I remembered the Hindu Kush and my adventures there with Savva during the Great Game, living among the Afghans.
What a strange place the underworld was turning out to be, not nearly as frightening as I’d feared, the episode with Sophia notwithstanding. It was like getting to live forever in your memories, reuniting with old friends over and over, revisiting the places you’d lived. Take this place, for instance: if I was in the Hindu Kush, that meant I might be about to meet up with Abdul, the wonderful tribal warlord I’d met and fallen in love with. Fate had dealt with us unfairly and we’d had only a short time together. I would be absolutely delighted for an opportunity to see him again. The thought made my heart beat excitedly, and I’d even begun to jog down the path, expecting to find him around the next corner, when I realized I was being foolishly optimistic. This was the afterlife, not a video game. I couldn’t expect to dial up an old memory and relive it on the spot. I could be in the mountains of Afghanistan, or not. I could be in someone else’s life. I was running toward nothing. In any case, the chances of finding Jonathan here seemed slim.
Deflated, I retraced my steps and found the door I’d entered stuck incongruously in the side of the canyon wall. Strangely, as I stepped back into the hall, in that split second suspended between the canyon and the corridor, it came to me: I suddenly knew what I had to do to find Jonathan. I had to go to the place my dreams had told me I would find him. I had to go to the cellar.
It wasn’t a pleasant prospect. Frightening things lurked in basements, and the fortress was no exception. My knees went a little weak as I set off, but before long I managed to find a staircase. Removing a candle from one of the sconces, I descended the stairs as quietly as possible, only too aware that any noise I made would rattle and rumble down the cavernous stairwell and let anyone within earshot know I was coming. A slight draft wafted up from the bottom, which was lost in darkness. The breeze carried a bitter tang of rot and decay.
The stairs deposited me in an alcove made of stone, made of the same large granite blocks as the passageway in my dreams. The air was clammy and I could have sworn I heard a faint plop, plop of dripping water off in the distance. Holding my candle overhead, I began down the passage, wary for the slightest movement in the shadows ahead. An eternity seemed to pass before I came to the first door, and it was not the one from my nightmare. My inclination was to keep looking for the door, the familiar one, but that approach seemed shortsighted. I might find something of value behind one of the other doors: someone who could advise me; a clue of some kind to help me deal with the dreaded queen.
I grasped the rough iron latch and opened the door.
Standing directly in front of me were not one but three demons. If they were ugly individually, they were positively fearsome in multiples. They were so large that they filled the room wall to wall with reddened muscle, the tips of their long, curving horns scraping the ceiling. Their three brutish heads turned on me as soon as I’d opened the door, watery snot dripping from their black snouts, their topaz eyes gleaming. When I entered the room, I distracted them from what they were doing, and my gaze involuntarily fell downward to the locus of their activity. I saw, to my horror, that there was a man on the floor between them. They’d circled around him, had him on his hands and knees, and one of the demons was hunched over him, caught in the midst of an unspeakable act. I was aware, all at once, of their great heavy phalluses, the weightiness between their legs, their brutal animal need. Surprised by my sudden presence, they’d broken off what they were doing to the poor man, who fell to the dirt floor in a swoon.
I turned and bolted. Candle dropped, I ran in pitch blackness, bumping and crashing against the stone walls. I held back the vomit that rose in my throat, tried to push the horrific sight out of my mind, and ran. Behind me, I heard the thudding of the demons’ hooves on earth, the occasional scrape of dagger-tipped horn against stone, their grunts and groans as they tried to squeeze through the narrow passageway after me. I felt the heaviness of their bodies behind me, swore I could feel their hot, damp breath on my neck, the brush of their fingers reaching for me. . . . I could swear I heard their voices calling me, Lanny, Lanny, we’re going to catch you, and when we do . . . the threat hanging in the air. One of the voices sounded vaguely familiar . . . not that I was going to wait around and find out why.
A door suddenly popped up in front of me. It wasn’t the door, but it was either my salvation or a trap. I had only an instant to decide. Instinct took over. I reached for the latch, threw the door back, and leapt inside.
FOURTEEN
On the island, winter weeks ceded slowly to spring. Each day, short as it was, seemed to last forever, unwinding by degrees as the sun moved across the pale blue sky. Looking through the window at his island, Adair watched the goats’ coats thicken against the cold, and then bolt with the beginning of spring, leaving tufts of hair scattered on the rocks like dandelion seed. And fresh chartreuse needles appeared on pine boughs as the patch of moss grew in as thick as a blanket.
Adair stood at the foot of Lanny’s bed, close to bursting with impatience. She’d been asleep for months, the vial cradled securely in her hand. He’d never guessed, when he agreed to help her, that she’d be away this long. It seemed a cruel trick and he wondered for the thousandth time if she had done it on purpose. He itched to call her back, and yet honor kept him from doing so—honor! He’d certainly never been called an honorable man before and was not oblivious to the irony. For centuries, he’d happily lived by his own code, his allegiance sworn to knowledge and discovery. Now it was Lanore’s idea of honor that bound him. He thought of the things he’d done in his life that would horrify her, beyond lying and stealing and cheating. She had a notion of these deeds from his past, of course, but if she knew them all, really knew what he was capable of, he feared she could never love him, never trust him. He might be too corrupt to deserve love, his sins too horrible to be forgiven—this recognition of his unworthiness alone was a measure of how much he’d changed, but would it be enough ultimately to win over Lanore?
He was tired of living in suspense. Come back to me, he thought, rapping his knuckles impatiently against the rail at the foot of her bed. She might come back if she knew how much I wanted her, he thought as he closed his eyes, stoking the warm glow deep in his heart. Surely you can feel how desperately I want you here with me.
She might come back if everything was beautiful and at the ready for her, he decided. This idea of beauty floated over the island like pollen on the wind, and tiny seedlings began to sprout instantly where there had been only hard black rock, and from the seedlings, stems shot skyward, leaves unfurled and spread. Buds appeared—pale pink, lavender, indigo, white—then blossomed in the full light of sun. A carpet of flowers spread across the island from shore to shore, covering rock, moss, and black pebble beach. The goats attacked with hearty appetites but the flowers grew back instantaneously, undeterred. The island was covered in a riot of pastel color; vines crept up the fortress walls and soon petunias and morning glories twined around the iron bars over the windows. It was awash in scent, too, the subtle perfume of hundreds of thousands of blooms.
Wake up, he thought, climbing into bed beside her. Can a heart that feels love this deeply and can create such beauty be entirely bad? he wanted to ask her. Will you believe now that I have repented for you? That you can trust me with your heart
?
Adair drifted into a light sleep and woke to the sound of music playing sweetly on the floor below. The sun had slipped over the horizon and the sky outside had turned periwinkle. It was dusk.
The sound drifting up the stairs was not the angry hip-hop and thrash metal the girls had taken to listening to before, the kind of music designed to roust him out into the open. No, this was sweet and pleasant, old Gypsy guitars, Django Reinhardt. Perhaps the forced spring had lifted their spirits—though that seemed unlikely. He’d left the girls on their own for weeks now, barely able to remember the last time he’d spoken to them. He wouldn’t blame them if they had packed their bags to leave him; in fact, he rather wished they would.
Food smells accompanied the music, the rich aroma of roasted meat and caramelized onions and garlic. He guessed that the girls felt badly for behaving like petulant children and were trying to make it up to him. Weeks of grousing and slamming doors and throwing temper tantrums had failed to coax him away from Lanore’s side. If they’d been upset when they saw the flowering fields—they had to know what it meant, what had caused the riot of blooms—they didn’t show it. That they’d put aside their jealousy was rather touching.
Adair ran a hand through his hair roughly and decided to go downstairs and extend the olive branch to show them that he wasn’t really angry with them. At the same time, he would let them know, firmly, that it was time for them to leave. He’d enjoyed their company but it was time for him to be alone with the woman he loved.
He found them in the parlor. They’d dimmed the lights and built a roaring fire. The large, low table had been cleared of its usual assortment of clutter and had been set with platters of food, opened bottles of wine, candles. Cushions were arranged around the table for seating. Flower petals had been strewn across every surface, across the floor. Robin was stretched out on the chaise, dressed in a thin silk sarong that only served to accentuate her nakedness beneath it. Terry reclined on a low armchair, looking like the queen of a harem, fleshy and curvaceous, with her smoky kohl eyes and dark, undulating hair. They watched Adair as he descended the staircase, seeming to draw him to them with their openly desirous gazes.
Terry poured a thick liquid into a heavy crystal wineglass. “We’re so glad you decided to come down and join us tonight, Adair. We’ve missed you.”
“I can only stay for a little while,” he said as he accepted the glass and lowered himself onto a pouf of brown saddle leather.
“We know,” Robin said, rising from the chaise so she could take a place at his feet. She put her hand on his knee. “We understand.”
He woke some time later on the floor, crumpled in a heap beside the ottoman. His hands were tied behind his back. His first instinct was panic, and he began to fight against the restraints, but one look around reassured him that he wasn’t in any immediate danger. He took a few deep breaths and forced himself to calm down. He’d been trussed up while drugged unconscious twice in his lifetime, both times by women: once by Lanore, and once by the witch sisters, Penthy and Bronwyn. He’d let his guard down and written Robin and Terry off as harmless; he kicked himself now for having made that mistake a third time.
He blinked as he looked around: the candles had long since guttered and gone out. The food was cold and sat in puddles of congealed fat. The petals had turned to drops of blood in the darkness. A faint electronic buzz hummed in the background; he was fairly sure the buzz was from the stereo, left on even though the record had finished playing. He looked down for reassurance that he was still dressed. The girls were gone. The room was cold, the fire dead. Outside, dawn appeared to be breaking.
He managed to sit upright, pushing against the floor with his elbows. His head pounded sickly, as though his brain had swollen and become much too large for his skull. All he could remember was having a single glass of that heavy wine that had obviously been drugged.
From there, he clambered to his feet, headache be damned. The girls had done such a poor job of tying the ropes that he managed to get loose in only a few minutes. As the rope dropped to his feet, he stood listening for a sign of them, an indication of where they were, but he heard nothing. He dashed up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and flew to Lanore’s room, his stomach knotted with dread that something had happened while he was unconscious—surely he’d been drugged for a reason.
He caught himself against the jamb, his heart sinking. The bed was empty. He bellowed for the women as he lunged for the spot where Lanore had lain. He ran his hands over the blanket, searching for a clue as to how long she’d been gone. The bed was cool to the touch. He called their names a second time, his tone unmistakable.
There was a noise behind him, the shuffling of soles on the floorboards, and he spun around. It was Terry. She tried to pretend as though she’d been asleep, clutching a silk bathrobe closed at her chest and pushing mussed curls out of her eyes, but he knew she was acting. “What is it, lover?” He flinched at her use of the word “lover.” “What’dya want?”
He jumped up to confront Terry, his face nearly white with rage. “What do you mean, ‘what do I want’? You know what I want—where is she? Where is Lanore?”
Terry shrugged, a little too broadly. “How should I know? She came to while you were passed out. She took one look at you facedown on the floor, tangled up with us, and that was it. She said she was feeling better and wanted to go. We radioed for a boat to fetch her.”
“That’s a lie,” Adair said, advancing on her.
Terry scuttled backward into the hall, out of his reach. “She didn’t want to wake you, especially when she saw what you’d been up to with us. . . . Don’t you remember what happened last night? Really, Adair, if you didn’t want her to know, you should’ve been more discreet . . .” she said, trying to be coquettish, trying to fool him, but he wouldn’t be suckered in. Nothing had happened between them last night; he would’ve known, he would’ve felt it in the pit of his stomach.
“If what you say is true, then why did you tie me up?” he demanded. She furrowed her brow, not seeming to follow him. It was useless, he decided; either she was deliberately trying to mislead him or she was unaware of everything she’d done last night.
Seeing his intentions written on his face, Terry turned and bolted down the hall shrieking, “You’ve gone mad, you have!”
“What have you done with Lanore?” he shouted back, following her into the master bedroom.
They weren’t alone. Robin cowered in a corner, shaking like a scared dog. “I told you he wouldn’t believe us! I told you!” she wailed to Terry.
Adair lunged for Robin, who stood stock-still, befuddled, and screamed when he grabbed her. He reeled her into him and held her in a headlock. “What have you done to Lanore?” he demanded.
She thrashed in his grasp, struggling against him, whimpering and crying. “It wasn’t us, not really,” she pleaded. “I wouldn’t do such a thing, you know me, Adair, but it was like something came over me. . . . I didn’t mean to hurt her. . . .”
“What do you mean, ‘something came over you’?” Adair demanded, but she gave a frightening howl and went rigid in his arms. Something strange was happening to Terry, too. She seemed to swell, and then rise and hover above the ground. Her expression changed so drastically that she no longer looked like Terry. Gloating and proud, she looked like someone Adair had known a long time ago.
“Do you remember me, Adair, me and my sister?” the voice boomed, shrill and sharp as jagged glass. Her arm floated up and she pointed a damning finger at him. “You wronged us once, many years ago, in the wild fens wood. Took advantage of two girls on their own. Smashed up our cottage and meant to kill us. We promised we would have our revenge on you and now we have.”
He’d been right all along, Adair realized. It was Penthy and Bronwyn possessing the girls somehow. “Cowards—” he growled at the apparition floating in front of him. “If you wanted revenge, you should’ve come after me, not a defenseless woman.”
“Thi
s was the best way to hurt you,” the brunette answered with an evil laugh. “To strike at your cold heart. Besides, we’re not alone in this, Adair. We take our orders from a higher power, one that’s not done with you yet.”
Standing with Robin in front of the large window, without a second’s hesitation, Adair smashed the glass with an elbow and then, grabbing the blonde by the throat, shoved her backward over the sill so that she was thrust halfway out and dangling over the edge of a cliff, hanging from his hand.
“Adair!” Robin gasped, wrapping both hands around his wrist.
“You wouldn’t dare! Let go of my sister!” It was not quite Terry’s voice that spilled over her lips.
“If you don’t tell me now what you’ve done with Lanore, I’ll throw her out the window,” he threatened, “and you know I’m not one to make idle threats.”
“Sister! Save me!” Robin shrieked as she stretched out her hand. Blood streamed down her arms and face from the numerous cuts she’d sustained from the broken glass. Her hair and dress billowed around her, whipped by the violent updrafts that circled the fortress, and made her look as though she were flying.
“If you hurt her, I’ll never tell you where that woman is,” Terry swore.
Adair addressed Robin instead. “Save yourself—tell me what you did to Lanore,” he said, shaking her by the throat. When she didn’t speak, he pushed her farther out the window. She kicked and clutched at his forearm.
“The sea!” she rasped finally, shuddering in his hand. “We threw her in the sea!”
He almost let go of Robin in surprise, but his senses came back to him at the last second and he tossed her to the floor instead. He bolted from the room and out the front door, and ran to the cliff closest to the house. If it hadn’t happened too long ago and the tides were right, she might still be close. He looked over the edge of the cliff, but all he saw were waves crashing against the rocks and the floating dock bouncing crazily on the violent water. Not a speck of Lanny’s rose-colored dress to be seen. He ran along the shore, peering over the rim, scanning the frothing water below, but there was nothing bobbing along with the waves. Finally, he came to the black pebble beach and ran into the water up to his knees. The waves wound around his legs and pulled at him like a beseeching lover. But there was nothing on the horizon, nothing.
