"What happened to Greene?" he asked softly. "And who was that old man?"
"Silas Greene is dead," Barbara answered. "He never knew what hit him. That blade—we never knew—it expanded. When it pierced him and slid between his ribs, it stuck. He keeled over, and the tip of the blade stuck into the mountain."
Abe thought about it, picturing it in his mind.
"The man who killed him was one we never thought to see again. You should remember him, Abe, but he was taller then, and younger. It was Reverend Kotz. He disappeared the night your father performed the cleansing. We assumed he was dead."
"But," Abe's brow furrowed. "He must have been over a hundred years old…"
Barbara nodded. "There wasn't much left of him. He was as thin as a stick. He must have been living in some cave in the woods. God only knows what he's been eating—what he's been doing…"
"They couldn't get the sword out, Abe," Barbara continued. She sat down on the edge of the bed, and her eyes took on the same confused glaze as Katrina's. Her voice dropped nearly to a whisper. "Jacob tried, and then Harry. They tried to cut it, too, but nothing they had would make a mark. That sword stuck down through Silas Green, and there was a fissure in the ground. It opened where the blade struck. All the while we watched it, that crack widened. Sometime late yesterday afternoon it opened far enough and Silas slid down the blade. He should have fallen off. It should have been too deep, but it wasn't. The blade grew, Abe, right through him and into the earth.
"This morning, when they went back to finish digging the pit and sifting the ashes, he was gone. There was no hole at all, only a small, thin sapling. It's a pine."
Abe stared at her, and then shook his head.
"It's over, then," he said. The sword is gone. The lamp was broken to make the fire. And that thing above the door—it's gone?"
"It seems to be so," Barbara replied. She didn't look at him. "I think the tree that was planted will see to it. I think it's a guardian of sorts, born of the mountain."
"That sword was over a hundred years old," Abe said. "How could it grow?"
"Until we lost our way," Barbara answered, finally turning to meet his gaze, "I spent every Sunday of my life in that stone church. I've seen things and felt things that I can't explain. I've seen the lives of my friends and my relatives swallowed by that other place and the evil in its walls, but I've seen good things, as well, Abe. Your father was a great man, and he held secrets we may never find again. I know we'll try. It may seem like we lost something—the sword, the lantern—but I don't think so. I think they served the purpose they were created to serve, and have returned to the mountain.
"You returned to the mountain. Maybe it's the same for you."
Abe reached out, fumbled in Kat's lap and found her hand. He gripped it hard.
"You know I can't stay, Barbara. I have a life…we have a life." He turned and met Kat's gaze levelly, searching for agreement, acceptance—forgiveness. Her eyes washed with tears, and her lip trembled. She leaned in and hugged him fiercely, nearly upsetting the tray in the process, and he held her to his chest.
Barbara nodded and surprised Abe by smiling. "I know that Abe. We all know it…knew it when we first saw you back. You have your father's eyes, and his heart, but you don't belong to the mountain the way he did. You have some of your mother in you, too, and something more. You'd wither and waste away here, and what kind of way would that be for us to thank you?
"If you have no argument with it, Cyrus Bates is going to move into the cottage above the church. He remembers things—more than any of the others—and he has no one left. He wants to spend the rest of his days searching for things we may have lost and tending to the trail, and the church. I think it's a good choice for him, and we're going to need someone up in front when we worship. All of us are going to need some time to forget this, and to find ways around what we did, and what we've seen. The mountain may be cleansed, but it isn't healed. That takes more time."
The door opened again, and Abe started, backing into the headboard in alarm. It was Elspeth. She kept her eyes on the floor, and her steps were slow and shy.
When she looked up, Abe breathed and almost laughed. Her forehead bore no sign of the mark he'd seen there only a few days before. Her eyes were clear, and she seemed no worse for her experience.
"They're all getting over it, more or less," Barbara explained.
"The fire cleansed more than just the church. Some things have changed, but for the most part folks are back to themselves.
"The Murphy's buried Angel today, and Tommy is going to move down and run Silas' store. There's some paperwork to take care of, but we're all behind him, and I think it will work out. His pa has moved in with Irma Creed, and the two of them are going to be attending services together at the stone chapel.
"It seems that before Silas pulled it out of his head, Tommy already had eyes for our girl."
Elspeth blushed, but she smiled. She stepped to the bed on the opposite side from where Kat was sitting, leaned in and gave Abe a hug.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Before he could answer she spun and skipped out the door. This time Abe did laugh. Then, before Kat could pull away, he pulled his mother's medallion from his neck and slid it over her head. She sat up—held it in her hands—then glanced up at him.
"To help take care of you," he said, "in the few minutes of every day of the rest of your life that I might be out of arm's reach."
She fell back into his arms, and this time Barbara caught the tray and lifted it with a soft chuckle. "I'll bring this back later," she said.
Abe nodded at her as Kat slid onto the bed. He held her close up against him, and pulled her head to his chest. He stroked Kat's hair and stared through the slits in the blinds. He was thinking about running on the beach, and the gleaming white walls of the cathedral of San Marcos by the Sea, visible from his bay window. He was thinking about books and stories and photographs and a million things that had ceased to exist when his footsteps reached the foot of the mountain.
He was tired, but he felt good. He closed his eyes and leaned back into the pillows. As he drifted off, he thought of his mother's smile, and his father's voice. He thought of great birds soaring over the peaks above the stone church, and the tall, strong trunks of pine and oak in the forest beyond the wall in front of him. He felt all of this through the handmade wooden frame of the bed and the floor beneath, and felt the blood of his family coursing through his veins.
It felt clean; he felt clean. It was time to go home.
CHILD OF THE NIGHT
Book One of the Power of the Blood World
By Nancy Kilpatrick
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Claire Lang and Elizabeth Noton for help with the mystical. To the stalwarts who read and reread the first drafts of this manuscript: Mike Kilpatrick, H. L. Lightbown, Peter Reid, Karl Schroeder and Caro Soles. To Marc Cormier, Philippe Laguerre, Darren Price and Michael Radulesco for details about Bordeaux, and particularly Jean Lalet, for the pictures as well as other information related to his beloved city. To the late Ivan Kilpatrick for specific information on Canada. To the late Fabrice (Denis) Dulac for his amazing poetry. And to Benoit Bisson and Caro Soles for enduring my fractious French.
I’m eternally grateful to the people who have given me love and support over the years, and who believe in me and my work. You know who you are.
“If this life be not a real fight, in which something is eternally gained for the universe by success, it is no better than a game of private theatricals from which one may withdraw at will. But it feels like a real fight.”
William James
I am Blood
There is a man I see
Death smiles behind his face
He beckons me with wine
Am I so foolish, so entranced
Will I risk my soul for his caresses?
Why can’t you be away tempter?
Fleshed with my darkest desires
> Blind, I would still see your flames.
There is a man I see
Death hides behind his hat
He beckons me with smiles
And my heart is his accomplice
Why does it not beat as hard when fearful?
How long ‘till I reach his side?
There is a man I see
He holds Death within his arms
My heart bleeds inside his palms
I am undone, unraveled
And what if he kisses me
If he kissed me…
Fabrice Dulac
Part I
“...it is not the blood-letting that calls
down power. It is the consenting.”
Mary Renault
Chapter One
Carol crossed her legs and rolled the stem of the wine glass slowly between the thumb and fingers of her right hand, too aware that this was her third dry white since dinner. Let’s not overdo it, she warned herself, but then took another sip. She sighed. Better turn her attention from the local grape drink to something less toxic.
By the light from the café’s quaint oil lamps Carol went back to reading The Philadelphia Inquirer, barely able to make out the print. Not that it mattered; she’d read the week-old newspaper already, just after boarding the plane to Paris, and again on the flight to Bordeaux. Still, it was something from home. But feelings of comfort and pain cancelled each other out; the paper couldn’t hold her interest. She drank more wine, trying to wash away the disappointment she’d also brought across the ocean.
The small outdoor café on Les Allées de Tourny, one of Bordeaux’s main downtown streets, faced Le Grand Théâtre. She studied the details of the building’s classical facade. Her guide book had mentioned this theater as the model for the old Paris Opera House. The immense colonnaded portico, topped by twelve statues of muses and graces, each representing a month of the year, was breathtaking, even magical, especially illuminated against the impenetrable black of the night sky. At least there’s still some beauty and magic left in the world, she thought, if not in my world.
She wondered if an opera or a play was being staged and decided to check it out tomorrow. Maybe La Traviata. Right! she thought, the one where the woman is rejected and dies of consumption! She swallowed the rest of the wine.
“Pardon, Mademoiselle. Vous permettez?”
She looked up. A smartly dressed man stood at her table.
“Je ne parle pas français.” She stumbled through the only complete French sentence she could manage.
“I asked if I can share your table.” His English was flawless, his tone confident, his face haughty enough to be irritating.
Carol felt annoyed. The whole reason she had come to an off-the-beaten-track place like Bordeaux was to avoid encounters like this one. “I’d like to be alone. Sorry.”
“Understandable,” he said, but continued standing, watching her.
She felt uncomfortable and went back to reading.
“The café’s full. There are no other seats.”
She peered over the top of The Inquirer. Every chair was occupied except the one at her table. She looked back up at him.
He was handsome, well-heeled Rob would have said. Except for streaks of silver at the temples, his hair matched his fashionable leather clothing—midnight black. His skin was pale. For a moment, probably because of the darkness behind him, she had a peculiar visual image, a weird blend of two dimensional on three dimensional, like the cardboard effigies tourists stick their faces and hands through for a photograph. His most outstanding characteristic was his grey eyes. They were like smoke, a disturbing color, intense, even in the faint light. A year ago she probably would have found his features an interesting combination.
She shrugged. “Have a seat.”
“Merci. You’re too kind.”
She tried to go back to reading but having another person in her space felt like an invasion. But Carol didn’t want to talk either so she turned away, folded the paper onto her lap and gazed out at the typical French scene before her. As in the downtown of any insular city, everyone seemed to have a nodding acquaintance with everybody else. Mopeds and motorcycles swerved between small, gas-conscious cars. Many drivers were young, dressed in denim or leather clothing, shouting to their friends. The sidewalks quivered with life—people carrying brown paper parcels with baguettes or légumes sticking out the top; men and women lugging thick briefcases or plastic lunch pails; chicly dressed couples out for the evening. It was interesting, if only because everything here was fresh to her. But already she’d heard other tourists substituting the word ‘boredom’ for ‘Bordeaux’. She’d arrived bored. She suspected she wouldn’t be staying here very long.
“You’re from the United States. The accent gives you away.”
She turned to her unwelcome companion. He was staring, his expression casual but fixed. “Yes, I’m an American.”
“Midwest, east coast or both?”
“Recently, Philadelphia.”
“But you weren’t born there.”
The waiter deposited a large glass of red wine in front of her table mate. The man handed over a five Euro note. He picked up the glass, sniffed the contents, then put the glass back down on the table.
“An interesting country. I know it and the language well,” he said, pocketing the change. “Not as old in history or tradition as France, of course, but what you lack in depth I’m sure you make up for in innovation.”
“Probably,” Carol said, turning away again.
“My name’s André. And yours?”
She turned back. He was tilting the glass, rolling the contents around. The wine coated the glass briefly before it slid down the sides. His face reflected a fine blend of jaded disinterest and idle curiosity plus a hint of condescension.
“Look, I’m not in the mood for conversation. I really want to be alone.”
“As you like.” She knew he felt insulted but that was his problem.
Carol started to turn away again, but immediately he said, “Not many females travel alone to Bordeaux at this time of year, especially beautiful women. I’ve always loved the look—slim hips, large breasts, firm ass, chestnut hair, sapphire eyes, as clear as a summer’s sky...”
With a disgusted sigh, Carol picked up her bag, turned her back on him and hurried away.
It was April but already warm enough for just a light jacket at night. She decided to walk along the river before going to sleep. She wasn’t tired, and she wanted to think.
The water of the Garonne was murky, the result, she’d been told on a tour of the city, of being tainted by a winter’s accumulation of snow and mud as it flowed down the mountains from the northwest towards the Atlantic. She strolled along the wide stone road on the left bank. During the day pedestrians and vehicles filled the waterfront with a cacophony of energetic sounds. But at night the docks belonged to the darkness. The squeak of thick ropes rubbing the bollards, imprisoning cargo ships, lulled her. Overhead the black sky was accentuated by the thinnest sliver of a new moon. It was quiet here, peaceful, with no one to interrupt her thoughts.
The whole thing had been like something out of a melodrama. Now, looking backwards, she realized she should have known right from the start that Rob was unfaithful. All the embarrassing signs had flashed like the lights when intermission ends; everyone else saw the end of the play coming. Like they say, always the last to know, she thought, aware again of just how saturated with bitterness she had become.
She heard a sound and turned. The path was empty.
“Great, nerves,” she told herself. This is what happens when you’re used to being part of a couple—you’re afraid to be alone. But she knew that wasn’t it. More, she wanted to be alone now. Even after a year she was still afraid to get involved. That’s why she’d left home. Why she was in a country where she didn’t speak the language. And as agonizing as the divorce had been, the aching loneliness had been even worse. But she’d endured it, day and ni
ght, until it became a sort of friend; now she refused to part with a feeling she considered an ally.
Again, that sound, like a pebble kicked.
Carol stopped and turned. The path was empty, the waterfront still quiet. Ahead, a tunnel led under the Pont de Pierre, the four-lane arched stone bridge in the middle of the city, built during the Napoleonic era, that prohibited large vessels from traveling further south. It was unlit there.
She thought about heading back to the main street—it was within sight—but didn’t want to face the real world yet. There’s no one here, she told herself. The tunnel’s empty. You can see through to the other end. It’s probably just a cat.
The path sloped down into hollow darkness. Sound waves from river water flowing over rocks and slapping wooden barriers bounced around the walls accompanied by the echo of her heels clacking on moist stones. Traffic noise from the bridge overhead dimmed.
Suddenly she heard a rustling. “Who’s there?” she called out in a high voice, realizing that if anyone was there they probably didn’t understand English. Why-oh-why had she not bought a European cell phone? Well, she knew why; she had no one to contact.
She turned. The immediate darkness engulfed her and, beyond, the white light of the moonlit path.
She was halfway through, as close to where she would exit as to where she had entered. She hesitated but finally took a step forward. It sounded like there was a step behind. Then silence.
The thud of her heart filled her ears. Her lungs felt compressed and she realized her back and neck muscles were tight, her skin slick with perspiration.
Carol took another step forward but again heard a step in unison with her own. When she stopped, a split second later it stopped. She moved faster, running towards the far end of the tunnel, all the while looking behind.
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