Taste came shortly after, and it was all heavy metal. That started bringing together fragmented memories of the fight, but he couldn’t remember being hit. A quick brush of his tongue found all of his teeth intact, so that was some small relief.
Feeling returned in a tingling wave next, and as sight had yet to arrive on the inbound sensory train, he instinctively moved to feel his surroundings. That’s when he realized he was sitting up, and his hands were tied to thin wooden slats like the arms of a dining chair. He attempted to shift his feet, but his ankles were tied as well.
Sound rushed in then, all at once, as though he had stepped out of a tunnel. Somewhere to his right was a tapping noise. It was quick, regular, the sound of water dripping on stone. There was wind outside; the rain must have picked up again. And there was the sound of two people talking quietly some distance away.
However, more frightening than all of the mysterious feelings and smells of this drippy, musty place was what Christopher heard behind him. Something was there, very close, and sensing its presence raised the hairs on the back of his neck. It issued some noise that, though soft and quiet, was altogether horrifying in its subtlety. It was something slithery, though not wet. Something that might have scales. A little at a time, at random intervals, whatever it was writhed just a bit. Just enough to be heard but not clearly identified.
It slid, and then stopped.
Silence.
It squirmed, and then stopped.
Silence.
Then there were three sets of three taps of something hard and sharp against something stony.
Tap tap tap. Silence. Tap tap tap. Silence. Tap tap tap.
Silence.
Christopher’s breathing started to tremble, but he quickly caught himself and forced it to regulate. He was the head guard of the High Palace of Chicane, not a little boy frightened of the dark. It was time to open his eyes and face whatever was waiting for him.
As his vision came into focus and he saw the two figures standing before him down here in the palace’s wine cellar, Christopher felt an absolute and undeniable certainty that he was going to die. With this epiphany, however, came not the fear that would be expected, but rather a resolution to inexorably bind any knowledge of Amelie to secrecy, as well as a prayer to God to give him the strength to do so, no matter what befell him.
Ahead of him and slightly to the right, leaning against a dusty wine rack, Cleric stood with his large arms crossed, staring intently back his way. At least, Christopher thought he was staring. Between the wide-brimmed hat that shadowed everything above his nose and the black bandana that was pulled up to his bottom lip, all he could make out was Cleric’s mouth, which was presently smirking amusedly at him.
Michael was dead ahead, but there was no guise of passive beguilement on his features. His posture was as stiff and perfect as the crease in his collar, and his face was drawn and severe. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, looking like an undertaker waiting a bit anxiously for his newest corpse. And Christopher knew that after he was done, this ghoul would set his sights back on Amelie, and then all of Chicane. He knew it was up to him to keep this man’s dark intentions from going any further than this very room.
But behind him, something writhed.
“Welcome back,” Michael said. “We were worried you’d sleep all night.” Oddly, his voice did sound slightly concerned.
“I feel like I could have,” Christopher replied, his voice relaxed, almost conversational. “What was in that dart, anyway?”
“Special concoction,” Cleric said with a touch of pride. “My own formulation. Even works on vampires.”
“Really?” Christopher said. “You made it yourself?”
“Mmmhmm. I like to dabble in chemistry.”
“Well, it’s good to have a hobby. I like to knit, personally. Scarves mostly. Thinking about making a sweater this winter though.”
“I know what you’re doing,” Michael interjected. “I’ve read about counter-interrogation techniques. First trick is to talk too much, not too little. Except this isn’t an interrogation.”
“Oh?” Christopher said, keeping up his carefree tone. “Well, if it’s a dinner party, you really need to work on the…”
Tap tap tap.
“…ambiance.”
Michael sighed and approached Christopher. For a moment, it looked as though he might come right up and stand over him, but at the last second his eyes flicked upwards, looked over Christopher’s shoulder at something behind him, and he stopped short about five feet away. “This is an offer,” he said, and brought his hands around to his front, clasping them together once more as though pleading with his prisoner. “A one-time offer, so I implore you to take it seriously.”
Christopher quirked a brow. “And what would that be?”
“If you tell me exactly what I need to know, I will not have to hand you over to Cleric here.”
“And I suppose you’ll have him torture me?” Christopher asked. “He looks like he might be good at it.” He actually heard Cleric chuckle at this.
“Lord, no!” Michael actually looked taken aback. “I would never wish such suffering on a human being!”
Christopher was in disbelief. “Are…are you insane? You tried to have Amelie killed hours ago, and I’m fairly certain you had Henrik assault Lord Lamoureux.”
“I am not insane,” Michael said curtly. Then, softer, almost regretfully, “Amelie and Richard’s deaths are an unfortunate but necessary sacrifice. I tried to arrange them to be as quick and painless as possible. Now, because of your interference, we have been forced into this equally unfortunate but equally necessary situation.”
“Necessary?” Christopher blurted. “How the fuck is any of this necessary?”
“It is God’s will,” Michael said, as though it was a fact as plain as the rise and fall of the sun.
“Jesus,” Christopher breathed. “I just thought this was all a power grab, but you really are insane.”
Michael lunged at him, grabbing his bound wrists and moving in so close their noses almost touched. “I am not insane!” he hissed. Christopher felt the right arm of the chair shift slightly with a creak.
“Michael,” Cleric said sternly.
Michael stared Christopher down a moment longer, then pushed off the chair—that armrest creaking again—to stand back up straight. He turned and walked a few steps away, retrieving Saint Monica from his pocket as he did. When he turned back around, he had regained his composure, but he rubbed that medal tightly between his fingers.
“I can only offer you mercy one last time,” Michael said. “Cooperate, and your passing will be without pain.”
“Go fuck yourself,” Christopher said.
Michael sighed. “I am sorry you have to become a casualty in all of this, Christopher. I know that we will meet again one day in heaven, and I pray that you will grant me your forgiveness when we do.” With that, he gave Cleric a single nod. “I will be in the chapel when you are finished,” he said, and headed for the stairs.
“You don’t want to stay and watch the next part?” Christopher called, but received no reply, save for Michael’s departing footsteps and the sound of the upstairs door opening and closing.
“Would you want to?” Cleric asked as he approached Christopher. He towered over him, arms crossed. “To be honest, I don’t really want to. I take no pleasure in it. A clean kill is a thing of beauty, but this…this sort of thing gets messy. I’d much rather avoid it altogether.” Then, in a move that seemed completely uncharacteristic of a man like him, Cleric lowered himself to one knee, as though he was going to address Christopher like a small child. He tipped back his hat, and Christopher found himself looking into a pair of crystal blue eyes surrounded by deep lines of age and framed by a few long strands of silvery hair. “Look, Christopher,” Cleric went on, “I know you’re only in this position because you did your job better and more loyally than your fellow guards. Truth be told, I think it’s a damn sham
e.”
“That makes two of us,” Christopher muttered.
“Which is why I’m going to give you one last shot at making the smart choice,” Cleric said. “Now, you think I’m going to put you through some kind of torture that you can resist, but that’s not the case at all. You see, you can either give the information I want freely and, in return, I will let you go as gently as if you were falling asleep.” He patted Christopher on the knee as if to accentuate this point. “Or,” his grip tightened considerably, “I can have the knowledge ripped out of your mind and you will, until your very last moments, suffer incomprehensibly. The decision is yours.”
Christopher seemed to genuinely consider this for quite a while. Cleric remained as he was, looking up at him patiently. Finally, Christopher nodded, took a slow, deep breath, then snapped the chair’s right armrest off at the support and swung its splintered end around in a tight arc towards the side of Cleric’s neck.
But something stopped his arm dead three inches from its target. Christopher felt momentary confusion as he realized Cleric hadn’t moved—hadn’t even flinched—so it was not him who had halted the attack. Then the confusion gave way to terror as he realized the hand holding his wrist was not Cleric’s…and it was not human.
Its skin was grey as steel, but matte and bumpy, irregular like the gnarled limbs of an old tree. Its hand, which had only three fingers and a thumb, was both enormous and as spindly as a bundle of sticks. Its fingers had to be five inches long and at the tip of each was a milky, razor-sharp claw that extended another six. Staring at it, Christopher realized then that, although its fingers were curled in a circle about his wrist, it wasn’t actually touching him. There was a two-inch gap between his skin and its palm, yet some unseen force inside the creature’s grasp was holding him. Then, as he watched, that invisible grip tightened. Christopher screamed as both the wooden armrest and the bones in his forearm splintered audibly.
“Christopher, since you seem so eager to choose the path of greatest resistance, I’d like you to meet my lovely pet: the Visgaer.” Standing, Cleric stepped back to give his monster room to work.
Allowing his eyes to move from the excruciating pain in his arm up to its source, Christopher felt his heart go cold and his stomach contort. Its dusky arms looked emaciated. Long and bony, they connected to a torso that was little more than canvas-like skin pulled taut against protruding ribs. Its only semblance of clothing were randomly intertwined white muslin strips wrapped mummy-like around its chest, abdomen, and shoulders; bound to its wrists and thighs; and covering its pubic area. As Christopher forced his gaze further upward, he found that its eyes, too, were covered in those bandages, but what was visible of its face left him with barely a grip by which to hold on to his sanity.
Its ears and nose appeared to be nothing more than concavities in its skull. It had nearly no hair, save for stringy strands of white that hung limply off various spots on its scalp. But more horrific than every other inch of the creature was its mouth. Its upper jaw was humanlike in structure, but its lower hung down and out nearly half a foot, coming to a bony point below its white, cracked lips. That whole mouth was lined with yellowy, curved fangs that dripped shimmering drool like something straight out of a child’s nightmare. Its tongue, black and pointed, wriggled inside, and though its mouth seemed to be a fixed width, Christopher could swear it was grinning at him.
“You see, Christopher, my pet has a few gifts,” Cleric explained. “Telekinesis is what’s got you by the arm there, but his real specialty is finding out what’s in people’s minds.”
“I won’t…tell you…” Christopher wheezed between panicked breaths.
“Oh, I know,” Cleric replied. “You’ve already made that abundantly clear. But the Visgaer here can read your memories. Unfortunately, he can’t do it from the outside with someone as resistant as you. He has to touch your mind…literally.” With that, he gave the Visgaer a nod, then added, “You can’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The grip on Christopher’s wrist tightened further, tearing open the flesh, revealing shattered bones underneath. He opened his mouth to scream, but the Visgaer’s other hand was suddenly hovering over his face and his throat sealed itself shut. He felt that unseen force push against him, tilting his head back. He tried to close his eyes, but they were willed open. He had to watch in petrified terror, tears streaming down his temples, as two of those long, sharp claws approached his eyes. They were the last thing he saw before a wet pop ushered darkness and indescribable pain into his world.
Christopher’s final moments were, as promised, filled with greater agony than he had ever known. In the midst of it, he regretted his loyalty to Amelie, but being only human, this was understandable. Somehow, he had the presence of mind to be glad that those second thoughts did not emerge until it was too late to act upon them. In his last conscious instant, he thought of Amelie in the orchard, bathed in sunlight. He thought maybe he loved her a little that day, and he prayed for that love to somehow keep her safe.
FOURTEEN
I
Atop the stairs that led to the second floor of the residence Alex once affectionately dubbed Moonshadow Manor, there was a long hallway with three doors on each side. To the left, the first was Alex’s bedroom, and the second and third were guest rooms, taken up by Lita and Amelie, respectively. There was a seventh door at the end of the hallway which opened to stairs leading to an expansive attic. On the right side of the hallway, in order, were Rain’s bedroom, his study, and finally a sizeable bathroom in which Alex and Amelie now stood.
Amelie shook her dripping hands off over the white basin of the sink before reaching for a hand towel that hung from a ring on the nearby wall. Looking around the bathroom for the fifth time, she was still impressed by its size and construction. It wasn’t the largest bathroom she’d ever been in by any means—there was one in the palace better than twice this size—but it was certainly the grandest she’d ever seen in a private residence. “I still can’t believe your brother built this all on his own,” she said, looking to Alex, who was lounging with his back against the door frame, staring up with no real focus at the break between hallway and bathroom ceilings.
He shrugged. “Most places are built on a deadline. Rain took his time. Years of it. If there’s one thing he has no shortage of, it’s time.” He looked to her, and couldn’t help smiling at the sight of her in the simple white tunic and loose-fitting grey knit pants he had offered her as sleepwear, articles of clothing he had outgrown some time ago. The sight was humorous: a princess, for all intents and purposes, dressed in clothes he had all but discarded himself.
Amelie blushed a touch under his gaze. She also felt funny in these clothes, though not because they were common; she was not nearly that petty. Rather, she felt a strange sort of dizzying tingle at the thought of a young man’s clothes touching so intimately against her skin. A young man whose eyes were enrapturing her in steadily increasing measures. She cleared her throat and inquired further about the house, too nervous to speak of anything more daring. “I’m curious though, if he built this house for himself—before you returned, that is—why make it so large? Why put in heating and toilets, this mirror, things he didn’t need? He doesn’t seem the sort to entertain guests.”
Alex blinked, opened his mouth, and then closed it again. His brow furrowed. In three years he had never thought to ask those questions himself. He opened his mouth once more, but jerked his head toward the sound of footsteps cresting the stairs and beginning down the hall.
From the footfalls, Amelie knew who was coming. From the way Alex’s face brightened as he looked down the hall—the same way she had been looking at him moments ago—she immediately knew that any affection she felt for him was presently unrequited.
Stopping at the door of the room she had been put up in, Lita looked down the hall towards Alex. “Goodnight, kids,” she said, able to see a bit of Amelie’s reflection in the bathroom mirror.
Alex glared as his f
lat “goodnight” and Amelie’s polite one interlaced with slight asynchronicity. Even from here, Lita could see his face flush before she slipped inside her room and shut the door behind her.
Alex sighed and returned his attention to Amelie. Her gaze had dropped to her hands, where she was clicking her left thumbnail on that of her right index finger. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?” he asked.
Amelie shook her head. “Nothing important, really.” Stifling a genuine yawn, she added, “I’m sleepy though. I think it’s time to turn in.” She looked back up to him, her eyes betraying a hint of sadness. Alex nodded and took a step back into the hallway, and when she passed she paused just long enough to touch his shoulder softly and give him a strange little sympathetic smile. Then she headed to her door, stopping only to say, “Goodnight, Alex. And thank you again, for everything.”
“G’night, Amelie,” he said, then puzzled over that smile as she disappeared into her room. For some reason it had reminded him of when the parish priest had come to him and Rain to tell them their mother had been killed. It had been a long time ago, but Alex remembered that gaze as clearly as he recalled the downpour that had been hammering on the living room window and the way he had been bouncing Rain on his knee, the year-old boy oblivious to how much their lives had just been ripped inside out. That look…it had been one of knowing, of predetermined sympathy for events that had yet to transpire. But why, he wondered, would Amelie have regarded him in that way? He filed it away for later and went to his own bedroom, planning to read a little before dawn broke and he allowed sleep to take its inevitable hold.
II
Though he had been sitting for some time, Rain rose spryly from his chair as if he’d only been there a moment. One of the nice physical advantages of being the creature he happened to be was that his muscles never truly reached a state of relaxation. He could sit comfortably in a chair or lie in a bed and feel at ease, but the moment he needed to vault from his position he could always do so on a whim. There were no creaks or groans, no extremities falling asleep. He was always ready to kill.
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