Darkyn - Night Lost Part 8

The light drew her, pulling her toward the hole, and although she couldn't see now, there was nothing she wanted to do more than to step through it to the other side.

What does he want? He couldn't want her; she was nothing, no one. She could feel his presence growing stronger. What do you want from me?

True ben wall.

His voice, low and soft, barely a whisper, speaking in the language she knew but could no longer understand. So much sadness, so much need, as if he were in terrible pain. She had to go to him, but...

Mah be yen ah me a day wall.

The light grew brighter and hotter, and it didn't feel so good anymore.

May a pell dee sang ah voh tray sang mah be yen ah me.

His light was going to suck her in and burn her up, like the fires of h.e.l.l, and it was filling the closet and her head until she was sure it would scorch the eyes out of her sockets?

Non.

Nick stumbled back, away from the light, and screamed.

"Mademoiselle." Tight hands shook her. "Wake up, please; you must."

Nick woke up. She was sitting huddled in the corner of her room, her arms cradling her head. Sweat soaked her jeans and T- shirt, and she was shaking so hard that her teeth chattered.

"Are you hurt? You were shouting." Adelie crouched down and touched Nick's shoulder, making her jerk with reaction. "Was someone in here?" She looked around the room quickly.

"No. It was only a bad dream." Nick felt as if she might throw up or start screaming, or both, but then the innkeeper's wife might call for an ambulance. "Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

Adelie drew back. "You could not help it." She reached down and helped her to her feet. "Go back to bed. I will bring you some warm milk. That will help you sleep."

That would make her puke. "No, I think I'll be all right. Thank you for waking me up."

"If you are sure." The older woman waited until Nick stood straight, and then retreated to the door. She hesitated and looked back. "You miss your family, mademoiselle? It is still early in America, if you wish to use the telephone-"

"Thanks, but I'm okay." Nick sat down on the edge of the bed. She couldn't call anyone, because there was no one left to call.

The neighbors still believed that her parents had gone over to America to start a farm there, leaving Nick behind to live on their English property. No one suspected that Annette and Malcolm Jefferson had been dead for years. Dead and in unmarked graves in the middle of Annette's rose garden.

Nick knew because she had buried them there.

Chapter 7.

Gabriel spent the long, empty hours in the darkness thinking about the woman Claudio had chased off, and working on his right wrist. The reality of her stayed with him, feeding his hope as nothing else could. Her memory remained so vivid and warm that he could almost still taste her in every breath he took.

What is her name? In his imagination, she was his maiden from the dreams, slim and strong, pale curls dancing around her young face. In reality, she might be plump and dark or flame-haired and angular. It didn't matter. He guessed from the dreams that she would be quiet, perhaps shy. Does she dream of me?

Frustration over the little he did know about her made him renew his efforts to prepare for her return. He could not call out to her, and his bonds prevented any real movement. Yet while attempting to move, he discovered that the wound in one of his wrists had stopped festering and had partially healed. Gabriel found that he could clench his fist and extend his fingers and, by doing so, widen the wound in his wrist. After he did so several times, it bled slowly, sluggishly.

Thanks to his weakness, it did not heal.

After a day of his working at it, his wound widened. He discovered that if he flexed his arm a certain way, the give in the wound allowed enough movement for him to rattle the chains binding him.

He didn't waste his energy making noise for old Claudio to hear, but concentrated on keeping the wound from healing again.

Losing more blood was dangerous, but if she returned-when she returned-he stood a better chance of attracting her attention and bringing her within range of his scent-and under his command.

She would return, of course. She had to return.

To keep from worrying and wasting scent, Gabriel rehea.r.s.ed everything in his head. He would lure her down to the bas.e.m.e.nt.

Once she came within hearing range, he could make enough noise for her to find his cell. His scent would do the rest. This was a.s.suming that she was not resistant to l'attrait. Some humans were.

No, fate would not play such a joke on him.

The human female would have to break through the wall and free him before old Claudio discovered her presence. Gabriel didn't think the old man would harm her, but he couldn't leave that to chance. She didn't deserve to be injured or killed for helping him.

He would have to use his talent to keep the old man busy and out of the bas.e.m.e.nt.

As he planned it out in his mind, a part of him emerged from his thoughts, the part that he most needed to protect the woman and ensure the success of his plan. It was a cold, unfeeling copy of himself, eager to return to the br.i.m.m.i.n.g void of the many that his talent stirred. It had no emotions left, save the desire to survive and to join with the many.

It wanted to use the woman in another way. She will feed you well, make you strong enough to escape alone.

Gabriel had always resisted the obvious, oblivious hunger-he knew too well how it could devour the soul-but over time the coldness had grown stronger and more persuasive.

As soon as she comes, summon the many, and take her.

Gabriel knew he would have to take some of her blood in order to regain his strength and heal enough to make his escape. Like all the other Kyn, he had always healed spontaneously when he fed well. His one worry was his control.

Since capturing him, the Brethren had never fed him.

One of the interrogators had told Gabriel how surprised they were that he did not waste away as quickly as other Kyn they had captured. They never realized what he resorted to in order to obtain his nourishment, or how often he had taken small amounts from the various interrogators who had tortured him during his captivity. They believed the many were visited upon him by their vengeful G.o.d, as part curse and part endors.e.m.e.nt of their brutality.

Gabriel had never enjoyed feeding from humans. His dependency on blood was an unpleasant part of his immortal existence; he barely tolerated it. His distaste and self-discipline were such that he had never once fallen into bloodl.u.s.t, or suffered from thrall, the dream state induced by draining all of the blood from a human. Even when he had emerged from his grave, something had held him back from freely attacking humans. He wanted to believe it was compa.s.sion, but perhaps it was fear for whatever was left of his soul.

We will need all of her blood to leave this place.

Gabriel's disgust faded as his hunger and his coldness engulfed him. There was logic to it, and he would not have to hurt her. The many would take her, and by doing so would prevent any blood thrall from immobilizing him. They would see to it that she would not suffer. He had lived in daily torment for years; if she came to him he had the right to take her. As for the old man, he need not protect his life, either. The many would deal with him as well?No.

Gabriel sagged in his bonds. Whatever came of this, he would not kill the woman, nor the old man. He would keep them both safe. Especially the woman; he would have to take certain measures to keep her from becoming yet another victim of the Brethren.

If she returned. When she returned.

Gabriel worked at his wrist until the wound burned and the need to sleep dragged at him with brutal weight. It came like this more often now, as if his exhausted body utterly rebelled against him. He needed to rest, to conserve himself, but if she came while he was sleeping... And that was his last thought as he drifted past the dark borders of the nightlands.

The forest gave way to rolling green pastures and the gentle creatures who roamed them. Gabriel walked through crisp, deliciously cool gra.s.s, breathing in the earthy scents that he had almost forgotten. His kinship with the land had always been a comfort, although he did not recognize this place. The rich, black soil here did not smell of home.

Go back, a part of him whispered. This is no place for you.

There was nothing to fear that Gabriel could see but a charming, whitewashed farmhouse. It was a humble structure, hardly more than an overbuilt cottage, but those who lived there had planted gardens and kept the grounds neat. Peonies and larkspur created splashes of color as they lined a little flagstone path leading to the back of the house.

Go back. She said the words now, and her voice held a note of fear. You shouldn't be here. Please.

He ignored the warning and hurried forward into an enormous flower garden. Roses and carnations bunched around a copper fountain with a marble statue of the Virgin Mary as its centerpiece. The marble glowed with a strange, fiery color, as if the statue had been carved from hot metal that had never cooled.

How can I find you? her voice called out to him from the shadows of the garden.

Gabriel had no name for where he had left his body. You were there. Come back to me.

Black-feathered chickens, hunting through the gra.s.s and pecking at bugs, swarmed around his bare feet. He paused to admire the dark rainbow sheen of their glossy plumage; even the dozen little chicks racing to follow their mother hen had down of pure ebony. A dark rooster s.n.a.t.c.hed at the edge of his tunic, making Gabriel glance down.

He wore the ca.s.sock of a Brethren, the breast embroidered with five red crosses. It took a moment for him to connect the number with what had happened to him: one for every Kyn who had been taken with him.

Thierry, Jamys, Marcel, Liliette. The names burned into his heart. Angelica.

You shouldn't have come here.

She came out of the rose garden, his pale maiden, but something terrible had been done to her. Her body had been bloodied and bruised, her cotton slip soiled with earth. In her hands she held a short tree branch with tight green leaves and cl.u.s.ters of silver-blue berries.

He reached out to touch her cheek and froze as she recoiled. I mean you no harm.

The harm's been done. She pushed the branch into his hands as if she couldn't bear to hold it a moment longer. Do you love me?

He loved the presence of her, the way she soothed him, the sadness in her eyes that sang to the torment in his heart. He loved that she came to him and spoke to him even though he was not part of her quest. He loved the interludes she shared with him on her journey through the nightlands.

Real or imagined, he loved her.

But she did not know the horror of what he had become, and he would not inflict himself upon her. I am not like other men, I cannot- She threw herself at him, her hands grabbing his shoulders as her body stiffened against him. When he looked down, he saw that she had impaled herself on the juniper branch.

Her eyes met his. When I come to you, I want you to kill me.

Ma bien-aimee. She could not wish to die. He stared down at the wound in her belly, and saw the juniper branch disappear into it. He put his hand against it, trying to stanch the flow of silver-blue blood gushing from her. Never.

You have to be the one. Tears cleaned a path to her jaw. I can't do it. I don't know how. I can't find the way.

The flock of chickens crowded around them, pecking at the blood pooling around their feet. Gabriel swept her up into his arms and carried her into the rose garden, looking for something to dress her wound. Then his arms emptied, and he stood among the roses, at the edge of a deep, rectangular pit. He looked down and saw her body, limp and lifeless. The sides of the grave began falling in on her, burying her. He tried to jump in, to lift her out, but his body would not move. Tears of rage and frustration blinded him.

Don't cry. Her eyes opened just before the earth covered her face. I can't love you either.

"Their name is Legion," Father Orson Leary murmured, lighting a candle with a shaking hand, "for they are many."

He had been kneeling before the statue of Saint Paul and beseeching him all morning, but his patron saint offered no consolation.

No matter how many prayers he offered, the stern, beloved face, rendered so aptly in the slate gray marble, stared down at him with silent disapproval.

If Saint Paul could speak, Leary knew how he would chastise him.

Do you not know that you are the temple of G.o.d and that the spirit of G.o.d dwells in you? If anyone defiles the temple of G.o.d, G.o.d will destroy him. For the temple of G.o.d is holy, which temple you are*(*Corinthians 3:16-17, NKJV) ... you were...

Saint Paul had deserted Orson Leary, as had the Father. It was no better than he deserved. Michaelmas loomed ahead, a black date on the calendar when he would once again be obliged to fulfill the bargain he had made with the demons. Leary had tried to resist in the past; spending days in prayer, bathing in blessed water, partaking of the host, and purifying himself in every manner he knew before the day of obligation arrived. None of it had rid him of the evil he suffered. The only time he had not obliged them, he had been made to bleed from Christ's wounds for a fortnight.

The Mother had known. Her spirit had flown through the night and found him huddled and weeping in the silence of the church.

What do you here, my son?

Leary would not think of her, or her laughter, or the ways she used him. She polluted the purity of his body and mind. She had made him violate the sanct.i.ty of his oath. Surely Saint Paul could see that it was she who had defiled his carnal temple.

Prayer would not save him, however, any more than the demons would.

He had struck a bargain with their Demon King. Richard had promised to save his sanity-a reward for the evil Leary did on his behalf-but the demon himself was now going insane. Leary feared Richard. His demonic form and insidious voice marked him as a creature of h.e.l.l. But when Richard had offered the bargain, Leary had been desperate enough to cling to it, the only earthly hope of winning back his soul. Leary had believed Richard could save him, until he had learned that Richard had slaughtered his own servants on Midsummer Eve. Not as a sacrifice to the Evil One, but on a mere whim, as a cat let loose in a rats' nest kept killing even after its belly was full.

Perhaps the Mother had done this to the Demon King to prevent Leary from escaping her. He would not put it past her. Her evil affected all men.

Leary tried to see his dilemma as blessed suffering, the sort of evil to which the Apostle himself had been subjected. Had not Saint Paul been beaten with rods, thrust in stocks, stoned, and pursued by the wicked? Delivered by the wicked unto wild beasts, thrown from a wall, defamed, bound, and beaten, Saint Paul had withstood everything in the name of G.o.d-and perhaps guilt over his own crimes before Jesus Christ had saved him.

For you have heard of my former conduct in Judaism, how I persecuted the church of G.o.d beyond measure and tried to destroy it. *(*Galatians 1:13, NKJV)

The Apostle had gone to Rome even when he had known it would mean his death. Courageous Saint Paul had to stand before the mightiest of men-the Emperor Nero himself-not to be judged, but to show that he could not be judged. It was why the emperor had put him to death. The greatest of the Apostles, the hand of G.o.d on earth, had shamed him.

Perhaps that was what Leary had to do: stand before the Demon King, and allow him to consume him with his madness.

"Begging your pardon, Father." Tim Bright, the cleaning woman's son who came in to help her sweep up and dust on Fridays, approached him in a timid fashion. "My mum sent me to say that there's an international call for you. He wouldn't give a name, but Mum said he speaks English, and sounds like a Yank."

Leary knew who it was. "Thank you, Timothy." He rose, ignoring his stiff knees and numbed legs, and walked toward the little office beside the vestry.

The modern phone he had had installed upon taking over the church had some particular features known only to Leary. After closing and locking the office door, he pressed a b.u.t.ton under the console that prevented anyone from listening in on the line.

His head pounded as he lifted the receiver to his ear. "Father Leary."

"Orson," the Brooklyn-accented voice on the other end of the line said. "I'm impressed. Not many brothers could spend all morning on their knees, staring at Saint Paul's hangnails."

"I was in prayer, Your Grace." How Cardinal D'Orio always knew what he had been doing in the church wasn't a mystery; every church under Brethren control had hidden security cameras installed. Most Brethren never knew they were being watched; Leary had discovered the cameras by accident. "To what do I owe the pleasure of speaking with you?"

"Your general incompetence," Cardinal D'Orio said pleasantly. "Time to pack your bags again. I'm moving you to Ireland."

Leary's mind blanked. "Ireland?"

"That country to the north you Englishmen have never been able to keep in line," the cardinal said. "You'd be buried there, if you hadn't run out on your brothers in Dublin."

Dublin. Where it had all begun. Where it had to end.