Bride of the Stone: Circle of Nine Trilogy 2

by Josephine Pennicott

  The angoli clapped. ‘Enjoy her, all of you. When you have finished, we will talk.’

  ‘Take us!’ Sophie called, giggling. ‘We will give you more pleasure than she ever can!’ They ignored her.

  Theresa noticed the intelligence lurking in Beelzebub’s eyes as he circled her. They were smoky yellow, with pupils red and glowing. The demon regarded her almost kindly as he opened her legs. His stomach bulged as he stood over her. The smell of burnt flesh and sewers made her gag as he drew her thighs wide apart. The other demons watched in silence as he crouched over her, forcing his oversized prick inside her. She screamed in pain as he began to thrust inside her, groaning softly and watching her all the time with his knowing eyes. There was a loud clicking noise in the room and Theresa felt as if she was on fire inside. The demon moved faster and faster. Now his mouth fastened on hers, mixing rotten saliva with her own. He was tasting her. She could feel his tongue, tasting of rotten honey, of dried blood and burnt fruit. Then she gagged again, realising he was forcing her to swallow something from his mouth. Flies. Masses of flies, expelled from the demon’s throat, were passing from his mouth into her body. Then the room filled with light. Theresa became aware that all its occupants had gathered around to bear witness as the creature continued to thrust. Finally Beelzebub shuddered with release and rolled off her. As she lay panting and dazed the demon called Sammael pushed away Minette and Sophie, who were attempting to fondle him. Taking the fly demon’s place, he mounted Theresa and pushed an ice-cold prick inside her. She screamed and he smiled, and began to thrust.

  *

  The next morning, all occupants of Light Vision awoke early. As the sky transformed from black to steel-blue the birds began to call to each other among the trees, careful to avoid a large owl occupying a nearby branch with its saucer eyes fixed on the house. The Light Vision members lay in their beds, staring into space, wondering what the dark dramatics of the night before had meant. The more their minds struggled to understand, the more dreamlike the events seemed. An uneasy silence permeated the house, knitting the Light Vision members together. Several had headaches, cracks of splintering pain in their temples. They lay, not daring to move and destroy the silence.

  Theresa’s body ached with countless gashes, cuts and scratches. Her legs felt heavy and sticky with honey. Something moved within her belly. She thought of flies with their stinking green wings, their dark little bodies. Another faint memory came to her. Long dark nails; a heavy furred stomach; smoky yellow eyes. Then an image of a field of flowers came into her mind; thousands and thousands of beautifully coloured petals. She breathed deeply, smelling the fragrant odours, relaxing slightly. There was a slight sensation of comfort, of peace.

  When she attempted to sit up in bed a sudden wave of nausea swept through her. Ishran was standing at her bedroom door, dressed in a black jumper and pants. Behind him stood the members of Light Vision, their expressions vacant. Not worrying about her grimy white nightdress, Theresa slowly approached them, nauseous with every movement. She felt jerky, uncoordinated, as if she had just been born and needed to learn how to use her limbs. Her eyes fixed on the group as she moved jerkily towards them. Sophie had been crying. She looked young and innocent in a pale blue dressing gown, her long fair hair hanging loose. Lazariel stood separately from the group, a slight bulge under his cotton shirt. Concern creased his face as he watched Theresa. One more clumsy step, then another.

  They moved as one down the hallway towards the kitchen. As one, they paused outside the lounge room, which was bathed in a sickly pale green light. There came the sound of plaster ripping, a faint smell of burning, the thud of a body falling through the air, and a triumphant cry. Ishran smiled.

  Turning into the kitchen they began preparing breakfast with weary automation. Familiar everyday gestures now seemed alien and sinister. Minette cut oranges into quarters while Sophie sliced celery and apples, dropping them into the juicer. Daniel scrambled eggs, Alan cooked toast and Lazariel percolated coffee and made a pot of herbal tea. Ishran and Theresa sat at the table, facing each other. She marvelled at the deep lethargy in her bones and an odd, overriding sense of peace.

  It was only when a plate of scrambled eggs on hot, buttered toast was placed before her that Theresa realised how nauseous she still felt. She gasped, clambering to her feet, her stomach clenching. The group stared at each other as she dashed from the room.

  Head over the toilet, she retched. Flies. Welling up from her stomach, catching in her throat. Thousands and thousands of tiny flies, squirming in the toilet bowel, dying or already dead from stomach acid. Theresa’s guts clenched again and her lower stomach cramped. Quickly she pulled up her nightdress to sit on the toilet, trying not to vomit at the same time. Her body shook with low guttural sounds as she filled the toilet with flies.

  When she finally emerged, sick and weak, Lazariel was waiting for her with a wet flannel in his hand. ‘Here, take this,’ he said. ‘Are you all right?’ The warmth and caring of his voice brought tears to her eyes. Her mouth was still filled with the taste of the flies, her nose with the smell of dried rust.

  ‘I’ve spewed flies everywhere.’ Her stomach twisted at the mention of the word. ‘Thousands of them.’

  Lazariel put his arm around her. ‘You need to go back to bed, you’re imagining things. It’s this bloody heat. You’ve probably caught some virus.’

  She allowed him to fuss over her, leading her back into the cool bedroom. The bed was still unmade, the sheets cool. He pulled the pink cotton sheet over her. ‘Go to sleep,’ he said, soothing her brow. ‘You’re safe here.’

  Words caught in her throat. She wanted to ask him about the disturbing visions she had been having, dreams of the group ripping a body to pieces with their bare hands, watching the men dragging a small sack into the bush late at night. The sensation of yellow eyes that smoked with desire. She wanted to share with him the paranoid feeling she had every time she went to Katoomba; the impression that a malevolent presence watched her and wished her only harm. But she was afraid. He had not believed her about the flies. Perhaps he was right, it was just delirium. His hands felt so cool on her forehead. It was bliss being nursed like this. It was only after he had tiptoed from the room that she realised he had not offered to call a doctor. But she was drowsy and pushed the disturbing thought away, unwilling to disrupt the peace. The thought lingered, however. It was a small thing, yet nagged at her with its significance. Why hadn’t he offered to call a doctor?

  *

  The day was still young, but the sun was already intense in the air. Light Vision was now ringed by animals. In some places they were three and four deep: wallabies, feral cats, wild dogs, wombats. Even nocturnal animals had forgone their usual habits and were stationed, watching in silence. Then a figure burst through the walls, scuttling along the ground, scattering this unnatural wildlife audience. His eyes glowed. His smile held all secrets. His odour terrified the animals. Rosellas screeched, taking to the safety of the air en masse. Larger animals scrambled over the smaller species in their panic to get away.

  The figure laughed. He drew up from around his neck the panpipes he always carried and blew a teasing note. It was a small sound, slight enough to be mistaken for the wind or a lover’s laughter, but the animals knew its meaning. Some cried in alarm, others froze with terror. Picking up an immobilised rabbit, he patted its head before breaking its neck and tossing it to the ground. A large white owl flapped to him and settled on his shoulder. The wild howling of wolves broke from the bush. The figure threw back his head and howled his reply. ‘I live!’ he cried. ‘I live!’

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  I can say nothing,

  But my lips are stricken to silence,

  Underneath my skin the tenuous flame suffuses;

  Nothing shows in front of my eyes, my ears are muted in thunder.

  And the sweat breaks running upon me, fever

  Shakes my body, paler I turn than grass is;

  I can
feel that I have been changed, I feel that

  Death has come upon me.

  — Sappho of Lesbos, Like the Very Gods in My Sight (c. 600 BC)

  The journey on the skymobile had been brief, but to Simeon it felt as if it lasted forever. He had found it difficult to relax, as the string of carriages coursed through the sky, pulled by the team of miniature skyelavee. It was odd how he had often longed to experience the skymobile, but now that he was on it, he found it impossible to appreciate. His apprehension hadn’t been lessened when a server had presented him with a copy of the New Baffin Daily. With a rapidly beating heart, he had read about the mysterious mass slaying in the art gallery. The police servers were hampered by the absence of witnesses; no-one had survived the massacre. Simeon shuddered, remembering with painful clarity the same faces from that night. How could their lives be snuffed out so easily? How could life suddenly change so dramatically for souls going about their harmless daily routines? He had never felt so afraid, so vulnerable. He was reminded again of what had happened to Kaliegraves, and felt anger pulsate through his body. Surreptitiously, he tore the section from the paper regarding the deaths. It would support his story when he spoke to the High Priestess.

  He prayed that it would prove easy to locate Khartyn the Crone. He wanted to return to New Baffin as quickly as possible, as he felt uneasy about leaving Rudmay on her own. She had assured him that she would stay in the Hall of Learning with the Tremite Scribes, in the protected area of New Baffin, but he found it hard to believe she wouldn’t absentmindedly return to her home on some impulse to pore over some book. Rudmay could be so maddeningly impossible to predict. He had never met a being who was both so intellectual and yet so lacking in basic commonsense. Horus seemed to have more. He was convinced that, without him, she would forget to eat.

  It was only a few eyston when the skymobile finally landed with a gentle thud just outside Faia, and Simeon grabbed his small bag. He had to locate Mary and Khartyn quickly. There was a dark pressure building up in his head that warned him he had little time. He was annoyed at himself for tipping the skymobile’s chief server too much. Rudmay had given him the shelkas that he was using, and he had hoped to bring back a nearly full purse to her. The trip may have been comfortable, but it was nowhere near the opulent experience that was advertised all over New Baffin. The many seasons of living without money and being forced to beg on the streets had left their scars on him, and he found that he was still worrying about his extravagant tip when he walked the short distance into Faia village.

  He should have known. It should have been obvious from the start. There was an extraordinary number of vultures hovering over the streets, and their beady eyes regarded him with keen suspicion as he walked with the small crowd of people who had also disembarked from the skymobile. He had never been to Faia before, but there was little time to appreciate the quaint thatched cottages. He passed a row of intriguing little shops — the apothecary, the herb stores, and the local craft and magic stores — becomingly increasingly uneasy as he glanced around. Why, it looked like a ghost town! Spoiled fruit lay rotting in the road. The sun was high in the sky, but there was very little sign of life. A dark aura of grief and fear hung heavily over the village. Simeon’s breath began to come faster, hanging in mist in the frigid air. His colourful red boots that Rudmay loved to tease him about made little sound as he walked on the well-trod cobblestones. His fellow skymobile travellers were also looking around with expressions of bewilderment on their faces. No birds sang; there were only hundreds of vultures, waiting patiently with hungry hearts. The very air felt oppressive and stale.

  A few steps, and they were now into what was obviously the central meeting place of Faia. Simeon stopped in horror. Tethered to several large poles were charred lumps crawling with flies. Bodies. Then he noticed a Crone, heavily veiled, sitting in mourning clothes on some steps outside one of the main buildings. Her black robes flapped in the air as she stared impassively at the grim corpses. For a foolish moment, Simeon thought that he might have found Khartyn, but then he glanced around him. Where had his fellow travellers disappeared? He was alone. Crossing the small street, veering as far from the stinking bodies as possible, he approached the still figure.

  ‘Hail Crone and Merry Meet! I be Simeon of New Baffin, of no fixed last four names. I am sent to Faia village under official direction of the Tremite Scribes.’

  There was no response from the figure, and Simeon feared she might have lost her wits through age, or else had been struck numb with grief. Then she cleared her throat.

  ‘A black night has fallen upon this village. The flies and the earth-eaters rejoice in that which we find difficult to understand.’

  ‘I am sorry, Good Mother. But I need to speak with Mary, High Priestess of Faia, and the Crone Khartyn.’

  ‘Burnt dreams are all that is left of them now. An entire lifetime, centuries’ worth of learning, healing and studying gone, gone, into the hungry belly of the fire. All that remains is shadows.’

  Simeon glanced uneasily at the charred bodies. This entire market square felt unclean. He was not surprised that there was no sign of any Faiaites. What deadly viruses could be lingering here? What broken dreams haunted this place and claimed it for their own? A wooden noticeboard advertising esteo and cakes creaked in the wind. The vultures seemed to be gaining closer ground, eyeing him with more confidence. Simeon’s hands had turned red with the winter air, and his mind was even colder with the knowledge that there was a dark stain upon this ground. ‘What has happened here?’ he managed to stammer out.

  ‘Don’t you know?’ the Crone said. Simeon still could not see her face, only a glint of her eyes, watching him coldly.

  ‘I have no time to play with riddles, Old Mother. Now, if you will be kind enough to direct me, then I must be on my way to Shellhome.’ The thought came to him that the Crone might be driven mad with grief. She might pose a threat to him.

  ‘Haven’t you guessed?’ the Crone said again. Her wrinkled, trembling hands reached for the hood of her gown. ‘Your worst nightmare has happened here, Simeon. That is what you have walked into. What you have been seeking is here.’

  The hood of the gown fell back, and the Lightcaster stepped forward, shaking off his Glamour swiftly. Simeon screamed and turned to run, but the Lightcaster lunged at him. The last thing that Simeon remembered was the feel of his teeth, razor-sharp, poised against his soft throat. Feebly, he attempted to fight back, but he knew, even as he struggled on the ground, that it was useless. Did she see? The thought came wildly, filled with hot despair, as he pictured Rudmay’s eyes when he had left that morning. Did she know all along that she was sending me into this?

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Oh Bride, you are formed

  Of grace, Your eyes are honey

  Your face is refined

  By love,

  Aphrodite has honoured you

  In every way

  — Sappho of Lesbos, Song to the Bride (c. 600 BC)

  Khartyn scattered the last of the rose petals onto the ground. They fell in a perfumed circle, leaving only a small broken link for Maya and Bwani to step through. Inside the circle was an elaborate altar, on which were the charmed candle that Rosedark had prepared, a large rose-quartz crystal, a small chalice with holy water blessed by the Crones of Faia, and musk and strawberry-rose incense. Outside the circle stood the eight Wizards with bowed heads. They had dressed in their finest clothes for the occasion. Claw had been silent for a few moon-ups preceding this event.

  Rosedark stood on the other side of the circle with Mary and Ano. They, too, were all dressed for the occasion in their finest outfits of velvet and lace, and Khartyn was well aware of the admiring glances her apprentice attracted from the Wizards. Gwyndion and Samma stood near a large myrtle tree that had been blessed by them for the occasion. They gleamed with health and vitality. Their bodies were polished, and their eyes shone with the happiness of their love. Khartyn had never seen a more beautiful W
ebx couple. Gwyndion had always been handsome, but now, under Aphrodite’s wing, he was positively radiant. The tree they stood near, its roots intertwined with Samma’s and Gwyndion’s, wept tears of joy at the honour of being the Chosen One.

  Hundreds of owls, which had gathered for the joyous occasion, rested in its branches. A large maypole with colourful red and pink streamers stood near the tree, and in the fields beyond, Faiaite women and Crones re-enacted the ancient rites. Jumping over the corn with their broomsticks firmly between their legs, they whooped as they all attempted to jump higher, encouraging the crops to grow.

  One of the largest owls in the tree hooted, and Khartyn knew this was her signal to begin. Claw gently began to strum his zitter, and Rosedark sang as Khartyn slowly moved widdershins around the circle, stroking and sweeping the air with her broom, moving in slow circles to the haunting melody.

  If the Goddess decrees, then may your love last

  When the harvest of Faia is exhausted

  And the triple moons vanish from our skies.

  There will still be love;

  Love survives birth, death and rebirth;

  Fish may die in an empty sea

  But there will be love;

  The night will never die

  That is touched by Aphrodite;

  Love is stronger than death,

  Love is stronger than death.

  Rosedark’s haunting voice trailed into silence. Bwani and Maya stepped forward from the wood where they had been waiting. There were loud gasps of joy at their appearance. Maya was resplendent in a red silk gown glinting with thousands of crystal beads. Her black hair hung gleaming and thick down her back, and a small headdress of crystal, from which a red silk veil fluttered, highlighted her incredible beauty. She was struggling to stop herself from crying when she felt the genuine warmth and admiration directed at her from the circle of her new friends. Just for a moment, Maya thought of Diomonna, and then she brushed the memory away. She bit her lip in an attempt to control herself when she thought of how much Old Patricia and Ellie-Jane would have loved to witness this event. Then there was Emma . . .