"Okay, okay." I tried to stand but a wave of pain erupted from my right leg and drove me backward. My back popped as I landed on my ass. "Look, help me up and I'll get out of here."
"Again," urged the anur, grabbing ahold of my hands and hauling me upwards. This time I was careful not to put any pressure on my right leg. I looked down at my right foot; it was wrenched to the left, the knee lumpy and swollen beneath my jeans.
My left leg bore my weight fine, and for that I was grateful. I was hobbled but not immobile.
How much time had passed between my fall and my waking? A minute? Ten minutes? An hour?
Bouchard was no idiot. He had probably immediately moved to alert Lovat Central. Who knows how long that would have taken though, because he'd have to find a telephone, or at the very least one of the new police call boxes slowly scattering their way throughout the city.
"Friend! Here, friend, a gift. A gift. Here, take this board," said the anur, dragging an old piece of timber about his height toward me. "A crutch, see. A crutch! Use it as a crutch."
He stuck one end under an arm and waggled the board about, demonstrating.
Taking the board, I followed suit, sticking it under my arm. As a crutch it was poor—uncomfortable—but in the absence of anything better, it'd have to do. My new anur friend was right: I needed to get out of here. Bouchard wouldn't just let me fall. Level Six would be crawling with Lovat's finest before long.
"Good luck, friend. Good luck!" said the anur, his wide mouth frowning and his dark eyes blinking as I found the door to the stairwell and began my hobble back to Saint Mark's.
I barely remember the return trip. It was a blur of misery and frustration and hysteria. My heart hammered and my knee screamed in pain, drowning out the constant drone from the bullet hole in my arms and the bruises on my ribs. I collapsed in exhaustion a few times, falling onto benches, slumping against buildings in dirty alleys as police rickshaws and scooters moved past. I did my best to make myself look inconspicuous.
Awkward lift rides felt the same after a while. I would clamber aboard, barely escaping the closing of the doors, and then lean against them hoping I'd catch myself before they opened. Stairs were my bane: difficult to manage and slow, and eventually I was forced to abandon my makeshift crutch in order to descend a particularly steep flight. The agony in my leg didn't ease, and my head was further muddled from the pain and shock.
When I found myself dragging my body toward the doors of Saint Mark's, I remember I was still regretting the loss of my crutch. Then shapes, shadowed blurs of figures, moved from behind the cathedral's walls, looking like umbra.
Seeing those forms, something in me panicked.
I don't remember passing out again, but I did.
* * *
"You look like hell," said Samantha.
I was lying on a hospital bed, my lower half covered by a white sheet. I wasn't sure where I was in the cathedral. Some old room, underground from the look if it. It had once been painted white, but that white had aged and stained over the centuries to the color of worn leather. A few rusted pieces of equipment hummed and buzzed in the corner, tubes hanging off of the metal arms like vines. A counter framed with shelves occupied the wall to my left.
Samantha had rushed into the room. Dressed nothing like the priestess she was, she had her hair pulled back in a messy bun, and wore old cotton trousers and a baggy T-shirt that hung off one shoulder. She looked like she was getting ready to paint a room or work a hammer.
Dark circles were under her eyes, hinting at a lack of sleep. She approached my bed, her expression changing from concern to shock as she took me in. I smiled a loopy smile. My shame barely covered, I felt embarrassed. My skin darkened as I blushed.
"Hagen said you had been hurt, but he didn't say how bad," she said, reaching out and placing a warm hand on my shoulder. My skin tingled under her touch. "Are you all right? You're all bruises and scrapes."
She sat on a stool that had been placed next to my bed.
"I'll be okay," I said, nodding toward my leg. Pain bunched around my knee with every heartbeat. I breathed out a long, slow breath. My head pounded. My ribs ached. But...I was safe. I was safe in the cathedral. Not out on the streets where Bouchard could snatch me up. The tension that had been built in my haphazard flight from Level Six's rooftops to the cathedral grounds slowly seeped out of me. I could feel myself relaxing.
"Carter's cross!" Samantha swore, looking down at my knee and calf. They were deep purple, the muscles swollen around them. She reached to touch the knee, but hesitated, her fingers hovering over the wound. I was grateful for that.
"What happened to your leg?" she gasped.
I shrugged and stumbled over the words, "Had a bit of a fall. I think it might be broken."
"A bit of a fall? You think it might be broken?" Samantha repeated, her eyebrows rising.
I pushed myself up on my elbows so I could see better myself. My sides ached with pain. I winced.
"Easy...easy...lie back, Wal. Look at you. Did Black do this? We told you not to go, it wasn't time. We weren't prepared. You weren't prepared. By the Firsts, Wal, you could have killed yourself!"
A homely monk, human by the look of him—though it was hard to tell with his lanky gray hair and the long gray beard covering most of his face—shuffled in.
"Mister Bell's leg is in bad shape. Mind taking a look at it, brother?" asked Samantha, her voice taking on an authoritative tone. It was a tone I hadn't heard before. I liked it.
The monk poked and prodded at me, circling my bed like a buzzard. I wasn't the most congenial patient, and his light touches often caused me to wince or pull away. A few times I cried out in pain.
"Easy...easy...." Samantha would say, as the monk would hum and haw and rub his bulbous nose, studying me with a pair of pale, beady gray eyes that stared out from under shaggy eyebrows.
"When were you shot in the arm, son?" asked the monk.
"Week and a half ago," I paused, thinking about it, trying to count the days. "Maybe...."
"Well, the wound is clean, not gone to rot. Better than most gunshot wounds I see in the city. It looks like you have a few bruised ribs. Three on the left and one more on the right."
Samantha raised an eyebrow at me and I did my best to shrug. I wish I hadn't: it hurt.
"What about his leg?" asked Samantha.
"My best guess is a dislocation at the knee, which is causing him considerable pain. Also the swelling." The monk finished his appraisal and stood at the foot of my bed. I felt like a thoroughbred.
"Can you fix it or do you have to put me down?" I joked.
The monk didn't seem amused. "I can reset the knee, but it'll hurt. Hurt like hell. Could hurt for some time. We'll need to make sure you have a solid pulse in your leg before you try to walk on it. Also we'd need to make sure there was no damage to your nerves. I'll want to splint it. It'd be best if you stayed off it for a few weeks. Took it easy. Relaxed. I've seen injuries like that reoccur when fools don't listen to advice from doctors."
The faces of Fran, Thad, and August danced their way through my mind. I didn't have the time to stay off my feet. The killer was still out there, taking body parts, destroying lives—my own included. I had to stop her.
"Just fix it," I said.
The monk nodded and instructed Sam to move behind me and hook her arms under my armpits. She drew close and I could feel her breasts push against my back, and her cheek brushed against mine as her head lowered. The small spurs from her chin lightly brushed against my jawline. It made me shiver.
"Don't get any ideas," she teased with a whisper. For once, I was glad I was in so much pain, naked and covered only by a thin sheet: the last thing I needed was my body to betray me even further.
I chuckled, as the monk grabbed my leg by the ankle and yanked.
* * *
Third time is a charm, I suppose.
When I came to, I was still lying on the bed in the monkery. I was wearing pants again. T
he right leg was rolled up above the knee, which was encased in a metal cage to keep it from bending. Thick bandages covered most of my chest and the dressing on my arm was fresh as well.
Hagen loomed over me. His wild horn splayed out from his forehead like a gnarled tree branch.
"He's awake," he stated and I blearily looked around the room. Samantha came over.
"How's the leg?" she asked.
I thought about it. My stomach rumbled.
"Sore," I rasped out, my throat dry. "I'm hungry. I'm starving."
"Can you move?"
I took a few deep breaths to clear my head and wondered the same thing. I was sore, but I felt like I could move. I nodded.
"Good. We have a lot to talk about," said Hagen.
"Shirt?" I asked.
Hagen handed me a fresh monk's tunic. I sat up slowly and pulled it on, wincing, and decided not to button it up.
"Would it be a cliché to say, I told you so?" Hagen asked.
"Yes, but your sister beat you to it," I said and rubbed my face, feeling stubble scratch back at the palms of my hands.
Hagen frowned at Samantha as I slipped off the bed. Gingerly putting out my left foot and then barely touching the right to the ground. The knee protested but with the metal splint it took the weight with considerably less pain than before.
"Crutch?" asked Hagen, holding out a padded wooden crutch that looked older than my father. Still, it was a real crutch, better than the board I'd used earlier. I took it.
"When's the last time you ate?" asked Samantha.
"When did I leave for Black's?"
"Three days ago."
"Well, it's been three days," I said. My stomach rumbled in agreement.
"I'll get some food from the cafeteria," Samantha began. "Meet you two in my office. We can catch Wal up to speed with what we know."
* * *
I was handed a plate of meatloaf, mashed potatoes with a thick black gravy and some long green vegetables that reminded me of green beans but tasted like the sea. When asked if I wanted something to drink I nodded.
"Vermouth," I requested. "By the Firsts, I could use a glass of vermouth, with ice."
Samantha's eyebrows rose a fraction, but she nodded and moved to a shelf holding her liquor cabinet. I was thankful that Reunifieds weren't a dry faith like the Curwenites. Couldn't abide that now. I needed something to clear my head. Something strong.
Samantha placed the glass before me, the ice tinkling. I took a long drink, tasting the sharp flavor and letting the alcohol soothe me.
"So," I began, after eating about half the food on the plate in silence. "I don't think it's Peter Black. I think any connection of his is coincidence. He was asking some weird questions about Wensem, but I don't think a few invasive questions is enough to convict a guy. If anything I think Robby Wilem is our best lead. Tenuous as that is."
"Really? Not Black?" Hagen asked, surprised. He looked from me to his sister. A puzzled look crossed both their faces. "Who did this to you then?"
I told them.
Hagen slumped in the chair behind his sister's desk. "Bouchard? The detective? Carter's cross, Wal, you could have been killed."
"I was good as dead if I let him take me in. Lovat Central doesn't like escapees, and do you think this killer would be worried about the police? Whoever that umbra is, she's not concerned with authority."
"...And you're sure it's not Black?" asked Samantha.
I shook my head. "Bouchard said Black had called him, but I had asked him to. I think Bouchard was coming down to question him when he ran into me. Black is a wheelchair-bound dimanian. Two horns." I tapped my forehead. "Sorta swoop back kind of like Bouchard's along his skull and then curl back around. He was more kindly grandfather than anything else, and was pleasant actually. More polite with me than I was with him—"
Hagen dropped an open book on the desk's surface. It was as old as the desk, bound in soft leather, the edges of the thick, yellowing pages twisted and fraying. An etching as old as time itself was displayed across the open pages. The artist had done a considerable job and the years had been kind as most of the details were still visible.
A half-man, half-goat was portrayed dancing through the trees. He was naked; human from the waist up, but his legs were a pair of furry goat legs. A long, almost comical penis hung between them, seemingly swaying with the motion of his dancing, very human and looking out of place between the hairy, animal legs.
Two horns sprouted from the figure's forehead and wrapped back through a tangle of black hair as wild as the thickets he moved through; an eight-barred flute was clasped in his hands and held to his lips. Behind him a string of naked children followed, faces frozen in wide, manic grins as they danced along, twisting through the trees until they disappeared.
The face was familiar. A black goatee, a warm welcoming smile, eyes that sparkled. I considered my initial reaction. He looked like Black, but how much of this etching was Peter Black, and how much of it was influenced by my meeting?
"That's Pan," said Hagen.
"I gathered that much."
"The Black Goat," explained Samantha.
"Okay."
Hagen laid down a photograph of the Wilem's and Black taken from the church newsletter. He tapped Black and then tapped the illustration in the book. My heart felt like it seized in my chest.
Even with the poor quality of the photograph the face of Peter Black was clear. The grin the same. The sharp eyes identical.
"The Black Goat with the Thousand young," I said. "This from that Lineage book?"
Hagen shook his head. "I found this in something else entirely. The Codex Obscurum. Book of Darkness."
"Ominous."
"Ancient scholars had a flair for the melodramatic," said Samantha, coming over and sitting in the chair next to me. "However, this was a very helpful book, lots of details about the Firsts. Pan is the husband to Cybill. Softly's records were right."
"So we have confirmed connections from Black to Pan, and Pan to Cybill. What about the Children? What about the murders?"
Hagen flipped to a bookmark placed further back in the book. It was another engraving, only this was more hideous. White and immense, like a tower of flesh, it rose above a dark forest. A massive beak—the mouth of a cephel—jutted from the flesh near the top, surrounded by a swarm of globular gray eyes with hourglass pupils. Around the mouth were thousands of small arm-like things that were drawn as if they were flailing about. Spindly legs, like that of a spider but as tall as a building, extended from the lower half of the body and massive tentacles rose away like the branches of a tree. It was revolting. Terrifying.
At the base of the creature was a small figure, arms upraised, a silhouette of the figure in the previous engraving. Pan. A massive bonfire burned at the base of the creature, and smoke swirled up and around. The bodies of children were scattered about the forest floor. Unlike the previous image, none of these children were dancing.
"Cybill."
"Are you kidding?" I asked, looking at Hagen and then at Samantha. The meatloaf in my stomach churned. "That's the wife of Pan?"
"Lovely, isn't she?"
"What is she?"
"A First," said Samantha, "one of them."
Hagen nodded, "She is referred to as an 'Awakener' or in other texts, a 'Kindler.'"
I set my plate of food aside.
"It wasn't easy to find this link. She's not labeled as Cybill or Cybele," Hagen began. "The Aklo translation doesn't work in Strutten; it needs to be read with a Cephan translation, comes out to Shub something—it's gibberish. But we know it's her. We cross referenced and double checked, even brought in Sister Jaeli—she's a cephel—to confirm our suspicions."
"Okay," I said slowly. "They're the same person. What does all this mean?"
"The Awakener is the being who brought the Aligning the first time. She wakes the Firsts from their slumber within the stars—"
"Or the earth," added Hagen.
"Right,
or the earth," agreed Samantha.
"Okay... so?"
The Dubois were clearly frustrated with my confusion.
Samantha spoke first, "According to the Codex Obscurum, Cybill should be awakened within the fire following a ritual using parts gathered from eight souls by either the blessed executioner or the father. It's horrid stuff, but it's matching the order of the murders: ears from a musician, lips from a merchant, hands of a samaritan, tongue of a supplicant."
"Eyes of an artist," I said, remembering what Bouchard had told me about Lily Westmarch.
"Right, how'd you—"
I interrupted, "Bouchard told me there had been another one."
"There're three more. Feet of a traveler. Pipes of a newborn. Heart of the Guardian."
Heart of the Guardian.
The umbra had called me Guardian. My skin broke out in goosebumps.
Hagen produced another tome and showed it to me. The language on the cover was similar to Aklo but it wasn't anything I could read.
"This reads, Rituals of the Firsts, A Guidebook."
"A how-to occult guide," I said.
"Exactly. It's where we got this information from, some ritual called the 'Calling of the Mother by the Father and their Young.'"
"These eight parts can be taken at any time but must be connected to one another, all tracing it back to one person: the Guardian," Samantha explained.
"Cybill has an avatar. A huge thing, sorta like an altar, but carved with her likeness in stone. It's mentioned in both the Codex Obscurum and A Guidebook. It's supposedly a sacred object, but it's never to be at rest. Her followers are instructed to move it around constantly as a form of protection. Usually someone goes before the avatar. They're referred to as the Guardian. It's the Guardian's duty to make sure the avatar arrives at the destination safely."
"Like a caravan master," I said coolly. Another mile passed in this journey, and my mysterious destination became more and more clear.
The Stars Were Right Page 18
