Darkness nestled around the house and lights from inside shed a warm glow. A shadow passed before one of the windows. A man’s figure paused and he moved the curtain to look into the yard. Rachael drew behind the tree although she was sure she couldn’t be seen. She had no idea if Stephan and Sara were complicit with the others; she would take no chances.
The man turned away from the window, disappearing into the house. She imagined them there, eating her food, staining her sheets with their sex, laughing at her, at the monster she had become. Rage flushed her cheeks.
An image surfaced in her mind: Caleb embracing her, mashing his lips against hers as she struggled against the Wyrm. She squashed the memory and closed her heart against the self-loathing rising in her breast. She wasn’t ready to deal with those dark reminiscences, not yet, so she shoved them deep in the caldron of her heart.
The hours passed until a sliver of the moon rose high in the sky. All the interior lights had been extinguished for at least two hours. In her mind, she saw her home, trying to imagine where they held their rites. She would have noticed anything amiss inside the story and a half home.
The one place she seldom ventured was the cellar. Ever since her time in Hell, she couldn’t stand to be underground. Whenever she needed something from the basement, she’d either send one of her hired men or fetch it herself during the daylight hours when she could leave the trapdoor open. She made no secret of her dislike for the space, and they would choose a place on her property that she shunned. She was certain that was where they held their rites.
Rachael left her hiding spot and crept toward the house. She crossed the distance and soon experienced the first echoes of the Wyrm’s resonance. The demon’s presence lingered around her home, a bitter odor that hid another spell. An unpleasant humming sensation vibrated into her arms and upper torso, and she discerned the sour magic of the Fallen. Had she not known to sift past the Wyrm’s malevolent resonance, she would have assumed the evil surrounding Cross Creek originated with the demon.
Rachael circled to the back of the house to the root cellar’s trap door. She held her fingers over the supple leather handle, trying to feel any wards that might protect the entrance. Nothing. She tugged on the door and the snap of wood against metal caused her to catch her breath.
The noise was explosive in the night. What the hell? She froze and glanced at the bedroom, but no light shone through the window.
She ran her hand up the door until she felt the cold metal of a lock. Lucian had her so concerned over wards and spells, it never occurred to her to look for something as simple as a lock. She felt like an idiot. Rachael fingered the simple padlock and checked for wards. She’d never kept a lock on the door, so why should they bolt it in her absence? Rachael clenched her jaw. Either Reynard didn’t trust Sara and Stephan, or no one had expected her to return.
For all Reynard knew, she wandered the Wasteland beneath the thrall of the Wyrm. Let him think what he would. She was coming for him, and the less warning he had, the better.
Rachael found her tools and within seconds picked the padlock open. Before she tried opening the door again, she checked for more bolts and found none. The well-oiled hinges didn’t make a sound. Rachael slipped the lock into her pocket and went down three steps, then eased the door shut behind her.
Her pulse thudded loud in her ears and sweat broke across her upper lip. She took a deep breath and inhaled the cider smell of apples and damp earth. Beneath the apples lay a rancid odor like vomit.
Rachael closed her eye and opened it but couldn’t tell a difference. The darkness was complete, enveloping her in a cocoon of black. She gritted her teeth. She wasn’t a child wailing in the valleys of Hell. She was a woman, and she had faced her demon. I’ve spit in Mastema’s face. This is nothing.
She forced herself to go down one step. The wood creaked beneath her boot. Rachael froze and listened for footsteps overhead. She counted to twenty, then to fifty, ready to pivot and run for the exit. No one moved in the house. She lowered her weight to the next step and silence greeted her.
There should be a lamp hanging from a peg at the foot of the stairs. Her fingers groped along the wooden rafter, searching for the lantern. She touched something wet and sticky. Rachael jerked her hand back and wiped her trembling fingers on her pants. God, what had they been doing down here?
She debated using her soul-light. If she called forth a pinprick of light, she could see to get the lantern. Too much magic and she’d awaken Sara or Stephan. It was a chance she’d have to take. Rachael summoned her illumination and her eye settled on the lamp hanging from a nail below her. She grabbed the cold metal handle and flicked her soul-light to flame the wick.
Again she listened for movement from above while she waited for her sight to adjust. Shadows crawled along the walls. She shuddered and looked around the room, wondering where to begin.
Several wooden tables and shelves lined the three walls. Jars of varying sizes, all full of Cross Creek’s fruits and vegetables stored for the winter, rested on the shelves and tables. Skid marks indicated one of the tables had been dragged to the center of the cellar. At the rear wall, directly across from the stairs, the marks stopped in front of a table. Baskets of apples were stored in neat rows between the legs. In the center of the tabletop, a five-gallon jar rested. A large mass floated in the dark liquid.
Rachael kept the lantern close to the floor. She was on top of evil; she felt it vibrate through her flesh and into her bones. With Lucian’s warning singing through her head, she didn’t disturb the jar. Whatever lay inside was dormant, and she wanted it to stay that way.
She touched the edge of the wood, feeling the echoes of dark spells, nothing more than old resonations. She gripped the edge of the table. Whatever ward they used to protect the Psalter would be similar to the low-level spell that protected the sigil in Caleb’s coat. The complicit wouldn’t use a spell that was too powerful or other Katharoi would feel the reverberation. She set the lantern down and ran her fingers beneath the table’s ledge.
Still nothing. She moved two baskets of apples and knelt on the floor to look up. Nothing underneath, either. The wound in her side seeped a trickle of blood into the dressing Lucian had fashioned for her. She ignored the pain and moved the lantern close to the wall where the foundation stones were neatly fitted together. She ran her hands over the stones. One rock wiggled when she touched it. A tingle of magic whispered into her arms and she found the ward. It was similar to the one Caleb had worn on his coat.
Rachael summoned her prayer and cancelled the ward. A dark oily substance oozed into the hard-packed dirt at her feet. She pried the brick out of the wall. Overhead, she heard liquid slosh. Rachael glanced upward. Sweat leaked into her eye. The splash quieted.
Hurry, hurry, hurry. She withdrew the book from the niche. It was Catarina’s. The first five pages were unchanged, as were the last five, but everything in between had been torn out. New pages had been sewn into the binding with the names of the complicit written in dark brownish-red ink.
The essence of each individual resided in his or her signature and here she had their name written with the power of a Katharos’s blood. None of them could escape justice now. Oh, God, she had them. She tucked the Psalter into the pouch at her belt.
Another splash distracted her. Something bumped against the tabletop. Her hands shook as she replaced the brick and the baskets. She grasped the lantern’s handle and stood. The jar on the table rocked. The lump inside flung itself forward and pressed its wizened face against the glass. It was a fetus. The child was large enough to have been taken late in the second or early third trimester, probably from one of the river town’s whores. Whatever its parentage, it wasn’t human anymore.
Rachael’s limbs froze and she almost dropped the lantern. The fetus’ milk-white eyes squinted with hate and the pinched lips opened in a silent scream. Needle-sharp teeth glinted in the light. It pushed against the inside of the jar, tiny, clawed feet kicking to thr
ust its body from one side to the other. The jar rocked precariously close to the table’s edge.
Rachael set the lantern on the floor. A crate full of rags was in the corner. She ran and scooped up as many as she could carry. Dust motes flew into the air and she sneezed. The jar thudded against the table.
Too much noise, the damn thing was making too much noise. The floor overhead groaned. Someone stood. Rachael’s heart drowned everything as she rushed back to the table. The fetus slapped the glass and grinned at her.
She covered her hands with several rags. Even with the cloth covering her fingers, she was loath to touch the jar, but she wrapped her hands around it. The fetus raked one claw against her palm, and Rachael flinched.
Voices murmured overhead.
Rachael swallowed and shoved the jar back against the wall, wincing as it scraped on the tabletop. She swathed the glass in the rags, then snatched the crate and up-ended it over the jar to hold the rags in place. If the fetus succeeded in knocking its prison over, the glass wouldn’t break.
Heavy footfalls hurried across the floor overhead. She snatched up the lantern and reached the stairs in four quick strides. She extinguished the flame and left the lamp on the bottom stair as she ran. Her palm shot upward to shove the door open. She took in a great lungful of the night air. On her left, a light shone from a window.
Rachael let the trapdoor down and searched for the padlock with shaking fingers. On the second try, she shot the lock through the bolt and slammed it home. She ran for the woods.
The cloudy sky obliterated the moon, but she knew her yard like she knew her body. She reached the trees and plunged into the underbrush. A branch snagged her hair; she slowed her pace to look back. Light from the bedroom window shined onto the yard. A lone figure carrying a lantern emerged around the corner. She recognized the man’s silhouette as the one she’d seen in the window earlier. He stopped by the cellar door and leaned forward to listen. Rachael held her breath.
He tested the lock and pulled on the door, then lingered as if unsure of what to do. A cricket ticked the seconds with a song. Stephan turned and held the lantern high to search the darkness, then returned his attention to the cellar door. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other. He turned and stalked back into the house. A door slammed and within minutes, the light in the bedroom went out.
Were they complicit? Caleb had been worried the stewards might find something like the burned account book. He wouldn’t have been concerned if he had confidence they were complicit. She recalled the fear oozing from Caleb’s pores like sweat; he must have been terrified of being discovered.
Stephan and Sara were there by John’s command, not Reynard’s, so it was possible they weren’t involved in the Inquisitor’s scheme. Rachael touched the Psalter. Soon she’d know for sure.
She forced her weak limbs to move and stumbled through the forest until she felt safe enough to stop beneath a pine tree. She withdrew the book and summoned her soul-light.
The first part of the book was the pact, and it was followed by a list of those who had taken their final vows. Neither Sara nor Stephan’s names were there.
Yet Lucian hadn’t led her wrong. Reynard’s name was there in addition to the names of four other Council members.
“Merciful God.” She remembered Reynard kissing her face, the Wyrm rising to meet its master. Each exorcism he’d performed had brought the demon closer to manifestation. Reynard, who didn’t want to lose the Citadel’s symbolic heir, who smiled with his face and spread lies with his mouth. Rage seared her chest. When she was done, they’d all know the wrath of days had come.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
miserere
A sliver of moonlight trickled through the clouds as Lucian stood beside the boulder overlooking Bear Creek. Curled up near his feet, Lindsay slept. She murmured through her dreams, and he prepared to wake her if she suffered another nightmare. Her hair pulled from her braid to fall in drifts around her face. Even in sleep, her loss of innocence was apparent in the creases around her frown. He mourned her lost childhood almost as much as he mourned his twin.
Lucian rubbed his eyes and walked around the camp to stay awake. He shouldn’t have allowed Rachael to go alone. Although she wasn’t as reckless as when she was young, she didn’t understand the Fallen’s traps. Anything could have happened—could be happening—and here he stood as helpless as when he’d lived with his sister.
His forehead burned where Catarina marked him with her blood. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t summon a clear image of her face. Her features distorted from the sibling he’d loved into the monster he’d killed. He couldn’t resurrect her, not even in memory.
He didn’t think he would feel her absence so keenly.
But he did.
The horses shuffled in the darkness, and Ignatius lifted his head, ears pricked forward. Lucian limped toward the animals; a shadow emerged from the trees to his right.
“It’s me,” Rachael said.
He exhaled in relief and went to her, not stopping until they were close enough to embrace. He summoned his soul-light and examined her eye where rage burned her iris dark. “What happened?”
“I found the Psalter. You were right. Every name was as you said it would be.”
“What will you do?”
She didn’t flinch. “I will accuse them. I will judge them and I will advocate for their deaths.”
“And me?” He marveled his words didn’t belie his thundering heart. “Will you judge me?”
Her anger receded and her words stilled his soul. “I already have.” A smile trembled on her lips. “I will not leave you.”
It took him a second to realize Rachael didn’t use his words to mock him. She meant what she said—she would not leave him.
Whether it was his gratitude or his exhaustion, Lucian didn’t stop to think of the consequences. He leaned forward and kissed her, his lips brushing against hers with the barest of touches. The taste of her filled him, and he kissed her again, slipping his arm around her waist to draw her close. She put her palms against his chest, and he felt her lean into him, her mouth seeking his, or perhaps he imagined it, mistaking his desire for hers. She withdrew from him to end the kiss, yet she didn’t step out of his embrace.
He released her and she looked away, but not before he saw the color rising to her cheeks. He feared he’d overstepped the invisible barrier that stood between them. “Rachael, I’m sorry.”
“You’re not in the least.”
“What?”
“You’re not sorry at all.” He could have sworn a spark of mischief flickered in her eye before she became grim once more. She handed him the Psalter. “We’ve got to go.” She walked to the saddles. “I want to get there before morning Mass ends.”
He fingered the worn cover of Catarina’s prayer book as Rachael gathered the packs. While she was busy, he opened the Psalter to the first page. The resurgence of his sorrow took him off guard. The inscription from his mother to Catarina had not been disturbed, and for some reason this grieved Lucian worse than if they removed the page from the book. He creased the paper with his finger and tore it from the Psalter.
The Citadel could have Catarina and her lies, but his life with his sister had been different on Earth. No evil had stalked them there, and a mother’s words of love to her daughter had no place in the Fallen’s roster of the complicit. Lucian tucked the page into his breast pocket and closed the book.
He limped over and nudged Lindsay with his cane. “Wake up, child. We’ve one more duty before we’re done.”
She rolled over and looked up at him with sleep-crusted eyes. “Is Rachael back?”
“I am.” Rachael lifted the mare’s saddle and went to the black horse. “Go wash your face.”
Lucian looked up where dawn pinked the sky and shook off his melancholy. If he intended to become part of the Citadel again, he’d have to leave the past behind. He went to help Rachael saddle the horses. Lindsay disappeared behind th
e boulder for a few minutes to wash her face and braid her hair, then she returned to help gather their things.
Once they were all mounted, Lucian gave Rachael the Psalter and the tin that held the sigil. She secreted the items in her pockets.
Lucian said to Lindsay, “Stay close to me and let Rachael do the talking. Remember everything I told you in the Wasteland and follow my lead in all things.”
Lindsay twisted the reins in her fingers, and he was reminded of the way she flipped her hair through the purple band when she’d first come through the Veil. “Are you happy to be going back?”
He was scared to death. “Yes, I am.”
Rachael reined the mare’s head toward the Citadel and led the way. “Everything’s going to be all right,” she said.
The road was barely a path through the woods. The sun burned the clouds away and within a half hour they were at the Citadel. In spite of his trepidation, Lucian felt his heart soar with the sight of home.
“It’s huge!” Lindsay whispered.
“It is indeed.” Lucian maneuvered Ignatius until Lindsay rode between him and Rachael. The four guards at the outer gate snapped to attention as they neared, and the oldest Katharos stepped forward. “State your business.”
Rachael didn’t slow her mount. “Stand down, soldier. It’s Rachael Boucher on the Seraph’s business.”
The man squinted at her, an expression of shock distorting his features. “Jesus Christ.”
Rachael jerked the reins and the mare lifted her front hooves off the ground. She addressed the Katharos with a voice as brittle as ice. “What did you say?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, Judge Boucher, it’s just—”
Rachael cocked her head at the man. “What’s your name, soldier?”
He recovered himself. “Kevin Brust, ma’am.”
Rachael measured him with her eye. Lucian noted a trickle of sweat flow down the man’s seamed cheek. “Carry on,” she said.
Miserere: An Autumn Tale Page 29
