Again, he addressed himself to me. “Has something indisposed Lord Holst?”
“He had to leave.”
“Of his own accord?”
“By his own power, out of necessity rather than preference.”
“And his head knight—Captain Nass, I believe—did not take his place?”
“There aren’t many qualified applicants for the position of Edenfield head knight, and Bo thought Torben more essentially placed where he was.”
“Ah.” He took in the room again, and I could guess a fraction of what he was thinking. For a prefect to assign someone aside from his head knight as temporary prefect was unorthodox and irregular though by no means unheard of; but Bo had no reputation as either unorthodox or irregular, and certainly not as the sort of man who handed over his prefecture to a total stranger without a very, very compelling reason. “I can see,” Sr. Nordfeld said sagely, “that there is much I do not yet know.”
“You bet there is,” Silvertip burst in, laughing. He only laughed harder at Sr. Nordfeld’s reproachfully raised eyebrow and downturned lips. Hemmel started to laugh with him, but stopped when no one else joined in.
“This is your demonologist, Avior?” Canopus asked, looking Sr. Nordfeld up and down with undisguised disdain. “He looks like an accountant.”
“He’s a cryptographer for the CSS,” said Lindo.
“Cryptanalyst,” Sr. Nordfeld and I corrected as one, and then grimaced at each other.
“Whatever,” Lindo said, waving this away.
Sr. Nordfeld looked pained. “I break ciphers, not design them.”
“Usually,” I muttered.
He inclined his head.
“Some cryptanalyst,” Silvertip jeered. “You never even figured out your assistant was Edenfield’s spy!”
Sr. Nordfeld nodded. “Mercedes is a puzzle to be reckoned with,” he said gravely. I bit my lip to hide my smile.
“Jon,” Avior said, stepping forward, “we are ready to begin the summoning immediately. Please tell my esteemed colleagues where we ought to hold it.”
“Careful,” I said; “we’ll judge you severely on your choice!”
“Shut up,” Canopus hissed in my ear.
I pressed my lips together and zipped them shut. A silly gesture by a prefect tickled pink by her own stupid joke.
Sr. Nordfeld pretended like he didn’t notice—or that if he did notice, my words were of no consequence whatsoever. The prefects couldn’t have known that he had only two modes: absolute concentration on the task at hand and absolute awareness of everything around him.
He really did look like an accountant, if you didn’t see his eyes. Or if you didn’t know what you were looking at, when you saw those eyes.
“The ideal location for a summoning depends on the design of the building,” Sr. Nordfeld explained in his most pompous manner. “I have not been here before, and am not familiar with the layout. I had planned,” he added, lips disapprovingly thin, “for Lindo Manor, not Edenfield. Perhaps Prefect Edenfield can tell me of potentially appropriate locations.” He focused on me again, frowning slightly, one professional to another. “We need an open space, large enough for the ten of us to form a comfortable standing circle. When possible, I prefer an atmospheric location. Any room will function in a pinch, but an ordinary one will make things more difficult and the outcome less certain. Does this manor have such a room? Perhaps an attic or a cellar?”
The prefects looked at me. I shrugged. “Both.” They kept looking, and Sr. Nordfeld motioned for me to continue, so I said, “I haven’t been in the basement, but I’ve smelled it, and it’s pretty rank and looks dark and creepy. The attic’s light and dusty. Either should have enough space.”
Sr. Nordfeld nodded. “We will try the cellar first; the atmosphere sounds more promising. If we find it is unsuitable, the attic it is. Please, Prefect Edenfield, lead the way.”
I led the way, noting the strategically located Lindo knights posted throughout my manor. Lindo collected half a dozen of them as we passed, and they fell in without a word. They knew the score.
As I observed this, I kept up a light conversation with Sr. Nordfeld—“Are you really a demonologist, Jon? Lucio said you were, but I couldn’t believe it.”
“I have many areas of interest.”
“I know, but this doesn’t seem quite . . . quite like you.”
He turned his face on me then, and I hoped it was for the benefit of the prefects that his expression turned alien and stark. “Edenfield’s spy,” he said, “why should I have shared my secrets with you?”
The basement entrance was right by my bedroom door. I hadn’t poked my head in since that first excursion, in the dead of night, to plant the spy equipment. Walls of dank air are not my friends, and have I mentioned that I hate basements? Because I hate basements.
I opened the door, and the stairwell breathed out cool, damp air, heavy and close. I switched on the light and got a good glimpse of what we were in for: concrete walls and stairs leading to more concrete below. The basement floor sprawled away from the stairs in every direction. Upon descending, I saw that the stairs themselves were not along the cliff but near the center of the manor. About twenty feet to our left, the wall was rough and rocky, having been blasted out of the hillside instead of poured.
The foundation was vast—much larger, I thought, than the ground floor of the manor. Whatever the intention for it had been, it clearly had never been fulfilled. Maybe I could thank the damp for that: damp stains crawled over broad concrete support pillars and clustered around their square bases. Brackish water bubbled and oozed through cracks and spread paper-thin and green-black over the floor. Low fluorescent ceiling lights flickered and buzzed over us, their sterile light splotched and speckled with grime. The basement should’ve been shadowy, but the dim, soft light bleached away light and dark and left only lifeless gray.
The atmosphere thickened as we walked. Sr. Nordfeld led now, footsteps echoing hollowly. Sweat blossomed beneath my blouse, irritating cuts and bruises. Batata sneezed.
At the far end of the basement, where two concrete walls met, we stopped. It was less damp here, away from the hill, and without as much standing water. Sr. Nordfeld hadn’t been leading us randomly past pillars; he’d followed the basement’s gentle slope to its highest point. Strange that said point was away from the hill rather than snugged tight against it, but I’m no architect.
“Here,” Sr. Nordfeld announced, voice bouncing flatly off concrete until water sucked it in.
“Check it,” Lindo ordered the half-dozen knights she’d gathered. They snapped off bows and immediately swarmed over the area, touching every surface, squinting at the concrete, poking at the cracks. They radiated outward from Sr. Nordfeld, methodical and professional.
“Hunting for smoke and mirrors?” Sr. Nordfeld suggested.
“For spy devices,” Avior said, disgusted. “Lindo’s paranoid.”
“I take it she searched you also?”
“No,” Lindo said, “Silvertip and Hemmel did. He wasn’t carrying anything, and you aren’t carrying anything, and it’s clear that my knights aren’t about to find anything. That leaves one final possibility.” She fixed me with a look, and the others followed suit.
I rolled my eyes. “Let me guess! You think I might have magically hoodwinked you and am secretly—gasp—working against you. Maybe I’m even a demon in disguise. Guess the only way to prove I don’t have horns is to give you a strip show à la Avior. Is that it?”
Batata cleared his throat and shifted from foot to foot. “Surely, Graça, that wouldn’t be necessary.”
“Especially in front of these perverts,” Canopus agreed. She smirked at me. “We women have to stick together. How about a pat down? No,” she told Lindo sharply. “I’ll do it.”
While I was submitting to Canopus digging through my jacket pockets and taking my phone away, Lindo’s knights returned.
Canopus pronounced me clean. “Not,” she added, �
�that you’re likely to stay that way down here. I’ll never be able to wear these shoes again.”
“I love suede, but it doesn’t last,” I commiserated.
“Anything?” Lindo asked her knights.
“No electronic devices down here except those we brought in, my lady,” replied the knight.
“Then go wait outside the door. And close it. Don’t let anyone in; this meeting is private.”
The knight bowed, gave her subordinates a brisk order, and they quick-marched out.
Sr. Nordfeld waited until he heard the thud of the closing door. Then he hitched up his wrinkled trousers, and squatted. Lindo’s knights had evidentially not taken everything from him, because he pulled a finger-sized piece of chalk from his inner jacket pocket and began drawing.
Sr. Nordfeld’s writing is, as a rule, immaculate. Chalk isn’t as easy to use precisely as a black liquid ink fine tip, and a dirty, uneven floor isn’t the ideal drawing surface, but he must’ve had some practice, because the end result was quite credible: a near-perfect circle six feet in diameter, with a nine-pointed star inside. Each of the star’s points protruded exactly three inches beyond the edge of the circle, and bore not a single break or waver anywhere. And he did all this without the benefit of a ruler or a compass.
While Sr. Nordfeld worked, and on his instruction, Avior directed us to stand around the circle, one at each point of the star. He commandeered the southernmost point of the star for himself and the space to his right for Fjordland.
Once we were arranged to his satisfaction, Avior accepted a bag from Sr. Nordfeld and went around giving out small plastic-wrapped packages. As he handed one to each prefect, he murmured something, and I was uncomfortably reminded of a minister handing out Communion bread with a benediction.
When Avior stopped at me, I stiffened at the unholy gleam in his eye, the ghastly sheen to his skin. These were not due to the dreadful fluorescents. “Thank you for standing in for Bo,” he said breathlessly. “I know you’ve had your doubts”—sure he did—“but there can be no more doubt after this.” He pressed the little package into my hand and moved on to Tey.
The package was soft, rubbery clear plastic, like the kind in which you get eyeglasses repair kits. Only, instead of a miniature screwdriver, there gleamed a sharp silver sewing needle nestled on a cotton pad.
“Didn’t you take these away from him?” Canopus was asking Lindo in an undertone.
“I’m not an idiot,” Lindo hissed back. “But, obviously, I had to give him back everything he said he needed for the summoning.”
Avior took his place at the head of the star, feet planted on either side of his point, toes nearly touching the circle. He jittered with excitement, eyes greedily upon Sr. Nordfeld’s every movement.
Sr. Nordfeld didn’t hurry as he finished drawing, pocketed the chalk, and dusted off his hands. You’d have thought he was perfectly calm, if you didn’t know him.
I desperately hoped he wasn’t counting on me to stand in for the demon. He must have another plan, I told myself. Sr. Nordfeld wasn’t a man to accept that he was going to fail, and there were other possibilities. He never had told me the extent of Cipher’s capabilities.
“The needles you hold are new and sanitary,” Sr. Nordfeld told us. “Use your needle to prick your skin and smear the blood on the cotton pad. This will be your offering. Once you’ve finished, toss your cotton into the center of the star, being careful not to smudge the chalk. After the summoning begins, do not pass the chalk lines. Drawing blood will be easier if you massage your hands first.”
He gave his instructions as if they were perfectly reasonable, and I found myself obeying almost before he’d finished. Most of the other prefects did the same; only Hemmel and Batata hesitated. Attack of Christian conscience over communing with demonic forces, however little they believed it would work? Squeamishness? Whatever delayed them, it didn’t last long.
I pricked my forefinger, dabbed the blood, and dropped the cotton pad as far into the center of the star as I could reach. I was careful not to step over the line of chalk, but Tey, who stood next to me, did so purposefully. He had enough respect not to smear the lines, but I saw his cynical, disbelieving smile as he turned back.
“Think Avior plans to blackmail us with our DNA?” Tey murmured to me when he saw me looking. “None of us can back out now!”
I was too dumbstruck to answer. DNA evidence! That was brilliant—if Sr. Nordfeld could get away with it. He didn’t know what I’d captured on the memory card, after all. But how was he going to work it? Did he expect me to do anything? Scoop up the cotton pads and make a run for it, maybe? No, no—that had too many variables. Sr. Nordfeld preferred definite outcomes.
“Is everyone ready?” Sr. Nordfeld asked.
“No,” Lindo said. “I don’t want you present for the summoning.”
Sr. Nordfeld gave her a tolerant look. “And how are you going to do the summoning without me?”
“He’s the last link,” Lindo told Avior. “I don’t want him here. He’s set us up, fine. Can’t you take over?”
Avior’s outrage gave way to pleasure in an instant. “That could work, couldn’t it?” he said to Sr. Nordfeld, vibrating with eagerness. “Tell me it will work. Tell me what I should do, and I’ll do it. Anything.”
Sr. Nordfeld’s eyes flickered to me and then, for good measure, across the other prefects. “As you wish,” he said, the lines radiating from his jaw announcing how unwise he thought this.
I suppressed another smile. Brilliant. Getting him out of sight so he could ready whatever he had planned—or, better, so he could go find the memory card from where he had instructed me to hide it. If he could manage to get past Lindo’s knights. . . .
With his accustomed unhurried movements, Sr. Nordfeld withdrew a small notebook from his jacket, and spent a half minute writing. Then he carefully tore out the page and handed it to Avior. “Be aware,” he warned, “that in my absence, I can guarantee nothing.”
“Then if it doesn’t work, we’ll try again with your help,” Avior said. “But this way first.”
Sr. Nordfeld never broke his disapproving frown as he nodded.
“Is that it?” Tey asked. “A drawing and a few words? I thought we were going to have to sacrifice a goat.”
Sr. Nordfeld turned his way, unruffled. “Not generally goats,” he said. “Kids sometimes, but never goats.”
“But there’s no sacrifice written on here,” Avior said, waving the piece of notebook paper. “Do I just say this? It’s so short! Isn’t there anything else?”
“There is a great deal else,” Sr. Nordfeld said, “but nothing I can convey in words save this: take care.”
“But this is easy,” Avior complained. “What did I need you for? You could’ve told me what to do at any time!”
“I collect my payment upon your satisfaction,” Sr. Nordfeld replied, “and so I wished to ensure you were satisfied.” He circled us, gathering plastic packets and used needles. “I will await your return in the room above. The conference room, I believe it’s called.”
He left then, without waiting for responses, and without hurrying. He walked with an even step—the soft, measured, steady way a confident man walks in expensive shoes.
Chapter 30:
Mutilation
Fluorescent lights droned, water gnawed at concrete, and the earth and manor weighed heavily upon subterranean air. In time, the black stains of water would deepen into cracks, and the foundation would crumble in on itself, pulling down the manor with it, crushing anyone beneath and smashing anyone above.
Standing under soft, dirty light, Prefect Avior’s unhealthy skin gained an extra sickly yellow, nearly as sick as the sheen over his eyes, the appalling eagerness. Holding the fragile notebook paper in both quavering hands, he read in a thick, panting voice:
“We have a deal for any who will
in fair exchange
for the fresh blood of we nine prefects
ba
rgain.”
He lowered the paper, gulping stale air. I closed my eyes to shut out the ugly concrete, but I couldn’t shut out the buzz, buzz, buzzing of the fluorescents or the damp crawling over my skin. I itched to act, to distract myself, to do something. But I wasn’t going to be Sr. Nordfeld’s demon. Not today.
When I opened my eyes again, the pillars swam. The white cotton pads in the center of the star seemed to glow—ghastly white and stained by specks of blood.
Pad-pat.
I swayed and blinked hard to clear the blur of my vision. The noise sounded dull on concrete—slow, purposeful. Pad-pat, pad-pat.
Footsteps, heavy on the floor, splashing through the shallow water. Not Sr. Nordfeld’s footsteps. I know his sound. I know exactly how he moves and how he doesn’t move—the energy and the stillness, the steepling of his fingers and the way he tries not to cross his legs, because crossing them crinkles his trousers.
Pad-pat. I shook my head and peered, but the pillars blocked my view and the soft light deceived me, skewed my depth perception. Knights? It did not sound like knights.
Pad-pat. Movement caught my eyes. It was a person, or at least person-shaped. Its long hair hung in wet straggles down to its waist, and its clothes trailed in ragged strips, half eaten away. With every step, the clothing writhed and spread, slithering down legs and arms and multiplying in ribbons like serpents.
I blinked, and the figure wore black military boots, black fatigues, and a snow-camouflage hunter’s vest covered in pockets. Sopping hair dried into coppery red and sprang up in magnificent curls. Then those curls crept up the scalp, pulling themselves into a tight ponytail.
The figure was tall, its head not quite brushing the lights. I knew it.
Water and mud sluiced from its fatigues and squelched from its shoes, splattering thickly upon the concrete. Beneath the red hair, its skin was loose and bone-white, blotched with mottled patches of brown, blue, and yellow. Small wriggling things like grains of living rice crept over and under the flesh. When the clothing had first formed, it had been fresh, crisp, and clean; but already mud and water seeped through and stained it. Beneath the vest, the swollen abdomen deflated as it passed me, and I saw the fingernails regrowing. As she stepped into the circle, the transformation completed itself. Theodora looked as she had when I’d first met her.
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