Cathedral of Bones

by A. J. Steiger

  “You will die,” Veera said. “For good this time.”

  Alice ignored her, dove into the water, and swam in a straight line for the writhing mass of darkness. The air was full of choking dust. Her eyes prickled and burned. She dove under the water and kept swimming. Currents rushed around her, yanked her deeper . . .

  And then she was spiraling upward, born on a rush of air. Huge chunks of stone flew all around her. One swept past, and she clung to it tightly.

  Simon was in here. If she could just find him . . .

  A tendril of darkness lashed out at her, and she tumbled down, a gnat swatted from the sky.

  She dragged herself out of the water and hauled herself back up again, climbing over chunks of stone. Flying grit stung her eyes and burned her skin. The air around her darkened. She could no longer see Veera, or the sky, or the sea—it had all blurred together. The storm howled.

  Ahead, a deeper darkness loomed: a wall of nothing.

  She watched, dazed, as the maelstrom stripped away ribbons of flesh from her forelegs. She was disintegrating. If she went any deeper, she would be ripped limb from limb.

  Veera was probably right. This was suicide.

  With a roar, she hurled herself into the darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  There was a jolt . . . and then the world blurred and shifted. The howling faded into silence. The pain vanished.

  She was standing on a cracked, hardpan desert, under a sky whorled with stars. The sudden stillness, after the whirling maelstrom a moment ago, left her disoriented. She looked down at her hands.

  She hadn’t even had hands a moment ago. Apparently, she had changed back without even feeling it . . . and she was wearing the lavender dress that Simon had given her. But that wasn’t the greatest shock. Her skin was no longer gray, but the soft, warm hue of wheat in sunlight. She examined the nails—small, pale ovals—then patted her lower back. No tentacles.

  When she raised her head, she saw a form standing a few yards away, facing the horizon. A breeze stirred his curls.

  “Simon?”

  He didn’t respond.

  She walked toward him. “Simon . . . can you hear me?”

  Slowly, he turned toward her, hazel eyes unfocused, as though he were staring into a faraway place. “Alice . . . you look different.”

  “I guess this is my true form.” She touched her own face, exploring her features with careful fingertips.

  “You’re beautiful.” His voice sounded oddly faint and echoed. “You were always beautiful.” He blinked a few times. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came for you. Where is this place?”

  “I don’t know. I think it’s somewhere inside my mind. Or maybe a kind of gateway between me and the other realm. It doesn’t matter now.” He gave his head a shake. “You . . . You shouldn’t be here. You should go.”

  “I’m not leaving you.” She gripped his hand. “Come with me.”

  He smiled sadly. “I can’t.”

  And then, suddenly, his hand wasn’t there. She looked down and saw that it had vanished . . . and that his wrist was already disintegrating into tiny, glowing particles, like motes of dust in sunlight. The particles floated away, dissipating into the atmosphere. A chill touched her heart. “What’s happening to you?”

  “I gave up my soul for this power. Now there’s nothing holding me together.”

  “I don’t understand.” She could hear the panic edging into her voice.

  “It’s all right,” he said gently. “I knew what would happen. I’m ready.”

  “No!” She grabbed his shoulders. His left arm had vanished almost entirely, and more glowing bits were already breaking away from his side. He was disintegrating, unraveling in front of her. She tried to clutch at the luminous golden bits of him as they floated away, but there were too many. They slipped through her fingers and drifted up into the sky, like fireflies.

  “It’s better this way.” Even his voice seemed to be fading. “I killed Olivia. It was me. I have this power. I was never even supposed to exist.”

  She didn’t know what he was talking about. She didn’t care. “I’ve killed too. Or did you forget?”

  “Alice . . .” His voice broke. “Please. It might still be possible for you to save yourself. But you have to get out of here. Now.”

  She held him tighter, breathing hard. More particles of him escaped into the air, glowing and then winking out, like dying embers. “I’m not going anywhere.” She pulled back to anchor his face between her hands. Golden flecks glowed in his eyes and hair, then spiraled away. He had grown translucent, insubstantial. It was like trying to hold smoke. Unshed tears shone in his eyes. “Simon,” she said. “Do you remember when you first found me? I had already given up on my own humanity. But you were too stubborn to let me go. I’m not letting you run away now.”

  His lips framed words, but she could no longer hear his voice.

  Desperate, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his—but it was like kissing a ghost. There was a faint chill, a lingering scent, like a half-remembered dream. She tried to hold on to the taste of him, to cling to his shape, even as he broke apart into a thousand fragments of light.

  “No!”

  Panting, she fumbled at the air, grabbing bits of light. But there were too many. Far too many.

  Her two hands weren’t enough. But she was supposed to have more than two. This small, soft, useless human form wasn’t her. She was strong and fast and gray-skinned, and she had many arms. Enough, maybe, to hold him here.

  As soon as the thought crossed her head, there they were—her tentacles, sprawling around her, familiar as old friends. She reached out, stretching them upward, and pulled. She pulled with her muscles and her mind. She imagined her will as a net, and she cast it outward and upward, into the sky, gathering up the scattered bits of Simon and drawing them inward, toward her. She held the memory of him in her head—his wide hazel eyes, his messy curls, his voice, his touch. She called to him.

  I know who you are. You are good, and you are kind, and you have to come back.

  Come back. Please.

  I need you.

  The golden specks floated toward her, clinging to her skin. She let out a sob of relief as she pulled them together, and the specks coalesced into a shining ball of light, like a miniature sun, small enough to cup in her palms.

  Even now, she could see it starting to break apart again.

  Oh no you don’t.

  She clutched it between her hands and squeezed. She reached into herself and drew upon a power she barely understood, a power that slept in the core of her being. It felt vast, that power. Vast and deep and ancient and hungry in a way that frightened her. Here, in this strange place, she could somehow sense it more clearly than she could on Earth. What am I, exactly?

  Then she pushed the thought aside. Focus. She had to save Simon. Everything else was secondary.

  Threads of green light crept through the gold, knitting the sphere together. She wove the strands of her essence through his and anchored the fragments of his being together, holding him there with her will, panting and trembling with effort, until at last she couldn’t hold on anymore. She released her grip, and the sphere floated before her. The luminous green threads formed a pattern like cracked glass over its surface—a vase that had been shattered and then glued back together. It held.

  She clutched it to her chest and curled in around it protectively. It pulsed against her heart, warm.

  A thin, flutelike whine filled the air. She tensed as the desert shivered beneath her feet.

  Overhead, the stars began winking out, one by one.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  There was no gap in her consciousness. One moment she was in the desert, the next she was splashing in the ocean, floundering with limbs and tentacles to stay afloat. Waves lapped at the hard, metallic scales covering her body.

  She was back in her own world.

  The howling wind had quieted;
the ocean had stopped spinning, and the air was still. The last bit of flickering green light faded from the sky, leaving it black and empty. A faint, reddish light edged the horizon. Dawn or the last glow of sunset, she wasn’t sure.

  Grunewick had been utterly obliterated. There was only a low, naked mound of rock where it had been. The sea had swallowed the rest.

  Weakly, she paddled toward the island and hauled herself up onto the rock. She’d swallowed quite a bit of salt water; her throat and eyes burned. She sneezed and sprayed a stream of red-tinged liquid from her nostrils. Bloody gashes marred her sides and legs, burning and stinging, even as the wounds shrank and healed. She lay, shivering. She was alone.

  Then she spotted a small, pale, limp human form lying on the rock.

  Gasping, she crawled over to him. Simon.

  She rested her head against his chest and listened. A heartbeat reached her, faint and small. She exhaled a breath of relief . . . but when she looked down at him, her relief turned to dread.

  His eyes were closed, his face pale and still. Large, dark patches marred his naked body. There was one on his right arm, another on his side. Several more covered his legs up to the knees. They weren’t burns—not ordinary ones, anyway. They were pitch-black. Looking at them was like staring into the void. The edges squirmed, very slightly. She realized, horrified, that the dark patches were growing, bit by bit, thin, lacy black lines creeping over his exposed skin, claiming more and more of him.

  No, she thought. I saved him. I saved him.

  She glimpsed a flash of blond hair from the corner of one eye and turned her head as Veera crouched down beside her. If she was at all taken aback by the sight of Alice as a huge, scaly demon, she didn’t show it.

  “What’s happening?” Alice asked, or tried to ask. It came out more like, “Russ-hah-nig?” The words were rough, distorted by a mouth not meant to pronounce human speech.

  Veera approached and crouched next to Simon. She reached out to touch his cheek with the tips of her fingers. “His existence is being unraveled,” she said softly.

  Alice wanted to scream. She had dragged his soul back from the edge of oblivion. But in this realm, a soul was nothing without a body. He needed both . . . and his body was breaking down.

  “He has a few hours, at most.” Veera lowered her head, hair falling around her face like a curtain. A drop of water fell, landing on Simon’s cheek. “I can’t help him.”

  “What about his father?” Alice tried to ask. She only managed, “Faa . . . zah?”

  Veera froze. “His father?” For an agonizingly long moment, she was silent. “Perhaps . . . yes. It’s a tiny chance, but still . . .” She turned, drew a dagger, and cut a glowing green slit in the air. Beyond, Blackthorn loomed, a jagged silhouette.

  Veera bent over and pressed a kiss to Simon’s pale forehead. Then she turned to Alice, her expression grim. “Go.”

  Alice’s tentacles snaked out, wrapped around Simon, and lifted him onto her back. She glanced at Veera. Then she leaped through the opening.

  She found Aberdeen Hawking lying in bed. An empty silver flask lay on the floor where it had fallen from his hand. A dribble of amber liquid formed a small puddle on the pillow under his mouth.

  She didn’t know how he’d react to her demon form; she transformed back, grabbed a sheet to wrap around herself like a cloak, and shook his shoulder. He groaned, batted at her hand, and rolled away.

  She slapped his face, hard. He looked up, blinking. “Alice?” he murmured thickly.

  “Get out of bed! Your son is dying!”

  “What . . . Simon?”

  She hooked her tentacles under his arms, hoisting him up. “Move!”

  With Alice half carrying, half shoving him, he stumbled down the stairs and into the entrance hall. Simon lay on the floor on his back, motionless, wrapped in a blanket. Dr. Hawking crouched and gingerly peeled the blanket back. He drew in his breath sharply when he saw the black patches.

  Alice hovered nearby, tense. “Well?”

  Dr. Hawking raised wet, red-rimmed eyes to her. “There’s nothing I can do.” His voice cracked. “His very cells are breaking apart, as we speak.”

  She grabbed him by the robes with both hands and dragged him toward her. “I swear on my own grave, if you turn weak on me now, I will gut you.” She squeezed the words between sharp, gritted teeth. “For Spirit’s sake, try! Even if there’s no hope, even if it’s impossible . . . just try!” She released him and gave him a shove, breathing hard.

  Dr. Hawking drew in a shaky breath and ran his hands over his face. He looked down at Simon. His curls were damp, matted with water and blood, stuck to his face. The spider lines of blackness were creeping up the side of his neck, toward his brain.

  “Help me get him to the laboratory,” Dr. Hawking said.

  Alice lifted Simon with her tentacles. Dr. Hawking wrapped an arm around him, and together, they carried him upstairs. Simon was frighteningly light, like a husk.

  Dr. Hawking cleared a spot in the center of the laboratory. “Here,” he said. She lifted Simon onto the stone table. Dr. Hawking pulled on a pair of thin rubber gloves and tied a cloth mask over his nose and mouth. He turned to Alice. “Wait downstairs.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “You asked me to save him. I’m saving him.” He shoved her into the hall and shut the door.

  Alice paced the hallway.

  How long had it been? Four hours? Five?

  From within, she heard clanks and scrapes. And other, more disturbing sounds . . . like a blade cutting bone.

  When she couldn’t bear it anymore, she opened the door a crack and peered in.

  In the center of the room, next to the stone table, stood something resembling a huge fish tank filled with green liquid. Simon’s head floated inside.

  Alice pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp.

  A forest of tubes ran from his neck, through the bottom of the tank, and into a humming machine below. His eyes were closed, as though he were sleeping peacefully. He yawned, and a few bubbles drifted from his open mouth.

  Dr. Hawking hunched over a table, gripping a handsaw and a screwdriver. On the stone table lay an array of mechanical body parts—a torso, a leg, a hand reaching upward, as though grasping for something. Dr. Hawking turned to the tank and laid a hand against the side, murmuring something under his breath.

  A tiny, strangled sound escaped Alice.

  Dr. Hawking spun to face her. His eyes were wide and bloodshot. He put down the screwdriver and marched up to her. “Do not disturb me,” he growled.

  The door slammed.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Simon rose up slowly through layers of fog. The sound of a thousand ticking clocks filled his dreams, echoing through his head. He felt weightless, buoyant, and then as heavy as stone. There were red flashes of pain and spells of blissful, dark numbness.

  He opened his eyes. He was in his bedroom, sunlight spilling in through the window, curtains billowing in the breeze. Outside, he could hear the surge of waves against the shore, steady as a heartbeat.

  He’d been in agony a short while ago . . . or had he? He couldn’t remember clearly what had happened, only that he’d felt as though his body were on fire. But now the pain was gone. In fact, he felt better—lighter, somehow—than he’d felt in a very long time.

  “You’re awake.”

  He turned his head, startled, to see Dr. Hawking standing in the doorway. Simon opened his mouth. At first, his voice didn’t want to cooperate. It took him a few tries to speak, and when he did, his voice emerged faint and scratchy. “Alice . . . where . . .”

  “She’s fine. Sleeping.”

  A rush of relief filled him. Alice was safe. That was all that mattered. Still . . .

  He had done something, hadn’t he? Something terrible. He swallowed, throat tight. “What happened?”

  Dr. Hawking hesitated. His face, Simon noticed, was paler than usual. “How much do you remember? Anythi
ng?”

  He started to shake his head—then stopped. There were vague impressions, but they felt like a fading dream now, and he had the sense it would be better for his sanity if he didn’t think about them too carefully. “I remember a bit,” he murmured.

  I killed an Elder God, he thought, stunned. He hadn’t dreamed that, had he? He had plucked the ancient, immortal Queen—the secret ruler of humanity—out of her lair and squashed her like a fat spider.

  It had been satisfying. He recalled that much. But he remembered, too, what Neeta had said about the Queen protecting humanity from worse evils. It was hard to imagine anything more threatening than the creature he’d seen in that dark room. If Neeta had been telling the truth, then how long would it take for those other evils to realize that the Queen was gone?

  Everything looked fine, from what he could see through the window. The sky was blue, dotted with puffy clouds; the sun was shining. But appearances meant little.

  “How do you feel?” Dr. Hawking asked. “Are you in any pain?”

  “Pain? No. I’m fine.” That seemed strange, now that he thought about it. Hadn’t he . . . died?

  He lifted one arm, curled and flexed his fingers . . . then stopped, staring. His hand was no longer made of flesh, but of delicately jointed bronze. He turned it over and examined the back. Was he dreaming? When he placed his hand against his chest, he felt—not a beat—but a steady ticktock.

  Dr. Hawking cleared his throat. “I realize this must be a bit of a shock. But it appears the procedure was successful.”

  Simon’s head fell back to the pillow, and he stared at the ceiling. His mind floated in a fuzzy cloud. Gingerly, he touched his neck, felt the seam where flesh became metal. He remembered, suddenly, his mother telling him that Dr. Hawking had tried to save his sister by replacing her damaged organs with mechanics, and how he had failed. He raised one hand again, slowly, opening and closing his fist. It was . . . a lot to take in. But he was alive, which was more than he had dared to hope for. “How much of my original body is left?”