by Alex Gordon
The door of the main building opened as easily as it had before, as though operated by some invisible attendant. She rummaged through her kit for a screwdriver, then knelt on the floor and hunted for the telltale ridge that marked the doorway to the lower level. Probed and prodded until she found the catch, shoved the screwdriver home—
—and froze when she heard the front door open, the soft creak of footsteps on old wood plank.
I didn’t think she’d meet me in the open. Lauren stood, raised her hands in the air like a thief caught red-handed. She turned slowly toward the door, then stopped when she saw Jenny standing in the entry.
Jenny held her day pack the same way she had held her book of magic, before her like a shield, a defense against the madness that surrounded her. She sidled into the room, closed the door behind her. “So this is where the big bad wolf lives.”
Lauren struggled to keep her voice down. “How the hell did you get here?”
“I hid in the back of your Jeep. There was a blanket back there. I covered up.”
“Okay. So what the hell are you doing here?”
“There’s something I have to do.”
“What?”
“Never mind, just—”
“Dammit, Jen.” Lauren slipped the screwdriver out of the seam and let the panel close. “Is this about your grandfather?”
“Just leave me be, okay? This has nothing to do with you.”
“Did it ever occur to you that you could be screwing the rest of us right into the ground?”
“I’m just adding to the chaos. They won’t know who to attack first.”
“So they’ll just wipe out all of us.”
“Let me do this, Lauren. Leave me alone and let me do it. I don’t need a hand-holder. I’m not Nyssa, okay?”
Lauren took a closer look at Jenny’s day pack, and the bundle of what appeared to be twigs sticking out of the top. “What did you do?”
“There are fifteen spells that use rose thorns. I found the one I needed.”
Lauren looked the woman in the eye and held her gaze until she realized that Jenny would rather drop dead on the spot than look away first. “I just wish you’d have told me.” She knelt back on the floor, jammed the screwdriver back into place, and popped the latch.
“You’d have tried to talk me out of it.” Jenny hurried to the other side of the portal as it raised, and helped lock it into place. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I just know that I have to do it.”
Lauren managed a smile. “That’s the answer to the first question on the test.”
“Is it?”
“So far, you’re passing with flying colors. We’ll make a witch out of you yet.”
“I can’t wait.” Jenny set her foot on the top step, then looked up at Lauren. “Who goes first?”
“I think I better.” Lauren took a deep breath, then headed down.
The lights fizzled on as soon as Lauren set her foot on the floor. Jenny followed hard on her heels, then stopped and looked around.
“Do you think there are ghosts here? Of all the people who died?”
“I don’t think it worked that way for them.” Lauren sniffed the stale air, on the alert for the first hint of rot. “I think maybe they were sent somewhere humans don’t usually go, or—”
“Or?”
“Or nothing survived the testing.”
They headed down the long corridor that Lauren had walked with Nyssa the previous day. Jenny stopped in front of the menu board, then stood on tiptoe and pressed a finger to her grandfather’s name before moving on. The examination room seemed just as bleak, just as still, the tumbled furniture and dried smears on the window glass the only signs that something out of the ordinary had occurred.
“I’d like to find his office.” Jenny checked the room numbers as they continued down the corridor. “Just to see what it looked like.”
Lauren pulled out her phone, checked the time. Ten minutes gone. She would have expected Fernanda to meet her by now. “I have to keep going.”
“I get it. I understand.” Jenny started to walk in the opposite direction. Then she stopped. “Lauren?”
Lauren turned.
Elliot Rickard looked a little worse for wear than he had the previous day. His lab coat was still spattered with whatever had dripped after Lauren had slashed him, while his injured arm hung limply at his side.
“It’s you.” He frowned at her, then glanced at his clipboard. “Someone is waiting for you. She will call for you shortly.” He turned his attention to Jenny. “You’re not on—the—list.” His eyes narrowed, then widened. “I know—your face. I know—” He took a step forward. Another. “Linda?”
“No, that was Gramma.” Jenny’s voice shook. “I’m Lizzybet’s daughter.”
“Lizzybet?” Rickard nodded. “That’s my daughter’s name. Elizabeth. Her little cousin couldn’t pronounce it properly when he was little, and it became her nickname.”
“I’m her daughter, Jennifer.” Jenny’s voice steadied, grew chill. “I’m your granddaughter.”
Rickard blinked as through dazed. “How is my Linda?”
“She—” Jenny stopped. Breathed. “She’s gone. Earlier this year.” She walked to the thing that had once been a man until he let another man take it all away. “You did it, didn’t you? You reached her somehow through the mirror and she saw you and you were the last thing she ever wanted to see. So she killed herself so she wouldn’t see you anymore.” She paused, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “She knew, didn’t she? She found out what you did. What you were.”
Rickard looked down at his clipboard. At the floor. “I haven’t seen her in so long.”
“Did she know?”
“I want to see her.”
“Did she know?”
“Jen?” Lauren whispered, and hoped that Jenny heard. “Sometimes you never learn the truth.” Maybe the woman heard her. Or maybe she was so angry that the answer didn’t matter anymore.
“Grampa?” Jenny pulled her pack around so that she could reach the zipper. “You have to stop this. This isn’t right. You’re hurting people.”
Rickard drew up straight. “But we have to learn, dear girl. Learning is important. Building the pathway. Opening the door.”
“You can’t open this door. No one learns like this. They just hurt, and then they die, and it’s wrong.”
“Knowledge is important. We have to learn all we can—” Rickard stopped, shook his head. “I want to see Linda.”
“I can take you to the place where you can see her.” Jenny slipped the twig bundle out of her pack. “Hold on to this, Grampa.” She held out the bundle of thorns, which she’d wrapped in a rag so that she could hold them easily. “Take hold of it, and I’ll take you to see Gramma.”
Rickard shook his head. “I don’t understand—”
“Just do as I say.” Jenny smiled. “Please.”
The tainted remains of the man named Elliott Rickard hesitated. Then he reached out and took hold of the thorns.
“And now I’ll sing the song you two always loved. From Twelfth Night, remember, the song that Gramma made up to go with the words?” Jenny sang, the quiver returned to her voice. “O Mistress mine, where are you roaming? O stay and hear, your true-love’s waiting, that can sing both high and low; trip no further, pretty sweeting, journeys end in lovers’ meeting, every wise man’s daughter doth know.”
As she sang, Rickard rocked to and fro, a strange rumble emerging from his throat that Lauren realized was him trying to sing along. It rose in pitch and volume to a humming that vibrated in her head and set her teeth on edge.
As Rickard continued to hum, Jenny shook off his hand from the bundle of thorns. “This journey’s over, Grampa. No more meeting.” Then she raised the bundle, brought them down like a dagger, and stabbed him in the ribs.
Rickard screamed as his chest stove in and the gray mess that animated him spewed forth, splashing across Jenny, the walls, the floor.
He collapsed to his knees, stared up at Jenny with eyes gone round with shock and fear. Then he slumped forward and crumpled like a wad of paper set afire, his skin blackening and his body curling in on itself, until nothing remained but a pile of greasy ash from which streamed a thin line of noxious smoke.
Jenny stumbled against the far wall and vomited, then made frantic swipes at her face and arms, trying to wipe off Rickard’s effluent. Lauren rooted a rag out of her pack, then hurried over to her.
“Will this kill me? Will this hurt me?” Jenny grabbed the rag and wiped her mouth, her eyes. “It smells so bad—am I going to die?”
“Just don’t swallow it.” Lauren dug out a bottle of water and handed it to her. “Rinse and spit.”
Jenny flushed out her mouth, then used the rest of the water to wash her face. “Is it in my hair?”
“Yes. Just wipe it as best you can.” Lauren looked up and down the corridor. Fernanda must have heard Rickard’s howl, but so far there was no sign of her or any of her little charges. Maybe she doesn’t give a damn about Rickard. Or maybe she had seen through their ploy and had already attacked Carmody and the others.
“This stuff burns.” Jenny rolled up her sleeves so that places where the gray mess had soaked through wouldn’t touch her skin.
Lauren examined Rickard’s remains, which had started to solidify, or clot, or whatever the proper term was. “That wasn’t a nice spell, was it?”
Jenny concentrated on wiping away the mess. “It did what it had to.”
“Did it?” Lauren sniffed the air, but it was still so ripe with the stink of Rickard’s decay that she couldn’t have smelled one of the forest creatures if it stood right in front of her. “You need to get out now.”
Jenny kicked the sodden, filthy rag down the corridor. “I’ll stay with you.”
“No. You need to get out.”
“Why?”
“Weren’t you listening back at the house? Because they’re going to enclose Jericho in wards so strong that nothing can get in or out.”
“So what the hell are you doing here?”
Lauren lowered her voice. “I’m going to distract Fernanda so that they can set the wards. Now get out of here.”
“But then you—you’re committing suicide. Why?”
“I’ll manage.”
“How? No—”
“Get out now.” Lauren grabbed Jenny by the elbow and steered her down the corridor toward the steps. “Get out to the trail and look for them. Stay with them. Whatever happens here, don’t come back.”
“It’s not right.” Jenny struggled in Lauren’s grip, tried to break away. “You don’t have to die for me.”
“I’m not doing it for you or for anyone else here.” Lauren pushed Jenny halfway up the staircase, then climbed after her and herded her the rest of the way. “I’m doing it because this place needs to burn.” She prodded Jenny through the opening onto the floor above, then ducked out of her way when she tried to grab her and pull her along.
Jenny glared through the opening. “Damn you.”
“Get in line.” Lauren stayed out of reach as Jenny struggled to her feet, waited until she saw the woman bolt out the door, then backed down the stairway. Sensed movement out of the corner of her eye.
Turned, and found one of the Beelzebabies standing at the mouth of the corridor.
CHAPTER 28
Beelzebaby. Too cute, that name, too harmless-sounding for this thing that looked up at her now. Its bulbous black eyes lacked lids—the edges of the orbs had darkened to light tan and looked dried and cracked, like an old piece of cheese. The mossy substance that covered its body seemed to have a life of its own, color altering between light and dark as it emitted a thrumming sound. Like bees in a hive.
The thing tottered toward Lauren, and she backed up until she bumped into the staircase. She stopped, turned, and found another creature standing at the mouth of the next corridor, blocking her retreat.
What will they do if I run? Visions of Carmody vanishing beneath a pulsing mass of the things replayed in her head. And Kaster isn’t here to save me. She sidestepped around the staircase, pressed one hand to the wall, and felt . . . vibration, as though a generator or other machinery lay behind it. It’s powering the lights. Did it also keep the place warm, ventilated? Did it keep these things alive?
Was there a way to turn it off? She ran her hands over the surface, which felt rough to the touch even though it appeared smooth to the eye.
“Have you brought my daughter to me?”
Lauren looked back over her shoulder, and saw Fernanda Carmody standing next to the first creature. Her hand rested atop its head, ruffling the spiky black tuft of whatever grew there. She appeared older now than she had at the house, even older than she would have looked if she still lived. Hair streaked with gray as well as tangled with leaves and twigs, skin blotched and lined, eyes sunken. Her dress had darkened to brown with filth and damp, and clung to her bony frame.
“No.” Lauren paused to swallow as the smell hit her, poured into her nose and down her throat thick as liquid. No clean forest scents, no, this was charnel rot, the stink of graves. “I’ve come here to make sure that you don’t get your hands on her.”
“Ah.” Fernanda smiled, showing teeth as brown as her dress. “Do you love my husband, Lauren?”
Lauren shook her head. “No.”
“That much we have in common.” Fernanda chuckled, a wet sound like a loose cough. “Did he hire you to do this?”
“No. I wanted to help.”
“So you are doing this without pay.” Fernanda bent close to the creature’s ear hole. “See how blessed my husband is, that he can find people like her to clean up his messes. To die for him.”
“This isn’t about him. It isn’t about whatever happened between you. This is about Nyssa.” Lauren gestured around. “It’s about this place.”
“What about this place?”
“It needs to burn.”
“You came here to destroy my home?” Fernanda’s gaze settled on the blackened puddle. “Is that Elliott?”
“Yes.” Lauren reached into her pocket and pulled out the wooden block. “That’s what will happen to you.”
“You think so?” Fernanda shrugged. “He was just a worker. We have many workers.” She turned back to Lauren. “But there is only one mother. Only one queen.”
“And as the queen goes, so goes the hive.” Lauren covered the distance to Fernanda in three steps, grabbed hold of her, and pushed her against the wall.
Fernanda fought Lauren’s hold, raked her nails along her arms, tore the cloth of her shirt, and left stinging trails in her skin. Kicked and punched. Grabbed handfuls of her hair, and pulled.
Lauren’s leg burned. She looked down to find one of the creatures wrapped around her calf, mouth pressed to her knee. Another tottered to her other leg, grabbed and held on and bit and chewed and the heat moved under her skin, into her veins, coursed upward toward her heart. She focused on that agony, held it close, and sent it into the piece of wood that she held.
Fernanda howled. Her cries brought more creatures—they skittered across the floor and crawled along the walls and ceiling, climbed over their siblings and up Lauren’s body, rode her back and squeezed her neck with mossy arms, scratched with claws like needles along her face. Reached for her eyes.
More pain, like fire where her heart had been. Lauren sent it into the block. Every slash, every stab and drop of blood. Shook off one creature that held on to her arm, elbowed another.
Then one of the creatures on her back toppled off. The shift in weight freed her arms. She pushed forward, shoved the block between Fernanda’s teeth, and commanded all the agony and fear that it contained to come forth. The corridor darkened, the lights fizzing and flickering.
Fernanda screamed again and again.
Then Lauren joined her as the pain looped between them, the anguish building with every circuit from one to the other.
Then came the bol
t of light, the screams of the tortured dead.
Recoil. It hurled Lauren against the wall, sent the creatures that had attacked her tumbling like dice in all directions. Some scurried along the floor, the walls, and ceiling, stopped, toppled, twitched, and grew still. Others fell to the floor shuddering, legs kicking, the humming noise they emitted rising and falling in tone and pitch.
Lauren pushed herself into a sitting position. Her pants legs were torn, piebald with blood. One leg felt numb—she tried to bend it, and the muscles shuddered with cramp.
Then she looked down at her hand. It rested on the floor, the floor that felt soft and cold and damp. She pushed her fingers through the concrete, dug into it, brought up dirt and root and small stones.
“You will never leave here.” Fernanda slumped against the opposite wall. Her dress had torn and blood black as pitch dripped from cuts on her face, her arms, and legs. “So much work to be done. So much testing. And the ones who will work on you—they are not as nice as Elliott was. And I will watch and I will laugh and every scream will be music to me.” She pushed to her feet.
Lauren braced with her good leg and stood, leaned against the wall for support. Not much longer. Kaster and the others should have been able to set the wards by now. Or they’re dead. And if that proved the case? Go down fighting. “I can do this all day.”
“But what will you do tomorrow, and the next day, and the next?” Fernanda wiped whatever flowed from her mouth with the back of her hand and staggered toward Lauren, her remaining charges massing behind her. “You think if you keep fighting, you will die, but I won’t let you. Their father won’t let you. You will live until the sun burns to a cinder and your body will feed us all and your pain will be like wine—” She sprang.
Childbirth. Lauren kept her hands low, gripped Fernanda by the hips even as the woman reached for her face. Memory of pain, come forth.
Fernanda’s hands slid down Lauren’s cheeks to her shoulders as her back stiffened and her hips bucked and something milky flowed from her eyes. She staggered back again, then fell to one knee as around her, the walls rippled and darkened and roots poked through and worms emerged and fell writhing to the floor.