“A wolf?” Andrez inquired, looking at her strangely.
“The disease makes her face look like that. It’s a minor symptom of the lupus.”
Andrez shook his head sadly. “Maybe she got this disease because she resembles a wolf on the inside. Eh?”
Sarah shook her head. “No. It’s just a disease. And wolves aren’t as vicious as she is, anyway.”
The little man smiled, then looked to the door. Reuben stood there, in his overalls, holding two large boots.
“Sorry to bust in on you like this, Miss Sarah, but nobody answered the door. I got some shoes here for Mr.…”
“Ingram,” the big man said. “Why’re they all dirty?”
“Big Jim was a farmer, Mr. Bull. Spent his days knee deep in mud, may he rest in peace.”
“A dead man’s boots.”
“That’s right, Mr. Ingram.”
Ingram laughed and took them, and Reuben nodded at Sarah as he left.
They were quiet for a moment as Ingram sat down on the window banquet and rolled up the cuffs of his pants.
“I saw something strange from Mama’s window.” Sarah opened the desk drawer again and withdrew a piece of paper and the nub of a well-chewed pencil. She scratched on the paper for a moment and then turned the paper around so that Ingram and Andrez might see.
“Andrez,” she asked, placing one finger on the paper. “Do you recognize this?”
He nodded. “It’s Hastur’s sign. The yellow sign, but in this case, not yellow but bloody. The question is why? The sign usually appears at a place where there’s a covenant in effect. Or, more likely, a territorial marker to let any other entities know that he has possession of this place or person. But I don’t understand how it could be either in this case.”
Andrez looked at the Quanoon and Opusculus on the desk. “Unless…” The little man’s hand went to his chin, as if he had a beard there to stroke. He sat like that for a long time, then shook his head.
“I don’t know, but we must be on our guard. It’s no small matter when gods—even this one that Bull has faced down—start meddling in the affairs of men.”
There was nothing Ingram could say to that. He refreshed their drinks, pouring the whiskey with a large, unsteady hand. He took Sarah’s glass, and she turned her head from staring at the Quanoon to smile at him. He set the bottle back down.
“Don’t scratch, Bull. You’re gonna make them worse.”
“What?” He looked down, realizing that his good hand fretted at the wound on his chest. “Oh.” He dropped his arm and took up a tumbler.
He raised it up to the light coming from the window. “Well, here’s to weird shit and dead birds.”
Andrez tsked. “No, Bull, don’t toast to the bad.” He took up his own glass. “Here’s to the strength of new friends.”
They raised their glasses, and drank.
Chapter 17
In the late afternoon, when the yellow light slanted into the library, the children returned from swimming at Old River Lake with far less noise than their departure.
Franny went to her mother, her bare feet making soft slaps on the hardwood. She leaned into Sarah’s chest and looked at Ingram. The exhaustion showed on her face, her body. Sunburnt across the nose, she held her index and middle fingers in her mouth and sucked at them busily, an old habit Sarah thought she’d broken her of.
Franny popped her fingers out of her mouth and asked, “Is he staying here, Mommy?”
She smiled and said, “Yes, baby. For a little while.”
“Good,” the girl said.
From the door, Alice said, “Sarah, I’m gonna take Lenora and Fisk on to the kitchen, get ’em some dinner. Send lil Fran in when she’s ready.”
Franny turned to Ingram.
“How tall are you?”
“Tall.”
“How tall is that?”
He held a hand flat on top of his head.
“This tall.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I don’t know really. Pretty tall. I gotta duck going into most rooms.”
“I wanna be that tall when I grow up.”
He thought about what she said. Sarah and Andrez watched him. The awkwardness he showed around others disappeared as he spoke with the girl.
“Why would you want to be as tall as me? People look at me funny. People make fun of me for being so big. They call me animal names. It’s not that swell, believe me.”
“If I was that tall, what do you think they’d call me?”
Ingram rubbed his chin, looking at the ceiling. “Beanpole, maybe. Giraffe.”
She laughed, her body hitching. “Stilts,” she said.
“I like giraffe. You ever see one?”
“No.”
“They’re from Africa, and they eat the leaves from the top of trees. They’re beautiful. If you grew as tall as me, you’d have to be part giraffe.”
Franny pushed away from her mother and approached Ingram. He kneeled.
She reached out and touched his chest above his heart, where the bandages were visible under his shirt.
“Does it hurt?”
“Franny, don’t ask such personal questions,” Sarah said.
Ingram glanced at Sarah, frowning. He turned back to Franny.
“It hurt when it happened, but it just itches now.”
“Were they really mad?”
“Who?”
“The people who hurt you.”
“Yeah. I guess they were. But don’t ask me why.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know why they were mad. Maybe they just stay that way, mad at everybody. All the time.”
Franny frowned. “I wouldn’t want to be them.”
“Me neither.”
“I’m glad you’re staying with us, Bull.”
“Me too, Franny. Me too.”
She patted his good hand, like a parent patting a child’s. He seemed surprised by the gesture. He grinned.
“I’m hungry. Are you hungry, Franny? Why don’t we go get some dinner with Alice?”
“And Fisk and Lenora. I’ll bet you were really hungry once you woke up. You slept for a really long while.”
“Yeah. I had funny dreams.”
Franny took Ingram’s hand, pulling him away from the library into the hall.
“I have funny dreams too. Crazy dreams. Really. About dogs that live in the attic. Some are nice and funny. Some are mean.”
After they left, Andrez chuckled and said, “That’s an odd couple.”
“She wants a father. She hasn’t said anything about her own since we came back to the Big House, but she wants a dad.” Sarah drained the last of her drink then stood, smoothing the front of her dress. “Bull just had more of a conversation with her than Jim ever did.” She looked down at her wedding band. “I don’t need a lecture.”
“I’m not going to give you one. But you like him, don’t you?”
Sarah looked at the priest, unflinching.
“He’s quite possibly the loneliest person I’ve ever met. But I do like him. It’s strange, but even before he awoke I felt… I don’t know. Confused. I felt like I knew him. I was afraid of him. But drawn to him too.”
He nodded. “Does that scare you?”
“It makes me wonder if I’m crazy. Everything is happening all at once, and I don’t understand anything. The world, my… reality… is shattered. I’m terrified and excited all at once.”
“Sarah, your reality hasn’t changed. Your perception of it has, and that is what’s important.”
She bowed her head, thinking. “Let’s go get some dinner. It’s getting dark soon and, quite frankly, I’m not inclined to drive you back to Stuttgart. So we need to figure out where you’re gonna bunk down.”
“I don’t sleep much. Maybe two hours a night. I never managed to sleep well after… after what happened to my mother. I can just remain here, in the library, if that’s all right. I’d like some time to study the
Quanoon and look into the Opusculus a little more.” He waved his hand toward the stacks of books littering the floor. “I’d like to do a little indexing as well. Your father and uncle amassed a pretty unique collection here. If you don’t mind?”
As she left him, she heard him open the Quanoon, gasp, and then turn the page.
Chapter 18
Cap Hap stood on the deck of the cruiser bound for Tulagi in the dress armor of a Roman centurion. His breastplate shone silver in the Pacific sun, embossed with a scene of a bull surrounded by priests in togas. A scorpion stings the bull’s testicles. A snake and a dog drink from a wound at its throat.
Hap stood with his hip cocked, one hand on his sword, grinning at Ingram.
Ingram saluted and Haptic returned it, bringing his hand sharply to the helmet with red horse-hair plume.
“At ease, marine.”
Ingram relaxed, spreading his feet and keeping his hands at the small of his back.
The captain walked around him, inspecting him.
“Goddamn, son, looks like you been through the fucking grinder.”
Ingram nodded.
“Hastur. Pissant son of a bitch. He’s the sorriest whore’s son ever to walk this earth.”
Haptic sat on the canon’s base, unsnapped the leather strap to his helmet, and pulled the helmet from his head. He set it down beside him, the bright red bristles of the plume jutting skyward, and rested his hands on his knees.
“You know why you’re here?”
Ingram shook his head. He realized they weren’t on the ship’s deck but deep in the Tulagi jungle. Water dripped around them, making plat-plat sounds on the oily leaves. Cap Hap sat on a log now.
“Sit, Bull. Sit down, son. I said, at ease.”
He sat on the log.
“There’s some fucked up shit going on out there.” Cap Hap waved at the brush and undergrowth surrounding them. “It’s about to get even uglier, and I need you to do something for me.”
Ingram tried to speak, but his voice wavered, like he’d been smoking all night and just woke up to find his throat raw.
“What?”
“I need you to open yourself up to me.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means you’ll let me inhabit you when the time comes. Hastur must be checked. Must be stopped. He’s working to bring the Old Ones through.”
“Old Ones?”
“Goddamnit, son, haven’t you been fucking paying attention to what’s been going on around you?”
Cap Hap stood and paced in front of the log. It began to rain. More soft plats. Off in the green dark of Tulagi, gunfire sounded, accompanied by the faint screams of dying men.
“The woman summed it all up when she called them the Prodigium. The Titans. The fucking Old Ones.” He stopped in front of Ingram and put his hands on his hips. “The Old Ones. They want to eat this world. Devour it. You. Her. The girl. The priest. But not just that. People can die and be remembered, you can keep the ones you love alive in your heart and memory. These fuckers devour love and light. And the memories of love and light. Replace it all with worship and sacrifice to the dark. You won’t remember your mother, your fellow soldiers, your best friend. They’ll be dead, and it’ll be as though you never knew them. Do you want that to happen?”
“Who are you? You’re not Cap Hap. He died.” Ingram looked around at the jungle. “He didn’t even make it this far. At Guadalcanal.”
“Bull, I’ve been with you ever since you went to war. You know me of old, son.”
“That’s not telling me anything.”
“You are the stubborn one, aint’cha?”
Cap Hap patted his breast plate as if it had a pocket, looking for cigarettes. He grinned a bit sheepishly, then dug in the gap at the top of his left greave and pulled out a pack of Pall Mall’s. A book of matches was stuffed inside the cellophane.
He shook out a cigarette and offered it to Ingram.
They smoked in the jungle, the wet foliage pressing in close, water dripping from the dark canopy of trees overhead, the sounds of far-off battle filtering through the thick brush.
“Does it really matter who I am? I’ve been working with men like you for the last three thousand years. I’m for the soldier defending his homeland. I’m for the family. I’m for the child. That’s all. Pretty fucking simple, even for a jarhead to understand.”
“What’ll I get out of it?”
“Five bucks and a hand job.”
Ingram stood, dusted off his slacks, wiped moss from his ass.
“You’ll be rewarded. I don’t even know why I’m having this conversation with you, Bull. When the shit starts hitting the fan, you’re gonna have to act, and you’ll need my help. Don’t look at me like that, marine. I’ve buried men better than you. Not many fucking stupider, though.”
He took a deep drag off his cigarette and then flicked it away.
“When you need me—and you will need me—just say Mithras. In answer to your earlier question, that’s my name. I’ll come and—I’m not gonna make any bones about it—possess you. Take over. You’ll go away for a while, you might be able to see and feel depending how strong willed you are, but I’ll be driving and you’ll be in the backseat. But I’ll take care of what has to be done.”
He exhaled a large cloud of smoke, bluish white, swirling, then stepped away from Ingram and the log. The gahn-gahn-gahn of .50 cals cut through the jungle foliage, cut through the air, and when Mithras died, it was almost beautiful, the body arcing, the pop pop pop of gigantic bullets perforating the silver breastplate, a red mist rising up, borne on smoke and bullets, into the air and into the trees, into the green.
Chapter 19
He woke in the guest room, sheets pooled in a sweaty mass around his waist. With his good hand, he rubbed his face, his eyes, trying to clear his head of the dream of Mithras. Sarah stood at the foot of the bed, watching him.
She was in the room and he had no idea she’d been there, watching him sleep. She came around the side of the bed and placed a hand on his chest, on his heart, where Franny had touched him earlier.
Slowly, she slipped out of her nightgown and dropped it to the floor, her skin prickling in the cool night air.
Ingram’s eyes widened. He brought his good hand to her waist, resting it on the curve of her hip where she might carry a baby. Her skin felt warm to the touch.
He felt himself rise. Not speaking, she looked at him with lidded eyes. Her hand moved down his chest, pulled back the sheets at his waist, and found him.
Hissing, he drew her tight and twisted sideways, kissing her rib cage. She turned, one hand still on his erection, putting a breast in his face. He sucked, taking the nipple in his mouth and teasing, rolling it around. Now it was her turn to hiss, drawing air through clenched teeth.
She put a knee on the mattress and rose up, swinging herself on to the bed, keeping her hand on him. Leaning over Ingram, hair falling forward and wreathing her face, breasts swinging, Sarah kissed him. Their lips met, and she sensed his confusion even as his cock pressed hard into her stomach.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he breathed. He kissed her again and pressed her close to his body.
She kept her arm between them, gripping him tightly and working her hand up and down.
“Ssssh.” Her shushing sounded loud in the room. “We need to be doing this. I don’t think either of us has needed anything as much as this. Ever.”
She kissed him again and they twined their tongues, losing themselves in the wet sensations of each other’s body. She pulled away, rose up, positioning herself over him, placed his head right at her center, and sank down. She rose and sank. And again.
“Damn,” she said. “You’re—”
Words failed her. He strove underneath, pushing upward into her, pushing in, coming to grips with her body, the heavy sway of her breasts, the slimness of her waist, the thickness of her ass, her thighs. His eyes like saucers, he took her in, the softness of her
face, the blurriness around the edges. The wariness that inhabited her since they met was gone, and she gave over the part of herself she’d reserved. He cupped a breast in his hand, and she brought it to his mouth again, riding him, breath coming in little gasps, faster now. She made a sound in the back of her throat. With every slap of their bodies coming together, she made a chuffing sound, in time with the movement of his pelvis and legs against hers.
She lay on his chest flattening her breasts—he felt the hard nubs of her nipples against his sternum—then he rolled her over onto her back, taking charge, establishing his own rhythms. His wounded hand was forgotten. The slapping sounds grew louder as he increased the tempo. She closed her eyes, giving herself over to sensation, head back, still breathing heavy, the cords of her neck standing out as he moved above her.
She spread her legs wide, as wide as she could, grabbing her ankles.
“Deep,” she said. She opened her eyes and leaned up, taking his nipple in her mouth and biting. He hissed again. “Go deep, Bull.”
He withdrew from her completely, took himself in hand, and ran his length up and down her seam. She squirmed and opened her eyes to see what he was doing to her, looking down her body at where they almost fused. Almost.
“Deep, Bull.”
At the end, she bit her lip to stop herself from screaming.
They smoked, afterward.
He said, voice rumbling in the low light, “Are you gonna regret this?”
She turned, resting her head on her arm, looking at him.
“No,” she said. “Why should I?”
“Your husband. Franny.”
“My husband is gone. He might as well have died in Bastogne, or Normandy, except for Franny. He lasted a few years at home, and now he’s drinking and working himself to death in a slow suicide. Even having a child wasn’t able to bring him out of his… self-absorbed—” She waved her cigarette hand, painting with the smoke. “Whatever you call it. He’s withdrawing inward and nothing, no one, can get through his wall.” She took a deep drag and turned to ash her cigarette in the tray on the bedside table. “I’m filing for divorce.”
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