The tiny golden flame winked out, drowning him in darkness. His rapid breathing echoed in his ears.
Well, that answered the question of whether the monster was intelligent. It wasn’t just smart. It knew Animism.
A ghostly green light penetrated the gloom, slowly brightening as the circle lit up, lines of emerald fire etched into the wood. Pale smoke rose up out of the floor. Simon watched, rooted to the spot, as a whitish, gelatinous mass materialized. A dozen glistening eyes protruded from its skin at odd places, blinking. Its mouth opened and closed, a red cavern lined with rows and rows of teeth.
A shoggoth.
Gasping, Simon backed away. Neeta’s voice echoed in his memory: Shoggoths are stupid but strong. They have no capacity for fear or pain, just mindless hunger. If you see one, don’t try to fight it.
What should I do, then? he’d asked.
Run.
The shoggoth’s eyes blinked wetly, with a sucking sound like boots in mud.
Simon kept backing away, stumbling over his feet. The shoggoth slithered toward him, leaving smears of greenish slime on the floor, its mouths opening and closing. It had several of them, all filled with sharp teeth.
Think, think. What could he do? There had to be something.
He thrust out both hands. A pathetic spurt of yellow light shot out, fizzling harmlessly in midair.
A pseudopod whipped around his legs and yanked them out from under him. He hit the floor with a bone-jarring thud. Panting, he looked up into a gaping mouth bristling with needle-like fangs. The throat was a slimy dark tunnel—a vision of nothingness.
This is how I die, he thought.
Time slowed. The shoggoth’s mouth descended. Simon’s vision blurred, colors bleeding together into a swirl.
For a while—it could have been a few seconds, or a year—he floated. A thin, warbling whine filled his ears, like the keening of distant flutes. A faint light pierced the blackness and spread. Slowly, his surroundings took shape.
He was standing in a desert. Hard, cracked earth sprawled under a night sky strewn with stars. They glowed with feverish fairy-light.
He blinked a few times, dazed.
Before him loomed a set of arched stone doors, three times his own height. They stood alone, unconnected to any wall or building. The doors were smooth and solid, aside from the vertical crack running between them. If he looked closely, he could see dim greenish light seeping through the crack. Baffled, Simon took a few steps forward and peered around the edge of the doorframe, at the other side. But there was no other side. When he looked at them from behind, the doors simply weren’t there.
He circled around to the front once more and stared at the impossibility in front of him. He had never been here before, and yet there was something eerily familiar about it.
“Hello,” said a tiny voice.
Simon spun around. “Who’s there?”
“Look down.”
He lowered his gaze, but saw only his shadow stretching out from his feet—another impossibility, since there was no sun. The shadow rippled, peeled itself off the ground, and stood.
Detached from its surface, it had a rough, sketchy look, like something scribbled by a child. As it moved and shifted, its edges flickered, blurring. Only its eyes remained clear—two blank white circles. “We meet again, Simon Frost.”
“We’ve never met.”
“Oh . . . you wouldn’t remember. Most humans don’t remember meeting me. So sad, that. I feel awfully unappreciated. But it isn’t their fault, of course—I just spill through the cracks in their minds. Like sand from a broken hourglass.”
“Who are you? What is this place? Are we in the Eldritch? Are you a demon?”
“So many questions! No and no. This is somewhere else. Somewhere between and above. And below. All over the place, really. Your concept of place is so limited; it’s rather hard to describe in your language where we are. It isn’t exactly a ‘where’ at all.”
It seemed like he should be panicking. But a dreamlike calm had settled over him. “Am I dead?”
The shadow-thing tilted its head. “Not yet. Do you want to live?”
He had a sense that the question was not rhetorical.
He realized—somewhat to his surprise—that he did want to live. There were too many books he hadn’t read, too many foods he hadn’t tried. Far, far too many unanswered questions. “Yes.”
“Then open the doors,” the shadow said.
“And where do they go? Back to my world? Or to another not-place place that you can’t possibly describe?”
“The second. But you must go through them to return.”
Simon placed his hands against the doors and pushed. They didn’t budge. He faced the shadow. “They’re locked.”
“I can help you unlock them. Of course, I would like something in return. A bit of your essence, please. Just a taste.”
“My . . . essence?”
“Yes. How to describe it?” The shadow’s head tilted the other way. “You humans are rather like those wooden nesting dolls . . . have you seen them? One inside the other, down to the middle. But the funny thing is, you don’t even know about the other people inside you. A few of you learn to see beneath the first layer, but there is so much you’ll never grasp. What I want is a chip off the innermost doll. You won’t miss it. You won’t even notice. Though . . . I can’t say for sure. The thing you call your sanity might wobble a bit, and it’s already wobbly.” The shadow leaned forward. Despite its expressionless face, Simon detected a hint of hunger. “Tell me. Those ghosts inside. Do they ever whisper?”
Simon frowned. “I don’t have time for riddles.”
“As you wish. What will it be, then?”
A chip off the innermost doll. It sounded ominous. But he wasn’t in a position to bargain. Give up one thing, or give up everything—if that was the choice, the answer seemed self-evident. “All right. Go ahead.”
The shadow-thing stretched out a fuzzy-edged hand and touched his chest.
A faint chill, like a cool breeze, passed over him. The shadow-thing rippled. The dark hand withdrew, cradling a tiny silver light. Its fingers closed around it, snuffing it out like a candle flame. Its face split open in a jagged crescent smile. “Thank you.”
The doors flew open. Beyond lay a hazy green light.
Simon entered, and the doors slammed shut.
He was in a cathedral. At least, that was his first impression. The off-white walls soared up to a vaulted ceiling, where a massive chandelier hung. There were no windows, but a sickly green glow suffused the air.
There was something unsettling about the walls and ceiling. At first he thought they were made of ivory, or some pale, washed-out wood—countless interlocking pieces, some long and narrow, some broader. Then he looked more closely.
Bones.
Thousands of them—some human, some animal, some he couldn’t identify. The chandelier was an elaborate concoction of femurs and skulls. Garlands of spines and pelvic bones were strung from the ceiling, stretching outward from the chandelier like the spokes of a wheel. More skulls stared from the curved walls in rows, forming ledges. The beams supporting those walls, he realized, were the ribs of some impossibly huge beast.
At the front of the cathedral, suspended high on the wall, hung a complete human skeleton—human, that was, save for the horned skull and the pair of skeletal bat wings arching from its back. In one hand, it held a bone-scythe; in the other, a pale chalice.
Beneath the suspended skeleton stood a well built from circular rows of skulls. He approached. When he peered in, he saw that the well was filled with swampy green light.
He dipped a hand into it, and it swirled around his fingers, lapping at them, warm and cool at the same time. A tingling, prickling sensation crept up his arm and spread through his body. He yanked his arm back.
He heard a faint creak and looked up to see the skeleton’s arm moving—slowly, but definitely moving—extending the chalice toward him. Offeri
ng it.
Was this a good idea?
Did he have a choice?
Simon grabbed the chalice and—before he could change his mind—plunged it into the well. The green light flowed in, filling the vessel. He raised it to his lips and drank.
It was like drinking cool air. Like nothingness.
The cathedral vanished.
Time unfroze; the shoggoth’s dripping maw descended. Simon screamed and thrust out a hand, felt his fingers sink into cold, moist flesh. There was a jolt, like silent thunder, and the world vibrated.
The shoggoth stopped. Twitched. Its fishlike eyes bugged out, and a low groan rose up from the depths of its throats. He felt more than saw its bulk quiver, rippling like a mass of gelatin.
And then it exploded. Gobbets of pale ooze spattered the walls and floor. A chunk of something warm hit Simon’s cheek and slid down.
“What.” The word escaped him as a breathless squeak.
The hallway was covered in still-twitching chunks, already dissolving into luminous goo. The puddles shrank as clouds of steam rose from them, flesh dissipating into air.
Shakily, Simon climbed to his feet. What had happened? The memories were hazy and slippery in his head, like a dream. There was a fleeting image of a desert, a shadow, and . . . a cathedral?
He leaned against the wall, wincing as he put his hand in a dollop of slime. It came away sticky.
Had he done this?
The pale glow of the shoggoth’s body faded as its remains dissolved.
Ahead, he heard a low rustling sound, like someone dragging a leather bag across the floor. His eyes snapped into focus just in time to see something resembling a tail—several tails—vanish around the corner. His heartbeat sped. He’d almost forgotten he had another enemy here.
But why had it summoned a shoggoth? Why hadn’t it attacked Simon directly?
Umburt’s voice echoed in his head: We sent a group of our men into the mountains with weapons and torches, hoping to drive the beast out. They managed to wound it . . .
Simon took a few wobbly steps forward, hugging the wall, and looked down. A long smear of blood marred the floor. It wasn’t red, but a shimmering black. Eldritch creatures healed quickly, but they were vulnerable to certain types of metal. If the wound had been inflicted with iron, it wouldn’t heal on its own, at least not for a long time. Of course, he didn’t know for sure that he was dealing with an Eldritch being. But he didn’t have any better theories at the moment.
“Hello?” he called out quietly.
No response. From around the corner, he heard breathing, heavy and labored. And then a moan—low, pained, and unexpectedly human.
The sound reached down into Simon’s chest and pulled. A strange, confusing mixture of emotions swept over him.
Simon’s heart thudded against his sternum and in the hollows of his wrists. It wasn’t too late to turn back. But somewhere deep inside himself, he sensed that if he left now, it was over; he would forever lose his will to remain an Animist. Not because he had failed his mission, but because he had abandoned someone in pain.
“I don’t know if you can understand me,” he called. “But if you can, please believe me—I don’t want to hurt you.” Still no response. His heart seemed to have lodged itself beneath his jaw. “I’m coming in now.” He inched forward.
When he turned the corner, the hallway opened into a large room. Dim light filtered in through the single grimy window. A huge form crouched before him, its sides heaving. Simon’s stomach gave a sharp lurch.
The creature before him was twice . . . no, three times the size of a horse, and four-legged. It barely fit into the room. In the faint light, he could only see its outline, the arched, spiny back, the long neck and angular reptilian head. A mass of writhing tentacles surrounded its body. It seemed to him like a thing born out of a fever dream—part dragon, part octopus, yet strangely human in shape. Purple eyes glowed in the darkness.
And then Simon spotted the wound—a long, ugly gash split the skin of the monster’s shoulder, crusted with dried blood.
Simon took another small step forward. The monster tensed; sharp teeth glinted, and a low growl rippled from its throat. “It’s all right,” Simon said. He kept his voice low, soft. “You’re scared. Aren’t you? I’m scared, too. But I can help.” Slowly, he stretched out a hand.
The monster arched its neck, bumping its head against the ceiling. Its forelegs tensed, claws gouging into the wooden floor.
Simon gulped. “Please.” He took a step closer and laid his hand against the monster’s side. Its scales were smooth, metallic. They fit together like interlocking pieces of a puzzle. The swell of flesh heaved under his palm. With wonder, he realized he could feel a great heart beating.
He looked up, into the shining purple eyes. “Can you understand me?” He stretched a hand upward to touch the smooth curve of the monster’s neck.
Something lashed out and whipped the side of his head. Stars burst behind his eyes. The world spun. He hit the floor, and everything went dark.
Chapter Nine
Simon woke with his skull full of slushy red pain. He moaned and opened his eyes, exchanging one darkness for another. When he tried to sit up, a wave of vertigo rolled over him, pinning him to the bed.
Bed?
He lay still for a moment, breathing shallowly. A sour smell pervaded the air. Straw poked out of the thin mattress, scratching his cheek. His shoulders ached; his arms were twisted into an unnatural position behind his back, and he couldn’t move them. As hard as he strained his eyes, he could see nothing.
His memories lay scattered all over the floor of his brain; he tried to collect them, to line them up in the proper order.
Focus. He counted backward from ten. His mind seemed to be working more or less normally.
Light. If he could summon a light . . .
He tried again to lift his hand and realized that his wrists were tied. Rope dug into his skin, chafing. His legs, too, were tightly bound at the knees and ankles.
To his left, clothes rustled. Someone was in the room with him. “Who’s there?” he called out, his voice cracking.
And then another sound—the crunch of teeth chewing.
Simon’s eyes had finally begun to adjust to the near darkness. He was in a small, bare, windowless room. Sunlight filtered in through cracks in the ceiling—the only illumination. Simon’s pack lay in the corner, its contents spilled across the floorboards.
“You were trespassing, you know.” The voice was young and female. She sounded as if she were talking through a mouthful of food. “It’s not nice to break into other people’s houses.”
Who . . . ?
His gaze jerked toward the small form in the corner, which he hadn’t even noticed until that moment. She was sitting, legs crossed, her back against the wall.
More crunching noises broke the silence.
“You’re eating my bread,” Simon said.
“It’s dry.” Her ragged cloak looked as though it had been patched together from the remains of several outfits; it hung in loose folds around her thin frame. A hood covered her head, hiding most of her face in shadow.
Again, Simon tried to sit up, but the nausea slammed into him, leaving him dizzy and shaking. “Who are you? Where is the monster?”
She raised her head. Within the hood, her eyes glowed a dim purple. “I am the monster.”
He blinked.
Simon had been prepared to find the unexpected when he came here. He’d heard, too, that some demons could change their shape. Even so, he’d never imagined that he would find himself facing something as befuddling as this—a girl his own age.
He squirmed, trying to loosen his restraints. “This is unnecessary,” he said, struggling to keep his voice calm. “I’m not your enemy.”
Floorboards creaked as the girl stood and approached. Her breathing rasped in her throat, as if just standing were an effort. “You were sent by those villagers, weren’t you?”
�
��Well, yes. But I’m not one of them. I’m an Animist.”
“I know what you are.”
He twisted his wrists. “What are you going to do with me?”
“I’m asking the questions here.” She circled around the bed. “How did you kill that shoggoth?”
Hazy memories flitted through his head then slipped away into darkness. “I don’t know. I don’t think I did anything. It just exploded.”
Something touched his throat, and he jerked. It felt like a snake—dry, warm, and sinuous. He couldn’t pull away; he could only lie there, helpless, as the snake-thing wrapped around his throat and gave it a squeeze—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind him of his own helplessness. As if he needed a reminder. “Don’t lie to me.”
Simon swallowed. It was difficult. “Something happened. It was like time slowed down. Then I . . . I don’t know. I had this dream. Or I think it was a dream. I can’t remember.”
The snake-thing squeezed his throat. “Do you take me for an idiot?”
“I’m not lying!” he gasped. “I swear!” It hurt to breathe.
She leaned closer, and for the first time, he got a good look at the face under the hood. She was gaunt, with disheveled, shoulder-length dark hair and hollow circles under her eyes, which glimmered purple. Her skin was grayish with dirt.
A bead of water—sweat?—landed on Simon’s face. The feverish heat of her breath puffed against his skin, the sickly smell filling his nostrils.
Then she straightened; the snakelike thing loosened and slid off his throat, and he gulped in air. “Never mind,” the girl muttered. She turned away.
Something moved behind her, protruding from under the hem of her patchwork cloak. He blinked, unsure if it was some trick of the light. A tail? Not just one . . . two, three, four, eight of them. Except they weren’t tails. And suddenly, he knew what he’d felt around his throat.
Even in human form, she had tentacles. He could see them moving, shifting restlessly beneath the cloth.
She shot a glare at him over one shoulder. “It’s rude to stare at a girl’s behind, you know.”
He averted his gaze. “Sorry.”
Cathedral of Bones Page 8