The Convent of the Pure

by Sara M. Harvey

  “What are you sensing? Are we alone here?”

  Imogen winked out of Portia’s vision briefly, then returned with a nod of her head. “Yes, for the moment, we are. There is something lurking here, but not in the chapel.” She nodded toward the rear door, the one that opened onto the arched passageway.

  “We should check the sacristy first, and then move on to the main building.” Portia carefully edged around the ritual circle, making for the small preparation room behind the altar. Imogen followed, having neither agreed nor disagreed, but she seemed troubled. “You don’t like it here, do you?”

  “No,” the ghost answered. “I did not want to come here.”

  Portia smiled. “But you did.”

  “I stay by your side, my love. It is my sworn duty.”

  “Thank you. I know I could face this alone, but everything is so much easier when we are together.” She longed to reach out and squeeze Imogen’s fingers, but those days were gone. Only on rare occasions could she become that solid. Instead, Portia could only share a caress with the glimmering air beside her. “Let’s get to the bottom of this so we can go home.”

  Portia had her hand on the doorknob of the sacristy when the wireless transmitter in her pocket crackled to life. She jumped back, heart pounding, and nearly stumbled into the wretched circle. A buzz of static and a series of clicks came chattering through the instrument. It sounded like thunder in the tiny, quiet chapel. She shoved it deeper into the pocket of her duster, closing her hand around it to muffle the sound. But it was relentless, growing louder and louder until Portia pulled it out to turn it off. The transmitter was a silly invention of one of her classmates', meant to be able to send telegraphed code between members of a scouting party. It was unobtrusive, small and lightweight enough to carry in a pocket, and relatively quiet. It had never before made the cacophonous racket it was currently emitting. And then it did something Portia had never thought physically possible. It began to transmit a voice. A woman’s eerie, silky voice. The words faded in and out of hearing, crackling and hissing with static.

  “’They lie with the warriors, the Nephilim of old, who descend to Sheol with their weapons of war.’”

  The interference was tremendous, but the transmitter refused to turn off. The indicator light dimmed, but each time the woman spoke, it flickered to life again, bringing her voice with it in a swell of volume. The waves of sound climaxed and faded, but the words were muddled. The voice seemed to upset Imogen especially, causing her to flicker in and out of Portia’s field of vision.

  The chapel had been picked over. Nothing much remained that might have hinted that it had once been a place of worship, only the altar, which was obviously being used for more nefarious purposes than celebrating the Mass. Everything else had been removed, right down to the tiny crucifixes that had adorned each row of pews. She could see where they had been affixed and where they had been pried off, in some places with hasty and jagged tool marks that left deep scrapes in the wood.

  As they neared the large door to the main building, the transmitter signal abruptly cleared. Portia could hear the woman now without any hindrance. For a long moment, there was only the sound of her breathing.

  “Count us not amongst the Dead, look for us not below the Earth. We shall walk in sunlight, we shall purge the blood of the Daughters of Men from our veins, we shall claim our heritage as descendants of the most holy God! Bene 'elim! We claim our birthright! As Bene ‘elim, we sing praises to the Most High! Amen! Amen! Amen!”

  The transmitter light twinkled a moment, then went dark as the signal dissipated. Portia exchanged a worried glance with Imogen. She began to feel a cold thread of fear tugging at her as she realized that whoever had summoned them there was inside…and waiting for them.

  Chapter Three

  Imogen had never spoken much about her past, not even with Portia. But Portia knew her beloved had been born in this city, and after her mother’s suicide, Imogen had been taken to a convent to be raised. Imogen gave no real indication that this place might be familiar to her as they entered through the wide, arched door at the far end of the corridor. Inside was a cloak room, a narrow and poorly lit chamber full of sinister shadows that the resin’s fitful light did nothing to dispel.

  Light spilled in from around the interior door, and Portia opened it a crack to peer into the passageway beyond. She felt Imogen’s cool hand on the back of her neck and jumped.

  “Don’t be afraid. I will be with you the entire time.”

  Portia nodded and pressed the door fully open. The hall before her was most certainly a part of the original construction of the convent, simple and sturdy, made with smooth, tawny stone. Along the center of the corridor’s floor was a wide indentation made by centuries of shuffling feet moving to and from the chapel. She could almost hear their soft footfalls and murmuring voices. It would have been a peaceful place, but the ugly electric bulbs installed overhead cast a garish light through the whole passage.

  The hall emptied into a large central chamber with a vaulted ceiling, where Portia could detect the scent of blood once more. It drifted down from the second floor, roiling over the railings and down the stairs, distractingly fresh and pungent.

  “What’s up there?”

  Imogen’s shadowy form tensed. “Why do you think I should know?”

  “Just a hunch.”

  The ghost sighed but did not even look up before she answered. “Up the stairs to our left were the nun’s cells. To our right were dormitories. Between them were a series of large interconnected rooms that served as classrooms. More classrooms, playrooms, and dormitories were on the upper floors, but we mostly used them for storage. On this floor, there was a kitchen and a dining hall. And the chambers and offices of the Mother Superior.”

  “So, you were raised here.”

  Imogen nodded. “A long time ago. It was a true cloister, kept by the very sweet and very human Sisterhood of the Daughters of Men, with walls that enclosed us, keeping the wicked world at bay. No one was supposed to find us. Not even the Grigori…” Her form flickered like ripples on a pond as she trailed off.

  “Are you going to be--”

  “Fine? Yes. Yes, I will be just fine. The dormitories,” she pointed up the stairs. “That is where the blood is coming from.”

  “Do you catch anything else? Demons? Ghosts? Humans?”

  She shook her head. “No. The blood is too strong. And the memories.”

  Portia ached to hold her, to wrap her arms around her and kiss her and kiss her until Imogen could think of nothing more than pleasure. She passed her solid hands through her lover’s shimmering body. “I love you.”

  Imogen stepped away from her touch. “This way.” She brushed her incorporeal hands across her face as if dashing away invisible tears. She vanished and reappeared halfway up the broad stairs to the second floor. “Portia, come.”

  Portia adjusted her bag across her shoulders and followed her lover up the steps and into Imogen’s childhood home.

  Imogen directed her into the first corridor they encountered. The smell of blood was overpowering. A balcony hugged the interior wall and wrapped all the way around to a matching corridor, mirror-imaged directly across from them. Portia hoped they would not have to investigate that other wing--the thought of crossing that open walkway made her nervous. She turned to the door before her. It was locked. She began to prepare a spell when Imogen stopped her.

  “Wait. There is an easier way. Do you have a hair pin?”

  Portia tugged one of the pins from her coiled braid. She could see the intense concentration on Imogen’s face as she became solid enough to take the pin and jiggle it into the keyhole. Her red-gold brows knit in deep concentration as she focused on picking the lock.

  “It locks with a key; you need it to open the door from the outside or the inside. We used to do this all the time as children, you know, sneak out. Not like there was any place to go, really. But we did it anyway. Hellions, we were.” She glanced
back toward Portia with a wink. For an instant, they were their old selves again, mischievous and conspiring together. But that cheerful nostalgia faded when the lock clicked open and the silver hairpin fell to the floor. Portia was alone on the landing.

  She eased open the door. Behind her, Imogen was flickering in and out of sight. It was dark within. The scent of blood was overwhelmed by the stench of iodine and ether. There was a faint rattling and clicking within the room and the sound of a chorus of breath rising and falling in eerie regularity. The light of the resin was fading, and Portia put it in the pocket of her duster. Lifting her crossbow into place, she nocked a bolt and turned the brass knob until it was ready to fire. The rhythmic breathing continued, relentless.

  Her eyes slowly adjusted to the room, and faint outlines and shapes came into view. Row after row of narrow beds came into focus, with contraptions at the foot of each one. The metal boxes were attached to the end of each bed with wires that vanished beneath the thin, ragged blankets. Beneath each blanket lay a child, flat on its back. They were tall, with high cheekbones and luminous skin but shadowed, sunken eyes that flickered and twitched in restless dreams. Their hair had grown out over the pillows and hung over the sides of the beds. The machines attached to the children whirred and beeped and blinked tiny red and yellow lights, each one connected to a series of cloth-covered wires that snaked across the floor, disappearing into the gloom beyond. The only movements were the rising and falling of scrawny chests and the flutter of pallid eyelids.

  Behind Portia, Imogen gasped. She was clearly visible now, and more agitated than Portia had ever seen her. “No! It can’t be! Molly! Kendrick! Sinclair! Radinka!” The spirit fell to her knees. “So long,” she wailed. “How can they still keep you like this after so long?”

  Portia rushed to her side, but Imogen would not be comforted. There was a sound from the main room downstairs, the sharp click of a door shutting. Portia reached out for Imogen’s wrist and sank through it. She concentrated on reaching beyond herself, beyond the physical, and caught her companion’s hand.

  “Come on, we can’t help them if we’re caught! Let’s go!” Portia dragged Imogen down the center aisle between the rows of beds. There was a door at the far side, the dull gleam of its hinges just visible in the dimness. Portia made a dash for it. Inside was a small anteroom containing an overlarge linen closet stacked with towels, sheets, blankets, pillows, and cot mattresses rolled up with coarse twine. She ducked behind a tall stack of them, with Imogen still in tow. She was still crying, but softly now, her ethereal frame wracked with sobs.

  No one came into the dormitory. Perhaps those heartrending screams from the depths of her beloved Imogen’s tortured soul had been for Portia’s ears alone.

  It took a few long minutes until Portia’s hammering heart slowed enough for her to catch her breath. “You need to tell me everything you know about what is going on here.”

  Imogen shook her head. “No.” She sputtered and sobbed. “I cannot.”

  “How do you know those children?”

  Her shoulders slumped as if she could still feel the tension in the muscles she once had. “These were my sisters and my brothers, my playmates.” Her voice hitched. “They were so good, all of them! I have been gone so long! I had hoped…I had hoped that maybe they’d be dead by now. Free of all this.”

  “Wait, explain this to me. These children have been here for fifteen years? How is that possible?” She paused, remembering. “You came to the Penemue chapter house just after I did. Trust me, I remember. I was in love with you already. We were, what, nine? No, ten years old?”

  “You were ten.”

  “Details. So, you were eleven, then?”

  Imogen turned away.

  “Imogen? Seriously, how old were you when you came to Penemue?”

  “Not ten.”

  Portia glanced toward the door to the dormitory. “And those aren’t ordinary children, are they?”

  Imogen shook her head. “Not even by our queer standards of ‘normal.’”

  “What is happening here?”

  “There are more rooms beyond here. A washroom and another large dormitory.”

  “Imogen…”

  “We had better check those out. Although I am afraid of what we might find there.”

  Portia realized she would not get the answer she wanted out of Imogen. “We,” she said. “So you are coming with me, then? Think you can handle it?”

  The spirit glared hard at her, her dark green eyes glinting. “Of course I can.” She stood and drifted through the wall and into the next room.

  Portia scrambled to her feet and followed after, emerging into a dank bathroom that reverberated with dripping water. There were toilet stalls to one side and a row of claw-footed bathtubs to the other. The second dormitory was far better lit than the first one had been, and Portia had no problem finding her way to Imogen. She wasn’t crying, she wasn’t making a sound. Her arms hung still at her sides. She was murmuring, but her words were blurred with horror.

  “This was never supposed to happen. It was not supposed to be like this. Not like this.”

  “Imogen, what wasn’t supposed--” The words dried up in Portia’s mouth. A floor-to-ceiling curtain hung across the room, and Imogen stood in the opening. Pale blue light shone through her translucent body, but what cast that light was nothing Portia could ever have imagined. Case after case of tall glass enclosed dozens of naked figures. They were tall and lean with elegant features, just like the children, but these were older, just barely adolescent.

  Several of them had wings. A few of the wings were fully formed and recognizable, but most were gnarled or stumpy or otherwise tremendously misshapen. Many had gnarled fingers and toes sprouting ragged, talon-like nails. The flesh of some was reddened and lacerated, studded with carbuncles and oozing sores. The limbs of others were withered, legs strapped or even bolted to braces and arms hanging like ruined vines. These creatures behind the glass stood frozen and still, like dolls on display. Their eyes and mouths were wrapped with silk bandages, and a disturbing variety of equipment was attached to their otherwise naked bodies. Small diodes and wires were embedded in their pearly skin.

  Portia touched the glass of one of the cases, curiosity battling with disgust. “What is this?”

  “Portia, you have to get out of here. I didn’t know when we came that this was what they were doing! When they find out that you have come here…” Imogen glanced around, nervous and trembling. “Oh God, Portia, I don’t want to see you in one of these boxes.” Terror was etched deeply into her beautiful face. “You need to get out! Go, Portia. As I love you, please, go! I couldn’t bear what they’d do to you!” She hiccupped and doubled over in pain, clutching at her breastbone. “Please! Before they find you!”

  “Imogen!”

  “Get out of here!” She clenched her eyes shut, gasping and trying to regain composure. “We are here. Against my will. They wish to harm you.” Her words were choked out, forced. Her hands remained pressed against her breastbone. She was in obvious pain.

  Portia took an uncertain step away. “Why do you know this?”

  The ghost shook her head, unable to reply. “Please, just go,” she whispered.

  “I won’t leave you behind.”

  “Why not?” Imogen hissed. “You did it once before. And I am certainly not in danger of dying this time.”

  Portia recoiled as if Imogen had struck her. “That’s hardly fair. It wasn’t like that!” A scuttling noise in the front dormitory caught Portia’s attention. She was on the alert at once. “A patrol? Imogen, is that a patrol?”

  “We can’t fight them, Portia.” Her shoulders sagged and her back shook with sobs. “I tried, we all tried. I don’t think even you could do it. We have to get out!”

  “What is wrong with you?”

  “More than I can tell you, I’m afraid. No matter how much I want to.”

  “This is getting us nowhere. Listen, we’re cornered, we are g
oing to need to take a stand.”

  “No! Portia, you don’t understand!”

  “And you won’t tell me!”

  “I cannot!” She struck her chest. “Listen to what I am saying to you! I cannot tell you! My words are locked away!”

  “We still need to fight what is coming for us!”

  Imogen sighed, defeated. She turned toward the sound and vanished. Portia readied her weapon and crouched behind the curtain. She pressed her hip against one of the glass cases, fighting the choke of revulsion from being so close to what floated within it. Whatever it was, it had once been a child. A proud and beautiful descendant of the Nephilim, just like she was. Just like Imogen. She trembled with rage and terror as she nocked her bolt.

  The soft shuffling grew louder as the adversary approached through the anteroom and washroom into the second dormitory. Imogen appeared beside her, looking shaken and pale.

  “It’s bad,” she said in a strained voice. It seemed as if the very act of being there and speaking had quite suddenly become extraordinarily draining. She was stroking her sternum.

  “How bad?” For a moment Portia wondered if they were speaking about the patrol or something else entirely.

  Imogen coughed. “Incubus.”

  Portia’s eyes widened. “An incubus? They have an incubus guarding this place?” Her mind shifted immediately to strategy. She was not prepared for this. Common demons were one thing, but a humanoid creature with strength and cunning that could rival her own was a prospect she had not considered. She hoped she had enough bolts. She wished for a gun, specifically one of the new repeating rifles the other Gyony were always on about.

  “He seems to have been sent to investigate. He’s suspicious.”