by Tony LaRocca
Theresa’s soul had been impossible to understand, unlike the others. He had been able to extract Matthew’s bizarre, fractal glyph from hers, but it too had been beyond his comprehension. Only one thing was clear: she was an Abomination. He had no clue how she had infiltrated the Church of the Ophanim, but there was no doubt that her loyalties belonged to the enemy.
And still, Abbot Dinah always rubbed my nose in how much better than me she was, he thought, just like I was a fucking dog.
He then took her Sands, and sprinkled them throughout the subterranean halls, amidst the bodies, the moss, and the scum–covered puddles. He had spread them as thinly as he could upon the soil that lay between the missing stones, and on the roots that wove through their crumbling grout.
Then, with her distributed throughout the twisted labyrinth of the crypt, he had let loose his wasps, and sung.
Not only was his defilement of her body an excommunicable sin, it was also cruel. But he had felt cruel. He had trusted her. He had believed in her as a true sister of the Church, and she had turned out to be a Cyleb of NorMec. Why else was she here, if not to sabotage his great work? She had deserved cruelty, but still, he could not help feeling shame. He had never wanted to hurt anyone, he had only wanted to heal.
Her flesh and organs had reformed as a gossamer membrane that stretched across the acres of cobblestones and corpses. Her thread–thin muscles had intertwined with the jumbles of vines and roots, the fine mist of her blood seeping into the soil. Her bones had coated the alcoves’ mummified remains in a smear of calcium that was thinner than an eggshell.
And then, within his mind, her glyph had screamed.
The psychogenic cry had dug its claws into his brain, shredding his perceptions into garbled nonsense. The stench within the air had burned his eyes with its brilliant flames. The colors and shadows had screeched into his ears, wailing a gibbering nonsense that bore into his skull. Every echoing drip of water from the depths of the tunnels had burned his arms and legs like acid. His world had become a sensual gauntlet of pain and confusion. Trying to find the walls by touch had only filled his sinuses with the dizzying stench of bleach. He had no idea how long he had run through the torturous catacombs, whether it was for hours, or days. He remembered finding a blessed swatch of blackness that was the scent of fresher air, and following it back to the cellar. Once he was free of the labyrinth of her detritus, his attack of synesthesia had receded. He had collapsed onto the cement, and sealed the wall behind him.
But when he had returned with Matthew, the door of roots had been waiting for them.
I should have just killed her when I had the chance, he thought. She’s a saboteur, sent by NorMec. Not only did she steal my children, she somehow summoned the Magistrate as well. She deserved to suffer, both her and her mercenary friend.
From somewhere in the maze, he heard a choked, gasping sob. It was Sister Theresa, it had to be. He touched the swollen sacs within his neck. His children throbbed beneath his skin as they fed. He blew out a sigh from between his lips, and swung the heavy flashlight back and forth. He stood, and examined the crypt.
The mummified corpses were now twisted skeletons shrouded in charcoal. There was no ivy or moss, only soot that covered every stone and brick. He walked the length of the burial chamber until he reached the blackened door at its far end. He put his ear to it. The faint sound of weeping came from the other side. He held his flashlight at the ready, turned the latch, and yanked it open.
A child was lying on the cobblestones. Her hands clutched her knees to her chest. She shook, as if having a seizure. A glowing fog hovered in the ceiling, illuminating the corridor. He knelt to examine her face.
It was Tish, though not as he remembered her. Her features were a mish–mash of the chubby little girl that she had been before the Shadows, and the perfection that he had tried to help her realize. He looked down at her hands. One of them had become a misshapen, blistered stump. Lines of green and white streaked her skin, surrounded by tiny red forks of inflammation. She raised her head a few inches, and tried to open her eyes.
“Tish?” he asked. “What happened here?”
Her lips parted. Row upon row of dark, filthy teeth lined the insides of her cheeks. No, he realized, not teeth, thorns. A moan of pain escaped from the back of her throat.
“It’s okay,” he said, “don’t try to speak.” He stroked her sweaty, feverish brow. “Just rest.” He got to his feet, and walked to the edge of the corridor.
An entwined mass of roots blanketed the cobblestones. They had knotted around and through each other to create a solid, woven floor. They snaked up the walls and disappeared into the misty ceiling, transforming the hallway into a tunnel of gnarled bark.
The ticking hum of wasps sounded from within the wood, but their drone was discordant, their song out of tune with his own.
These children were not his, not anymore.
He stood at the mouth of the living passage, and rubbed his neck. He dared not step inside. If he entered, the roots would surely crush and smother him, impaling his organs upon his shattered bones.
“Where are you?” he called out. His voice echoed throughout the catacombs. “Show yourself, Theresa. This is the end, for us.”
The bark–covered floor bucked and writhed, like waves on the ocean. “You can’t hide forever,” he said. “Come out here. I know you want —”
A thin, thorny vine shot down from the luminescent mist, and lashed his face. He sprawled to the cobblestones, his cheek slashed to the bone. Another tore itself from the wall, and whipped his shoulders. He cried out, and scampered back to where Tish lay.
She looked up at him through gunk–coated eyes as he fought to regain his composure. He held his hand to his face, and bit back a cry of pain. He clamped his teeth down on his lower lip. Agony flared through his shoulder blades. He could feel blood seeping along the length of his cloak. He clenched his fists, and looked down at the shivering girl.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I need my children.”
She buried her chlorophyll–laced face in the crook of her arm, and whimpered. He ran a hand through her hair. “I’ll make it as quick as I can,” he said as the mouths on his neck parted. “I really am sorry. You’re innocent —”
Roots flew through the air like bark–covered cobras. He raised his arms to protect himself, but he was not their target. Instead, they wrapped themselves around the girl, and whisked her into the haven of their tunnel.
He laughed. It came out as a sickened, painful choke that degenerated into sobs. “Don’t you get it?” he asked. “The Magistrate is here. I don’t know what deal you made, but do you really think that he’ll find either of you pure? You’re a manipulative, hypocritical, Abomination whore. He’ll rip you apart.” He swung the beam of the flashlight towards Tish. The tree wove its tendrils around her, cocooning her within their wood. He laughed again, barking out a chortling, high–pitched giggle. “Do you think I want this? Do you think I would do it if there were any other way? Give me back my children, and I won’t even need hers. I have no need to harm you, Theresa, I promise to let you be. The ones that you stole may be enough to stop him. Just give them back.”
As quick as lightning, another tendril flew from the fog, and wrapped itself around his neck. He choked, unable to breathe. He dug his fingers beneath the root, and pulled with all of his strength. He managed to tear it away a few precious inches. He sucked greedily at the air, and sang.
His recovering children swarmed to the flashlight, faster than even he had thought they would be able. They devoured its innards within seconds, and spat them out reconstructed. Then they returned to the folds of his body, and suckled him once more. He bared his teeth in a grin of fury, and flicked on the lamp.
A brilliant white welding arc ignited at the end of the aluminum tube. He swung it up, and jabbed it against her floral noose. Its bark popped and fizzled as it burst into flame. Another root shot from the floor, and whipped around the first. He
heard his finger bones snap as together, they crushed his hand against his windpipe. He shook as he raised the incendiary torch to it as well. He could feel its rough, knotted surface digging into his vertebrae as black spots exploded before his eyes.
Three ascending chimes, accompanied by the smell of burning pork, filled the air. A rush of energy slammed against him from behind, flinging him and Theresa’s strangling, smoldering roots to the floor. Her wooden serpents, blackened and charred, untangled themselves from his throat. Asher pushed himself to his knees as he hacked and gasped. He raised his eyes towards the source of the blast.
The charred crypt had vanished, leaving behind a perfect, featureless sphere of gray. A tall, muscular man stood at its center, his midnight limbs streaked with rivulets of lilac. Asher immediately stared at the ground. His lacerated cheeks flushed in anger and humiliation as he basked in the Magistrate’s smoky glow. He sputtered and gagged as he clutched at the raw, bruised flesh of his neck. My children, he thought, as he patted his sacs. Did she harm my children?
“Here you are,” sang the Chosen Prince in a basso profundo that resonated within every root and brick. He stepped from the smooth hemisphere of the crypt’s reformatted floor, and onto the cobblestones. “So much corruption, Brother Asher. So much filth and impurity.”
“Please,” said Asher, his voice a grating wheeze. He burst into a coughing fit. “Please, I can fix it.”
“No, you cannot. You have shown that you cannot. We had hoped you would be ready for greater truths, but see now that that hope was misplaced.”
“No.”
“This was the proving ground for our holy war. This city means nothing, Brother. These Sands mean nothing. You are not the first resurrector of San Domenico, and you will not be the last.”
Asher tried to swallow, but his throat felt as if it had been slashed by razors. “I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t. You lack discipline and control. You have ambition, but your emotions run away from you. Perhaps, in time, you can be redeemed. Perhaps, but personally, I don’t think so. Come here. You must atone for your sins.”
“No,” Asher said. He gasped in agony as he fought back tears. “This is my city. I’m the only one who can save it. It’s all in here, it’s only in my head.”
“This city is nothing. Her people are nothing. The only thing that matters is the battle ahead. Come along.”
Asher swung his head from side to side. “Wait,” he said, “you don’t understand. It wasn’t my fault, it was Sister Theresa. She’s an —”
Fingers of ice twisted and squeezed his intestines. He fell flat upon the cobblestones, dropping his aluminum torch. He writhed, his broken fingers clutching at his waist.
“I believe the phrase is, ‘Upon thy belly shalt thou go.’ I’ve always been a fan of the classics.” The Magistrate crooked his finger. “Come here, Brother.”
Asher’s arms and legs worked on their own. He squirmed across the soot–covered bricks until his face was pressed against the Chosen Prince’s midnight feet. Up close, he saw that the man’s flesh was armored in a fine mesh of scales.
“Kiss them,” said the Magistrate. “Lick them, for your penance.”
Asher’s mouth obeyed, its muscles beyond his control.
“Now, beg forgiveness for your heresy.”
“I’m sorry,” Asher moaned. It felt as if the hands of a sadistic puppeteer were mauling his lips and tongue. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“See?” A smile resonated within the Magistrate’s deep, velvety tones. “That was not so difficult.” The invisible claws within Asher’s torso let go. He raised his trembling eyes as high as he dared. He could just see the Magistrate’s spread fingers, outlined in violet flame. “But your soul is corrupt, just like the rest. You will be reformatted. Such a waste.” The hum of electricity filled the air as the man held out his hand.
Asher screamed the song of his children, crying with so much force that the words came out in a spray of blood. His wasps shot from his neck to the Magistrate’s fingers, and devoured them.
The man lurched back in surprise, staring at his pitch–black stump. The tiny swarm dove upon his forehead, and bore a tunnel between his smoking eyes. A moment later, they erupted from the other side of his skull. A whistling roar, mixed with static, filled the corridor as the muscular giant collapsed to the floor.
With an echoing ping, a circle of silver, etched with runes, fell to the cobblestones.
Asher pushed his knees beneath him as his children returned to their subdermal cells. He took a deep breath, and forced himself to stand.
He reached up to his neck, and stroked his distended sacs. Something about them felt wrong. His wasps were so hot that they almost burned the inside of his skin. Had the brains of the Magistrate harmed them, somehow? He staggered to the corpse, and kicked it. It did not move. He turned it over with his foot, and gazed upon its forbidden face.
The Chosen Prince’s jaw was square and heavy, his cheeks high and pronounced. He had no eyes, just two empty, smoking holes. The scales that covered his skin glistened in the white flame of the torch. They looked as if they had been scraped from obsidian. The once glowing, violet rents in his flesh had faded to a pinkish gray. They reminded Asher of the blubbery fat of a raw, spoiled fish.
He bent, and picked up his torch. He looked back down the tunnel. The roots that had strangled him were charred, their knots smoking white coals fringed with glowing rings of scarlet. He coughed, and something wet dribbled down his chin. He wiped it with the back of his broken hand.
He smiled.
“Now,” he said, his voice a croaking whisper, “where were we?”
He hacked again, bringing up something into the palm of his hand. He grimaced, and examined the glob that he had coughed onto his puffy, swollen fingers.
His mucus shone with a flickering purple glow.
He reeled with a sudden attack of vertigo, as if the passageway had tilted a few degrees to its side. His aching stomach flopped as his eyes rolled in his head. He choked, and spat again. Something wet and violet hit the floor. The room spun. It felt as if a balloon were inflating inside of his skull, pressing against his sinuses with mounting pressure. He could feel tiny fingers poking out from its surface, and into his eye sockets. They pushed and prodded as they grew, causing his eyes to bulge.
They were looking for a way out.
“No,” he said. “No, please…”
The whites of his eyes began to sizzle and pop. They smelled like bacon. He fell to his knees, and clutched his face. The incendiary flashlight, forgotten, rolled to the edge of the woven root floor, and set its bark aflame.
Tish lay within Theresa’s protective wooden shell, her arms wrapped around her chest. It was hard to breathe. Although it was dark, she squeezed her eyes so tight that they hurt. Her world had become like the Scramble–Whip at the fair. Everything and everyone just seemed to whiz by in flashing lights, blinding colors, and screams. First the tree, then the woman who had turned her into a plant, then Matthew, and then her hand… She just wanted it all to end. She wanted to be safe. She wanted her mommy and daddy — but why weren’t they here?
She had heard the words of the man with the deep, booming voice. They had come from inside of her head and the wood that surrounded her, but she had not heard Brother Asher’s replies. None of it meant anything to her anymore. It was all just more flashing, spinning lights. She just wanted to be somewhere safe, warm, and in the sun.
Without warning, the roots unraveled, and spilled her to the ground. She watched as they tried to distance themselves from the fiery flashlight, but it was too late. They burst into flames, their bark smoking and black.
Tish blinked as she stared dumbfounded at the conflagration. Then, as if a toggle had flipped inside of her mind, she realized what she had to do. She dove for the aluminum torch, and snatched it up off of the ground. She tried to turn it off, but its switch had jammed. She spun around, and threw it as hard a
s she could towards the empty gray bowl that had once been the crypt.
The crown, said a woman’s voice from inside her head. She looked up. It was the voice of the tree, she was certain of it. Don’t worry about me, get the crown.
Tish looked at the metal ring that glistened on the cobblestones, then back at the flaming roots. On some level she understood what the tree had said, but at the same time, she was terrified of letting it be hurt. The tree was good. Like Matthew, it had tried to help her as much as it could. She could not let it burn. She peered into the smoke. There must be a puddle of water somewhere, or maybe a pile of sand, or —
A root whipped around her stomach. It yanked her into the air, and dropped her in front of the dead giant. Brother Asher knelt on the other side of the midnight–colored body, groaning and coughing. His lips and eyes were bubbling and turning black, like burnt sausages. She looked away.
Why aren’t you listening, you dipshit? the tree shouted inside of her mind. Get the crown!
Embarrassed and flustered, Tish picked up the metallic circle. It was thin, but strong, hard, and cool. It felt like glass. Its color was silver, but at the same time, it seemed to absorb the light. Large, frilly letters decorated its outer edge. They reminded her of script, but she could not understand what they said. Its smooth surface tingled her fingers, as if it held an electric charge.
Put it on.
Tish heard a gargling, choking noise. She raised her head, and stared at Brother Asher. He was barfing. Smoking, fiery globs of purple grease spewed from his lips, and onto the floor. They splattered on the black, scaly corpse, causing it to burst into flames. The stink of throw–up and cooking meat made her retch. The monk turned towards her, and stretched out his hand.
“Mine,” he said, coughing out the word. He straightened. Dark bruises covered his neck, and a gaping wound marred his cheek. It bled violet smoke. He reached across the corpse, and tried to snatch the crown from her hands. She spun away, and ran towards the burning flashlight. She stopped, and looked back at the tunnel of flaming roots. Was the tree in pain? It had to be.