“What was his—”
“Role? The contact, with the wolves. He travelled far, saw many things, dealt with many of the fallen. He negotiated the dialogue between us and the wolves. But, as with all these things, you can’t leave a trail. You, more than anyone, should know about that, Inquisitor. After all, you don’t just kill the heretic do you? You kill his family too. And when Aguillard found out what had happened to Father Andreas, well, he rather lost his head. Quite literally.”
“I still don’t get it. So what if you have the wolf’s pelt? So what if you can transform? It doesn’t make you an army. One bullet and ...”
“See, you need to think big, Tacit.”
“Think for me.”
“I will. Imagine, at the Mass for Peace, of all places in the world at any one time where you have dignitaries from all over the world, not only Catholics but persons from all faiths and denominations, politicians, royal families, celebrities, soldiers, the world’s media, joined in unison to show solidarity, to pray together for peace. And imagine, if you will, that as the Cardinal is giving his sermon, perhaps about the recklessness of mankind and how we create things too terrible and dreadful to comprehend, he suddenly, there and then, transforms into the single most hideous, vile and wretched of killing machines of all upon the pulpit of Notre Dame? The resulting death count within the Cathedral would be terrible. The injuries monstrous.”
“So that’s it. Cold-blooded murder?! You’re as bad as war itself, Poré!”
“Hold yourself, Inquisitor. I asked you to see the bigger picture. I have not finished painting it. Imagine the news, the horror, the resulting aftershock, that in front of an audience of one thousand aristocrats, royals, politicians, religious figureheads, a senior Cardinal denounced the Catholic Church and asked people to rise up for the common good, cast down this war and fight the real evils of the world, after which he promptly turned into one of the very creatures he reviled, one of those things spoken of only in hushed voices with vile repugnance, only told to children to keep them silent in their beds. It would be the only news worthy of reporting for, well, who knows? Oh, and have no doubt, we have all papers from all countries waiting to write their terrible front page news. ‘Wolves from hell walk our earth!’ ‘Put aside our petty differences and rise up to fight his new dreadful enemy!’ People would talk about it for weeks, months, perhaps even years, that a dark and terrible breed of creature prowled within our midst. That they were one of many. That they were growing in number and that they were coming for all of civilisation. That they came from one Church. That they were legion. The shock alone would be enough to silence howitzers. Mankind could have no choice other than to bring itself to the table to talk, friend and foe aligned, to reconsider their differences, to recognise their similarities and to work together to fight this single foe.”
“You’re mad! It would never work.”
“It will work because of the setting, because of the media circus sitting with their pads and their cameras in Notre Dame at the moment, because of the carnage to be unleashed and, not least, because of who it is who will transform.”
“Don’t think that you’re that important, Poré,” hissed Tacit. “And, anyway, you aren’t getting out of here alive. This is where the plan ends.”
“Ends? I think not. Indeed, I think it’s just about to begin. Good heavens, it’s not me giving the Mass service? No, no, you’re quite right. I am not nearly important enough. I am just the messenger. Cardinal Bishop Monteria is holding the Mass.”
Tacit heard Isabella stifle a gasp.
“We still have time,” hissed Tacit, his knuckles white.
“Wrong again, Inquisitor. I am not so stupid as to tell you my entire plan simply so you can foil it. Too many of have died for it to not come to fruition. Too much time and effort has been put into its planning. No, I am dreadfully sorry to tell you that Mass was moved to the earlier time of ten o’clock. And so,” he said, looking at the grandfather clock on the far wall, “the transformation should be happening right about now.”
ONE HUNDRED AND ONE
1912. MARSEILLE. FRANCE.
The synagogue collapsed with a groan, like that of a falling giant. Flames licked up from the broken foundations, as the central tower fell in on itself and fire sprang across to nearby buildings. All about the city, the air was rent with the sound of people screaming and shouting, masonry falling, the tolling of bells in alarm. Teams of people scuttled desperately about the wreckage, pulling bodies from the rubble, directing ambulances and water to quell the flames. Carnage and panic was everywhere, everyone doing what they could to help in the maelstrom of terror.
All except one.
Inquisitor Tacit strode out of the flames of the building into the shadows of the opposite street, his face lean and dark, his eyes like opals. He never looked back. A team of firemen rushed past him, yelping like dogs, arms waving and gesticulating towards the ruined building ablaze.
“Father!” one of them pleaded, reaching out to him and then recoiling instantly when Tacit’s eyes turned to him. The cold glare burnt him like the flaming joists at the foundations of the church. He stumbled on with his colleagues, his face racked with horror, as if he had seen the devil with his own eyes whilst Tacit turned into the quiet of the side street.
There was a tavern there, now empty, the patrons having run to aid those Jews still caught inside or injured beneath the falling rubble. Tacit pushed the door open and strode up to the bar, his hard hob-nailed boots clacking on the wooden floor boards of the building.
“Father,” stuttered the barman, perplexed by the nearby fire and the size of the man now leaning over him. “What can I do for you?”
“Brandy,” Tacit replied, resting his tired body against the bar. “Brandy. And leave the bottle.”
ONE HUNDRED AND TWO
10:17. SATURDAY, 17 OCTOBER 1914. PARIS. FRANCE.
They charged from Poré’s apartment but, four strides down the corridor, Isabella stopped and turned back to the door, locking it quickly.
“What are you doing?!” roared the Inquisitor, as she tested the handle and hurried back after him, disposing of the key in a helpfully positioned plant pot near the top of the stairs. “We don’t have time to waste!”
Tacit lunged for the stairs, but Isabella slipped a hand beneath his armpit and led him from them to a narrow landing, running alongside.
“You want to save time?” she retorted. “Then follow me.”
She swept into the corridor, Tacit on her heels, the thundering of their footsteps on the floorboards echoing around the enclosed wooden aisle. She had been told of a secret passageway at the end of the ornate wooden walkway by a Sister friend of hers who’d spent time at Notre Dame, linking the residence building to the Cathedral. “Perfect for Cardinals who sleep a little too late for Mass,” she called back, thundering around the bend in the passageway and sending a passing Priest skidding to the wall to avoid being crushed. “Being a Sister,” she gasped, her lungs burning with the race, “means you get to learn all the gossip.”
The corridor ended at an inauspicious wooden panelled dead end.
“Wrong turn?” asked Tacit urgently.
But Isabella ignored him, searching for the little sculpted nose protruding from the dark wood engraving. And who said the Catholics had no sense of humour? She spotted the merry looking Father, depicted sitting under a tree. His nose disappeared easily into the wood when Isabella pressed it and a door in the panelling swung gently open with a reassuring crack.
The dark tunnel beyond wound downwards, the walls carved smooth and white. Every twenty or thirty strides, a single dimly flickering lantern burned, providing enough light to see one’s steps and ensure the way was clear of obstacles.
“You sure this is right, Sister?”
“For once, Tacit, have some faith. And call me Isabella!”
They could smell the air of the Paris morning and beyond could see the vague dull outline of a door set firm at th
e dead end of the sloping tunnel down which they tore. There was a pull handle on the vast stone door, connected to a chain and mechanism set somehow within it. The handle turned on a well-oiled apparatus and the door creaked open a few inches. Tacit inserted his fingers into the crack and heaved the door wide, just enough for Isabella and himself to be able to squeeze through.
Ahead lay the Rue de Cloître Notre Dame and Notre Dame itself, just across the road, the northern transept of the Cathedral almost opposite the secret tunnel down which they had run.
“We might already be too late,” said Isabella, pushing herself forward through the crack in the door. “Come on!” Her heart raged, her spirit charged. But Tacit took hold of her and pulled her back into the dark confines of the tunnel corridor.
“What are you doing?!” she asked. “There’s no time to waste.”
“You’re staying here,” said Tacit.
“No, I am not, Tacit!” she spat, whipping her arm free and turning to crawl back into the sunlight.
She felt Tacit’s firm hands on her and battled hopelessly against them, kicking and punching out with her limbs. “Don’t you try and leave me behind again, Inquisitor! You did that once before. Never again!” she cried and threw wild punches at him in a fruitless attempt to get him to loosen his grip on her.
Tacit pushed her hard into the wall, and set himself against her, closer to her than he had ever done before, even closer than in the hotel room that time. She could feel his hot breath on her face and neck.
“Let me go, Tacit!” she wailed, kicking out at him. “I can’t have you going in there alone.”
“I must!”
“And I must too!”
“No! Do you know what we’re about to do? We’re about to kill a senior Cardinal Bishop in front of a thousand high-ranking country officials and politicians, Catholics and non-Catholics alike. Cold-blooded murder in front of a thousand witnesses. If you’re caught with me then you’ll be guilty, too. They’ll string you up. I cannot have that. I go alone! This is not your battle.”
He let go of her and set himself into the crack of the door, but Isabella caught hold of him.
“This is because of the assessment isn’t it, Tacit? You’re still trying to prove yourself! Still trying to prove, not just to the Church but to yourself that you’ve not lost your way.”
“It’s got nothing to do with that!”
“Don’t lie to me Tacit! Why, Tacit? Why do you have to prove it to yourself?”
“It’s nothing to do with that!” he cried, and Isabella saw tenderness in the Inquisitor’s eyes for the first time. “It’s because …” he muttered, “it’s because I care, Isabella.” He raised a hand to her cheek and cradled it in his hands, holding her gaze with his. In that instant, that fraction of a moment, a thousand images swept within their minds, the teasing ripple of romance, the warm touch of human flesh, the burning passion of an embrace, the laughter of shared love. And Tacit felt Mila and his mother’s presence there with him, and was filled with a spirit of love almost overwhelming. And his eyes filled with tears and the weight of sorrow fell away from him, like plate armour unbuckled from his body.
Then, without a word, he slipped his hand to her neck and squeezed. His grip was like a tight iron collar. In seconds darkness swept in around her and Isabella was falling. Tacit caught her body and brushed the hair from her face. He looked into her features as he laid her down unconscious on the floor of the tunnel. Without another moment wasted, he then stood and faced the door, his teeth gritted in grim defiance and determination.
He tore the door open and ran, charging like a maddened bear across the street, past wandering groups of tourists and Parisians. He bolted into the closed door of the transept. It burst with a terrific crash, sending soldiers, Priests and gathered clergy behind it tumbling and flying into the congregation. At the pulpit in the middle of the nave where the north and south transepts met, Cardinal Bishop Monteria shuddered and looked over to the noise like the gates of hell had been broken open.
Tacit ran and as he ran his hand dropped to his holster, his fingers wrapping tight around the grip of the revolver. Uproar and chaos broke across the congregation, shouts and cries of shock and disdain rippling like a tidal wave of astonishment throughout the building. Tacit couldn’t see it, but hidden beneath the pulpit, the Cardinal Bishop was fingering the vile pelt he’d just removed from a box in his hands. It stank, stank like a thousand fox earths, a guttural clinging stench which ravaged the back of the throat. Monteria stuttered over his words, hurrying to the devastating climax of his speech, trying to make himself heard above the clamour of the crowd. He needed to be heard. He had to be heard, before he put on the pelt.
Tacit’s gun was now out and raised. He was aware of a mob of people charging towards him, like an enveloping crowd of hounds about to leap on a cornered fox. He could see something grey and black and matted appear from behind the pulpit and rise closer, closer to the Cardinal Bishop’s head. Tacit shut one eye and pulled the trigger.
He felt nothing and heard nothing, not even the recoil of his revolver, the explosion as the silver bullet flashed from the barrel of the gun, nor the impact as the bodies flew onto him, soldiers and brave or foolish men from the congregation grappling and forcing his vast bulk to the ground. But as he felt hands on his back, felt the sharp pain of his wrists being drawn tight behind him, he heard the horrified cries of the congregation and the staggered collapse and fall of the Cardinal from the pulpit. And then silence.
Silence.
Tacit closed his eyes, and smiled.
EPILOGUE
ONE HUNDRED AND THREE
06:43. SUNDAY, 18 OCTOBER 1914. ARRAS. FRANCE.
The rain fell on Arras with the power of a biblical flood. The downpour woke Henry from his sleep. He rolled over on the kitchen floor of the house and drew Alessandro’s coat tight to his chin in an effort to fight off the morning chill. They’d chosen to sleep on the kitchen floor. There was no question of them sleeping in that room where Alessandro’s final moments had taken place. There was too much squalor within it, terror and violence captured on the walls and floor, too many bad spirits.
Henry watched the rain teem down the window pane in swollen rivulets, combining with other rivulets to make rivers, which washed down off the window to the sill and finally to the street below. A clash of thunder rippled around the city. He peered over to Sandrine sleeping beside him, her breathing barely audible over the rain. She looked at peace, still dressed in the clothes she had worn when she’d left her home.
Her home. Where was their home now?, Henry wondered.
The thought stirred him into action. Silently, he rose from the makeshift bed and slipped into the bedroom where the attack had taken place. He felt wicked, violating Alessandro’s peace by searching through his cupboards for clothes, but Sandrine had insisted he must before they left in the morning. Luckily, Henry was nearly the same size as Alessandro, maybe a little longer in the leg and larger in the foot, giving Henry a rather puzzled, imbecilic look with his toe pinched shoes and raised trousers, but he guessed it would suffice for now, at least until they were out of the city.
He stole slowly back to the kitchen. Sandrine still slept in peaceful abandon, beautiful and alluring, amongst the ragtag sheets of the hastily assembled bed. Picking up the coat and the unit diary, he crept downstairs and out into the thundering downpour.
Already it had begun to flood outside the boarded-up house, the street turned to a river of murky water. He snuck the diary under his coat and hurried on. A platoon of soldiers, drenched and dismal in their sodden clothes, tramped past under the watchful glare of their platoon Sergeant. Panic gripped Henry’s throat, but the soldiers moved away with neither a look nor a word to him. Henry could feel the tension shimmer up his throat and gather in the base of his skull. He breathed deeply and moved on. He didn’t know how far it was he had to go. Sandrine had explained it to him and made him memorise the route, there and back, so there wou
ld be no chance of him becoming lost in the depths of the city. Anything to avoid unnecessary risks. Anything to avoid the chance of capture and arrest.
At the end of the street was a square, badly buffeted by shell fire. Lined by trees, three had been uprooted and lay snapped and gouged from their cobble-lined beds. By now the rain had intensified and was blown on strengthening winds, whipping across the square almost horizontal to the ground. Henry bent himself against it and staggered on. At the edge of the square was the street he remembered from Sandrine’s description he was to take. It offered some respite from the wind and Henry drew a little breath as he trotted down it, hugging the diary tight. It was then that he cursed himself and his loyalty to his unit, for taking such a risk for the sake of a record of a lost unit. He doubted anyone would ever read it anyway. He was minded to throw it away, cast it into a bin or the gutter and be done with it. But he thought of his colleagues who had fallen and knew he could never do such a thing. He owed them that much. He owed them the truth being revealed.
Halfway down the street he found the lane Sandrine had gone on to mention. The wind blew even stronger down this, casting rain and hail and broken vegetation down the channel the buildings either side created. Signs swung wildly on chains or lay snapped and broken across the floor. Henry peered through the downpour and there, in the distance he could make out the custard yellow of the post office. He half-staggered, half-ran to the door and cast it open, throwing himself inside.
The postmaster looked up from behind his desk and chuckled, asking him something in French.
“I’m sorry,” Henry replied in his basic grasp of French, suddenly aware of the flaw in his plan. “I don’t speak very good French.”
The postmaster shrugged and shook his head.
“Paper?” Henry asked, removing the book from his coat, but hiding its cover from the postmaster’s eyes.
The Darkest Hand Trilogy Box Set Page 40