I make my way to a kiosk still intact at the edge of the square, using one of its narrow sides for protection. I try to assume a firing position—kneeling down with my left elbow balanced on my knee—but my legs are too weak to stay like that for long.
Maybe I can hold it steady while standing—feet apart, back straight.
I get to my feet and give that a try but something troubles me—is it loaded? I haven’t bothered to check. And of course it’s not. I was taking up a stance, all ready to squeeze off a shot—with an unloaded rifle.
I lean against an iron bike stand with the rifle in my lap, take a cartridge from my pocket and slide it into the breech. Even leaning back like this, I might have the necessary seconds to aim and shoot. Might actually be able to hit something even with all the movement, the unsteady light.
But I as stare into the middle of the action, at the chaotic jostling, the blur of shadows, the noise and confusion—it’s overwhelming. There’s no easy target. I can’t identify even one of the Riders, even one of the Elders. All of them look the same, interchangeable. If Emily is here, I have no way of knowing.
And something else begins to prick at my senses.
There’s a smell that the wood smoke and the burning pitch from the torches doesn’t obscure, one that the square is steeped in, that makes my stomach churn. At first I think it’s a compound scent from so many Black Riders massed together but then I realize it’s the odor of actual meat—bloody and raw, from a creature freshly slaughtered.
I peer into the space before the burning pyre and, visible in breaks between the spectral dancers, is the form of a large animal, a deer or an elk. Entrails are leaking from it, a pool of blood is widening out across the square’s brick surface.
As I stare I realize that the Riders are smeared with this blood—it’s wiped across their blanched faces, smeared over their pale white hands. They are more crazed than I’ve ever seen them—blood must affect them like alcohol.
Then the noise of the boombox is cut, abruptly enough to make me jump, just like it did the first time—when I was brought here in the cage. The phantom dancers stop dancing. The Elders hands lie still on the skin of their drums.
“Welcome, Gillian. Come join us.”
Moira’s voice, resounding over the square as if from the lip of a stage. Moira, the master of ceremonies.
Blood ceremonies.
Even in the midst of their deranged revelry, the Riders knew I was there, knew exactly where I had decided to wait, half-hidden by the kiosk. As I was sure they would.
Use the rifle while you have a chance. Take one of them out. Just one before…
The Riders have pulled back from the rim of the bonfire. If I had chance to target one of them, I’ve lost it now. They’ve faded into the gloom at the fringe of the square, only the quavering glow of several torches to indicate where they might be.
I see the Elders setting aside their drums, rising to their feet, a group of five or six splitting off from the others and heading straight toward me. I get up, raise the rifle.
I hear Moira’s laughter. “Shoot them if you want. You’ll never get them all.”
The Elders come right up to me, not cowed in the least by the weapon I hold. Some look familiar but the only one I know by name is Carson. He has a hood pulled tight over his head, a determined look on his face—all business now, following the Rider’s commands, careful not to make a mistake.
Seeing him reminds me of Tetch back at the Orphanage, Aiden’s new caretaker. I have a brief flash of her hovering over him, trying to convince him of how much she tried to help him, of how she cared for him while he slept for so long. I wonder how much he’ll believe.
The Elders motion me to follow them and escort me, pressing in close but not attempting to grab hold of me, to drag me along like their prisoner. All of this must be orchestrated, rehearsed—they know exactly what to do. This time Moira isn’t forced to shout out her orders.
As we near the bonfire, I want to stop and bask in the heat of it. It’s melted off a huge circle of snow from the middle of the square—the bricks below my feet are wet and slushy.
I’m so entranced by the crackling flames that I’m only aware of the animal carcass when I set the sole of my boot down on something squishy. I pull back and my boot comes away sticky with blood. The shock of seeing the thing this close nearly makes me drop my rifle.
I’ve come across many dead animals before but never anything like this. It’s worse than if this antlered creature had been attacked by wolves. It’s been shredded by long nails, chunks of it scooped out like it was a ripe melon. Blood is smeared all over, tossed about, trails of it leading off into the shadows.
“Help yourself to our road kill,” one of the Riders jeers. “You won’t find meat any fresher.”
The smell of it slaps me in the face. The smell of death—iron hard and sickly sweet. The Elders have backed away, are staring at me, surprised that I could be so stupid as to stumble over such a big, bloody mess.
We move past the fire and I now have a clear view of the entire square. Torches held in sconces have been set out in a ring, casting deep puddled shadows. To one side of the half-circle of steps are the Elders’ drums and opposite are huddled Aisa, Milo and Bodie. They look like unwelcome guests at a party—no one to talk to, left alone in a corner.
And beyond the steps is the row of fragmented columns, rising one after another from a few feet to the height of a man. On one at the center of the row a body is laid—it can only be Gideon, looking like a supine Buddha—and beside this, perched on the top of another column a foot higher, is Needle. Like a high priest, he rests on robes and cushions. He wears a coat of sable fur that hangs past his knees.
Moira appears as if from nowhere, like she’s stepped from behind the folds of an invisible curtain, a small coterie of Riders flanking her on either side.
She’s arrayed in black jeans that are skin tight and suede leather boots that come up past her knees. She wears a long, black velour coat, cut very close around the waist. Her raven hair is swept up high above her forehead, twin corkscrew curls trailing over each cheek, accenting her dark rimmed eyes, her paler than pale skin.
And from one corner of her mouth is a small stain—the trace of a trickle of blood.
She looks straight at me, pulls back the sleeve covering her right forearm and holds out the soft white flesh of the underside of her wrist. She smiles like a hungry cat as if to say—girl, you will pay for this. Don’t think I will ever forget.
“Bring out the boy,” she says.
My handful of Elder escorts are still pressed close around me. Following Moira’s order, Carson and one other peel off, make a run for the far side of the square. From where they disappear to I soon hear the doors of a large vehicle slam.
They return dragging William between them. His wrists are in cuffs, his hands held out before him. He’s like a condemned man being led to the gallows, head bent, shoulders drooping, feet dragging. Carson and the other Elder leave him positioned directly in front of Needle’s throne.
Moira turns and looks back at Needle. She says nothing but I see them exchange a subtle nod.
Although he doesn’t speak, Needle must be guiding this ceremony, having gained the stature of a high spiritual authority by virtue of his connection to Gideon. Gideon’s motionless body is like the life-sized effigy of a god brought out for religious rites. Needle and I caused this—the hole in his skull my doing, Needle reaching into it with a long, narrow finger—
“Dreams,” Needle had said, stunned. “Unbelievable dreams. They flooded into me. From him.”
Gideon—dead or not dead, perhaps forever in limbo—now a conduit to a world of dreamscapes only Needle has been able to see.
“Get those cuffs off,” Moira says.
Carson digs into the pocket of his jeans and fishes out a tiny silver key. He holds it up proudly, as if to show how efficient he is, how the necessary key was not forgotten this time. He unlocks the cuffs t
hat bind William’s hands.
“Jendra!” Moira sings the name, her voice rising to a pitch that pricks at my ears. In the depths of this frigid, breezeless winter night, now that the music has been cut, her voice penetrates, reverberates more than ever.
Jendra appears from between two of the tall, unbroken columns at the top of the square. She parades regally to Moira’s side like she’s walking out on stage. This is her moment.
These two female Riders stand side by side in silence for a few minutes, peering down at William’s quivering frame.
I’m amazed by how majestic Jendra looks, how changed. Her hair flows free in the wind, dances on her shoulders. Her lips are as dark as burgundy wine and her eyes wide halos. She’s dressed in exactly the same fashion as Moira, a carbon copy with platinum hair.
William lifts his chin and stares at Jendra. His eyes blink in the firelight, look hollowed-out and sunken. I can’t make out the scar on his forehead but know it’s there. He could be praying to Jendra, his eyes gaze at her so adoringly, imploring her for help, for succor.
He wants this. He doesn’t want to be the boy he is now—so weak, so unloved. And who could blame him for wanting so badly to change?
But will this change him? Is it possible?
I can’t get my head around how anyone could be remade from such a fragile little boy into one of these proud creatures. Refashioned from such poor stock into beings so grand and unearthly. So horrifying and cruel.
But it’s a sickness, what they’re offering him—they are the products of a disease—and he only wants to be made strong, wants to be cured of all the hurt, all the pain he’s had to endure.
Moira makes her way with style down the steps to where William is waiting. She’s like a model on a catwalk. She waves away the two Elders who are still at William’s side.
From a pocket of her coat she draws forth a blade, a long ceremonial dagger with an intricately carved ebony handle. The steel glints in the bonfire’s glow as she holds it aloft. If there was any chatter, any fidgeting, any Riders or Elders who weren’t paying attention before, all eyes are riveted on Moira now.
Jendra follows her down the steps, walking just as Moira walked, flouncing to a stop at her side.
Moira crooks her finger at me. “Come closer, Gillian. I want you to see this.”
I glance to my left and right and realize the Elders who had escorted me have slipped away, rejoining the larger group. I’m half a dozen yards from the steps. I can’t see the other Black Riders but I can feel them all around—so many, so close. The atmosphere is charged with static energy, enough to make my hair stand on end.
I know I should do something to stop this. William—so helpless, that scar. But part of me—a shameful, craven part of me—wants to see what happens, follow this through to the end. I’m caught up in the performance like everyone else.
I’ve let the rifle droop, the barrel pointing at the bricks. I know I have a fleeting chance now, could fire at Moira or Jendra from close range. But I would get one shot, one shot only, before the Riders descended on me, ripping me to pieces like the eviscerated deer.
And even if I had a chance to escape after that one shot, William would never come with me. He wants this. I would be sacrificing myself for absolutely no reason except the satisfaction of trying, of maybe killing one of them before I, too, was slain.
So I keep edging nearer to Moira until she looks satisfied.
“Now face each other,” she says. “Jendra, you need to be close enough to him to do this. Don’t spoil things for me.”
“I won’t, Moira,” Jendra says, her voice bright, doll-like.
Moira gives the dagger to Jendra first. “I think you know what to do.”
Jendra takes the blade in her hand, stares at it while brandishing it in all directions, fascinated by it. Suddenly she lifts her other hand up high, pulls back the sleeve of her coat and exposes her wrist. She turns to all assembled, gives everyone a chance to see exactly what she is about to do. She begins to press the sharp point of the dagger against the top of her wrist, just below the palm of her hand.
I glance at William, see him close his eyes and turn away. When I look back at Jendra, she has just finished drawing the blade down her inner wrist an inch or two. She holds her arm up high again and gradually turns in a circle, displaying it. When I have a chance to see it, dimly visible under the light of the flares, I can make out only a meager ooze trickling down her arm—she hardly bleeds at all.
Then Jendra hands the knife to William.
Will he go through with it? Can he remain upright long enough?
He looks as though he could sink to the ground.
William closes his eyes, steeling himself for this. He has only to endure another moment of pain—and he might, might be transformed. His mind must be filled with images of the nightmare he endured when that moon-shaped sliver of flesh was peeled away from his brow.
He takes the knife and raises his wrist. He doesn’t bother turning to show the assembled crowd but faces Jendra. Jendra still holds her wrist aloft, the trickle of blood, black and thick as a garden slug, imperceptibly creeping down her arm.
William, too, stares at the knife as if hypnotized. It’s so quiet—the sound of the fire the only thing audible. This time there’s no impatience from the Riders, none egging him on to hurry, to be done with it. They seem absorbed completely by every second of what’s happening.
And if he doesn’t go through with it? If William can’t bring himself to pierce his own skin?
What if he lets the dagger slip from his hand? If he topples to the ground?
Moira would surely spring at him, snatch up the knife and finish the job for him. It’s impossible to imagine her doing anything else.
But surely she must want the ceremony to be voluntary, something William is asking for. If she forces him—slices into his skin with her very own hand—it will be hard to convince the other Elders that this is a good thing. Convince them that they, too, should be sacrificial lambs in another blood ceremony.
At last William starts to press the tip of the dagger against the thin inner skin of his wrist just as Jendra had done. His hands are trembling wildly. For what seems an eternity, he wavers. I begin to believe he is going to give up, can’t force himself to go through with it. What is in his mind—that crescent scar—the pain he’s known?
But then he scratches with the tip just enough to produce a splotch of blood. Having gone this far, he doesn’t stop, slowly continues drawing the blade down his wrist, exactly as far as Jendra had done.
Instead of a slow ooze like Jendra, blood begins coursing down his arm like an overturned glass of wine, dripping along the sleeve of his coat, pooling in the crease of his elbow, falling in rapid droplets to the bricks below his feet like the start of a rain shower.
He really starts to sway now, teetering back and forth with no one lifting a hand to help him, Jendra so close but unwilling to touch him. I shoulder the rifle and move to his side, wondering if anyone will try to stop me.
I grab William by his uninjured arm. He doesn’t even glance in my direction. Simply lets the dagger fall from his hand, clattering onto the brickwork floor. His face is as white as a Black Rider’s, wears an expression that makes me think of someone tumbling backwards down a bottomless well.
I look at Jendra, so close to me now. She has a spacy, bemused smile on her face—doesn’t seem to be focusing on anything, staring up at the sky, back at the fire. And her eyes—
Her eyes are black cauldrons with no end to them. Unknowable, unreadable. Across their surfaces torch flames are reflected, dance like blood-red imps who have leapt free from the fire.
Jendra holds out her bleeding wrist to William and he manages to do the same. He’s as floppy as a rag doll in my grip. I have to spread my feet apart, assume a sturdier stance to support him.
Put a stop to this. Pull him away.
But I can’t. I couldn’t drag him out of the square with me if I wanted to,
let alone manage to escape on my own.
This scene must play out to the bitter end. William still wants this to happen—holding his arm up, trying valiantly to complete his part in these ceremonial rites. And I will be beside him, within inches of what’s about to transpire.
The smell of blood—it’s very real, the sweetness, the stinging metallic jolt of it. I flash back to having had Moira’s blood in my mouth—spitting it out like snake’s venom.
I watch William and Jendra’s arms move together like a film in slow motion—but they connect at last, wrist against wrist.
And now it’s Jendra who struggles to stay on her feet, who has to fight a primal urge to recoil from the unchanged human.
For a matter of seconds Jendra and William are able to keep their wrists together, blood smearing into blood. Both look like they’re feeding into an electric current, quaking, convulsing with shock.
Then their arms fall away from each other and at the same moment all the strength goes out of William’s legs. He almost pulls me over with him but I’m able to soften his fall as he goes down. I slow him enough to keep him from dropping with a thud to the bricks, letting him settle in a soft heap.
And then William goes from shivering, shuddering to suddenly having a body-racking seizure.
He begins writhing like an epileptic, like a patient in an asylum undergoing shock therapy—enduring a massive influx of electric power. He stiffens so rigidly that it looks like his spine is going to snap.
He’s being torn apart. His face is scrunched in agony and blood beings seeping from his nostrils, from the corners of his mouth.
I look around wildly and see that Jendra has retreated a few feet, still holding her arm up high, making no move to help her old friend. Moira and the Riders beside her maintain their same position on the steps and behind them are the fragmented columns holding Gideon’s body and Needle—none of them responding, all just staring at what’s happening to the boy.
What Blood Leaves Behind (The Poison Rose) Page 27
