Gods & Monsters

by Shelby Mahurin

  Beau glared at her in disbelief but didn’t respond. Sitting up, he wiped a shaky hand across his brow and glanced at his arm. His mouth twisted in an ugly slash. “Goddamn it. I tore my fucking sleeve.”

  I shook my head, cursing bitterly under my breath. His sleeve. He’d nearly plunged to his death, and all he cared about was his fucking sleeve. With a convulsive, full-body shudder, I opened my mouth to tell him just what he could do with said sleeve, but an odd choking noise escaped Coco. I stared at her in alarm—then incredulity.

  She wasn’t choking at all.

  She was laughing.

  Without a word—her shoulders still shaking—she reached out to tear the fabric of his opposite sleeve. His mouth fell open in outrage as he tried to pull away. “Excuse you. My mother bought me this shirt!”

  “Now you match.” She clutched his arms and laughed harder. “Your mother will approve when she sees you. If she ever sees you again, that is. You did almost die.” She slapped his chest as if the two had shared a hilarious joke. “You almost died.”

  “Yes.” Beau searched her face warily. “You mentioned that.”

  “I can mend your shirt, if you’d like,” Célie offered. “I’ve a needle and thread in my bag—” But she broke off when Coco continued to laugh wildly. When that laughter deepened into something darker. Crazed. Beau pulled her into his arms without hesitation. Her shoulders shook now for an entirely different reason, and she buried her face in the crook of his neck, sobbing incoherently. One of his arms wrapped around her waist, the other across her back, and he held her tightly, fiercely, murmuring soft words in her ear. Words I couldn’t hear. Words I didn’t want to hear.

  I looked away.

  This pain wasn’t for me. This vulnerability. I felt like an interloper. Watching them together—the way Beau rocked her gently, the way she clutched him for dear life—it brought a lump to my throat. Anyone could see where this was headed. Coco and Beau had danced around each other for months. Just as clear, however, was the inevitable heartbreak. Neither was in a position to start a relationship. They shared too much hurt between them. Too much grief. Jealousy. Spite. Even well-adjusted, the two would’ve been wrong for each other. Like water and oil.

  I glanced up at Lou. We’d been wrong for each other too.

  And so, so right.

  With a sigh, I started up the path, my footsteps heavy. My thoughts heavier. Célie followed quietly behind. When we reached Lou, I laced her cold fingers through mine, and we turned to face the lighthouse.

  Beau and Coco joined us several minutes later. Though her eyes remained swollen and red, she no longer cried. Instead she held her shoulders straight. Proud. Riddled with holes, Beau’s shirt still smoked slightly, revealing more skin than prudent in January. They didn’t speak of what had transpired, and neither did we.

  We studied the lighthouse in silence.

  It rose from the earth like a crooked finger beckoning to the sky. A single stone tower. Dirty. Dilapidated. Dark against the dawn. No flames flickered in the basin beneath the slanted roof. “The stable boy said no one lights the torches anymore,” Célie said, her voice low. I didn’t ask why she whispered. The hair on my neck had lifted inexplicably. The shadows here seemed to collect thicker than natural. “He said they haven’t been lit for years.”

  “The stable boy talks a lot.” Beau glanced between us nervously. He kept his arm firm around Coco’s waist. “Do we . . . has anyone actually seen a cauchemar?”

  “I told you,” Célie said. “It was a great hulking beast of tooth and claw, and it—”

  “Darling, no.” Beau lifted his free hand with a forced smile. “I meant”—he struggled for the right words for a moment before shrugging—“has anyone else seen a cauchemar? Preferably someone who didn’t run away screaming?”

  Coco flashed him a grin. Amused. It seemed out of place on her grim face. With a start, I realized I couldn’t remember the last time she’d genuinely smiled. Had she ever? Had I seen it? When she pinched his ribs, he yelped and dropped his arm. “You have a beautiful falsetto yourself,” she said. “I’d almost forgotten.”

  Though she grinned wider at his outrage—his surprise—her bravado felt fragile. Delicate. I didn’t want to see it break. Buffeting Beau’s shoulder, I said, “Do you remember the witch on Modraniht?”

  His mouth flattened. “We do not speak of her.”

  “I remember.” Coco shot me an appreciative look. It was there and gone in the blink of an eye. So brief I might’ve imagined it. “She quite liked your little performance, didn’t she?”

  “I’m an excellent singer,” Beau sniffed.

  “You’re an excellent dancer.”

  I laughed despite myself. “I remember Beau running away screaming that night.”

  “What is this?” He looked between us, brows and nose wrinkling in alarm. “What’s happening here?”

  “She told you what a cauchemar looks like.” Though Coco didn’t look at Célie—didn’t acknowledge her existence whatsoever—I suspected her admission was the only apology Célie would receive. “Don’t be an ass. Listen.”

  With a long-suffering sigh, Beau inclined his head in Célie’s direction. She stood a little straighter. “My apologies, madame,” he muttered, sounding like a peevish child. “What I meant was has anyone ever fought a cauchemar? Some actual experience might be the difference between surviving this encounter intact and having our heads thrown to sea.”

  “Is that your fear?” Lou tilted her own head to study him. She’d grown unusually silent since reaching the lighthouse. Unusually still. Until now, her eyes hadn’t wavered from the thick shadows at the base of the tower. “Decapitation?”

  His frown matched her own. “I—well, it doesn’t seem particularly pleasant, no.”

  “But do you fear it?” she pressed. “Does it haunt your dreams?”

  Beau scoffed at the peculiar question, not bothering to hide his exasperation. “Show me someone who doesn’t fear decapitation, and I’ll show you a liar.”

  “Why?” Coco’s eyes narrowed. “What is it, Lou?”

  Lou’s gaze returned to the shadows. She stared at them as if trying to decipher something. As if listening to an unspoken language. “A cauchemar is a nightmare,” she explained in an offhand voice. Still distracted. “It’ll appear differently to each of us, assuming the form of our greatest fears.”

  A beat of horrific silence passed as her words sank in.

  Our greatest fears. An uncanny awareness skittered down my spine, as if even now, the creature watched us. Learned us. I didn’t even know my greatest fear. I’d never given it thought. Never given it voice. It seemed the cauchemar would do it for me.

  “Have you—have you fought one?” Coco asked Lou. “A cauchemar?”

  A sly grin crept across Lou’s face. Still she studied the shadows. “Once. A long time ago.”

  “What shape did it take?” Beau demanded.

  Her eyes snapped to his. “That’s very personal, Beauregard. What shape will it take for you?” When she stepped toward him, he took a hasty step back. “Not decapitation. Not drowning either.” She cocked her head and stalked closer, circling him now. She didn’t grin. Didn’t mock. “No, your fear isn’t quite so vital, is it? You fear something else. Something peripheral.” When she inhaled deeply, her eyes lighting with recognition, I seized her hand and yanked her to my side.

  “This isn’t the time or place,” I said tersely. “We need to focus.”

  “By all means, Chass”—she waved to the rotten door—“lead the way.”

  We all stared at it. No one moved.

  I peered behind us to the village, to the dozens of pinpricks of light. The sun had risen. The townspeople had gathered. They’d start their trek soon. We had half an hour—maybe a quarter more—before they ascended on us. On the unwitting monster inside.

  You should stay out of it, boy. This isn’t your fight.

  I squared my shoulders.

  With a deep b
reath, I moved to open the door, but Célie—Célie—beat me to it.

  Her hand seemed paler and smaller than usual against the dark wood, but she didn’t hesitate. She pushed with all her might—once, twice, three times—until the hinges finally swung open with a shriek. The sound pierced the early morning silence, frightening a pair of seagulls from the rafters. Beau cursed and jumped.

  So did Lou.

  With one last, deep breath, I stepped inside.

  Le Cauchemar

  Reid

  The lower floors had no windows to let in the early morning sun, so the lighthouse’s interior remained dark. The air dank. Stale. Broken glass littered the floor, glinting in the narrow swath of light from the door. A small, frightened creature skittered across it, and the shards tinkled under its tiny paws. I looked closer.

  Mirrors. Broken mirrors.

  They each reflected different pieces of the circular room—rusted hooks on the walls, coiled ropes atop them, bowed beams overhead. A moldy bed sat in one corner, along with a tarnished iron pot. Remnants of the last keeper who’d lived here. I moved farther into the hodgepodge space, watching as the reflections shifted. Now Célie’s wide eye. Now Beau’s drawn mouth. Now Coco’s tense shoulders. Lou kept a hand on my lower back.

  Beyond our footsteps, no other sound penetrated the silence.

  Perhaps the creature had already moved on. Perhaps Father Achille had been mistaken.

  The door slammed shut behind us.

  Both Coco and Célie leapt into Beau with identical shrieks. He somehow missed both of them, however, startling sideways with a vicious curse. The two had no choice but to clutch each other as I stormed past, wrenching the door open once more. “We’re fine,” I said firmly. “It was the wind.”

  That same wind caressed my cheeks now, bringing with it a soft bout of laughter.

  Was that . . . ?

  My heart nearly seized.

  Looking around wildly, I pivoted in a full circle. The others imitated my movements with panicked expressions. “What is it?” Coco flicked a knife from her sleeve. “Did you hear something?”

  My heartbeat thundered in my ears. “I thought I heard . . .” The Archbishop, I almost finished, but the words caught in my throat. I thought I’d heard the Archbishop. But that couldn’t be. He wasn’t here. He never laughed. I didn’t fear him.

  It was La Fôret des Yeux all over again. Instead of trees, the cauchemar mocked me, twisting my thoughts into nightmares. It could’ve hidden in the shadows. Célie had described a hulking beast, but perhaps it could change shape. We knew virtually nothing about this creature or its abilities. Its appetite.

  I took a steadying breath.

  Cauchemars are notoriously cruel, but this creature hasn’t yet attacked.

  Cruel or no, it hadn’t harmed anyone. That laugh—it was a figment of my imagination. A defense mechanism the cauchemar had cultivated to protect itself. To protect itself. Not to attack. Not to kill or maim or eat.

  Still, its tactics weren’t exactly endearing. When the laughter returned a second later, I slipped a blade from my bandolier, whirling toward the source.

  It hadn’t been the cauchemar at all.

  It’d been Lou.

  I slowly lowered my blade.

  Oblivious, she leaned around me to peer into the room, still chuckling softly. “I can smell the fear in this place. It’s potent. Alive.” When we stared at her, nonplussed, she pointed to the walls. “Can you not scent it? It coats the ropes”—her finger turned to the soft floorboards—“paints the glass. The entire room is slick with it.”

  “No,” I said stiffly, wanting to throttle her. “I don’t scent anything.”

  “Perhaps it’s your fear I smell, then, not the cauchemar.” When the wind gusted through once more, her grin faded, and she tilted her head again. Listening. “It does feel different, though. It feels . . .” But she kept the words she would’ve spoken, trailing into silence instead. Her hand clenched on my back. “I think we should leave.”

  Surprised by her reaction—yet somehow not—I approached the spiral staircase in the center of the room. The wood had half-rotted. Tentatively, I tested the bottom step with my foot. It dipped beneath my weight. “We will. After we warn the creature. After we ask for its help.”

  For a short moment, she looked likely to argue. Her lip curled. Her eyes darkened. Just as quickly, however, her expression cleared, and she dipped her chin in a slight nod, brushing past me up the stairs.

  We ascended the next two floors in a single-file line. One step at a time. Slow. Cautious. We paused only to inspect the dilapidated rooms beyond, but the cauchemar—if here at all—remained hidden.

  “What was that?” Beau whipped his head to the door on our right, to the ominous groan behind it. “Did you hear—?” Something creaked overhead, and another gust of wind swept up the staircase. He spun to face Coco. “Was that you?”

  Her eyes darted all around us. “Why would I be moaning?”

  It was a mark of Beau’s panic that he didn’t respond. Instead, he nearly tripped over Célie as she stooped to collect something from the moldy stair. It gleamed through her fingers in the darkness. A shard of mirror. Straightening, she held it out in front of her like a knife.

  A beat of silence passed as we stared at her. “What?” she hissed defensively, face nearly white. “No one gave me a weapon.”

  To my surprise, Coco responded by bending to retrieve her own shard. She held it poised in her free hand, saying nothing of the knife in her other, and nodded once in Célie’s direction. Then she nudged Beau. He looked between them, aghast. “You cannot be serious. We’re more likely to wound ourselves than the cauchemar with such rubbish.”

  Rolling my eyes, I pressed a dagger into his palm before picking up my own piece of glass. At Célie’s incredulous stare, one corner of my mouth quirked up. “What?” I shrugged and continued upward, not looking back. “It was a good idea.”

  We crept toward the final floor in silence. When the door below slammed shut again, Beau’s whisper quickly followed. “I’m as opposed to airing my dirty laundry as anyone, but perhaps—in light of the circumstances—it might help to . . . discuss our fears?” The step beneath him heaved an ominous groan, and he exhaled sharply. “For example, if one of you could reiterate how you’d never dream of ignoring or forgetting me, that would be grand. It’s a ridiculous notion, I know, but for the sake of—”

  “Quiet,” Lou snapped. The staircase ended with a door directly overhead. She tilted her head again, hesitating, before pushing it open and slipping through. I followed, nearly flattening her when I climbed to my feet. She’d stopped abruptly to take in the final floor: an open room without walls to shield us from the elements. Only a handful of beams held the roof in place, and sun spilled in from every direction, banishing the last of the shadows. I breathed a sigh of relief. The cauchemar wasn’t here. Nothing was here save an enormous fire basin. Built into the center of the stone floor, it stood empty. No wood or ashes. Except—

  Lou stood perfectly still, the wind whipping her pale hair across her face.

  Except it wasn’t empty at all.

  From the basin, an enormous figure rose.

  Cloaked in soiled fabric, it charged toward us with blackened, outstretched hands. I lunged to Lou’s side, but she’d already moved, surging forward with lightning quickness. When she lashed out with her blade, clipping the creature’s midsection, it reared backward like a great bear. Though a hood shielded its hair, its face, its teeth, it swiped at Lou with one massive paw, and she sailed through the air. I dove after her—catching her wrist before she could slide from the room’s edge—as the others attacked, their knives and mirrors glinting in the sunlight. “Stop!” The wind carried away my shout. “Don’t hurt it! We’re here to warn the creature, not—stop!”

  The cauchemar stumbled back a step, hands still raised, but didn’t hesitate to knock Coco’s glass aside and roar when she slashed its thigh. She danced out of reach
before it could wrap its hands around her neck—and then the first terror came.

  Though Lou had warned us, nothing could’ve prepared me for the horrifying jolt of fear. Of pain. My vision flashed white, blinding me, and I slipped, crouching down to one knee. From the others’ startled cries, they experienced the same.

  A black room, blacker chains. Cold against my skin. Wrong. Blood slides from my wrists to the floor in a steady drip. I count each drop. She returns at the top of each hour. Thirty-six hundred seconds. Thirty-six hundred drops. When the door creaks open at drop thirty-five hundred and sixty-two, I choke back a scream. A saw. A handsaw. She lifts it to the candlelight. “Is it in your bones, I wonder? Like theirs?”

  I fell to my hands as the faceless woman advanced. Gasping for breath. Shaking my head. Forcing my eyes to see reality instead of the glint of bone: to see Lou, writhing on the floor beside me, to see Coco in the fetal position, Beau flat on his back, Célie wide-eyed and trembling.

  I threw my glass shard, and it stuck, point-first, in the creature’s shoulder. Lurching to my feet, I tore another knife from my bandolier. The cauchemar stood its ground. A rumbling noise built in its chest, but I ignored the growl and advanced. The others struggled to join me in vain. Another wave of fear crippled us before we could reach the beast.

  Alone. I’m alone. Where is he? Where is he where is he where is he—

  I gritted my teeth and continued, disoriented, stumbling against the flickering white like a drunkard.

  “Speak.” A high, imperious voice. Her voice. “Or I shall pluck out your brother’s eyes. It is a fitting punishment, yes? He rendered you mute. I shall render him blind.” But I cannot speak. Drugged. The drug. It congeals in my system. The manacle at my throat chokes me. Moan. I try to moan, but she only laughs. His screams fill the air. His pleas.

  Oh my God.

  This wasn’t right. I didn’t fear torture. I wasn’t mute—