From there, they found an entrance to a small kitchen with another exit into a weedy yard at the rear of the church. Outside, the first drops of rain started to fall.
The patter of the cold drizzle hitting the roof was the only sound in the church, not even remnants of the Wasteland’s spells disturbed the peace of this building. They had three possible exits, and the locks on the doors appeared sturdy enough. Should worst come to worst and Speight reached them before Rachael, Lucian felt he had a defendable position. Tomorrow he would explore the alley and backyard to see if he could present Speight a few surprises.
“Well?” Lindsay asked.
“This will do.”
She smiled when he took off his mantle and dropped his pack in the bedroom. He directed her to help him clean the bedroom and kitchen and taught her to light the fires.
They had managed to scavenge a few pathetic turnips and onions by the roadside, and Lindsay retrieved the vegetables from her gym bag. By the time he had some water boiling on the kitchen stove, the rooms had become warm enough for Lindsay to take off her coat.
“Won’t Speight find us with the smoke from the fires?”
“Possibly.” He used her knife to chop the turnips. “But Speight is superstitious. I don’t think he’ll try to cross the Barren or the Rosa.” Whether Speight came into Ierusal or not depended on if he was more afraid of the Sacra Rosa or Catarina. “We’ll worry about Speight in the morning. In all probability, he’s found shelter for his men tonight. They’ll move slowly in bad weather.”
“How’s Rachael going to find us?” She lazily rolled one of the onions with her finger.
“Rachael will have a constable with her, someone who can sense another’s presence like I can with the soldiers. It will take them a little longer in a city this large, but if we remain in one place, she’ll find us.” He wiped his hands on a rag. “While that’s cooking, let’s get one of the chairs into the bedroom. You shall have the bed tonight, and I will have a comfortable place to sit.”
“I could sleep on the couch and you could take the bed.” She pushed away from the counter and followed him into the study.
“That’s quite tempting, but I’d prefer not to go into a deep sleep tonight. We’re not safe yet.” While he was sure Speight’s superstitious nature would keep him away from the Sacra Rosa, he wasn’t so sure about Catarina.
He had stopped trying to second-guess his twin when she stood outside his cell and announced she now knew what to do with him. From that point forward, she became an enigma to him, and his pathetic attempts to decipher her intentions only amused her.
Yet he knew that when Catarina left them several nights ago, she had been infuriated by his defiance. He had learned not to mistake silence for forgiveness, for Catarina did not absolve an injury to her pride. Prolonged quiet from his twin only meant she hadn’t devised the perfect retribution. When she was ready, she would come, and she would leave sorrow in her wake.
CHAPTER NINE
simulacrum
Catarina licked her lips. The heat from the fire in Lucian’s room intensified the odor of Armand’s blood and fear. Propped against the pillows, the youth’s body listed to the center of the mattress, his chest barely moved. Black and yellow bruises covered him. From her chair by the hearth, Catarina measured the boy with her dark gaze. She shredded another page from the book in her hand. The paper fluttered to the floor to join thousands of others, a carpet of parchment and vellum.
Cerberus sat beside the nightstand and watched her, his silver eyes inscrutable. The lethargy she endured after her attack on Lucian had departed. While she recuperated, Cerberus watched over her and executed minor administrative decisions in her absence—all the things Lucian should be doing. She pressed her lips together and ripped a handful of pages from the volume. Unlike her twin, Cerberus had no difficulty with loyalty. She narrowed her glare at the battered youth on Lucian’s bed.
Cerberus said, “Speight lost Lucian three days ago at Melasur.”
She didn’t need to ask how he knew; Cerberus never failed her. She dropped the book to the floor and rose. Her silk gown whispered against the paper covering the floor. She retrieved the prism from Lucian’s desk.
A bitter smile played across her lips as she retraced the familiar steps to her brother’s bed. Armand’s right eye darted in her direction, and he clutched the twisted sheets to cover his nakedness. He stopped moving when she shook her head. A lock of hair slipped from her loose coif to caress the ruffles of her bodice. She tucked the errant strand behind her ear.
Armand stiffened when she slid into the bed beside him. Her tongue darted to her lips and she caught her breath. While not as sharp as it had been three days ago, his terror still edged the air. Catarina rubbed the pad of her thumb against the prism. Armand’s anxious stare followed her movements.
Lucian’s haunted gaze had also followed her when he’d first been bed-ridden. Yet when she had tried to help him, he brushed her aside with shaking hands, refusing her ministrations. So she left him alone and forbade the servants from helping him. She called him an old man as she left the room, not daring to look at the hurt in his eyes.
She examined Armand’s pleading gaze. Without her compassion, the guilt that used to accompany her actions was gone. Cerberus had freed her.
The demon said, “Speight lost him at Melasur.”
“I heard you the first time.”
Armand winced when she lifted the coverlet to wipe his chin. How had she ever seen Lucian in this mewling, fearful child?
Cerberus came to the bed. “Speight believes he is going to Ierusal.”
“Lucian thinks the Rosa will protect him.”
“As it will.”
“The Rosa is as dead as my brother’s god.” How could he trust in a god he couldn’t see and not have faith in the sister before his eyes?
She dug the tip of the prism into Armand’s stomach until blood oozed around the point. Armand went gray, but his horror no longer titillated her. He had become as mundane as the furniture, a plaything, like Lucian’s little foundling. The girl excited Lucian’s need for a purpose. Without the child, he would see no reason to continue his quest; he would come home.
“The foundling is the key,” she muttered. Within hours, that filthy child-beggar had claimed Lucian’s heart. He would try to protect the girl like he’d tried to save Rachael. Catarina ground the prism into Armand’s stomach and the boy cried out. She slapped him into silence.
Lucian gave his love freely to strangers while his only family languished from neglect. After all she had done for him. Hadn’t she fed and clothed him? Didn’t she give him shelter when no other would take him in? And for her multiple sacrifices, he defied and abandoned her so he could undermine her life’s work.
“Lucian is just like our uncle Mircea.” Catarina removed the prism from Armand’s stomach. The boy sobbed, putting his hands over the wound. She pressed her mouth close to his ear and whispered, “Our father harbored a snake at his breast. Mircea lived off our goodwill until he was no longer content to live beside us. Mircea wanted our father’s life and he took it.”
Like Lucian wanted to steal hers. Jealous, he’d always been jealous of her ability to bring her goals to completion. “He’s not as clever as Mircea. He never will be!” She raised the prism and brought it down on Armand’s chest.
The boy wailed. The noise was a blade through her head. Armand tried to crawl away from her. She snatched his wrist, digging her nails into his flesh.
The room grew cold in spite of the fire. Catarina felt Mastema’s presence. “For you, Mastema, for you. Grant me power so I can bring the traitor home.” The ancient language of the angels clawed her throat and surfaced as a guttural moan.
Power surged through her amulet and into her veins as Mastema answered her call. The rush of adrenaline brought her close to orgasm, but Catarina felt she had only scraped the surface of the dark angel’s strength. She craved more.
The tapestries rust
led and fluttered. The eyes of the stag undulated and seemed to wink at her. Lucian’s eyes. Mocking her.
Catarina reached out to the tapestry, and the threads from the stag’s eyes flowed from the wall hanging to dance serpentine in the air. The threads slithered onto the mattress, and she guided them to the soles of Armand’s feet.
The boy shrieked when the strings wormed into this flesh to become one with sinew and bone. The cords wrapped his toes, his ankles, his calves, inching upward to encase his body.
Cerberus leapt to the bed, delirious with glee. Her power grew with the demon’s nearness and she was dizzy with the sudden influx of strength. The colors of the threads twining around Armand grew more vibrant, bursting into a rainbow of color.
The tapestries billowed from the walls as if some huge presence stalked behind them. Catarina shivered in her thin silk gown, but when she pressed her lips close to Armand’s, she found no more warmth to be drawn from him. No matter. There were a thousand Armands in Woerld, and though none of them warmed her as Lucian did, they would be suitable surrogates until she brought her brother home.
“Steal her from him,” Catarina whispered as the threads encased Armand’s body. Without the foundling to distract him, Lucian would come home. Home where he could be watched. “Give her to Speight.”
Armand thrashed and tried to push the string away, but it stuck to his fingers, spiraling around his hands.
“We are never the same without you,” she murmured, weaving her words into the threads. The cords seared into Armand’s flesh, crept through his lips to crawl down his throat and strangle his cries.
“Hush, hush.” Catarina soothed as she guided the thread through him and into his brain. “Never without you at my side.”
Armand’s voice became muffled and his struggles eased as the thread encased his limbs and blinded him. He mewled and scratched the cords concealing his face. Soon he lay still, awaiting her command. The dark thread pulsed with a heartbeat of its own, turning Armand into a life size poppet—a simulacrum ready to do her will.
“Ride the moon and steal her away.” She slid from the mattress in a hiss of silk.
“I give you her name: Lindsay Richardson.” At the window, she pointed toward the blood-colored moon rising on the horizon. The simulacrum reached out and a thread loosened to travel upward into the night to attach to a moonbeam. Using the thread like a rope, it pulled itself up and over the rooftops to disappear into the darkness.
Catarina sank to the window seat. Already Cerberus’ power was receding from her body, leaving her tired. Her veins felt withered, old. She turned the prism over in her hands.
Cerberus hissed as he brushed against her hip. “You promised Mastema Lucian’s soul too. My Lord will not wait forever.”
“Lucian won’t deny me.” Dreamily she rotated the prism, trying to capture the light. “He has never been able to look into my eyes and deny me anything. He swore on our dead father’s ring that he would always watch over me. So long as he wears that ring, I have his oath. I have to reach him.”
“There is a fractured Hell Gate outside of Ierusal.” The demon grinned, baring his long teeth.
She shook her head; it would take too long. She needed speed, supernatural speed. “We must go faster. I want to be there in a day, no more than two.”
Cerberus’ tail slithered up her back then coiled around her arm. “There is a way,” he said as he glanced toward a mirror in the corner of the room, “but there is a price.”
Catarina looked into his silver gaze. “Mastema has my soul. What more could he want?” She squeezed the hard glass of the prism.
“Your love.”
“He has my devotion.”
The demon stood on his hind legs and placed his paws on her shoulders. “No, darkling, he wants the love you harbor in your soul.”
A sliver of fear pierced her. “My love of Lucian?”
“Your love of anyone. Think on it, darkling. This is not so much a price as it is a gift. Without your compassion, you felt no guilt. Without your love for Lucian, you can bring him to your will.” The demon moved closer, his breath frigid against her throat. “What stayed your hand all these years but the weakness of love?”
Catarina hesitated, recalling the moment in the garden with Lucian when their love had surfaced like warmth after the winter. In that moment, she’d remembered their days on Earth when Lucian cherished her. Would giving her love to Mastema rob her of those memories? The prism was heavy in her hand.
Cerberus’ tongue caressed her ear. “When Lucian suffered, you suffered with him. Without your love, you may have your way with him. He seeks to destroy you. Like Mircea destroyed your father. You must act first.” He nuzzled her earlobe and a chill cascaded down her back. “Think, darkling. What is love without compassion?”
Catarina shivered, cold, always so cold. “Would I still love you?” She caressed his muzzle.
“You don’t love me now. You need me.” Cerberus dropped to the floor and walked to the mirror. “Tell me, darkling, do you want the power of angels?”
Love. Did she really need such a paltry emotion? What had her love of her twin given her other than grief and suffering? Love had blinded Rachael and damned her to the Wyrm; love had torn Lucian in two. Could there possibly be a more cursed emotion to suffer?
Catarina went to the demon’s side. She could give her god no better gift than ease from his pain, and in return, he would give her the power of angels. Devoid of these weak emotions, she would be a goddess. Lucian would worship her.
Cerberus bowed his head and muttered an incantation. The mirror clouded. When the mist parted, her reflection shimmered and disappeared to reveal steps carved into stone. A curl of smoke drifted upward. The stairs led down into the depths of a cavern growling with moans. The odor of sulfur and ash rose into the room.
Love. It was nothing.
†
Lindsay whimpered in her sleep and Lucian jerked awake. Minutes seeped past as he struggled to familiarize himself with his surroundings. His chair rested against the door to the office so none could enter without waking him; his sword and cane were balanced across his lap. The rain had stopped, and moonlight splashed across the kitchen floor. The vague shapes of their packs formed a lump beside the bed where Lindsay slept.
Though he’d chosen the most uncomfortable chair in the office, the warmth of the rooms combined with a full stomach had lulled him into a deep slumber. He rubbed his eyes and winced when he accidentally touched his torn cheek. The sting of his fingers against the open wound banished the last of his drowsiness. His right shoulder was sore from days of hunching over his cane and throbbed in counterpoint to his knee. He shifted his weight, but could find no relief for his aching limbs.
Lindsay tossed and turned, crying out. He hooked the sword’s strap over his shoulder and rose to check on her. When the rooms had warmed, she removed her coat and gloves before going to bed, but the fires in the two stoves had died to embers. Now she shivered beneath the thin blankets, so he covered her with his mantle.
Lucian stroked her hair out of her face, and she tugged his cloak beneath her chin. He had done well to prevent their bond from growing deep, and he felt he could part from her now and feel only a little pain. As badly as he wanted to love Lindsay and make her a part of his soul like any Elder would, he held no delusions.
At the Citadel, they would take Lindsay from him and that amputation had the potential to be devastating for them both. Even with the severity of Lucian’s crimes, John had never severed their bond.
You were my son, John whispered to Lucian before they dragged him from the Seraph’s presence. Those four words had broken his heart. Though he’d braced himself to be severed from John’s soul, the Seraph never completed the act. Lucian had always been grateful to him for that one mercy.
He realized how deeply his actions had wounded John. Rachael wasn’t the only person he had harmed, and his deeds had disgraced countless others within the Citadel. No amou
nt of apologies could rectify the devastation he’d left in his wake. Yet he was through hiding, sick with self-loathing, from his errors.
Neither should anyone else suffer because of him. Rachael and John would help Lindsay by blunting the affect on her, and the less attached they were to one another, the easier it would be on him and Lindsay. It was best this way.
Lindsay sighed Peter’s name before she quieted.
He and Rachael had spoken four days ago, and if she rode hard from the Citadel, she and her constable should be at Ierusal any day. His earlier anticipation of seeing her vanished into dread. He wouldn’t insult her by asking for her forgiveness; there could be no pardon for such a betrayal. The best he could hope for would be her mercy.
Lindsay mumbled in her sleep, and he tucked his mantle around her ankles before turning his attention to the woodstoves. He added wood and stoked the fire to life in the bedroom’s small stove. When he finished, he went to the kitchen and knelt to resurrect the blaze in the cooking stove.
Done with the fires, he brushed his hands against his shirt and shut the door. As he stood, a shadow passed one of the windows to momentarily obliterate the light of the full moon. Lucian froze. The lock was in place on the kitchen door. He drew his sword and advanced toward the window. Outside, water dripped slowly from the eaves to the porch where icy moonlight bathed the weed-choked yard. Nothing moved.
The sensation of familiar magic stung his body.
Catarina.
He backed away from the window; a crash from the bedroom caused him to whirl. From where he stood, he saw the door to the study was wide open and his chair was on its side. He couldn’t see the bed or Lindsay. Edging close to the counter on his right so he could see into the dark room, he advanced toward the bedroom. His sheath snagged on a drawer and he dropped it to the floor when Lindsay screamed his name.
For one terrifying moment, the child sounded exactly like Rachael when he’d released her at the Gate so long ago. Lindsay’s second shriek tore through him as he reached the door.
Miserere: An Autumn Tale Page 15
