Softly humming “Victory in Jesus,” Cecile reached under the desk and pulled out the two bags of stuff she’d bought in town. One was full of store-brand maxi pads and tampons. The second contained four cans of lighter fluid and a box of barbecue matches. She swivelled in the cracked pleather chair, still humming the hymn under her breath, while she read the precautions on the back of one of the cans and tested a match against the strike strip on the box. What a satisfying snap from friction to fire! She stopped for a moment to regard the spent match, then dropped it. Yes, everything still felt right.
Cecile waited a few more minutes and then went over to the door, opened enough that she could listen. The silence was broken only by punctuating snores. She closed the door again and said a quick prayer before tucking the matches into her back pocket. She wedged one can under her right arm, another under her left and carried the third in one hand, leaving the fourth on the desk as backup. Then she stepped out into the big main room.
She walked carefully around the perimeter, squirting the lighter fluid in wide arcs onto the walls and nearby floor, drenching the drapes at each window, until the can wheezed air. She placed the empty container on the floor near the kitchen door, and began again with the second can. She soaked the kitchen and doused the bathroom, hitting the extra rolls of toilet paper and paper towels in the cabinet, leaving its doors open. The third bottle painted the cubbies where their jackets hung. It all stunk so much she was amazed no one woke up.
She was about to start on the front door when she remembered she needed an unimpeded exit route. When the fire department made their determinations, it would be clear that the fire had been set on purpose. That was fine because it would also be clear that a stranger had been hanging around that night, one with a motive and the kind of instability of character that looks bad in court. Cecile had a receipt on her Visa for the pads, but it was a woman in sunglasses and a hat who paid cash for the lighter fluid and matches. That woman was probably Joan Beausoliel, officer.
She walked back the way she’d come, lighting matches and tossing them into corners and puddles. The flames popped into life with a deep whoosh she hadn’t anticipated, and travelled with such force that as she threw the final match, she yelled: “Fire!”
When hardly anyone stirred, she waved her arms frantically, shouting, “Everybody out! The place is on fire!” Then she kicked at a few of the bundles on the floor who were crawling too slowly back to consciousness. Soon billowing smoke made it impossible to see the other side of the room. Someone at last ran for the front door, screaming for the others to follow. The person threw it open and the flames leapt as he ran outside. She spotted Wolff shepherding members of his flock out onto the soggy grass, where they collapsed. Above her, the ceiling collected individual columns of fire and squirmed, alive with roiling flames. It was time.
“IVY!” Cecile screamed. “Ivy, where are you?”
Ivy was hauling Nancy to safety, one of the older woman’s arms looped over her shoulder. “Here, I’m here,” she called.
“I need you, quick. Someone has collapsed!”
Ivy handed Nancy over to Greg and turned back into the fray, crouching under the smoke. “Here,” Cecile yelled, grabbing her arm to steer her into the office.
Even though she had been careful not to douse it, the small space was suffocating with heat and smoke. Soon the flames would find their way in. This bird had to be taken care of, and Cecile only had the one stone and maybe three minutes left to throw it.
She closed the door behind them, the heat almost unbearable now.
Ivy was coughing and gasping while she stumbled around the small room, searching. She bent to check under the desk, clutching the edge with a shaking hand. Behind her, Cecile picked up a paperweight—a solid glass sphere with a giant moth trapped in the centre, its wings marked with eyes to keep predators at bay. She hefted it above her shoulder and brought it down on the side of Ivy’s head with as much force as she could gather, and the girl went down like a snapped branch.
“For he is the servant of God, an avenger who carries out God’s wrath on the wrongdoer,” Cecile intoned before a cough doubled her over. Time to get out of here.
She felt her way to the door and pushed it open. Fire and brimstone everywhere. At her feet, the plastic bags from her shopping trip melted and warped, the pads smouldering, the boxes turned to ash that twisted and flew only to be batted back down by heavy smoke. The insides of her mouth and nostrils were cooking. She put a protective arm over her face to try to keep the heat away and took a step to leave. Then rethought. The window—it would be faster to climb out through the office window.
She held her breath, closed her eyes and turned back, feeling for the far wall. She would be outside in a moment. She just had to stay focused. Then she would rush to the Reverend and beseech him to go find Ivy. “Please,” she would say. “Please, Reverend, surely the Lord will spare you among men.” He would run in, she knew him that well. And even if he didn’t, well, then he was a coward. She could spin it either way.
And then as she groped blindly for the window—so near—she stumbled over Ivy’s body and came crashing down. Whatever air was left in her was hammered out and she gasped for more, choking on smoke.
Above Ivy’s dead face, sitting where she’d left it on the desk, was the last can of lighter fluid. The label had burnt off and the sides were bulging dangerously.
She took a deep breath, steepled her hands and gave it all she had. “Surely the righteous will never be shaken; they will be remembered forever.”
The can was a balloon, stretching grotesquely, and then it popped.
Oh, it was glorious to Cecile: an explosion of red and blue, lightning and heat, reprieve and forgiveness—fireworks to celebrate the righteous, a new burning bush struck to flame by the hand of God. And there in the hot centre of it, burning brighter than the sun itself, Cecile saw Jesus Himself while she lay burning on the cheap carpet of a wilderness lodge, fighting a dying battle to honour His word. She moved toward Him, toward the light, the bright, glorious light.
And found that it was just flame, abundant and eternal, after all.
VICTOR IN THE WOODS: CEREMONY OF DEVOUR
It was hard to keep his eyes open against all this new brightness.
The rogarou was undressing, slowly, folding each piece of clothing it took off and draping it over the back of the armchair. Unbuttoning its pants, it noticed Victor watching and started singing the classic striptease song—“Ba da-da da, da-DEE da da…”—exaggerating its movements. It was enjoying this far too much. And even though Victor was terrified and sure this was the end, he still found something so alluring about this creature, something so beautiful, he was humiliated by his interest, and also angry.
Its chest was bare now. From one angle, it was all fur, shiny and thick. From another, it was skin with tattoos covering every inch, Victor’s tattoos. Except where Victor had JOAN just under his collarbones, the creature had VICTOR.
Rogarou felt his attention and rubbed a hand over it. “You like it? I do.” It stared back at him with cruel yellow eyes that flashed from desire to disinterest. It sighed and held its hands out to indicate their surroundings. “I mean, there’s not many options for artists out here.”
Victor actually laughed at that. What the fuck was he doing?
Now, pants open, shoes kicked off, the beast sat in front of its prisoner. It propped its face in its hands and leaned toward him, an elbow on each knee. “Tell me about her. Please. Before we begin.”
“Who?” Victor did not want to talk about Joan. It would be like pouring a gallon of water out on the ground while he was still so thirsty.
“The person who makes you so resistant, of course.”
Why did it seem to be closer than when it first sat down? Victor could feel its breath on his face. He was so warm now he wanted badly to take off his coat, but he felt rooted in place.
“Take it off, then,” it said. And Victor was free to move, stri
pping off his coat and letting it fall to the base of the tree.
“Better?”
“I guess.”
“Take the sweater off too if you’re still uncomfortable. Here, let me help you.” It reached out and undid the three buttons near the neck, then held out its hands, motioning for Victor to raise his arms above his head—which he did without really thinking about it. He wasn’t sure if he even wanted to. No, he was sure. He wanted to.
Rogarou yanked the sweater over his head and Victor was left in his camouflage pants and thin undershirt, his boots heavy with mud.
“Can you…can you help me?” he said.
The rogarou tilted its head. “Help you with what, my boy?”
“To understand.”
It reached across and smoothed Victor’s hair, then ran a finger down the side of his face. “Perhaps I can, if I want.”
“What is this place? I’m not in the woods, am I?” Saying it out loud, Victor realized he knew this to be certain. He was not on the land where he hunted, the place where he laid and checked traps. Well, he was and he wasn’t.
Rogarou shook its head, maintaining eye contact. “You are wherever the betrayal happened.”
“What betrayal?”
“Whatever you did that brought you into my arms. That’s where you are. And this is where I’ll bury you.” It tapped Victor’s bicep like it was checking a maple for sap. “Time’s almost up. No one’s coming for you. It means you’re mine, only now it’ll be forever. Isn’t that swell?” It leaned in so its forehead grazed Victor’s.
Victor was even more uncomfortable now, because he could feel himself getting hard. What was wrong with him?
The creature tilted its head back. “So, tell me about her.”
“Who?” This time he meant it. Victor didn’t know who. Who was he supposed to be talking about? He knew only this place and this creature and what forever might be.
Rogarou smiled.
My, what big teeth it had.
“That’s perfect.” It put a hand on Victor’s stomach and he felt it there as heat and want.
“What happens now?” he asked.
“Oh, this is where I devour you.” It leaned in; its breath was sweet. “Slowly. We have hours yet.”
And then its eyes narrowed to a pinpoint. And it pulled back, jerkily, as if its limbs were attached to strings. It dangled there for a moment on unseen hooks, then spun on a heel. It walked back to the chair, its smile changing to a snarl. It walked around the chair once, twice, and again and again…It couldn’t stop its circuits.
“Stop this at once!” The words careened into a howl.
Victor watched the creature wearing the ground under its feet into a shallow circle.
“Tabernac!” it screamed, snout pointed toward the moon that now showed itself over the tops of the trees. “Stop!”
Victor was torn between wanting to run to the beast, to grab its arm and help somehow, and wanting to get the hell away. But where? What was happening? He was as confused as he’d been at the beginning of this whole thing.
And then, all at once, her name came back. And her face. And her skin. Oh, her skin. Joan.
He turned from the beast, who was howling now without words. He searched the trees and was able to see them again as individuals and not as a woven fence penning him in the dark. There! Just there, he could see something, in the birches. But what was it? He couldn’t tell. The sky began to pull itself inside out and rain threatened.
The rogarou was trapped, maybe even in pain. Now was the time to take advantage of it. So Victor walked into the trees with his eyes wide open, trying desperately to see.
20
THE ACE OF SPADES
When Joan saw the flames, she almost ran into the building. Where was he? She cut the palm of her hand trying to close her knife so she could go to him. Even if it meant getting caught. She took a step into the clearing, and in the confusion and smoke, no one saw her outlined in black against the white birch trunks. And then there he was, dragging a man in one-piece pyjamas out the door. Two people came forward to take the man from him and lay him down on the grass. She stayed where she was as the Reverend began counting the ministry volunteers sprawled on the lawn, sitting on rocks, standing around weeping and consoling each other.
“Two missing,” he called at last. “I’m going back in.”
“It’s Ivy and Cecile,” someone shouted. “They went into the office!”
As he reached the steps, the office window blew out in a spectacular shower of glass and flames that dropped him to his knees. The big, white-bearded man ran to him and dragged him away from the building.
Then the walls buckled and rippled as if under a great weight. The roof creaked. From the rear of the building came the smash and tinkle of another window blown out.
The guy with the white beard waved everyone farther away from the building. “Get back right now! This thing’s going down.”
Joan had no idea what to do. She already felt woefully unprepared for this mission with her strange tools—a playing card, a knife, a fucking bag of salt—and now there was a raging fire on top of it all. Joan watched as the Reverend picked himself up from where the bearded guy had laid him, arms hanging at an odd angle. As the others moved back from the fire, seeking a safe distance, he turned on a heel, pushed by a force she couldn’t see. And then he was facing her direction, held still at an awkward angle. She caught her breath. Could he see her past all the smoke and fire?
He walked on bare feet over the wet grass, each blade reflecting the flames clawing out of smashed windows, the open door, the growing gap between walls and roof, so that even the ground seemed consumed. Twice the Reverend tried to walk toward the others, and twice he was stopped by an unseen barrier. Each time he was turned back on unsteady legs. One foot jerked in front of the other and then he was making his way toward the trees where Joan stood waiting.
She watched, confused. What was wrong with him? His face was so strained he’d bared his teeth. He looked like he was struggling against his own movements. And then she remembered—the bone salt. He was caught by the trap she’d laid for Heiser.
He uttered a growl full of menace and fear, like a trapped animal. Because that’s exactly what he was.
The Reverend Wolff—no, Victor—Victor was a fucking rogarou.
Moving like a wooden puppet, he walked between the lines of salt, staggering to the circle at the end of the pathway, where he stopped. After a second, he walked the perimeter of it once, twice, and then again. She could feel her heartbeat in the cut on her hand. She pressed it against her thigh. A rogarou keeps the man trapped inside, his ribs like the bars of a cell. What was Victor’s heartbeat like now? Was it quick and heated? Were there two of them, the monster’s and the man’s, thumping an anthem in his familiar chest?
“No. No. No,” she whispered. Should she grab him? What if he called for help? Those volunteers would run to rescue him from the knife-wielding halfbreed. She looked over at them. They were all holding each other, watching the building burn.
Then came a tremendous crack and the roof caved in, disappearing into the fire, which jumped and spit in triumph. The crowd cried out and none of them were looking her way.
She walked out to where the Reverend stood trapped in the circle of salt and kicked at the line until she’d made a small opening. She slipped a hand under the waistband of her skirt and pulled out the ace of spades, the most magical of cards. Carefully she slipped it into his collar so that it slid inside his shirt. He couldn’t make the moves to resist her.
She took a step back, once again opened her small blade, and gestured to him. “Come.” And he did, unsteady on his feet. He was still the Reverend or maybe a rogarou, but definitely not Victor.
When at last he stepped into the dark of the woods, she had backed up against a tree, holding the knife in front of her. She looked at his face, and at last thought she saw signs of Victor poking through around his eyes. She lowered the blade.
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br /> “What is happening to me?” he said.
She bit her cheeks to keep from saying too much too soon. “I’ll explain everything,” she said, “but you have to follow me.”
“My friends.” He looked back at them, still weeping and praying.
“You can’t help them right now. But I can help you.”
She slowly turned her back to him and took a step farther into the woods. At first all she could hear was the crackling of the fire and the prayers of the terrified, but then she heard a footfall right behind her. It almost sent her to her knees. He was following. Oh, sweet Jesus, he was following.
Calm.
Calm.
She walked on steadily, trying not to look back. After a minute, she couldn’t help herself, glancing over her shoulder just to make sure he was still with her, that he hadn’t changed into something with fangs and fur. He was a wreck, clutching his stomach or maybe the card he carried now against his skin. Since he was shoeless, he had to pick his way carefully. But he followed. And he still looked human.
When they got to the log where she’d left her bag, Joan sat and patted the spot beside her. He lowered himself shakily, obediently.
“Let me get you something for your feet.” She dug around in her bag. “I don’t have shoes that would fit you, but here.” She handed over a pair of wool socks.
“Thank you.” He took them but held them as if he wasn’t sure what came next.
She took them back. “Let me do this for you.” She got on her knees in front of him and picked up one foot, setting it in her lap. She brushed the twigs, dirt and leaves from his sole, slowly, the way Victor liked. Then she unrolled the sock over his foot, watching his face for a sign that he recognized her. There was none.
She brushed off the second foot and then rubbed it a bit, taking her time to run her fingers between his toes. His hands unclenched and fell to his thighs. She took even longer unrolling this sock, and when she was finished she remained on her knees, looking up into his face.
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