by Scott Hale
“Yes.” Justine bit her lip. “We do, or we have to reverse the progress King Edgar’s made. Something just short of a Trauma. The farther I am from completing my goal, the deeper a slumber Lillian will fall into.”
“What’s Edgar missing?” Felix wiped his eye. “What could he get to make Lillian stronger than you?”
“The Speaker. God’s Speaker. That’s all he’s missing.”
“You said we could convince him I’m God’s Speaker.”
Justine smiled. “Yes, that would end his search for a time.”
“But Lillian was the Speaker.”
“I’m not sure she would be still if she were to overpower me,” Justine said. “I don’t know what would happen if two Speakers were to exist, if such a thing were possible.”
“So, we have to trick Edgar. We have to do everything we can to stop him from finding the next Speaker.”
“We have to work together. With him.” Justine finally stood and then sat beside Felix, her carapace-like dress draping over his feet. “War won’t get us anywhere. It will only force God’s hand eventually. We have to lie our way into the throne room. We have to strike an allegiance.”
“But… God will know.”
“Maybe. I don’t know what the Vermillion God is truly capable of, except slaughter. Religions thrive on devouring those faiths that came before them. We must possess The Disciples of the Deep, the same way I possessed Lillian, and devour them, when the time comes.”
Heart beating a mile a minute, Felix asked, “Can we do that?”
“We can do anything,” she said, placing her hand on his ankle. “We are our own gods, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” he said, unsure if he should laugh or cry. “Yeah. Yeah.”
“I can’t be seen like this. Lillian’s attacks are unpredictable, and they are getting worse. After revealing my powers on the Divide, I’ve lost a lot of trust and respect amongst our followers. You will need to truly be the figurehead of the Holy Order for the time being.”
“Okay,” Felix said, without thinking of what he was agreeing to.
“You must be wondering why I forged an alliance between the Marrow Cabal and the Holy Order.”
This time, Felix did laugh. “Yeah, what the hell?”
“Three reasons,” she said, holding up three fingers, one of which began to split into a fourth, or rather, a sixth. “The first was for the Skeleton, but he escaped our grasp. The second was for the Cabal’s reach and influence. The third… is for you to decide.”
Felix’s stomach turned.
“We can continue using them as allies, or we can lie to them, take them to Eldrus, and then turn on them, offering them up as gifts to Edgar. They fought him years ago. He would like to have all their heads.”
Felix’s face went pale; he bumbled out protests that went, “I… I…”
He heard feet patter outside Justine’s room, down the hall. Who else was out there?
“It is your decision. I know that it was a risk to allow them so close to you, but I am not your keeper. I am your partner and your friend. You can tell me if they are worth saving. But if they are not, we will hand them over. And when the Bloodless is let loose in Eldrus, they will be the ones to take blame for it.”
I can’t do that to them, Felix thought. I can’t set them up like that. He didn’t know all of them that well, but he liked Will and Clementine and especially Gemma. If he gave them up, then the blood of everyone enlisted in the Cabal would be on his hands, too. He saw what Justine was getting at, but there had to be another way.
So, he said it: “There has to be another way.”
“Of course,” Justine said. “I stand behind any decision that you make. But if I were you, I would make a decision soon. Narcissus is here. We must do something with the army.”
“If we go to Eldrus, will you come, too?”
“I will,” Justine said, squeezing his ankle. “I will be by your side. Maybe wrapped in a blanket like a crazy old woman, but I will be at your side.”
Was that a joke? Did Justine just try to be funny? It was more awkward than amusing, but Felix cracked up, anyway. He didn’t want her first attempt to be her last.
“Can I tell you one more thing?”
Felix nodded.
“A man named Martin Zdanowicz, while on a business trip, purchased the Red Worm’s necklace from an antique shop owned by Gethin Yates. Gethin had procured the object and many others from a sale liquidating the Ashcroft estate. Other than owning my necklace, Gethin had also possessed, for a time, the Dread Clock.”
Gasping, Felix said, “That’s where the Black Hour…”
“Martin brought it back to Bedlam, and the Keeper that lived inside the necklace killed him and his family. Herbert North, once again, arrived with his protégé to retrieve the necklace. They failed. Ruth did track it down and brought it back to Brooksville with her.
“After I was summoned, I went back to Brooksville. The Night Terrors were in the ruins of Brooksville Manor where Ruth lived. One of the elders gave me the Red Worm’s necklace.”
“Why?” Felix cried.
“To see what I’d do with it. I took it, of course. It was better in my hands than theirs. But I never used it. And then, a few years ago, Samuel Turov and Alexander Blodworth, along with the Winnowers’ Chapter I now believe, conspired against us. Turov and Blodworth stole the necklace from my quarters in Pyra. Turov took you into the South. Geharra, and everything that Turov did to you… it’s my fault. I did not order them to do that. I think sometimes you believe that I did. But I didn’t. I was simply too trusting of those men. When we found you in Cadence, when you came back home, that’s when I decided I could only trust you. That’s when I knew it had to be me and you, and nobody else.
“Felix, I’m so sorry for what Samuel Turov did to you. I blame myself every day for it.”
Fighting the thoughts flooding his head—the old man’s hands, the cold floor of the house, and the stink of hot breath filling Felix’s mouth—he threw his arms around Justine and held her more tightly than he had before.
“I love you,” he said.
She made a sad sound, instead of saying anything at all.
For the first time in a long time—maybe in forever—Felix knew exactly what he needed to do. Running a religion was something his mind, “smart” as Justine said he was, couldn’t quite wrap itself around, even on the best days. But saving someone he loved? He could do that. He could do that with his eyes closed and his hands tied behind his back. He had so much love to share. It was all he ever wanted to do, all he ever wanted from anyone else.
Catching Commander Millicent in the hall, he ordered her to call together the rest of the council for an emergency meeting. He didn’t tell her the content of the meeting, but he had a sneaking suspicion she already knew. Most likely, Mother Abbess Justine had warned Millicent, but that was okay with Felix. This wasn’t something he was selling. He was the Holy Child. They’d either do it, or… they’d wish they had, whatever that meant.
“Barnabas and Sloane will take some time to track down,” Millicent said, turning on her heels, ready to carry out the order. “The Marrow Cabal is always just around…”
At that moment, Warren came running around the corner. Red in the face, smelling like a dog, as if he’d been outside, he belted, “Holy Child! I need to speak to you.”
Millicent gripped the pommel of the sword at her side.
Felix held up his hand, said, “It’s okay. Find the others, Commander. We’ll be along shortly.”
Commander Millicent let go of the sword, but her gaze firmly fixed on the big man. She brushed past him, pausing for a split second to whisper something in his ear. When she passed him, she left him with whatever she’d said. In a flash, his face went from panic to fear, and then panic again.
Warren’s heavy footsteps echoed through the second floor hall as he approached Felix. Onlookers from downstairs at the cathedral’s center noticed and started watching them. His shell necklace bou
nced against his chest.
“Turn around, you mouth breathers,” Warren shouted to them, a vein bulging in the side of his head.
Felix shushed him and said, “What’s wrong?”
“Put this on.” Warren reached over him, threw the hood on Felix’s cloak over his head.
Felix batted his hands away, but it didn’t do him any good. He was a but a fly to this horse of a man.
“She’s gone.” Warren tightened the hood, obscuring Felix’s face as best as he could. “They took her. The dumb little girl… You have to help.”
“Wait.” Felix jerked out of his grip. “Wait, who are you talking about?”
“Gemma,” he hissed. “One of yours took Gemma. She ran because of you. Now, come on.”
Warren led Felix around Cenotaph like he’d been staying there for the last few years. Under his robe and hood, and with an extra scarf wrapped around his mouth to be safe, Felix slipped past through the cathedral without drawing too much attention to himself. Those who had an idea of who Warren was seemed suspicious, but the vicious scowl he wore kept them from asking any questions.
Getting to the entrance, where five guards stood, carefully watching everyone who was coming and going, Felix lowered the scarf and showed his face.
“Step aside,” he said to them, so darkly brimstone was practically on his breath.
The guards didn’t hesitate. After all, he held their afterlife in his hands. Even if he was in danger, it wasn’t for them to say. They stepped aside.
Warren pushed through the gap between the cathedral’s large wooden doors, into the blinding light beyond. Felix took a deep breath, and he followed.
Cathedra’s white facades and winding streets had caught the afternoon light, and it seemed they had no intention of letting it go. Outside Cenotaph, at the top of the twisting path that led to the town, the new crown jewel of the Holy Order looked like just that—a precious stone, rigid in its form, upon a band of earth still speckled and slick with remnants of winter’s snow. Even though his eyes were still adjusting to the light, he could tell the town was packed with people, seemingly going more places than there were places to go. It was like everyone was walking around, waiting for something to happen. He felt like they were waiting for him; waiting for him to tell them what to do.
Warren started down the hill into town, waving for Felix to follow.
“What’s…” He lowered his voice as two people who’d come up the hill passed him. “What’s going on? I didn’t do anything.” Was it March? Or April? It couldn’t have been more than forty degrees out, but under all these layers, Felix was melting.
“She said you sold us out,” Warren said.
Felix, catching up with him, slowed down. He remembered hearing feet pattering outside Justine’s room. Had that been Gemma? Did she really hear that whole…?
Warren reached back, grabbed Felix’s hand. Warren’s fist wrapped around his fingers with all the texture and coldness of a rock. Felix didn’t even try to break free. The fact that Warren had the nerve to hold the Holy Child’s hand in broad daylight told Felix he was serious and, at the moment, had nothing to lose.
“She went running around the deeper parts of Cenotaph, picking fights, telling anyone she could she was a vampyre. I don’t know what you did, or she thinks you did, but you triggered something in her.” Warren and Felix, hand in hand, made the wide turn down the hill. Cathedra wasn’t far now. “She attacked one of the guards.”
Felix stammered, “W-who?”
Warren shook his head. “Another guard nearby saw. He’d been following Gemma, I think. Bashed her over the head. Bagged her up and ran out of the cathedral with her. He’s one of King Edgar’s. A subscriber to the Great Hunt, I think. Trying to make a few coins off Gemma’s head.”
They reached the end of the hill, passing the statues of Mother Abbess Justine at the bottom. A second statue, one of Felix, was mid-construction. It hadn’t been touched in a while. Weeds grew round the base of it.
“If you know all this… why didn’t you…?”
“I was too late. The guard Gemma attacked told me before they died. I put the rest together. King Edgar’s put a good bounty on monsters.”
“Yeah, but how are we going to find her?”
“I run the Marrow Cabal in this city,” Warren said. “You don’t think I don’t know where assholes like myself would stay?”
Felix braced against the statue of himself. From atop the hill, Cathedra had been packed, but down here, amongst the roaming crowds, the white streets were completely congested. All these people were his people, but how long would that last? How long would loyalty outweigh a fat paycheck?
Shallow breaths. Beads of sweat. A warmness behind his skin, like stagnant bathwater. The anxiety built inside Felix like blood behind a zit. He needed his contrition knife to break himself open. It was the only way he was going to find any release…
“She’s only going to listen to you,” Warren said, waiting for a break in the crowd.
“Why?” he said, whining.
Warren, looked at him like he was an idiot and said, “Because she likes you.” He rolled his eyes. “And if things go wrong, it’ll be nice to have you there as a bargaining chip.”
Felix’s jaw dropped open.
“Everyone’s got a price, Kid,” Warren said. “Maybe you should think about the Marrow Cabal’s before you peddle us off to the lowest bidder.”
“I didn’t… I wasn’t going—”
Warren ran into the crowd, dragging Felix behind him. People didn’t get out of the way; they merely conformed to Felix and Warren. The people of Cathedra weren’t moving for anyone today. And it wasn’t until Felix heard screaming and smelled fire that he understood why.
A gap in the masses: a crude stage, clearly just thrown together, and on it, a roaring fire inside which a pole had been fixed. Attached to the pole, a Night Terror, barely blackened by the blaze that had likely just been started moments ago. At the bottom of the stage, more creatures shackled. Night Terrors, two Mer, an Arachne, and a man-sized jellyfish that floated on the currents of the air itself.
Then, coming atop the stage, hands in the air, Sloan, the head of the Compellers. One of Felix’s supposed trusted councilmen. She’d orchestrated this whole thing.
Religions thrive on devouring those faiths that came before them. That’s what Justine had told him. They were going to kill the Disciples of the Deep by being just like them. It was happening, and he hadn’t even given the orders out yet.
Giving him a mild case of whiplash, Warren wheeled Felix around to a squat building coughing black smoke out of its chimney. The sign above the door read “The Lord’s Pantry.”
Warren finally dropped Felix’s hand. He ran to the door, kicked it open. The door slammed into someone behind it, sent them skidding, on sweaty elbows and knees, across the floor.
Felix ran in after Warren, pushed the door shut behind them.
The Lord’s Pantry was a bar. Five Cathedrans and twenty or so soldiers from Narcissus were parked here, foaming mugs in their hands. Closest to the door, a guard bearing the Cenotaph symbol—a chevron over stained glass—sat. Between him and the black-eyed peddler on the other side of the table was a writhing, Gemma-shaped sack.
The bartender, a woman with a cauldron for a body, shouted, “Now, you just wait…!”
But apparently Warren didn’t hear her, or care.
In a mad dash, he thundered across the bar, grabbed the soldier by the neck and lifted them out of their seat.
The peddler pawed for Gemma’s bag.
“Leave it!” Warren growled.
The Five Cathedrans booked it out the backdoor.
The twenty or so soldiers remaining drew their swords in screeching unison.
The guard in Warren’s grip, choking, said, “S-S-stop. I-I-I c-can’t…”
Every muscle in his body tensing, Warren reared the arm that held the guard back and slammed him into the ground, face first. The guard’s no
se broke on impact. His head snapped back. Then Warren stomped on the back of it, breaking it open under his boot.
The soldiers surged towards Warren, but he wasn’t looking at them. He was too busy working at the sack, trying to free Gemma.
“Do the right thing,” he muttered, twenty swords a few feet away.
The sack tore open. Out of it, on a tide of strange charms and herbs, Gemma fell out, off the table, and onto the dead guard’s body. She caught herself, leaned back against Warren’s meaty leg. Her terrified eyes met Felix’s terrified eyes.
“Stop!” he screamed. Tearing off the scarf and hood: “Stop! Your god commands it!”
Swords seconds away from splitting Warren and Gemma in two, the soldiers stopped, crashing into one another with their maddened momentum. They gasped, stared at one another in disbelief, and fell to their knees.
Gemma, using Warren for support, clawed her way up to her feet. Her hands were covered in blood from where she’d attacked the other guard back in Cenotaph. Hundreds of years old, and she didn’t look anything but like the thirteen-year-old she resembled.
Holding out her hand, the mouth inside her palm flexing its hungering muscles, she mumbled weakly, “Do you trust me?”
Felix stared at her hand, at the soldiers prone before him; at Warren, unraveling from relief, like a father who’d thought he’d lost his daughter forever. All humans, no matter how inhuman; not pawns.
Felix took her hand. The mouth in it clamped onto the flesh of his palm but didn’t bite down. A coolness escaped from the wound in his head. He imagined it was the all anxiety inside being let out, like air. “Do… do you trust me?” he asked her back.
She let go, went to the table, and climbed back into the sack. Warren sealed it up the best that he could, slung it gently over his shoulder, and said to Felix, “Now that that’s taken care of and you’ve had some time to think, let’s get you back. Wouldn’t want to be late for the meeting.”
Warren stepped past him.
Felix caught a glimpse of Gemma’s eyes pressed against a rip in the sack, wide and fearful. He mouthed Are you okay?
Gemma closed her eye, and then moved away from the rip.
