The Convent of the Pure

by Sara M. Harvey

  Nigel continued to advance on Portia, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Well, hello little foster-sister, how good it is to see you.” With one hand he closed the robe over his exposed body, and with the other he began to unwind the towel and unencumber his legs.

  “You are looking well, Nigel,” Portia stalled, hoping to retreat far enough to reach her crossbow or anything from her bag.

  “That’s good. Because I have never felt better.” His grin turned predatory as she smiled, wracking her brain for some other dull pleasantry to distract him. “Never in my life.”

  He covered the dozen feet between them faster than Portia was able to see. With his full weight and speed behind him, he slammed her into a wingback chair at the end of the long table. The chair rocked backward and fell over, sending Nigel sprawling on top of her. They landed in a tangle in the curve of the overturned chair.

  His bare flesh against hers terrified her as he locked his legs around her torso. “I have been wondering, my sweet, when I would get my chance with you. The Lady Analise sees things one way, but I have another vision. You and I are unique, Portia. What we could produce together would rival the forces of heaven and earth.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Nigel tilted his head down and parted his hair. Along the scalp there was a line of silver beneath where the dye had grown out. “It took some cunning and spell work to create a permanent dye, but I managed. I am terribly clever, you know. And you do realize what this means, don’t you, sweet sister? I am a half-breed, too. Just like you. In fact, I could very well be your brother. How many Banu ili do you suppose are around these parts? Besides poor stupid Katriel, the castrated old fool.” Nigel laughed to himself as if he had happened upon some memory that amused him. “Angels have no ability to control the world of the dead. Did you know that? The Aldias are the only celestial beings that have that influence, and it was hard-earned, I assure you. This power was what Katriel wanted desperately. So we promised him his every wish and he willingly sold his soul to the Aldias,” Nigel grinned broadly, showing his teeth. “And we made him our slave. Handy to have around, too. A personal angel at your beck and call. But our father, he was different. He was a crafty, powerful sort.”

  “Nigel, you cannot know we have the same father.”

  His dark brows furrowed. “This is my story. I shall tell it how I please. Besides, who has been the one doing the research, hmmm?” He indicated the table full of books and papers. “And what I have concluded is that a child of our getting would be, with a little assistance, twice as powerful as you or me.” He ground his hips against her stomach. “And oh, the possibilities.” He glanced up at Imogen, who gazed back with an approving smile. But Portia thought she saw tears in her beloved’s eyes.

  “Nigel…”

  “You’re just afraid, sweet sister. You have never been with a man. I know the incubus tried his hardest, but I guess it just was not hard enough!” He barked with laughter at his own joke and thrust against her. His arms were braced on the chair’s sides and his elbows were locked; Portia saw her chance.

  She shrank away from him, sliding back toward the seat of the chair and bracing her feet beneath her bent legs. The linen shift rode up, exposing her nudity to him from toes to armpits. He leaned forward, his gaze hungry. Portia whimpered softly in submission and saw Nigel’s pupils dilate with lust, leaving only a thin ring of grey around them.

  He forgets what the name Gyony means, she mused.

  What the name Gyony means, replied the echo.

  She struck out with her arms, slamming them into the tender crook of his elbows. His arms gave way and he dropped toward her, but not before she tucked her chin to her chest and met his face with the top of her skull. His nose crumpled against her head and blood began to flow like a crimson river into her hair, dripping down into her eyes. Nigel bellowed with pain. Portia sprang from the seat cushion, but Nigel grabbed her around the hips. She twisted and fought, writhing and kicking, aiming for the swelling center of his face. If he was half as powerful as he claimed, the injury would soon heal itself, but she hoped it would buy her enough time to flee. Her knee connected with his chin. She wedged her legs against his chest and kicked him aside, all under Imogen’s artificial smile.

  Once free of him, she scrambled to her feet, tugging the shift down over her body, hating that he had seen her so exposed. As she ran for the door, she flung an arm across the table. Scrolls and pages flew everywhere and she heard the grating sound of the cut-glass inkwell breaking open against the floor.

  “No! You cursed, wretched daughter of a--"

  She did not catch the rest. Portia threw herself out the door and slammed it shut behind her. She dashed headlong down the long corridor and toward the stairs. There were more rooms below, rooms in which she thought she could hide. Except she could feel him behind her, scenting her trail as easily as a hound would. He would find her no matter where she hid; he would take his time and he would hunt her down. She needed to find somewhere to make a stand. Somewhere with good cover, a weapon, and clothes.

  Through another corridor and down a flight of steps tucked into the corner of the building, Portia came across a familiar room. White walls with tall windows surrounded half-dozen wrought iron cots, also painted white. She had been brought here after Lamia’s first seduction. A chest of drawers and an armoire stood on the far side of the room. Portia went at once to find something to put on that would offer more protection than the flimsy shift. She found a pair of cotton pantalets trimmed in rotten lace and an old-fashioned corset spotted with rust, the kind with heavy steel boning laid edge to edge. It was the next best thing to armor. She put it on over the shift and pantalets, lacing it tight and secure. At the back corner of the armoire she found a few pairs of shoes and boots, many mismatched. Stockings were not in evidence, so she crammed her bare feet into a pair of battered brown boots that looked near enough to her size.

  Behind her, a glass-fronted medicine cabinet stood near the beds. Inside were jars of camphor and smelling salts, several filled syringes, and about a half-dozen scalpels. They were the same kind Analise had used, a small but deadly sharp crescent-shaped blade affixed to the end of a slender metal handle about a hand’s breadth in length. Portia coiled her hair into a quick bun and slipped four scalpels through it, using their handles like hair pins and letting the sharp blades jut out. She took the fifth in her hand, along with two syringes tipped with thick copper needles. She had no idea what liquid was inside them, save that it was clear, slightly viscous, and there was an awfully good chance it contained a sedative. On the bottom shelf of the cabinet was a black leather doctor’s bag. It looked a bit like a miniature version of her Gladstone. She tossed in the camphor, the smelling salts, all the gauze she could find, and a silver matchbox she found sitting on one of the window sills. She slipped her arm through the bag’s handle and, keeping a scalpel at the ready, made her way back out toward the main corridor.

  She had barely left the room when she was forced to slip back inside. Someone was heading her way. Ducking behind the open door, she slowly and gently set the bag on the floor and retrieved a syringe. She held the scalpel in her right hand--tilting it so the blade flashed nicely in the light--and the syringe in her left, held low and out of immediate view.

  Katriel came in, humming. Portia pounced as soon as he fully entered the room. She kicked the door closed behind them and brought her arm around his shoulders, pressing the point of the scalpel to his throat.

  “Do not make a sound,” she growled, nicking open a small wound atop his voice box.

  Ever so gently, Katriel gave a slight nod.

  “Tell me where I may find Lady Analise. I would like to pay a call on her. She and I have some unfinished business to discuss and it is most pressing, you understand.”

  The fallen angel nodded once more. “Downstairs,” he whispered. “In the Mother Superior’s office. She is there now. I only left her moments ago.”

  “E
xcellent.” Portia stabbed the syringe into the side of his neck.

  Katriel stiffened. “Wait, I can help you. Trust me and take me with you, and I will do whatever you ask. I was tricked into coming here and I am now trapped. I was a fool and I have paid for my recklessness. Please, Spirit-Sister, have mercy on me.”

  “No.” Portia depressed the copper plunger, and after only a few seconds Katriel slumped against her, then collapsed to the floor.

  She snatched up the doctor’s bag and made straight for the Mother Superior’s chambers.

  Chapter Eight

  Lady Analise Aldias had surrounded herself with lamps of electric light tethered with black snaking wires that ran along the ceiling and walls of the vaulted chamber like vines. Portia crouched just to one side of the spill of harsh white light that cut across the dim and tranquil hallway. Within, Lady Analise seemed to be making a wax cylinder dictation recording. She spoke plain, slow words into a recording device.

  “No,” she enunciated, “I do not believe that Hester Edulica ever caught on that her communications to and from the Primacy were being disrupted and replaced by our own correspondence, do you? If you do, then you’re a greater fool than I ever thought. The Primacy has never made any claim of suspicion that their contact with the Penemue chapter house was anything but legitimate. I believe we have been successful in significantly weakening Penemue’s ties with the Primacy, and now would be an ideal time to take action and claim both the chapter house and the village.”

  To Portia’s surprise, a voice answered Analise. “And my payment?” It sounded canned and grainy, a woman’s voice that was unfamiliar to her.

  “The Aldias keep their promises, my dear Mistress Miniver, do they not? I will send word to Lady Claire right away.”

  “And then I will be accepted into the Aldias? You will teach me your magic?”

  “Did I not say as much before?” Butter would not have melted in Analise’s mouth.

  There was a long pause. “We are agreed, then. The Lady Hester’s body was disposed of and I have secreted away some of her ashes for you.”

  “Ah, very resourceful, Miniver. Deliver that as well to Lady Claire, will you?” Analise made some notes in a leather-bound book similar to Nigel’s. “What of the other? The man, Emile.”

  “Problematic. He may have to be dispatched as well.”

  Miniver, if Portia recalled correctly, was the village midwife. She was not personally familiar with the woman, but she remembered that Emile had summoned her along with Lady Claire Aldias to treat Lady Hester’s illness. They had been working with Nigel and Analise all along. And Emile was now in danger from them. Portia nervously ran her thumb along the handle of the scalpel.

  “Very well. Monitor him, but do nothing until I next contact you. Is that clear, Miniver?”

  “Yes, m’lady."

  “I shall be calling again at the same time next week. Do not make me wait, Miniver, is that understood?”

  “Yes, m’lady!”

  “Signing off,” Analise said briskly and switched off the machine. She sat back in her prim desk chair. The sound of her pen scratching across the expensive paper went on for several long minutes as she hummed softly.

  Portia felt warm breath on the back of her neck. The sudden pressure of hands on her shoulders, while gentle, was terrifying. “Found you,” Nigel whispered, lips brushing against her ear. “What have we here, sweet sister?” He drew out one of the scalpels crammed through her bun. “You are up to something nefarious, aren’t you?”

  At the edge of her vision, Portia could see that Nigel’s face was perfect and unscathed. The only hint of the struggle was a film of dried blood ringing the edges of both nostrils. He was dressed now, wearing a crisp white shirt buttoned to the throat and tan trousers with black suspenders. He looked disturbingly normal, and Portia was almost convinced she had imagined the twining scars and tattoos down his torso, except that she had felt them against her own belly as he pressed against her.

  Nigel twirled the scalpel as easily as a pencil, heedless of its gleaming sharp edge. “Were you meaning to do something with these?” When he saw that she was not going to answer him, he put his hands on her shoulders once more. “Portia, I must confess, there is no love lost between the Lady Analise and myself. As I mentioned, she and I have disagreed on many things, the first of which is your treatment. I give you my word that I will lend you my aid in her destruction.”

  “Nigel, you’ll forgive me if I do not believe you.”

  “I understand.” His smile was deceptively disarming. “Here,” he patted her cheek, “let me show you. And afterward, you and I will be the ones to make the decisions.” He rose and strolled into the room, his thumbs hooked into his front pockets.

  “Nigel, what excellent timing! I was about to send for you.” Analise shut her book and stood. “I have received news from Penemue. Everything has gone according to plan. Hester is dead and we have her ashes in our possession. The only thing that remains to be dealt with is that glorified nanny, Emile. But Miniver assures me that she and Claire have the situation well in hand. Within the month, Penemue will be ours, and then we can move onto our next step.”

  Nigel wandered the room, nodding and touching things seemingly at random.

  “Are you listening to me, Nigel?”

  “What? Oh, yes. But I’d rather you stop talking.”

  Analise sputtered. “Excuse me, young man?”

  “You damned magpie, I said, stop talking.” He raised his hand to her and it flashed with light and shadow simultaneously. Analise doubled over, clutching at her throat. Nigel chuckled. “So, you see, my Lady, I thank you for your efforts and your successes, but I believe we are finished with one another.”

  The woman sank to the floor and clawed at her own throat, raking bloody welts with her fingernails.

  “You see, little Analise, your vision is so narrow. And you don’t know half of the potential of the Aldias. Or if you do, you make precious little use of it. Do you remember your assistant? What was his name… Maynard, that’s right. Maynard. How could I forget? He was the one who showed me the books and how to use them, how to really use them.” Nigel slowly slipped his suspenders from his shoulders, letting them hang down over his hips. He unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged free of it, allowing it to drape from his waistband. The markings on his body showed ghost-like through his undershirt. He rubbed his palms over his stomach and ribs. “And he unlocked the secret of the blood.”

  Analise struggled and her face flushed red.

  “Not only the blood magic, the carving of the flesh, the use of symbols. He taught you that. And I have seen what you’ve done with it, with Portia. But there was another way. The other road to power Maynard did not share with you, not like he did with me. Maynard shared everything with me: his knowledge, his secrets, his body, his blood, and finally, his soul. He gave it all to me.” Nigel glanced up at Portia, who crouched in the doorway, aghast. “And when this is finished, my sweet sister, I will share it all with you.”

  Analise gurgled and gagged, her flesh purpling slowly. Her lips began to grow as ashen as her slate-grey hair.

  Nigel went to his knees and took Analise’s chin in his hands, forcing her gaze to meet his. “And now, dear mistress, I will show you the extent of Maynard Aldias’ teachings.”

  A low, droning ululation emanated from Nigel’s throat, and with it a dark violet glow. He leaned forward and pressed his mouth against Analise’s. And then he drew in a deep breath through her mouth. As he did, Analise’s flesh began to pucker and sink into the hollows of her bones. Her cheeks collapsed first, followed by her supple throat, the skin cleaving to the straining tendons. Nigel drew out her very life in one profound inspiration after another. Portia could hear, over the hideous noises Nigel still made, a peculiar creak and snap, not unlike the sounds tree branches often made during a storm. It came from beneath Analise’s skirt. It grew louder and more intense, and then Portia saw its cause as Analise’s fingers be
gan to wither. The flesh shrank into wizened grooves, growing tighter until the bones within snapped. From the very ends of her fingers, Nigel breathed in every tiny bit of her essence. And once the fingers were drained of life, they began to crumble. Her fingernails fell off first, drifting to the floor like autumn leaves, followed by the rest of her hands, bit by bit.

  Nigel’s chest expanded, stretching wider than any human’s Portia had ever seen. He suckled loudly, as if trying to wrest every last drop from Analise’s desiccated body. When he finally let her go, what had once been Lady Analise Aldias disintegrated into dry, dusty fragments dressed in a blue silk frock. Nigel remained hunched over, panting. Portia raced forward, snatching a second scalpel from her hair and wielding one in each hand. She lashed her right hand across Nigel’s neck, opening a deep cut from his ear to his collarbone. With her left, she stabbed forward, burying the scalpel into his closed eye, feeling the tip grind against the back of the socket.

  The second scalpel stuck fast, and she brought the first one abruptly upward, laying open his throat while she reached for another weapon. She pulled it from the bottom and it only came free with a tug and a shower of hair. Portia sought to jab one scalpel between his ribs and continue to slash at his face with the other. If she could keep wearing him down, there was no way he could heal all the wounds. She made contact with his side, but the scalpel shattered in her hand when the tip touched one of the sigils. She wrenched the last blade free of her hair and wished she had decided to try her luck with the remaining syringe.

  Nigel knocked her aside with only the slightest touch. Portia fell hard onto her backside but had her feet beneath her again in an instant. She came at Nigel once more, feinting left, hoping to draw the attention of his right hand while she aimed for a spot of skin that was bare of tattoos. She did not get within arm's reach before whatever force he summoned knocked her down again. She tumbled back over her shoulder and lay winded for a split second before regaining her legs once more.