The Convent of the Pure

by Sara M. Harvey

  It had been a charmed life, a carefree existence. Portia remembered so clearly the day she and Imogen had their first kiss, in the market square behind the apple seller’s booth. Their lips had been sticky and sweet with juice. And there was the day down by the stream when they’d splashed and swum and stretched out on the bank side rocks to dry in the hot summer sun. Imogen deserved a better fate. Imogen should have been the one valiantly slaying demons and ghouls, full of life and beauty and power. Portia would have traded places with her in a moment; she would have been content to exist as a spirit, a guardian angel at her lover’s side. She would have given anything to repeat that night and never take her eyes off of Imogen, not for an instant.

  “Portia?” She jolted at the voice. Emile Edulica leaned over her with a tea tray. “Portia, lass? What will you? Tea, coffee? Sugar, milk? I can’t hold this up all day.” He was handsome and had to be nearly one hundred years old, but still full of youthful vigor and delightfully angled cheekbones, with toffee-brown hair swept back in a low ponytail. He was Hester’s heir-apparent, should she ever decide to officially retire and leave it all to him. But the Primacy had not sent Hester or Emile on any new scouting forays in over a year. It was unsettling to them, Portia knew, but they hid it behind placid smiles and went about their daily tasks as if nothing were amiss.

  “Tea, please. Sugar, no milk.” Portia still remembered when she’d first seen him, stepping out of the carriage in front of her parents’ house and opening the door for Hester. After the long ride from her parents' lonely house, Emile had carried her in his arms into the Penemue chapter house, up the stairs into her new room and her new life. She had mistaken him for a servant, then. Even now, it was easy to forget that this man with his calming, quiet manners and tendency to dote was really her superior while she lived at Penemue. He set her cup before her and seated himself in the chair opposite.

  “Daydreaming again, I see.”

  She shrugged. “Just strolling down memory lane. How are you today?”

  He glanced aside before answering. “I am well.”

  “You are lying.”

  Emile’s eyes were usually the color of a perfectly blue spring sky, but they turned a peculiar color when he was troubled or angry. They were a pale periwinkle now, nearly violet. He looked openly around the sitting room. One of the maids was sweeping up and a squat clockwork assistant was clattering behind her, dutifully holding up a dustbin. Emile clapped his hands and made a gentle shooing gesture, and the maid bobbed him a curtsey and left the room with the little wheeled clockwork on her heels, its dustbin tucked away to be emptied somewhere else. The maid even paused to close the pocket doors behind her, leaving Portia alone in the sitting room with Emile. For a few long moments, there was no sound but the crackling of the fire laid in the fireplace to ward off the chill still hanging in the early spring air.

  “The Lady is ill,” he said softly, as if the very admission of it might do Hester further injury.

  “Ill? How?”

  He shook his head, and Portia thought she saw tears gathering in his eyes. “I am not sure. I went to look in on her this morning and I could not wake her. She’s pale and her breath is ragged. Sometimes she sweats and sometimes she shivers.” He scratched nervously at the back of his neck. “She has been like this all day.”

  “She seemed fine last night. A little tired, maybe, but certainly nothing more serious than that!”

  “When did you see her?”

  “It was late. Nearly one, I think. I brought my report to her in the library when I got back from my assignment.”

  He nodded. “Was anyone else awake when you got in?”

  Portia began to shake her head, then remembered her cryptic meeting with the necromancer. “Nigel was awake,” she told him. She despaired of saying anything further, knowing that somehow he would find out.

  Emile did not press, as if he, too, realized the potential danger. “I should look in on Lady Hester. I have sent word about her illness, but I have received no answer from the Primacy. Lady Claire Aldias is on her way up from the village with Miniver Sweetwater, the midwife. I don’t know what else I should do.”

  Portia nodded, feigning a calm she did not feel. “Do you think that is necessary? I am certain Lady Hester will be fine.” Her heart raced. Somehow, this was all playing right into Nigel’s plans. Lady Claire was a renowned healer, but she was an Aldias and Portia feared Nigel’s influence.

  “She needs to be seen by a healer,” Emile said firmly, his words cracking just slightly. In his strained voice, Portia heard the terrifying truth of the severity of Lady Hester’s condition.

  Her mouth went dry. “Emile, if things get any worse, please alert me. If you wouldn’t mind?” She added the last hastily, hoping he would not suspect that she knew more than she was telling. But Emile was distraught; he noticed nothing but his own fear.

  He stood, bumping the table and rattling the tea set. He opened his mouth to speak, but Dinah, the head maid, came bustling in. Although she was in a terrible rush, she still paused to curtsey deeply and beg forgiveness for the interruption.

  “Mistress Portia, you are needed. It is urgent.” She held out the hastily transcribed message. It had been a telegraph wire transmission, Portia could tell by the syntax. Those were hit and miss in terms of the kind of enemy and the location. It was terrible timing. And Portia did not think it was entirely coincidental. There was nothing to be done but investigate.

  “Emile, would you please excuse me?”

  He glanced up, having sat himself down again and begun staring at the tea set as if he had never seen it before. She hated to leave him alone, but Lady Claire and the midwife would be there shortly. He stood again and gave her an awkward embrace. “Of course. Take care, lass. And hurry home.”

  Portia’s things were always at the ready. Her satchel held her favorite crossbow and a quiver of smooth, ivory-colored Blessedwood bolts. A jar of holy water and a pouch of herbs and incense were nestled in a side pocket along with a handful of silver medallions strung on leather cords. A half-dozen lead canisters clinked together, rolling over a well-worn map of the area and a bronze compass with a badly scratched cover. She threw her battered duster on over her sensible shirtwaist and divided skirt and twirled her silver braid hastily on top of her head before tying a faded paisley kerchief over it. She stuffed her new wireless transmitter into her pocket; although it was a piece of top-of-the-line technology, it was still less than trustworthy. Its range was limited, but she could usually raise another member of the Grigori or even a police bobby if the situation was dire.

  She was back downstairs in moments, but Emile was already gone. The library door was ajar, and for the first time since she had come to Penemue more than seventeen years ago, the library was dark.

  Portia moved quickly across the lawn and was nearly running by the time she reached the far end of the roundabout. Her motorized cycle was waiting for her in the garage, and so was Imogen. She watched quietly as Portia donned her helmet and gunned the motor.

  “It is worse than you think,” Imogen said.

  “I think it’s pretty terrible, actually.” Portia leaped onto the cycle. “Can you tell me on the way?”

  The spirit nodded and slipped behind her. Her misty arms wrapped around Portia’s body and memories came. Portia longed for nothing more than to lose herself in them and forget the troubles that haunted her. But duty called and she forced the dazzle of nostalgic tears from her eyes so she could focus on the road.

  “You must be careful of Nigel. The House of Aldias has fed his ambition too much.”

  “Tell me something I didn’t know. Is he responsible for Lady Hester?”

  Imogen paused, considering. “If he is, I cannot say how. But I would not doubt it. That is no ordinary illness she has, I can tell that much.” Her voice was beyond Portia’s ears now, it was inside her mind. “But we must take care tonight. We are running directly toward danger.”

  “Should I not have lef
t the chapter house?”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered.” The resignation in her words made her sound old and tired. “What is coming for you will find you no matter what.”

  Chapter Two

  The address was difficult to find. More than once, Portia consulted her map. She’d made good time on the road in from Penemue, but once in the city she’d made wrong turn after wrong turn until it was dark. Imogen was silent the entire time; even when Portia begged her to scout ahead, she remained where she was with her spectral arms wrapped around Portia’s waist. Frustrated, Portia stopped a fruit-seller dragging his lopsided cart toward the small bridge that spanned the river.

  He looked at the address, but only laughed when she asked him to point it to her on the map.

  “You won’ta find that on no map. That place been closed down since who-knows-when. Used to be a nunnery, or a ‘ospital, mebbe. Don’t rightly remember now. ‘Twas a long time ago.” He huffed and carefully set his cart handles down onto the grimy cobblestones. “Now y’see here this road we’re on? Follows the river. You keep a-goin’ ‘til you come ‘round to ‘nother bridge. A big one. Now, don’ta go over that bridge. You go away from it. Keep the water at your back, and you remember to come home to it later, unnerstan’?”

  Portia nodded when it was apparent that he would not continue unless given some acknowledgement that she did indeed “unnerstan.” “I follow this road to a large bridge. Turn left and go away from the river.”

  “You pick up quick. You pretty ones always worry me, all the power’s in the looks and none in the brains. But what was I sayin’? Oh, yes. Away from the water, up the hill. The road gives out but the path don’t. Keep on until you pick up the road again and it’lla lead you right to the gates of that place. 'Course, you mightaswell be walkin’ up to the gates of Hell.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate the help.”

  “You take care now, missy. Here, take one for the road. Some days, that road up there gets mighty long. Can’ta figure out how. But when I used to sell fruit to the nuns at the wall, there was some days it’d take me clear half the day just getting’ there. Strangest thing I ever did see.” He put a large yellow apple into her hand. It was heavy and ripe with only one brown oval bruise on it. The man hefted the cart again and shifted his weight to get it moving once more. “You take care now. Don’ta be getting’ yourself kill’d. Cryin’ shame when a pretty girl gets herself kill’d. Happens all t’time. Dunno what this world’s comin’ to. Pretty girl can’ta hardly walk down the streets without puttin’ herself right in middle of trouble.” He continued to mutter to himself as the cart creaked and rattled away over the narrow bridge.

  Portia watched him go. “You do realize what this means, don’t you?” she whispered to Imogen.

  The spirit nodded. “The place on the hill is shrouded. I can sense it even here. The power there is not one of Grigori origin, but based off of Grigori teachings.”

  “Is it demon magic, then?”

  “No, not exactly. It is a muddle of things, part Nephilim magic, part demonmancery. We shouldn’t go there alone. We shouldn’t go there at all, in fact.”

  “I can’t very well ignore a summons and you know that. Someone there has asked for our help; duty and honor demand we at least investigate.”

  Imogen was silent and invisible a long moment. Finally, Portia felt the whisper of incorporeal lips against her earlobe. “Then I shall protect you as best I can, my love.”

  Portia’s eyes closed as she tried to blot out the unbidden memories of when it had been her that had promised Imogen that very same thing. Such had her protection been. Portia sighed and nodded, not trusting her voice to speak. She gunned the engine and jumped when it backfired, sending a spray of steam and sparks into the air behind them.

  The road was just as the fruit-peddler had described. When they arrived at the large masonry bridge, Portia turned to the low hill rising up beside the road. The paving grew more and more decrepit as they ascended, finally ending in an expanse of rubble strewn through the stubby grass. A double trail formed by cart or automobile wheels pressed on through the mess of broken cobblestones and past the trees, still skeletal with their winter boughs. The buildings had given way blocks before, as if the very architecture had retreated away from the ominous and chilling aura that rolled off the hilltop like fog.

  “Let’s go,” Portia said resolutely. She rummaged around the Gladstone bag and pulled out one of the medallions. “Christopher, Denied Saint, it is you that I still venerate. Whoever shall behold the image of Saint Christopher shall not faint or fall on that day. I beseech you, guide my steps, allow me safe travel to my destination and home again.”

  She dropped the necklace over her head and kissed the smooth, cool silver before slipping it beneath her shirtwaist. The cycle’s engine growled as she coasted through one of the rutted tracks. She watched the path ahead, not looking left or right, only gazing steadfastly toward her target. She could feel the magic around them; she could nearly smell it. Imogen held fast to her, burying her face against Portia’s neck so she could not be distracted by the glamours that surrounded them. She, a creature of pure spirit, was especially susceptible. After about a hundred yards, the road began again. Not cobbles, but smooth, flat paving stones, each over ten feet wide and laid seamlessly alongside its neighbor, built a perfectly smooth road surface that ran in a straight line to an enormous gate.

  Portia let the engine sputter into silence and pushed the cycle the last of the way. The gates looked old. They were ornate, with curved, vine-like designs and a tall archway from which hung a broken lantern. There were words on the archway: The tongue of the righteous is choice silver, but the heart of the wicked is of little value.

  “Proverbs,” Imogen said aloud.

  “Creepy.” Portia gazed at the intricate lettering full of flourishes and rust.

  The gates were ajar and a thick chain was coiled on the ground between them, right beside a broken padlock. Although the gates were rusty and ill-used, the chain and padlock were gleaming and new. Portia loaded the crossbow, cranking the tiny brass knob with a series of tinny clicks. She pushed the gate with a booted foot. It squealed in protest before finally groaning open. She proceeded carefully. The area within the walls was quite unadorned, a wide parade ground flanked by long, low buildings. Vines had once grown along the walls and the sides of the buildings, but now were only scraggly dead branches and black traceries that remained on the stone surfaces like scars. The main structure loomed at the far side of it, imposing in the darkness. Only a little moonlight fell, casting a pale glow that hid more than it illuminated.

  “Which way?” Portia squinted into the darkness. The building to the right was boarded up and she could not see many details. It seemed square and utilitarian, like a storage area. To the left was an open corridor, only semi-enclosed by a series of Romanesque arches. It connected the central building with what appeared to be a chapel. “Let’s start there.”

  Imogen followed, gazing with Portia up at the large edifice that dominated the compound. The bottommost floors had been constructed from a light brown stone with striking yellow veining. There were floral carvings above the entries and various other reliefs obscured by shadow. Each progressive floor seemed to have been added on, bearing its own architectural style and a composition that was not entirely congruous with the levels below and above it. It was not an altogether pleasing aesthetic. Portia was in no hurry to see what the interior looked like. Besides, if there were demons about, they were bound to be haunting the chapel anyway. They were dreadfully predictable that way.

  The side door to the chapel was closed but not locked. Portia gently nudged it open, praying that the hinges were good. Inside, it was completely dark and she could see where someone had gone in and painted the stained glass windows with opaque black. It raised the hair on the back of her neck. She reached for a piece of resin incense from her pack.

  “Lucifer, bearer of light, you seek atonement. Aid me in
slaying your misbegotten kin. Take what repentance you may, be my guide, bring me light, allow me to see. Fallen One, this I command you.” The resin lit up at once, casting a soft, orange glow like candlelight, yet remaining cool in her hand. The chapel was cloaked in a heavy layer of dust. The altar lay bare, devoid of all ritual trappings.

  Portia moved forward carefully, conscious of the footprints she was leaving behind her. Closer to the altar, she could see that the floor there had been recently cleaned. Meticulously so, in fact. The scent of blood lingered in the air, almost overpowered by the harsh smell of lye soap. No mere human would have detected it, but to her, the odor of sacrifice was unmistakable. And recent.

  “It was certainly human,” Imogen confirmed. “This mischief was probably committed at sunset. Look, the altar is still wet.”

  Portia stretched her light toward it, careful not to get too close, and found that the dark graining of the surface was not a character of the wood or a tribute to its age, but where something had soaked into it. She dared not step into the cleaned area to investigate further. Instead, she crouched down and blew a sharp breath at the dusty border. Her suspicions were confirmed. A deep gouge scored the floor, creating a complete circle around the altar. The marking was old, but had recently been renewed. Whatever was happening up on this hill, she was certain it had been going on for decades, if not centuries. She began to wonder why they had never been called to investigate it before.