“If they do, this is the way I want to die.” Portia kissed her lips.
“Good,” Imogen murmured and ran her fingers through Portia’s shimmering hair.
Imogen’s mouth was sweet and familiar. They fell against each other onto the divan. She reveled in the intimate softness of Imogen’s yielding breasts, pushed up by her corset, and lost herself in the memory of how perfectly her mouth fit against the hollow at the base of her throat. The sensations were nearly overwhelming as Portia began to lose sense of herself.
This is the way I want to die, her echo from the dream corridor came whispering to her. I want to die. I want to die.
“Darling, what’s wrong?”
I want to die, the echo insisted, I want to die.
Portia shook her head to clear it. Imogen swam in her vision, growing blurry around the edges. For a moment, only a heartbeat’s worth of time, she looked like Lady Hester. Portia blinked. “Imogen?”
“Yes, my love?”
I want to die…
Portia shakily got to her feet. “No.”
Imogen reached out her hand and it seemed so familiar; the same shell-pink fingernails, the same dapple of honey-colored freckles across her knuckles, even the same crescent-shaped scar below her thumbnail from her first solo trial as a Gyony. It had been a yōkai, if Portia remembered correctly, and she had feared Imogen would lose the thumb. But there was something out of place. She gazed into Imogen’s eyes, finding them achingly familiar yet somehow awry.
“Portia, beloved?”
“Saint Lucy,” Portia prayed silently, “grant me true sight. Bring me your light, allow me your vision.” When she opened her eyes, the aura around Imogen was dark, purple-black as a bruise. A demon’s aura. “How dare you take her face and her voice?”
“Sweetheart…”
Portia backed away, coming up against the far wall of the little room altogether too quickly. “No, enough of your tricks. I won’t be taken in by you again.”
Imogen’s forest green eyes welled up with tears. “Portia, please--”
Portia clenched her eyes shut. “No, no, damn it!”
“Oh, Portia, I don’t know what they’ve done to you, but it must be so difficult.”
Imogen glided from the divan and ran her fingers down Portia’s cheek and along her jaw. She clasped both of Portia’s hands in her own and brought them to her lips. Her breath hitched elegantly and she sighed across Portia’s trembling fingers. Imogen smiled indulgently. “Portia, my love, you are safe here with me. No one knows where we are. Nothing is going to hurt you anymore, I won’t allow it.” She opened her arms, beckoning. “Now, come here, my heart.”
Portia allowed herself to be pulled back to the divan while scanning the room for a weapon. There was little at hand. Imogen settled into the plush seat, curling one lean leg beneath her and arranging her sage linen skirt in a pretty drape. She opened her arms, and Portia took her moment of opportunity. Knowing she would have but one chance, she grabbed Imogen’s wrists and threw her to the floor. The young woman’s body hit the floorboards with a thud of surprising density. Before she could recover, Portia pinioned her arms to the floor with her knees pressed into Imogen’s biceps and her toes digging into Imogen’s palms.
“Portia! What are you doing?”
“Calling you on your lie, you vile, demon-spawned bitch.”
“Portia!” She struggled weakly, making heart-wrenching little mewling sobs.
“Stop it! Stop it, now!” Portia grabbed the collar of Imogen’s shirtwaist and knocked her head back against the floor.
“Please don’t hurt me! Why are you hurting me, Portia, my love? Portia, my only love?”
“Shut your mouth!” Portia hooked her fingers around the mother-of-pearl buttons and wrenched the blouse open. She scanned Imogen’s chest, but found the sight only passing familiar; the corset was missing the monogram and the chemise was missing its lace. But that was not all that was out of place. The sigil Portia had seen carved into Imogen’s flesh was not there. “Liar,” Portia growled. “Liar!”
She wrapped her fingers around the slender neck she once had kissed. But this was not Imogen’s throat, she reminded herself.
Liar, the echo assured her.
Imogen laughed, first in her own warm, throaty voice, but it soon warped into a harsh bray that rattled the glass in the windows. “You think you are so clever, don’t you? But I have fooled you twice now, and I have gotten a bit of a taste for your blood, my dear.” She bucked beneath Portia and managed to knock her aside, then rose to her full height, a frighteningly tall two yards and then some. Her knees bent the wrong way and ended in splayed-toed feet with heavily calloused skin. Glossy black talons scuffled at the floor as she shifted her weight, and a thick web of flesh spanned the interiors of both her knee joints and her elbows. Her body was sinuous and strangely genderless with a row of purple-glossed, overlapping scales that ran from her chin to her pubis. Her shock of violet-black hair grew from the top of her head all the way down her back and along the top ridge of her anxiously swishing tail. Portia knew that hidden in that inky mass of hair was a pair of leathery wings tipped with poisoned spurs. She got to her feet, ready to dodge.
“Yes, you are a tasty little sugarplum.” The succubus licked her lips with that terrifying, sinuous tongue; it roiled and twined in a prehensile fashion. She watched Portia with her slitted, predatory eyes. “There isn’t anywhere for you to run. I made sure of that when I chose it.” She smiled, and it was a grim expression that did nothing more than bend the edges of her wide mouth up at the corners. “Let’s not make a fuss. Remember how easy and painless I made it for you before? You remember.”
A wave of sleepy warmth wafted away from the succubus. Portia ignored it. “Actually, I don’t.”
The succubus lashed out with her razor sharp claws, but Portia brought her elbow up to block the attack. The demon’s claws opened a slice on Portia’s forearm that bled for a few seconds, then strangely healed on its own.
“I see the ritual was a success. I can smell that angel’s soul locked up inside of you. Hmm, that is going to make you a little more difficult to subdue.”
The succubus moved with surprising alacrity, her hands lashing out so quickly that Portia could not dodge her. Portia rolled as she hit the floor, coming up into a crouch. But the succubus was fast, launching herself at Portia’s throat. Portia fell back and thrust her legs out, catching the demoness and knocking her off balance. As they both recovered, the succubus was first on her feet. She clasped both hands together and landed an upward arcing blow to Portia’s solar plexus that knocked her back into the wall. She sat, stunned and breathless, then staggered back to her feet.
“Strength,” she breathed, thinking of the brick wall of her vision.
Strength!
She attacked the demoness, bringing her elbow sharply into the succubus’ throat. The succubus gagged and coughed up a mouthful of steaming ichor that she spat into Portia’s face. It was badly aimed and Portia ducked it easily, coming up for another hit. But the succubus was ready for this one and deflected Portia’s attack to the left, sending her sprawling into the window.
The glass shattered around her, falling around her face and shoulders like terrible rain. Her blood flowed and spattered the glittering shards with red before the myriad wounds closed up and healed themselves. She remained bent over, panting into her bosom. In her right hand she gripped a large, jagged shard of glass.
The succubus came toward her, baited. Portia forced herself to breathe deeply, to calmly wait for just the right moment.
“Poor sugarplum,” the succubus rasped. “I thought you’d be more trouble, actually. I suppose the Gyony reputation is a lie, just like the rest of the Grigori’s teachings. I have trapped you for a second time now, and not even broken a sweat.” She clucked her tongue and laughed.
Portia whirled around and slashed the shard across the succubus’ side, opening the flesh a half an inch deep. Blood flowed at on
ce, puce and brackish, sticky with ichor. The creature howled and made to pounce but Portia was too quick. Ignoring the sharp glass edges that bit deeply into her own flesh, Portia ducked low into a shoulder roll and came up with the blade once more, driving it between two of the succubus’ belly scales. The shard snapped off in the wound, and the demoness shrieked until the rest of the windows broke. Portia fought the swoon that threatened to pull her into unconsciousness. It was a succubus’ last resort, that keening wail that could incapacitate an assailant, giving the demoness a chance to run, or to kill.
“I am stronger than you think, Lamia.”
The succubus looked genuinely surprised. “You know my name?”
Portia saw the glimmer of her advantage and took it. “Lamia, I cast thee back into the depths of hell from whence you came! Be banished, demon, I know your name! By the will of the Archangel Michael, I banish thee! I banish thee, Lamia!” Portia stretched out her right hand, glistening with her own fresh blood, and it glowed with a burst of white-hot light. In a few quick strides she covered the small space and touched her palm to Lamia’s breastbone. “In Michael’s name, be gone, demon! In my name, Portia Gyony, be gone demon! Lamia, be banished!”
The light all but exploded from her hand, widening into a glaring ball like a star in the center of the room. It enveloped the succubus like a shell. The demon’s screams were muffled and grew fainter until they were nothing but a tinny twang, like the song of the cicada. “Be gone, demon, and with you all of your foul tricks and false faces. Never make a mockery of the ones I love, ever again. So do I will it to be.” The carapace of light began to crack, opening with great fissures and chasms along the surface. The echo within her began to hum with pleasure and power. “So do I will it to be. Be gone, demon.”
The crystalline sheath of light encasing the succubus shattered into brilliant fragments that hovered a moment in the air before swirling to the floor in the cold evening breeze. Portia stood in the center of the room, alone save for the soft moan of the wind through the broken windows and the thrumming of might in her soul.
She spat into the dust that had once been a succubus and went in search of the real Imogen.
Chapter Seven
A low beat vibrated through Portia’s breastbone. It was not the echo, the splintered soul that had been bound to her. It came from without. As she navigated the twists and turns of the old nunnery she could feel it fade, and then sharpen in intensity. It throbbed in concert with something else, a sympathetic vibration somewhere else in the vast building, and the closer she got, the more intense the feeling and the more desperate she became to unite with this sister sensation. A subtle radiance emanated from her breastbone and she knew that this was how she would find Imogen, who wore a matching sigil wedding her flesh to her soul.
She came upon a long hall two floors below the cupola tower and paused to rest a moment before continuing on. Dark cherry wood paneled the hall, and a long strip of carpet ran down the center. Although the rug looked little used, it was ragged along the edges where rats and mice had gnawed off yarn to build their nests. But the carpet, as well as the rest of the corridor, was free of dust and cobwebs. It was the first clean area she’d encountered since coming down from the tower room. She immediately went on guard and felt dreadfully exposed in her short linen shift. At least this one fit better than the last one had.
Treading carefully, she inched her way through the hall, coming to a door at the far end. Light showed all around it, the kind of striking brilliance that could only come from electricity. She crouched before the keyhole and peered inside. What she saw looked like a library. The rich paneling continued within, and there were shelves along the wall opposite her and a large table with thickly carved legs in the center of the room. It also appeared to be empty, even though all the lights were on. It looked so much like the library at Penemue, Lady Hester’s library. The pang of memory surprised Portia, it was so sudden and so fierce. She hastily dashed away her tears and refocused her energy. She could not sense anyone inside, but the insistent beat assured her, pleaded to her, commanded her that what she sought lay in this room.
The door opened without a sound, and Portia crouched beside the doorframe ready to bolt or to fight, but after a few excruciatingly tense moments of silence, she dared to peek in. The room was empty. Bookcases and glossy dark tables furnished the handsome library. The subtle hint of cigar smoke permeated the leather of the wingback chairs and the ochre plaster of the walls. Portia slid into the room, closing the door behind her with only the smallest click of the latch. Books and scrolls lay open across the trestle table, along with a large journal beside an inkwell and pen stand. The journal was open and Portia could see notes, diagrams, and a long list of familiar symbols and sigils. With her fingernails, she lifted a few of the preceding pages and found them similarly filled. The writing was elegant and bold, the letters marching in perfect rows across each creamy page. She knew this handwriting; she knew it very well. How many times had he left notes filled with scathing taunts pushed under her door? And he always signed them, the arrogant bastard.
Leaving the journal on the table, she turned to scan the rest of the room. At the far side, between windows that also overlooked the little graveyard, what she saw shocked her. Her duster hung like a museum artifact from a wooden rod attached to the wall. Its sleeves stretched out on either side as if beckoning to her for its release. Beside it was mounted her crossbow, and a half dozen Blessedwood stakes were arrayed beneath it. Below it all was a pedestal on which sat her Gladstone bag, completely clean of the incubus’ blood, although care had obviously been taken to preserve the patina and staining of the leather. It stood open with its contents artfully arranged on little risers. Front and center on the pedestal was a braid of her hair coiled neatly on a black velvet pillow. A card at the right corner read: Portia Gyony, personal effects.
She took a step back and realized that she was shaking. The pulsing beat in her chest remained steady and relentless, and when she turned to follow its heavy tug, she collapsed slowly to her knees. The glass case in front of her was similar to those that had held the experimented-upon Pure Children downstairs, but this one was far more decorative. It was fitted with chased bronze moldings depicting winged women drawn with graceful curves and sinuous hair surrounded by stylized flowers and leaves.
Imogen stood behind the wall of crystal wearing nothing but a diaphanous golden gown that billowed into soft drapes at the low neckline and at her feet. Her hair had been drawn back from her face and spilled softly down her shoulders with a few curls left to dance against her cheeks. Her eyes were open and as glassy as any doll’s. She stared straight ahead of her, focused on a door across the room. Two cards marked her case. The first read simply: The body of Imogen Gyony, lineage of the BENE ‘ELIM (Pure Children). The second was placed below it: Successful experiment in body/soul manipulation. Imogen Gyony (BENE ‘ELIM/Pure Children) in suspended animation, body and soul housed in one vessel, timeless and enduring. Next to the text was a line drawing of the sigil that was easily visible on Imogen’s chest.
She gazed at the first label a long moment before the meaning of what it said fully dawned. The body of Imogen Gyony. When Imogen was killed, Nigel had stolen her body and brought it here as some sort of trophy. All the years that Imogen’s ghost had been Portia’s companion, her body had been standing here like a mannequin in her childhood home. Portia thought she was going to vomit. She sank to her knees and waited for the debilitating wave of nausea to pass.
What do I do now? Should she try to rescue Imogen, or should she make her escape to the chapter house and bring back help? Imogen did not seem to be in any danger, but Portia was loath to leave her beloved in such circumstances. Katriel’s voice haunted her within a slip of memory: “Master Nigel is keeping care of her.”
Livid, Portia rose to her feet, wanting nothing more than to tear Nigel limb from pompous limb. Behind the door across from the glass case, she was not surprised in the le
ast to find his bedroom, or to see that Imogen’s carefully crafted smile and gentle gaze fell directly onto his bed.
She could almost see Nigel languidly fondling himself in bed while Imogen beamed down on him, trapped not only within those wretched glass walls but also within the confines of her own body, unable to close her eyes or look away. Keeping care indeed.
Portia gripped the doorknob with white-knuckled anger, her heartbeat roaring in her ears in time with the now-familiar throb just above it.
“Whatever are you doing in my room?” Nigel's voice sliced through her, shearing her to the core. She could hear that he was genuinely surprised, and when she turned her head, she saw why.
Nigel stood beside another door, one that had been mostly obscured by a globe and a tall potted palm. He wore a banyan robe and a thick towel wrapped around his waist. His ebony hair dripped from the bath and hung in stringy spirals nearly to his shoulders. But what took Portia’s breath away was not his pale and nearly naked body, but what was on it. Intricate patterns of scars intertwined with inked tattoos across his chest and down his torso, disappearing beneath the towel. They were a mass of arcane symbols and Enochian script blended together and carved into his flesh.
For a long moment neither of them moved; mutual shock and confusion held them fast. Portia appraised her situation. She was alone in a strange room with no form of weapon near at hand. Although Nigel was not armed or dressed, she had a bad feeling about what those tattoos and scars meant and did not want to try to best him with magic.
Her window of opportunity began to close as Nigel took a step toward her. He closed off the space between the table and the wall with his body, moving with feline grace and intimidation. Portia straightened her spine but stepped back from him, her mind reeling with options. Echoes bounced chaotically through her. From somewhere distant she could hear Imogen crying, but in the glass case Imogen just smiled demurely as if nothing in the world was amiss.
The Convent of the Pure Page 8
