by S. Cedric
The others follow.
70
Loisel suddenly felt dizzy.
While he was pounding the cement, the inevitable had happened. His shoulder let out a wet snap. His muscle tissue gave way, and the wound opened up again. Blood began to seep into his clothing.
He knelt and had another coughing fit.
“Keep going,” Madeleine said.
Loisel clenched his jaw and stood up, looking frantic. He knew he did not have a choice.
He lifted the pickaxe and brought it down again. The slab was now quite worn down. It would not be long.
He hit it again.
There was a metallic sound on impact.
“Oh.”
It was as though he no longer felt the pain. He brought the pickaxe down again. And then again. There was a spark when the tip ran into the goblet imprisoned in the cement.
“Madeleine,” he said quietly.
The woman stood up. The small blaze illuminated her fur coat, making her look like an animal lying in wait in the middle of the icy night.
“I think I found it.”
“Yes,” she said, coming closer.
The edge of the chalice emerged from the rubble.
“It’s there,” she said with emotion. “It’s still there, preserved for us. Give me that.”
She grabbed the pickaxe from Loisel and started banging to loosen the object. Every time the tool hit the chalice, blue sparks flew into the half-darkness. She knelt over the hole, digging with her gloved hands. The cement was breaking up easily.
Madeleine freed the chalice, along with its cover, and cried in victory.
“I’ve got it!”
Loisel was trembling. The effort had been too much for him. His wound had not opened completely, but he was losing blood. It was pulsating from the torn tissue. Sharp pain spread through his body with every heartbeat. He was white as a ghost and looked nearly phosphorescent in the shadows.
Madeleine held the goblet over the fire. The flames lit it up. Her fingers scraped away the remaining cement. She pulled hard at the cover and freed the chalice.
“The blood of saints! The blood of black sorcerers,” she cried out.
“Let’s do it,” Loisel begged. “Quick. I’m on my way out.”
Madeleine smiled. An expression of mad, violent joy came over her.
“Let it be, then.”
She stood behind the altar and started to recite. She spoke the words that weaved together and undid the web of the world, and Loisel, despite his ebbing energy, hurried to join in.
“Ho ietzivut ve-tnuah! Ho metzulot hashuchim metzuafim be nitzotzot! Ho yom lavush lail! Ata hamachbi tachat haadama, bemamalechet haavanim hayekarim et hazera hanifla shel hakochavim!”
The words were stars in their throats. They were a vibrant call that made the ground shake. Pierre felt heat rising in his flesh.
“Ho gavia mibabalon melea bedam hakedoshim! Oh esh hachoshech she eino iachol lamut! Marveni bekochecha hanitzchi!”
Pierre doubled over as he continued to chant. He felt the web of the universe loosen up and contract as it breathed in and out all around him. The web was detaching from the surface.
Madeleine lifted the iron chalice, and her eyes rolled back in her head.
She poured it over her open mouth.
The blood was still there, in the bottom of the cup, after all those years.
It flowed, liquid again, in a thick, black stream from the chalice into her throat.
Pierre sat up. He felt the power coming from the altar like a dark glow.
When she set the goblet in front of her, the wounds on her face had closed partially. Then she turned and looked at him, and the wounds were completely gone.
“Pierre, are you still a black sorcerer? Are you ready to commune with the cup of Babylon that’s filled with the blood of saints?”
He staggered to the altar and grabbed the goblet. The metal was burning hot, threatening to scorch his hands.
“So be it,” he whispered. “Amen.”
He drank the black blood, while Madeleine continued her ecstatic chant.
71
When Eva got out of the shower, the bathroom was all steamed up.
She looked at herself in the mirror behind the blanket of condensation and saw herself as almost beautiful. Almost. She smiled. Then her phantom reflection writhed in the mirror.
You always knew, she thought, staring at her scarlet eyes in the blurry reflection. You just didn’t want to admit it.
If everything is true, there is only one solution.
She wrapped her scarred body in a towel and opened the door.
The living room was dark and quiet.
“Alexandre?” she whispered.
There was no answer. She went into the bedroom and tiptoed to the bed.
She stared at Vauvert’s massive bandaged body lying across the bed. He was deep asleep, his head leaning on his left shoulder and his face wearing an expression of childlike happiness. He looked like a mythological hero. His powerful body had been sculpted by the gods to live among men but shone with a grace that exceeded simple humanity.
She knelt near him, feeling moved, her mind in a torment she did not want. She touched the lamp, first turning the light down and then off. She did not want to wake him and had always been able to see in the dark.
“Alexandre,” she said in a barely audible whisper.
Her fingers traced the tattoo on his right arm. Intertwining black and gray, proliferating like ivy, wrapped around a stylized sword that seemed to bring the whole motif to life.
She touched his hand lightly. Lost in sleep, he took her fingers, and his smile widened.
I can’t. Forgive me.
Silently, like a white shadow, she pulled her fingers away and retreated to the living room, with a dark storm brewing in her mind.
She inspected the freezer. She took out the half-empty bottle of vodka. She then fell onto the sofa. She was wavering. Her bag was on the coffee table. She dug through it and pulled out a bottle of vitamin C. She opened it. It was a weakness, but she really needed it, now more than ever. She poured an amphetamine into her hand.
The ice-cold vodka felt like razors in her throat.
It felt good.
As she waited for the amphetamine to take effect, she checked her email on her phone. There were several messages, a series of them from police headquarters, in response to Vauvert’s request.
The last one read: “Loisel Tomb Report – Evidence.”
Her heart started pounding.
Eva opened the message.
They weren’t wrong. Louis is waiting for them here, in the back of the ruins. He is sitting cross-legged on the altar, like some fallen divinity or a reptile curled into itself, ready to bite.
“Friends, aren’t you going to come closer?”
They can hear his whispering with disturbing clarity.
For the first time, the four students keep a distance from their friend.
“Your voice has changed,” Ismael says.
“Many things have changed,” Louis answers in an almost-breathless voice. “And much will follow.”
He observes them with a smile. His red eyes shine in the shadows. A star falls from the sky, fizzling out in its descent. Another follows. The earth lets out a sigh.
“I opened the door to the gods,” the albino says.
Madeleine shakes her head. She crosses her arms and stands in front of him.
“You killed your own child. How could you?”
“I did it because that is the price to pay,” he says. “The blood of the firstborn is the key to the world.”
His voice changes again and now crackles like a fire.
“And the blood of colorless children is even more precious and more powerful in the eyes of the gods.”
He points an accusing finger at her.
“You know that one day you will do it, Madeleine. You all will do it. That is part of the pact that we sealed with our blo
od.”
“Never! I will never do that,” Madeleine says.
She turns to the others, looking for their support. All she sees are young boys, afraid of the untamed power glowing in front of them.”
“When are you going to open your eyes? What he did, what he has become has nothing to do with our gift.”
“Madeleine, Madeleine,” Louis interrupts. “Why are you doing that?”
He slides off the altar. She can see him only partially in the starlight, but she recognizes how much he has changed over the months. His hair has grown, and his red eyes are bigger, maybe from the gleam shining in them now. They give off a penetrating dark glare.
Madeleine steps back.
Next to her, Guillaume Alban looks stunned—or ecstatic.
“You were able to do it, and they didn’t take you,” the boy says.
“Who, the police?”
Louis waves his hand with disdain.
“They are all idiots and incapable. Just like the previous times.”
Madeleine shivers. She forces herself to stand straight and not show her fear.
“The previous times?”
Louis smiles. His teeth shimmer in the shadows.
“That’s what I said.”
“You already did it?”
She again looks to the others for support. She doesn’t find it in any of them. Even Ismael is looking down, submissive.
“You’ve murdered other people, too?” she cries out.
“So naive, little one.”
He walks toward her.
She steps back.
“You are a beginner,” he says, his voice full of venom. “You don’t understand anything. The world is at my feet now. Just look.”
He raises his hand. The flagstones in the chapel crack and explode, one by one, right up to the place where she is standing. Pierre and Ismael step aside, protecting themselves. Guillaume is so stoned or subjugated by Louis’s stifling aura, he doesn’t move. When a stone splits under his feet, he falls on his behind.
Madeleine has trouble controlling her rising panic, but she stands her ground. She refuses to show any weakness.
“I’ve had enough!” she screams. “Nobody and nothing is at your feet, Louis. You have just become a monstrosity.”
Louis smiles. She feels the pressure of his look. It is an absolute meanness that pierces her. She does not bat an eye. She does not tremble. She challenges him, refusing to accept his lies, once and for all.
“I have become a god!” Louis roars. “If you want me to make you kneel in front of me, then so be it.”
Madeleine stiffens at the challenge. She feels her clothes start to pulsate, as though they are breathing, as though they have come alive.
“Nobody will ever kneel down in front of you. You’re creating illusions, but you’ll never be anybody but yourself,” she says.
“You see?” Louis says, looking at the others. “There she goes again.”
“What? I’m saying that you’re depraved and a damned psychopath,” Madeleine screams. “I’m not afraid of you, Louis. Do you hear me? Whatever you’ve done, I’m not afraid.”
“You see how she’s trying to turn us against each other? She wants to turn off the power.”
“He’s right,” Guillaume says. He is leaning against the wall. “Madeleine, you’re trying to scare us.”
Madeleine turns to him. She is livid. “Me? I’m trying to scare you? Are you going to believe his lies again? If he’d really become some god like he says, how could I diminish his powers? Can’t you see he is manipulating us?”
Guillaume stares at her with eyes that look like embers. He shakes his head and refuses to believe. “He did it, Madeleine, like he said he would.”
“You are alone,” Louis says.
Madeleine wonders if she can run to the car and flee this nightmare. She sees Pierre, who is totally subjugated. She turns to Ismael, her last hope.
“Say something, for God’s sake. Do something.”
Ismael looks down, like a submissive dog. Where have his seductive arrogance and strength gone? She has always felt that he was protecting her. She has always been ready to do the craziest things for him, as long as she could be in his arms. Now she sees him for what he is, as he has always been. He is a lost child, a self-absorbed child with more power than any mortal should have.
Louis is beaming, both from satisfaction and from pure, intense meanness..
“I’ll show you the miracle. And you will kneel before me, I promise you.”
“I won’t watch anything,” she says, her voice shaking. “I don’t want to see these illusions anymore.”
She turns to Ismael.
“I’m leaving you all. I’m leaving the circle,” she says. She knows the impact this provocation will have. “And this time, it’s for good.”
The four boys stare at her. She sees they are shaking. She senses their fear. Fine. Perfect. Be afraid. Be as afraid as she is.
“Madeleine,” Ismael begins, cowardly and at a loss for words.
“No,” is all Guillaume says.
She starts moving away.
Louis keeps walking toward her, smiling and focused.
“I don’t want to be damned like this pervert,” she screams.
Louis licks his lips and says, “And yet you are. I’ll show you just how much.”
Then she cracks. She knows she shouldn’t, but she spins around. She thinks she might have time to run, to drive away and leave the four behind her forever.
She feels the air move when he jumps her. She barely has time to lift her arms to protect her head as it hits the flagstone. Louis tackles her and turns her over. On his face is a mask of hate.
“You’re not going anywhere, you little brainless bitch. I’m going to show you what real power is.”
Ee... ah... oo.
A disembodied murmur.
He slips in swirls of mist.
72
Loisel had drunk the sun.
The blood of the black sorcerers.
Still trembling, he set the iron cup on the altar.
There was light in his eyes now, bright flames that spread throughout him, illuminating the veins under his skin.
“I don’t feel the cold anymore. I don’t even feel the pain,” he said.
He unbuttoned the top of his shirt and pulled back the collar to look at his injured shoulder. The wound that had been open just a few minutes earlier was closing before his eyes. It tingled and felt wonderfully warm.
“It reminds me of when we were young,” Madeleine said, a look of total abandonment on her face.
The power of the blood was working on her too, deep in her flesh. Her cheeks were becoming smooth and firm again, and she was beautiful once more. It felt like every pore in her body was radiant.
“Our magic is still strong, Pierre.”
He put his hands on the altar and stared at the chalice and the blackish nectar pulsating in it.
“Yes, we did it. That light. All that light.”
“Didn’t I tell you we could?”
She walked over to the rubble and stared at the pit they had dug with the pickaxe. She spread her arms, and her heart raced. Her communion with the air, the earth, and even the fire was perfect, total. She felt drunk from the sensations, the light, and the penetrating, dark warmth. She twirled, her eyes rolling back.
Then her euphoria ended.
Loisel froze too.
They both perceived it at the same time. The air carried his smell and was suddenly heavy.
“He’s coming,” Loisel said. “He’s near. He’s found us.”
“It had to happen,” Madeleine said. “The trail of your blood was too strong. We need to be very careful.”
“Be careful?” Loisel cried with a note of desperation. “We need to run!”
“Don’t panic. Not now. Let the power of the communion grow.”
Loisel was not listening. He was terrified.
“I’m leaving. I’m running. I
’m sure I can outrun him now. I’ll find someplace to hide.” He was babbling.
“He won’t give you enough time for that,” Madeleine warned. “Listen to me. She will come, like we always knew she would. Blood attracts blood. That is the law.”
“To hell with the law,” he screamed, running across the chapel. “I’m not staying any longer.” He rushed through the archway.
Then he was cut off.
His terrified cry was short.
A muffled sob followed.
“Pierre,” Madeleine shouted.
Then she watched as her former classmate was hoisted off the ground, a superhuman hand having grabbed him by the throat. Loisel was suspended against the ink-black sky for some time, his hands and feet waving weakly.
“Oh no. No.”
The man holding him with an iron fist turned him around like a trophy, allowing Madeleine to fully see Loisel’s horrified face.
“Madeleine,” Loisel sputtered. Blood was bubbling from his lips.
“The madman should have listened to you.”
The man holding Loisel had whispered this, but Madeleine heard him perfectly.
It was a dusky, dead voice.
“Louis,” Madeleine said, short of breath. “No.”
Pierre Loisel’s tongue was hanging from his gaping mouth. His eyes were rolling in their sockets.
“Don’t let him...”
The blood flowing from his mouth and down his chin muffled his words.
He was lifted higher, and behind him, the form became more distinct. Louis stepped out of the shadows. His scaly jacket gleamed in the flames of the fire. His red eyes locked on Madeleine with a fierce intensity.
“Finally.”
His smile was a wide-open scar with sharp teeth.
“At least don’t make him suffer,” Madeleine said. She was clenching her fists.
“Oh, if you insist,” Louis said.
He thrust his hand into Loisel’s mouth, breaking his teeth. Loisel arched his back and kicked as Louis grabbed his tongue. Tears of blood flowed down his cheeks.
“You are no longer a black sorcerer,” Louis whispered in his ear. “I’m taking back the miracle that you never deserved, Pierre. And I curse your rotten soul with all the words and seals of the ancient gods, so you never find rest, above or below. So be it. Amen.”
