Lazariel sat opposite Ishran, trying to avoid looking directly into his eyes. He was conscious of the black jacket that Ishran wore, a material he did not recognise. The silver bracelet on his arm bore a symbol that disturbed Lazariel without him knowing why. When Ishran removed his jacket, tattooed markings on the stranger’s arms seemed to be there one instant and gone the next.
Ishran smiled, and a breeze seemed to blow through the pub, moving through his hair. There is no need to fear, Lazariel. For a second, Lazariel thought he had spoken the words out loud, and he nearly replied to them. His palms were sweating, and he had to resist a desire to jump up from the table and run, never looking back at the being who sat opposite him. ‘I can help you.’
Now he realised Ishram had spoken; his words clung to the air. The students looked over at them briefly and continued their conversation.
‘How?’ Lazariel asked. He took a mouthful of beer, wondering if the fire that was raging in his body was going to turn him to ashes in seconds. ‘How?’ he asked again, hating the eagerness in his voice.
Ishran smiled, shifting closer to Lazariel, lowering his voice, drawing Lazariel into him. Lazariel entered into his cruel mouth, his perfumed breath. ‘With your flock, pastor,’ he laughed.
Lazariel stared at him, a faint truth struggling to break free inside him.
‘Your flock needs shelter, I will provide them with shelter. I will provide for you. There is a friend with shelter who could be persuaded to house your flock.’
His mouth was near, his breath was ancient, sweetly repellent. Lazariel looked into his eyes. They were black, amused, fire lurking in the inner centre. He could feel his body moving as he stared. There was a pain in his shoulderblades, as muscles ached and pulsated, moving against the hidden memory of wings he had lost. ‘What are you? Who are you?’
The thing that shared his table smiled. ‘I am Ishran,’ he replied. ‘The Ghormho. I can bring to you what you most desire, but there will be a price.’
Lazariel glanced around to see if anyone was overhearing this fantastic conversation. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked again, now unable to break the stare that Ishran was forcing upon him. Even if he could, he would not have desired to do so. Sexual energy was coursing through his body in great waves, and he could feel his bones melting.
Ishran laughed out loud. ‘Come now, there’s always a price. Don’t you read your fairytales? Of the consequences that occur when you make a deal with the devil?’
Lazariel moaned softly, the intense wave of pleasure rippling through him bringing him close to climax. He looked around the pub wildly, trying to break the hold that Ishran had over him. The students had left, their drinks abandoned. Something walked the streets of their city, something they sensed, and they no longer wanted to be vulnerable and out in the open.
The barmaid was watching them. In her eyes lurked the same wild hunger that Lazariel felt. She lit a cigarette, and her hands were shaking. There were other beings in the room with them, Lazariel realised. Beings he could not see, but they were there. Witnessing every word, unable to intervene — silent, judging witnesses. He could hear the wind outside. A sudden storm was shaking the pub’s old panes of glass, making the door bang. The barmaid swore and went to fix the door. Afterwards she stopped to play an old Elvis song on the jukebox. The strains of ‘Suspicious Minds’ filled the pub.
I could leave here, Lazariel thought, I could pick myself out of his eyes, out of his hands and mouth, and run. Hurl myself through the door and let my legs carry me away from all this. But, instead, he leaned closer. ‘What is your price?’ he asked through a mouth that was filled with longing, with ashes of disappointments and fiery cravings. In the recesses of his mind, he heard Ashbud’s mocking laugh and the faint cry of a destiny lost.
Outside in the city streets, the Stag Man stood. Invisible to the normal Bluite eye. If anyone had walked into him, only a small surge of momentarily uplifting energy would have signalled his presence. The wind blew his hair and he nodded, acknowledging the elementals and their game. Rubbish blew around him, the evidence of how the Bluites lived: syringes lying on the ground, graffiti sprayed onto the walls. There were cracks in the earth, in the air. Radiation hung everywhere, like a translucent veil. He saw the dark-haired Bluite woman who had followed the couple here, and he could smell her imbalance. He ignored her. She was no threat to him. He felt the Ghormho stealing energy from the Fallen Angel. The Stag Man’s eyes gleamed.
He moved closer to the pub, ears pricked, knowing the Ghormho knew that he was near, but would be unable to prevent his arrival. Bats flew over him, sensing the contract that was being exchanged in this silent city. He recognised a white owl in a tree outside the front of the pub. His hooves moved restlessly on the hard concrete. She was everywhere. His eyes scanned the solitary moon of the Bluite world, looking for messages. The Ghormho was feeding himself, but there was more, the Stag Man knew. His heart was open, the sparrow within him beginning to move. The wind moaned again, threatening to push the Stag Man over. He pushed it back. He could smell death.
Pressed against the alley wall, Theresa waited for them to emerge. This was madness, she told herself. There were so many junkies in the area that she was taking a big risk by loitering, but she was unable to move. She had to see Lazariel emerge. She had waited for what seemed like hours. A group of students had appeared, and a few people had lingered outside the pub doors as if deciding whether or not to enter, and then ruling against it. Her stomach growled in protest, but she ignored it. What could they be doing all this time? All that she needed was to glimpse him, to make sure that he was all right.
Theresa didn’t trust the stranger. He was too focused on Lazariel — he mirrored her own obsession. He was powerful, and Theresa could accept he was some type of being not from this world, but what he hungered for was not his. The wind brought tears to her eyes. She blinked frantically, trying to focus on the pub where the light from inside cast a cheerful glow to the old stone building. She had conjured the wind, she thought, materialised it with her inner emotions for Lazariel and her resentment of the stranger. Mentally, she began her goddess chant that had given her strength in these terrible last few weeks since Lazariel had abruptly terminated their relationship.
‘I-sis. As-TAR-te, Di-AN-a, HE-CA-TE, De-ME-ter, KA-li, I-NAN-NA!’
Over and over. It was a comforting mantra to her. Someone was at the door. She tensed, staring. No, it was just the barmaid, looking out, small and vulnerable in the light. Theresa began the chant again. ‘I-sis, As-TAR-te . . .’
Theresa was a solitary. She had initiated herself fully into her craft after Lazariel had given her the flick, but had kept it private from the group, because she knew Lazariel was dismissive of all other religions and spiritual paths that didn’t involve his eclectic teachings. Her bladder contracting inside her, she shivered in the cold air, hoping they would not be much longer. What could they possibly have to talk about for this length of time? She would give them only one more hour, she promised herself. One hour and then she would give up, go home and meditate on her next step. She waited, eyes fastened on the pub door, mouth slightly open. Wind mocking her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil
— Genesis 3: 5
It was an idyllic, masterfully constructed scene. Two Islaes on their knees, surrounded by screaming Azephim. They were caught in the great hunting nets of the angels, and their distress was clearly visible, as were the screams of triumph of the Azephim angels. The Pricker squinted at the signature, attempting to make it out: W. J. Fisher. No, he had never heard of him, but he admired the way he had captured terror, preserved horror. He hummed a little tune as he continued his inspection of the New Baffin Art Gallery. On the whole, he was unimpressed by the collection. He mostly found modern art tedious, preferring the Renaissance works by the great Bluite masters. Now those artists really knew how to capture suffering!
He sighed, momentarily
homesick for the Blue Planet, almost wishing Sati hadn’t recalled him to Eronth for this witch-hunt. The New Baffin artists seemed more concerned with capturing musical notes on their canvases. He found it all highly pretentious. Whatever happened to good old oils and acrylics? he fumed. It didn’t help that there was a noisy bunch of students, who insisted on disturbing his reverie with their chatter and laughter. The one saving grace, with the exception of the lurid Fisher in the gallery, was the collection of small oils at the rear of the building, labelled Threatened. They were works dedicated to the destruction of the Azephim race, clumsily executed, but with definite potential.
Bored with the mediocrity, the Lightcaster headed through the ornate entrance of the gallery, which featured the inevitable tacky statues of the whore goddess, Aphrodite. He made for the docks, pleased with the fine figure he imagined he cut as he swaggered through the streets, with his dove-grey coat-tails and mustard trousers. He had applied Glamour thoroughly before venturing out in the city streets, knowing the Goddess-loving New Baffinites would not savour the knowledge that there was a Lightcaster among them.
He disliked this city. He always had, and he knew he always would. Privately he thought of it as the shit bowl of the known worlds, and he was not surprised that a trollop goddess like Aphrodite would make her presence known there. It was a dirty harlot city, crawling with prostitutes, fleas, sailors and, of course, the jumped-up, but hardly ever seen, Tremite Scribes. He had been here only once before, when it was Old Baffin, and although it was not quite as sleazy as it was now, it had still been a cultural wasteland — despite the New Baffinites’ smug assumption they lived in the cultural centre of the known worlds. But he found their taste garish and bourgeois, grossly overrated, and stinking of the Goddess. Her presence was everywhere in the dirty cobbled streets.
He disliked the architecture of the buildings, the way that the old was left decaying next to the new. He despised the little girls with eyes too knowing that passed him, little whores under the breast of the great Aphrodite whore herself. He could barely stomach the Crones whose memories lingered on lascivious times long past, and the endless doorways of prostitutes who called to him in her voice, with her eyes. Every crumbling stone and poorly executed statue in this turd of a city reeked of her.
He kicked red leaves out from under his feet as he walked. High above, in the cold sky, he saw a line of dragons heading for their nests, as people in the street pointed and yelled with excitement. For a moment the Pricker forgot how much he hated New Baffin, and he joined in the mass elation. Dragons were so rarely seen in the known worlds that it was quite an event to see one, let alone a family group in full flight.
They were waiting for him when he reached the docks, uneducated buffoons he had been courting now for seven moon-ups. It had been an exhausting process. Their prior conditioning was strong, but now he was beginning to see results. Already they were fired up on rum and gossip, he noted with satisfaction. Their faces lightened as he approached them, the tails of his beloved jacket billowing behind him.
‘’Ere’e comes now!’ one called. A prostitute wolf whistled, and he bowed low to her, causing the others to laugh at her expense.
‘Glad to see you, guy,’ said another sailor with rotting teeth and a distended abdomen. ‘The old witch has sniffed us, check out the wind and tides.’
Close. He could smell the murky orange fear. They were close to the edge, but he had to tread carefully. He had lost others at this point. He had to push them to the edge gently. Let them long to make the jump over the cliff.
‘She be a powerful one,’ he said smoothly. ‘You wonder at the number of ships that you have been losing to the Hag? She is targeting you, no doubt, most likely working in conjunction with the Sea Hags. Your own friends and kin are, alas, thanks to the canny old witch, the doomed grooms of the sea sisters.’
There was an uneasy silence as they drunkenly contemplated his words. One of the whores giggled, her mouth streaked with red lipstick where she had been drinking from the rum bottle. Her breasts were visible through her transparent blouse. There was fear in her eyes.
‘There be no doubt that we have lost a powerful number of good men and ships this last season,’ the fat-bellied one said.
There was a shifting of feet.
‘My brother never returned from the Sea Dragon.’ A thin man with anger in his eyes was speaking. ‘He was a good sailor, too. My mam had visited the Oracle Jeninna, only the week before, and she said that there was evil around him, but we took no mind at the time.’
Now he had everyone’s attention. A young hermaphrodite stepped forward. ‘I know that Oracle,’ he said. ‘She never speaks clearly or words of truth! Shame on you, Peb, for listening to such nonsense. Jeninna be just a market Oracle!’
‘So?’ muttered another sailor, who had not yet spoken. He towered above the others and had one eye missing where he had lost it years ago in a battle with a giant sea squid. ‘Even a market Oracle can pierce the veil at times. Besides, what would you know, Simeon? What do you know of such matters — your double equipment ensures you will never be put to sea!’
There was much ribald laughter and jeering, while the Pricker watched with indrawn breath. This was getting interesting.
‘Well, I know enough to know that he be a Lightcaster!’ Simeon cried, jerking a finger towards the Pricker. ‘He’s taking advantage of your drunkenness and ignorance to inflame you towards an innocent Crone! For goddess’s sake! Listen to yeselves! Even a fool could see through his Glamour, but you lot prefer to stay blind!’
‘Oh, ignorant are we?’ bellowed the one-eyed sailor. ‘You fucking Herms need to learn yer place, methinks! Prancing around the city like a bunch of nancy women! Ye all make me sick!’
There were cheers of agreement from the onlookers. ‘Throw him to the Merpeople!’ one of them shouted.
‘Nay, I’ve got a better idea,’ the one-eyed sailor turned to them with a grin. ‘Let’s tie the nancy boy up to the holding pole, so old Flembow has some dinner tonight!’
There were screams of delight from the watching whores. The Lightcaster felt the tiny prickles of sexual pleasure begin on his arms. He had managed to tap into their innate cruelty. They were nearly at the point of falling, of deciding to jump. Simeon made to run off, but the sailors were too quick. There were many cruel comments as they fumbled with the hermaphrodite’s genitals, dragging him to the holding pole. He was held too tightly to struggle.
Simeon began to plead. ‘Please! Come to your senses! Please don’t do this! You know the Herms are sacred to Aphrodite! Please! I’ve been friends with you all in the past!’
‘Shut up, freak!’ screamed an older whore in his face. She spat, and Simeon began to cry as they started knotting the ropes around the pole.
‘Don’t be mad!’ Simeon screamed as he felt the ropes cutting into his wrists.
‘Never mind, lad,’ Peb said, aiming a kick at Simeon. ‘Us ignorant drunken friends will no doubt miss you when your ugly face is not around! Now there, don’t be a crybaby. Old Flembow might spit you out! He may not like the taste of freaks!’
‘’E’s wet ’is pants!’ a strange voice sang out. Simeon was mortified to feel the dampness on his trousers. A whore stepped forward, and she drunkenly kissed Simeon on the lips and groped him on the groin mockingly, while they all cheered.
‘Come on!’ One Eye called out. ‘Let’s go and fix the old witch now and leave this crying baby to Flembow!’
They began to walk away, sharing the rum bottles between them. The Pricker paused and looked back at Simeon struggling against the ropes. Never mind. His voice hissed inside Simeon’s brain. When they have killed Kaliegraves, I will bring back her eyes, so she can watch you being eaten by Flembow. I promise I will return to witness that sight! He disappeared quickly in the direction the sailors had taken. Terrified, Simeon looked across the ocean, dreading the appearance of the reptilian head of Flembow. Tears and mucus running down his face, the hermaphrodite be
gan to pray.
*
Kaliegraves was making herself a tincture of nettle tea when she heard the commotion outside. She paused, an odd foreboding that she had been carrying intensifying.
‘Witch! Witch! Come and show your face to us! Witch! Come out!’
She listened hard, her hands shaking. A sound was on her roof. Hail? No, not hail, but stones. They were throwing stones. When Kaliegraves was younger, and the world had been so different, glowing with heat and innocence, she had sometimes felt a terrible fear at night. A fear that she could never articulate to her parents. She would dream of a large mob attacking her with sharpened sticks, tearing her to pieces, throwing her to the sea people. She would wake, screaming in terror at the sight of her own head bobbing on the waves. Now she remembered that fear.
She moved quickly, looking out of the front window of her home, peeking from behind the heavy drapes. At once she recognised a drunken mob of sailors and prostitutes. Her legs were unsteady, and she groped her way through the house, trying to think. There must be a way, there had to be a way to escape! Hiding places in her home flashed through her mind, but she heard the mob begin to scream, ‘Witch! Show your face or we’ll burn your house down! We’re waiting for you, old witch!’
Dear Goddess, they don’t burn witches in Eronth! No, not unless there’s a Lightcaster involved!
Breathing hard, she made for the back door. If she went quietly, she could make her escape over the back garden wall. She would have to leave the house to them, but it couldn’t be helped. They were beginning to break the front door down, and she panicked. She ran to the back door and flung it open, to see a small group of sailors. Waiting for her and standing in the middle of them was a Lightcaster. The instant that Kaliegraves saw his cool mocking smile, she knew what was in store for her, and now she fully understood why she had never wanted to seek guidance from the words of the Snake Oracle.
Bride of the Stone: Circle of Nine Trilogy 2 Page 29