Deception of the Damned

by P C Darkcliff

  The attempted theft had cost her the salary not only from the king, but also from his enemies, whom she could no longer supply with castle gossip. Although she was only thirty, Erna was too notorious to find respectable work, and a flesh-wasting disease had made her too hideous to find some rich idiot to pluck. Desperate, she’d agreed to cross a few names off the Church’s blacklist.

  With a dagger dangling from her belt, Erna scurried through Prague’s Jewish Quarter. Although it was doubtful that Anath was Jewish—in fact, nobody seemed to know where she had come from, which added to people’s fear—she had settled on the far edge of the ghetto.

  As she passed a small market, Erna jabbed her fingernails into the ribs of the shoppers who were in her way, and she scowled at the calls of the hawkers.

  “Cabbage bigger than your mother’s ass.”

  “First-class rat poison! Strong enough for your husband!”

  Erna slowed down in the shadow of the New Old Synagogue and wiped the sweat from her forehead. Although it was already setting, the summer sun was still strong.

  Five or six children were playing marbles at the corner of the synagogue. They screamed when they saw her. The malady had made her look as if she should have been long buried. Her teeth protruded underneath her thin lips and made her resemble a snarling mummy. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, which glared from deep cavities in her pale, skeletal head. Moribund hair hung from her skull in thin strands, revealing the mottled skin underneath.

  “What are you staring at, you damned brats?” Erna snapped.

  As the children ran away, Erna laughed and kicked the marbles into a ditch. She hated all children—as she hated their parents and grandparents. In two short years, the illness had not only destroyed her beauty, but it had also chased every gentle feeling away from her heart.

  Erna felt the thrill of the hunt when she passed the synagogue and walked past a large cemetery. Anath lived alone by the Vltava River, which separated the Jewish Quarter from the Lesser Town and the Castle District. The cemetery isolated her cottage from the rest of the ghetto. Erna could not have wished for a lonelier victim. Besides, she despised that charming cunt with smooth skin and lustrous hair.

  No smoke billowed out of Anath’s chimney, which stuck out of the thatched roof like a brick fist. Nothing moved behind the narrow, arched windows. Erna plowed through the wild thicket that separated the cottage from the cemetery. No dogs came barking, to her relief, and the horse merely snorted as she passed the stable. She slithered closer to the side of the house. There she hid behind a pile of wood and listened. The thumping of her own heart was the only thing she could hear. The windows were too high to see inside.

  Erna scurried around the house and scanned the sunlit vineyards that spread behind the backyard. Nobody was working there, and no barges floated down the river beyond them. The foul-smelling outhouse was also empty. Only a few hens and geese flapped their wings at her from a nearby pen.

  Two latticed windows stared from the back of the cottage, resembling a pair of blind eyes. These were low enough to peek inside. The daylight limped through the lattice like a maimed ghost. She saw Anath sitting in what seemed to be the drawing room, her face turned to a foot-tall, three-headed statuette that stood on the table.

  “You damned witch!” Erna hissed as if Anath could hear her. “Are you trying to invoke the Devil—your lover and master? Well, well! Your evil days have come to an end.”

  The statuette was clearly a pagan icon. It beautifully justified the killing, as did the black candles that burned in a silver candleholder on the table, and the tapestries on the sidewalls that depicted eerie landscapes full of misshapen trees and grotesque creatures.

  Erna rushed around the house and pushed at the front door. It yielded. This was going to be easier than she’d thought: all she had to do was to sneak up on Anath and stab her to death. Then she would cut off the witch’s thumb as a proof for Father Bernat and leave.

  Drawing her dagger, Erna skulked down the hallway. She poked her head into the drawing room. Anath wasn’t there.

  Erna looked around with a scowl. She tiptoed to a massive, richly ornamented oak cabinet and threw it open. There was nothing but an assortment of porcelain dishes. She went to inspect the rest of the house. She found nothing but an open Gothic coffer and crimson canopy bed in the adjacent bedchamber. Anath wasn’t hiding in the grimy smoke kitchen either.

  Erna returned to the drawing room and climbed a flimsy wooden stairway to the shadowed attic. Rows of medicinal herbs hung there from strings, resembling a colony of sleeping green bats. The strange blend of smells made her dizzy. She thought she heard the creak of a floorboard.

  ANATH HAD BEEN DEEP in meditation when her sixth sense had warned her against the creeping danger. It was too late to run out of the house or bar the front door. She rushed upstairs and hid in the attic. To her dismay, she soon heard the top stair groan under the intruder’s foot.

  As she peered from a shadowed corner, Anath saw the hunched silhouette of a scrawny woman. Emboldened, Anath grabbed a broken stool leg and crept forward. Erna turned toward her and raised the dagger. Anath charged and swung the wooden leg at Erna’s hand.

  Erna howled in pain and dropped the weapon. Anath raised the leg again to bring it on Erna’s head, but Erna managed to punch her exposed stomach. As Anath gasped for air, Erna grabbed her by the hair. Corpse-like and skeletal as she was, Erna was incredibly strong. She swung Anath toward the staircase and shoved her down the stairs.

  Rolling down to the drawing room, Anath instinctively spread her hands to grab at something to slow down her fall. All she achieved, however, was to skin her hands against the sidewall. The back of her head slammed against the parquetry floor so hard the world around her first erupted in blazing colors and then plunged into darkness.

  A minute or so later, a pressure on her torso brought her back to consciousness. She opened her eyes to see that hideous face leering down at her. Erna was sitting astride her, the dagger back in her hand. She held it above her head, ready for a mortal stab.

  A wave of panic chased blood along Anath’s arteries. She tried to lift her hands, but Erna’s knees were pinning her arms. She looked into Erna’s eyes—and Erna gasped with a sudden attack of fear. Anath stared harder, kindling the disquieting power of her eyes.

  “You witch!” Erna shrieked.

  She was about to bore the dagger into Anath’s heart when a loud thud made her freeze. Erna’s hand shook as she looked beside her. Although it had stood in the center of the table, the marble statuette had fallen to the floor. It had turned fiery crimson, as though the three-headed woman it depicted boiled with rage at the intended murder. A mask of horror settled on Erna’s face. She looked down at Anath, as if for an explanation.

  Anath kicked up her legs, making Erna sway. She managed to free her hand and rake Erna’s cheek with her sharp nails. Erna hissed with pain; blood trickled to her chin. Anath kicked her feet again, just as Erna brought down the dagger. The blade dented the floor a few inches from the crown of Anath’s head. Erna’s shrunken breasts hit Anath’s face. Anath shoved her off—but Erna was the first to get up.

  Just as Anath stepped toward the dagger, Erna lowered her head and rammed Anath’s stomach like an angered ewe. Anath staggered and fell on her back. Before she could catch her breath, Erna straddled her again and wrapped her strong hands around Anath’s neck.

  To Anath’s horror, Erna closed her eyes and screamed to prevent magic from invading her senses. Blood was still dripping from Erna’s scratched cheek. It splashed against Anath’s face. Erna’s steel-like fingers kept crushing Anath’s throat.

  Anath’s body jerked and convulsed, but Erna’s knees were pinning her arms again, and Anath had no strength to kick. A panic attack made Anath want to screech, but all she could do was to gurgle toward suffocation. She felt as if her brain had swollen and was about to burst through her skull. Her vision became blurry. Black mist started to descend. Erna’s screaming
turned into a distant hum.

  Instinct told Anath that someone had entered the house. She turned her eyes to the door and strained to see who it was. She thought she recognized Hrot.

  THE BIZARRE SIGHT MADE Hrot stagger and gape. When he finally leaped forward to pull the hideous, screaming woman off Anath, he stepped on the dagger, slipped, and went airborne. He landed on Erna and sent her sprawling. The three of them rolled on the floor in a tangled mass.

  Erna scrambled to her feet, leaped for the dagger, and snatched it up. Anath was still on the floor, trying to catch her breath, and Erna ran at Hrot, who’d just got up.

  Somehow, Hrot managed to wrap his hands around Erna’s dagger wrist without losing a finger. He screamed as he tried to twist the dagger’s point against her. Erna tilted her head backward to smash his face with her forehead.

  Anath crawled to Erna, grasped her ankle, and yanked. Erna staggered backward, and they crumbled to the floor. There was a sickening crack.

  Hrot realized he’d landed on top of Erna. A red puddle began to spread below Erna’s head, mixed with something gray. He scrambled to his feet and looked down. The dagger was still in Erna’s hand, its blade bloodless. Something was wrong with Erna’s eyes. Pale and hazy, they stared blindly at the ceiling rafters.

  Anath tried to speak but only wheezed. She took Erna by the hair and lifted her head. There was the statuette, covered with Erna’s blood and brains. Its smooth, rounded edges had somehow crushed Erna’s skull.

  As he gaped at the little sculpture. Hrot thought he saw the left eye in every head close briefly in a conspiracy wink.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The king’s marksmen had taken the corpse away, and Anath had the parquetry scrubbed clean. And yet, when he returned to her house a few days later, Hrot found himself staring at the floor as if Erna’s body were still lying there. He could not stop feeling guilty. Erna’s empty eyes gored him whenever he managed to fall asleep. The memory of her blood and brains made him choke on everything he tried to eat.

  “I know her death was gruesome, Hrot,” Anath said as she handed him a glass of wine. Her voice was hoarse and strained, her neck black and blue from Erna’s fingers. Bandages covered her hands. Her muscles ached from the fall down the stairs, and she winced in pain as she took a seat.

  “Don’t feel guilty for her fate,” she continued. “After all, it was me who’d tripped her. And she would have surely killed me if you hadn’t come and charged at her. You are my savior, Hrot. Please don’t forget that.”

  Hrot managed to smile. He knew she was right, and that his feeling of guilt was irrational.

  On the table, the marble statuette seemed to nod in agreement. Its three conical heads had also been cleaned, and so was the lean feminine body. Hrot remembered having seen this little sculpture in the vault at the Ruins, but he’d never seen anything like this in any of the books he’d studied. Hrot doubted it was just a coincidence that had made Erna crush her skull against it. He wondered how far the statuette’s powers reached, and whom it depicted.

  He was about to ask Anath, when she said, “You know, you could have come and visited me a long time ago, instead of lounging around my house.”

  All air escaped out of Hrot’s lungs. He felt as if lava flushed over his face. It was true that he’d been to the ghetto four or five times before—ever since he’d finally managed to talk Felix into divulging Anath’s address.

  Anath didn’t ask Hrot what he was doing around her house the evening of the assault. Obviously, she didn’t need to, as her sixth sense had already told her. Hrot only hoped she didn’t think his intentions were sexual. He doubted it was that . . . although he couldn’t explain what exactly drew him to her so much. Survival instinct and longing for a maternal figure might have been the strongest of his motives. However, there had to be something else.

  Although he’d never dared cross her front yard, an unknown yet powerful force had pushed him toward the cottage like a gale on that fateful evening—close enough to hear Erna’s screaming. As he now wondered what the force had been, Hrot’s eyes strayed toward the statuette. It seemed to wink again.

  Anath took a sip of wine and winced as it slid down her bruised throat. “I often felt guilty about leaving you so helpless on the street last winter. I wouldn’t have minded your calling in on me to tell me how you fared.”

  Hrot knew she might have said that just because he’d saved her life. But her eyes glowed with sincerity.

  “I know you also see me as your savior, my dear,” she continued with a somewhat sad smile. “I know you fear the entity you call the Emissary. But I’m not sure if I can . . . ” Her words trailed off, and her eyes rolled upwards. A worried look settled on her face. The three-headed statuette seemed to shudder.

  “Someone’s coming,” she said. “You’re about to get some news, Hrot. The news will sound wonderful to you. But I have a bad feeling about it. Beware of the alchemists, Hrot. And beware of the king. Promise me you’ll come to me if you are in trouble.”

  “What are you talking about, Anath?” He was little surprised to have witnessed her vision. But he wondered what news—and trouble—there could possibly be.

  “The messenger is here,” she said. A second later, a knock came on the front door.

  “Just come in,” Anath called, somewhat angrily. Hrot peered into the shadowed hallway. The wine glass nearly slipped out of his hand when he saw his friend Felix. The alchemist was flushed and breathless. And he beamed with excitement.

  “Here comes the wonderful news,” Anath said with a frown. Then she glanced at Felix and added, “And the spiteful messenger.”

  A shade of anger floated across Felix’s face. It was obvious that Felix and Anath knew each other but wished they didn’t. Hrot suspected there were deep feelings under the shell of animosity, and he was determined to find out what ties and disputes had connected and divided his two friends. One day, he would uncover the secrets of their pasts; one day, he would learn the name of the old woman on their medallions.

  “I thought I’d find you here, my dear snotnose.” Felix turned to Hrot, and his grin returned. “Come with me. Quick, quick! Old Rudolph wants to see you! Do you hear? The king has granted you an audience!”

  Hrot was so dazzled he left the drawing room without saying goodbye to Anath. Only when he tottered into the sunshine did he realize that the half-full glass of wine was still in his hand. As he turned around to take it back, he banged the glass against the open door and shattered it to pieces. Felix only chuckled and rushed on. Hrot kicked the shards aside and followed, hoping that Anath would understand. After all, the king was waiting!

  Too overwhelmed to speak, Hrot only grinned as he caught up with Felix. However, halfway toward the synagogue, he gasped and halted. “But I can’t see the king like this, Felix!” he said, running his hand over the fuzz on his lower face. Although it had grown a bit thicker and darker, it was still too patchy to deserve the title of a beard, and the Emissary could still safely call him fluffy chin. “And I’ve been thinking about changing my stockings for a while but haven’t got around it. Oh, what a situation. Perhaps if you could lend me yours—”

  “Calm down, you crazy boy,” Felix hollered. “The king won’t see you ’til tomorrow morning. But we do have to hurry up to make you look presentable. I’ll get my barber to do something with the rat’s nest on your head. And yes, he’ll have to get rid of the thing on your chin, for you look as if you’ve been sniffing dust. Once you’re shaved, we’ll get you a new outfit, stockings included.”

  “Excellent! But—what does the king want to see me about?”

  “He knows you saved my life,” said Felix as he led the way toward the Old Town. “And that made him somewhat interested in you. But what has really made him decide to grant you an audience was the fact that you also saved the life of Anath.”

  “Why would the king care so much about Anath?”

  Felix bit his lip and quickened his steps. “I told you she’s
got a powerful . . . admirer.”

  Hrot remembered the strange shadow of sadness that had passed over her when she’d talked about the king. Could she be the monarch’s former mistress? And could she have been the mistress of Felix once, as well, even though Felix had denied it? Could it be that Anath had left Felix for the king, which had caused their strange animosity?

  Hrot wondered whether he would ever uncover all the mysteries that enveloped this remarkable woman. But now he had to focus on tomorrow’s audience. He might soon become a royal alchemist and start working on producing gold!

  Hrot beamed at the thought all the way across the Old Town Square. But another concern stayed his feet before they reached the bridge. “Wait a second! What if the king asks me what business I had near Anath’s house on that evening?”

  Felix looked at him and snickered. “You’ll have to say you went for a stroll around the vineyards. Tell him it was pure chance that brought you near that place.”

  “I can’t lie to the king, Felix!”

  “So you want to tell him you’ve been creeping around her house like a horny dog?”

  “It’s not that!” Hrot protested, but Felix didn’t listen.

  “No, my dear snotnose, you cannot say that,” Felix continued. “Just tell him it was nothing but a coincidence. Tell him you had no idea who lived in that cottage. What really matters is what happened afterward, no? Now come along! The barber’s dying to plunge into your hair. And I’m dying to plunge into his wife!”

  AS THE SUN POKED ITS feverish forehead over Prague’s eastern fortification, Hrot was already pacing up and down in front of Felix’s house. Even though his excitement hadn’t let him sleep more than three hours, he was buzzing with energy. The bleary-eyed Felix also seemed to have had little sleep. Hrot suspected, however, that his friend’s nocturnal excitement was of quite a different nature.