by VK Fox
“Is that why you helped me?” The snow grew rosier as they trudged along, stark white becoming washed-out pink.
“It’s how I knew you needed help.”
Everest frowned, adjusting his jacket. He was starting to sweat under the heavy fabric. “So you became a nun more recently?”
“Well, I took my final vows twelve years ago. I started going to church because I liked the history and the ritual felt familiar, kind of like home. I met Sister Isadora one morning at coffee and donuts. She was showing around a relic: a tiny fragment of the Sudarium of Oviedo—the cloth that wrapped the head of Christ after burial. I was fascinated: this little scrap of bloody fabric had miraculous powers. For a minute it felt like there was supposed to be something more in my life, I’d just been looking in the wrong places.
“Sister Isadora invited me to a retreat. I wasn’t thrilled about spending a weekend in silence getting to know myself, but I didn’t have anything better to do, so I went. I came away that Sunday with a realization: I wanted to help others more than I wanted to punish myself. It snowballed pretty quickly from there.”
“Did it give you peace with your life at Sana Baba?” Everest scuffed a boot in the snow. The music didn’t seem to be getting any closer.
“That’s a work in progress.”
Everest ghosted a smile. “I thought you were going to say everything happens for a reason.”
“Well, it does, but in my case, the reason was that I was adopted by an organization who treated me like a disposable piece of property. Telling people how the terrible things that happen to them are all part of God’s plan is trite and empty. Did God kill the person you loved? Did he make you addicted to heroin? Did he force you to pull the trigger at the Neon?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Bad things happen because the world is imperfect. Can God work with that? Sure. Did He design a plan full of tragedy and injustice for you as some kind of training regime? No way.”
They walked quietly through the snow as the air became thicker. Everest’s fingers smothered, his palms sweating in his gloves. He kept them on as long as he could stand it—exposing sweaty skin to the savage cold wasn’t wise, but eventually he stripped them off, because he was going to scream if he didn’t. Instant relief—a soft breeze ruffled against his hands as he reached around his neck for the leather cord.
Everest cleared his throat. “I don’t like how much sand there is here. It’s sinister, encroaching.”
Sister Mary considered the ground, testing it between her fingers. When she spoke, there was too much sound for Everest to parse. He rocked back a step as the noise washed through him. Something warm trickled from both ears.
Sister Mary lips moved, but all he could hear was a high whine. She shook her blurred head and stepped forward, reaching for him as he stumbled in the shifting sand, the wind nearly knocking him down. He twisted to catch himself, stumbling back on his own tracks that marked out the way they came.
There were three sets. Next to Everest’s and Mary’s snow-booted tread, small, smooth footprints were stamped out—two sets of prints to every one of their strides. It might be an animal, except the toes were so clear and crisp that there was no denying the impressions belonged to a person, or at least something with human feet. Exactly where Everest had stopped, the last set of tracks stood empty with nothing else besides—no trail leading away, no indication of a change in locomotion beyond simply pausing during a walk. The music seared through Everest’s mind as he slowly, deliberately reached his hand out to the place where someone little should have been.
Chapter Fifteen
Man-giant Ian was buried in research. Notebooks, Post Its, and pens lay in great drifts around him. Books with titles like The House of Charlemagne and King and Emperor teetered from every flat surface. An avalanche was a real, disastrous possibility.
Jane tried to take a sip from her coffee mug and found it empty. “We should get some sleep soon.” A dribble of brown liquid clung to the bottom corner. She might be able to lick it out at the right angle. “I wish we knew what we were looking for or that we could rope some sisters into the research department. Right now there’s so much and I can’t get the shape of it. It’s like trying to nail Jello to the wall.” Her tongue wasn’t quite long enough. Jane glared at the cup before giving up. “I’m glad we were able to get the Kendle’s backyard roped off, though.”
Ian nodded. “That’s a win. I wouldn’t want anyone wandering by a tear.”
“What did you tell them? The police, I mean.”
“I said the same thing I used to when I was an agent.” Ian shrugged. “Sana Baba has an arrangement with most law enforcement for things exactly like this. They followed protocol.”
Jane chewed on her thumbnail, eyes beginning to water from staring at the screen. “Is it a magic link thing? Like I could see the tear because I’m in tune with magic—the same way I can see your antlers?”
“Exactly.”
“Then why couldn’t you see it?” Jane swiveled her chair to face him. Ida and Beth were snoozing peacefully next to Ian in their bassinet, occupying the only spot near him clear of paper and books.
“I could see something, but not as much as you. I’m not sure why. It may be that you are more magical than I am. Or maybe it has to do with my prophecy being clouded—maybe my other magical senses are less right now as well.” Ian rubbed his exhaustion-lined face. “We need more eyes. We’ll never get through all this.”
“We can try the sisters. Tell them to take a stack and let us know if they see anything relating to the barrier or extranatural threats?”
“It’s more than not knowing what to look for.” Ian dropped his hand but kept his eyes closed, brow wrinkled. Jane had chewed her thumbnail past the point where it hurt and tried to let the ragged edge go. Everest’s knowledge of Sana Baba informants in organizations like The Sisters of Perpetual Help was specific enough that it sounded true and vague enough to cut them off from seeking assistance. The idea of a traitor in the sister’s ranks specifically was deeply disquieting. Jane would trust Sister Mary with her life, but Sister Mary was in North Dakota. That left a lot of ladies she didn’t know so well.
“What we need are people who are beyond suspicion. People who are used to finding treasure in the jungle of information but haven’t been corrupted or bought.” Jane sighed, fantasizing about allies emerging from the woodwork and lightening their load. “A group who has the time and attention to pull out secrets hidden from common knowledge and could find the thread of conspiracy in the tapestry of…” Jane’s runaway metaphor petered out as her computer dinged with a notification.
InformedCitizen3: Finishing up a road trip—big success all around. Found a lost member and put together a big fat file on Bunnyman, Jersey Devil, Mothman, and others. Authorities were not able to hide cryptid evidence from us! The truth shines through the fog, folks. Keep your eyes open. Posting more soon.
Jane’s face cracked in a huge grin. “Holy shit, Ian. I know where we can get back up.”
The quasi paranoid First Alert research group told Jane to go to France, so the Sendak family got on a private jet. Jane slept on the flight, and when they touched down there was a lot of getting lost and feeling groggy in the back of taxis. The sun was still shining when they arrived at Lanhouarneau, although Jane had thoroughly lost track of the time and also the day.
Inside the blue vaulted, stained glass, ancient stone interior of St. Herve’s church, Jane and Ian waited for “Vigilante” Jeremiah’s contact. They were each holding a baby and Jane had Joyeuse at her side. They looked ridiculous. Was there really a secret society of medieval exorcists who’d served Charlemagne headquartered here? Had they really flown to France on the recommendation of a man who suspected fluoride was added to the water to make the population more subservient? Reality was probably fucked.
Jane let her focus wander around the ornate pillars and pews, her gaze snagging on a four-foot painted plaster statue of a
man and wolf perched on a pedestal jutting out of the stone wall. His full, gray beard tumbled over brown-and-white monk’s robes, and he stood with his eyes blindfolded and one contact-worn hand outstretched. His other hand rested on the back of a tawny wolf who leaned into the air, giving the impression of readiness and guidance.
“This must be Saint Herve.” Jane shuffled to the statue and brushed her fingers against his offered, crumbling hand. Her eyes dropped to a small plexiglass box set into the stone beneath the statue’s feet—the clear front flush with the face of the pedestal. It created a window about the size of an index card, and inside the little nook, resting on a plump velvet pillow, was a sliver of something white and sharp—like ivory.
Ian stooped to peer at the fragment alongside Jane, his bass voice reverberating with the church’s acoustics. “Is that a relic? I read Saint Herve was buried here.”
Jane reached out to touch the plexiglass, smudging fingerprints onto the pristine surface. “A relic like a piece of a dead saint?”
“Yeah.” Ian kissed the top of Jane’s head, which he followed up with kisses to both the girls, since once he got going he had a hard time stopping. Ida stirred sleepily, and Beth’s tufty hair shone with small sparkles of static in the dim light. “Or something they owned. This looks like a piece of bone to me. There are tales about miracles happening when people are near a relic.”
“Like healing, right?”
“Right. I read a bunch of stories when I was researching Catholicism. Body parts or pieces of clothing from a holy person sometimes have power. Relics can be tiny like this one or an entire body that doesn’t rot. The book I read had pictures of a few incorruptible saints on view in glass coffins. Like the catacomb saints from the sister’s library but with the flesh still on. There are also pieces of clothing that are powerful relics: the veil of Veronica used to wipe the face of Christ or Saint Juan Diego’s tilma he was wearing when he had a vision of the virgin Mary.”
Below the reliquary a small, polished plaque read:
Saint Hervé
Guérisseur, protecteur, voyageur
Patron des musiciens et des aveugles
Priez pour nous
Jane was trying to summon her sparse Québécois French that Dahl’s foster mother had taught her when she’d visited all those months ago. She was pretty sure “Patron des Musiciens” meant “Patron of Musicians,” but the rest was beyond her.
Shuffling sandals over stone pulled Jane’s eyes away from the bone fragment. A solid, older man dressed in a crisp white robe and a scratchy brown cowl emerged from a side room. His eyes locked on Joyeuse, who was blushing the colors of a ripe peach. Lights from the stained glass dappled his shiny bald scalp in blues, yellows, and reds.
“Welcome.” His voice was begrudging and overloud for church, like he was used to shouting across a noisy cafeteria instead of addressing a few visitors from ten feet away. “You must be the ones looking for information about Charlemagne. I’m Brother Curtis. Follow me.”
The monk’s English was accented but perfectly intelligible. Jane breathed a sigh of relief. He marched to the wings and opened a door hidden behind a decorative screen. The small room was a modern contrast to the ancient church, like they were going backstage.
The vestibule was cramped. A large tawny dog snoozed in a heap in the corner. Fold-out chairs and a card table had been set out next to a sink and a clothing rack hung with robes and dry-cleaning bags. Brother Curtis sank into the flimsy frame and nudged a manilla folder in their direction. “There.” He glanced at each of them in turn and Jane bit back a reflexive question. Maybe the file had answers. She started leafing through.
“Praise the Lord we are not overrun with weird and dangerous creatures already. This should have been done.” His voice turned sheepish, and one hand wandered restlessly along the wooden rosary hanging from his rope belt. “I had hoped when my brothers fell away that Sana Baba would make up the difference, but now I find myself wondering if anything good comes out of that viper’s nest anymore. Have they abandoned their allies and responsibilities?” He snorted.
“You have a record of the history of reinforcing the barrier!” Jane found her voice under a pile of jet lag and uneasiness. The file wasn’t huge, but it was dense. Critical snippets leapt out as Jane skimmed. “Back in ancient times and again with the invention of the printing press?” Jane perused the page of dates—in 5000 BC writing was invented, in 1000 BC the Phoenician alphabet became widespread, and in 1439 the printing press had made its historic debut. “Okay, so what’s the pattern? It doesn’t seem like it has to be done once a millennia or anything. The time between the invention of writing and the Phoenician alphabet was four thousand years, then between the alphabet and the printing press was like…” Jane trailed off, tallying numbers. “Two thousand four hundred. From fourteen hundred to now is only six hundred years...”
The monk leaned in, gnarled hands on his knees gripping crisp, white fabric. “Out of the mouths of babes and infants, you have established strength because of your foes, to still the enemy and the avenger.” Brother Curtis delivered the psalm like a sermon. “It’s not years, it’s people. Each time the world is full to bursting, another way to scaffold reality has been found. When there were five million by the Grace of God, man invented writing and saved reality from being overrun. When the world was fifty million full, Sana Baba was ready, patching the holes with the Phoenician alphabet. When mankind grew to five hundred million, the printing press saved us from cracking reality like a raw egg. And now we are five billion, ten times again what we were six hundred years ago, and again the wealth of souls—the dreams and imaginations, the hopes and ideas of man, threaten to burst through the barrier, shredding our home and casting us adrift in a vast, alien sea. You are our only hope to stop it.”
“Me?” Jane’s voice was squeaky, and she swallowed dry. “Or, like, you as in you in general?”
The supersized mutt in the corner stretched, front paws all the way out, back legs bunched behind him, before climbing to his feet and wandering over. He licked Beth’s hair as gooseflesh climbed Jane’s neck. She knew him; for the first time he wasn’t charging to the rescue or keeping danger at bay. Seeing her wolf lazy and relaxed made him much less ephemeral—concrete and real.
Saint Herve was her third link. Saint Barbara had protected and hidden her, Saint Philomena had championed her hopeless causes, and St. Herve had given her the power to heal, her connection with him opening the doors of friendship with a century’s old secret order of monks.
We do have power, it’s called faith. Sometimes it comes from God, and then it’s called miracles.
Brother Curtis was studying her with rheumy eyes. “I’m sorry my brothers have fallen away. We were once a force for good, for knowledge and protection, but over time fewer young men saw the value in serving and more of our order passed on or left. Now I am the only one, but I have waited for you—the servant of God chosen to save the world. I am at your service.”
“What does the plaque say?” Jane tidied the folder, nearly blinded by Joyeuse’s cherry-blossom light. Written words mattered. She should know how her patron was honored in his own church.
Brother Curtis’s brow wrinkled below his shiny scalp before comprehension dawned. He fondly stroked the wolf’s silken fur.
“It lists the titles of St. Herve. I’m sure you are familiar.”
“Tell me.” Jane’s palms prickled. “I want to hear them.”
Brother Curtis nodded and sat, straight-backed and serious.
“Saint Herve: Healer, Protector, Traveler: Patron of Musicians and the Blind: Pray for Us.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Middle can, then right, then left.” Dahl’s voice clicked in, filtered through Everest’s noise-canceling headphones. He tried not to openly scoff at Dahl’s declared shot. Maybe he was selecting something easy to lure Everest into a false sense of bravado. Dahl. The name was obvious this morning. Why had it eluded him so completely before?
There was a piece in his mind drifting, like a part of the whole wasn’t snapped into place.
The Glock barked three times. Cans flew from the freestanding wooden shelf and clattered across the packed snow. Everest eyed Dahl’s tidy shots.
Billy Davis’ shooting gallery was seriously enjoyable: the earth embankment backstop mounded at the end of the range must have required importing fill dirt. Target boards dotted the field at five, ten, twenty-five, fifty, and a hundred yards. A dueling tree with flat metal discs swung around a vertical pole, maneuvered by the force of the bullet striking the plate face. But Everest’s favorites were the shelves and ledges dappling the side of the range, ready to hold all sorts of paraphernalia for trick shots: reactive targets, cans, empty glass bottles, and water balloons—if they could fill them, transport them, and shoot them before they froze. At home, Dahl had introduced him to the joys of two-liter soda bottles as well, but Lizzie Davis might burn at the stake anyone who wasted food, so they were forced to abstain. Everest stepped up to the firing line, exhaled, and pulled the trigger. The neat line of cans tumbled away in satisfying succession.
“Are you doing alright this morning?” Dahl kept stealing troubled glances in his direction, and he’d chewed his scabbed lip until it bled.
Everest inverted his pistol. “Through the middle of the CD, pinkie trigger finger.” He squeezed off the shot. Perfect. “I’m fine, but there is something I’d like to discuss.”
“Are you sure you’re well?” His voice caught. Everest narrowed his eyes, and Dahl flinched like a kicked puppy. The first dozen times he’d inquired, Everest’s heart had lurched. Now he wanted the badgering to stop.
“I’m fine.” Did he sound snappish? “You need to believe me. I am perfectly well this morning.” There was a dream on the edge of his memory where he was naked, pressed against Dahl’s painfully hot skin and wrapped in blankets. It might have been sweet, except Everest couldn’t divorce the image from a sensation of numbness and slurred speech, a warmed IV in his veins and Dahl’s terrified whispers against his cheek. He’d lost some precious sleep to the nightmare, but he didn’t need to be questioned endlessly about it.
