by Amber Benson
Lizbeth let the woman pull her away from the crowd and lead her over to a small red Ford minibus that was idling nearby. She could see that inside the minibus were more ladies kitted out against the blustery October night in light beige trench coats and dark sweaters. Lizbeth almost laughed when she saw they were all wearing fedoras.
It’s as if they think they’re in a spy novel, Lizbeth thought—but instead she said:
“How did you know who to look for?”
“Your aura. Could see it a mile away,” the woman leading her said, smiling again to reveal yellow smoker’s teeth. “We all could. Now come along, you. It’s only getting colder and darker—and the blood moon won’t wait for no one.”
She stopped midstride and held out her hand.
“Sorry, that’s rude of me. I’m Patsy Louise Kendrick”—Lizbeth couldn’t help but shake Patsy’s hand—“and that there’s a minibus full of my Slough coven.”
So Lizbeth had gotten into the little red minibus full of very chatty British women. They’d used the whole two-hour-forty-eight-minute ride to regale her with stories of how much Slough was changing, and how one day soon it might be a part of London proper instead of a less desirable suburb. As they talked, Lizbeth let her gaze stray to the minibus window. It was so dark out that she had a hard time seeing the landscape as it passed her by, but here and there she could make out quaint little villages, isolated houses and farms, and long stretches of empty green.
“Marie-Faith let a few of us trusted ones know that you existed. We knew you were American, but not which part of the country or who was taking care of you.”
This was Pernilla, a short bulldog of a woman in her late fifties who smelled of crushed mugwort—which Lizbeth took to mean that she was the coven’s herbalist. She was sitting closest to Lizbeth, and the brim of her fedora had made it difficult for her to see Lizbeth as she talked, so she’d taken it off and set it on her lap.
“We aren’t the only ones,” Pernilla continued, caressing the top of the fedora as if she were petting a cat. “There are others out there and we will all be waiting below for you, a line of blood sisters there to lend to you whatever powers we possess.”
Lizbeth was grateful for these women, out of their element, scared and uncertain just like she was—but still they’d come for her, come to be a part of something bigger than themselves.
* * *
Lizbeth stared up at the towering monolith of rock, the sky a tumultuous dark cloud that seemed hell-bent on spilling rain. It would make the climb she was about to attempt even more arduous.
She was scared and alone—though there was a ring of power waiting beneath her if she only called for it—but she tried to ignore the fear gnawing at the pit of her stomach. The others were with her in her heart . . . and they were thinking of her. Sending their love to her in these dark hours. She could feel it. She didn’t know where exactly they were, but she knew that she had to keep moving forward or everything they’d sacrificed would be in vain.
She couldn’t think of her blood sisters without tears filling her eyes. She felt no different than the great storm cloud above her, and then, as if Mother Nature could feel her pain, the clouds split open and delicate drops of rain fell upon her.
She is crying with me, Lizbeth thought. Of course Mother Nature knows what it means to mourn alone and she can’t bear to watch.
She stopped thinking, stopped letting the fear take over, stopped feeling alone . . . because she wasn’t anymore. Something greater than her, something elemental, was at her side, had been given as a gift by Francesca and Marie-Faith. The power of all the Dream Keepers, even the ones she and Daniela had rescued, was inside her.
She grabbed the first rung of the ladder and began to pull herself up the sheer rock face. Her palms and fingers hurt as she looped them around the wood. The higher she climbed, the more her skin began to blister, becoming raw and bloody, the flesh burning.
For some reason, she decided she wouldn’t shed another tear—and she let the rainwater, which was now more of a downpour than a trickle, wash them away. She felt exhausted by her task. The sheer physical effort needed to climb the hundred-and-fifty-foot ladder was daunting. She wasn’t small and compact; she was large and ungainly, and she was carrying all the height and weight of a giant’s body with her as she climbed.
Her heart beat harder the farther she ascended, and her breathing came in ragged huffs that made her chest hurt. She was soaked, the rainwater plastering her russet hair to her face and scalp. She was forced to pause every few feet to push the wet strands out of her eyes, and the green leather jacket she’d bought at the airport did nothing to stop the deluge of rain from chilling her to the bone. Her sweater and jeans were soaked, and the thick woolen socks inside her hiking boots (another airport purchase) squelched with every rung higher she climbed.
I should find this view spectacular, she thought as a few rays of light broke through the clouds, illuminating the mountains that surrounded her. I’m not afraid of heights. I should pause and take it all in. I may never be in this place again.
She wished she were just a tourist, that she could stop, but every second counted. She had to reach the top of the rock pillar, had to be standing by the base of this celestial lightning rod when the blood moon crossed its meridian. Only then could the word reach the rest of the world; only then could The Flood be stopped.
So onward she climbed, letting the rain lash her skin like a cat-o’-nine-tails. She ignored the breathtaking views of the luxuriant green mountains that surrounded the Rock of Astarte. Kept her eyes on each successive rung as she scaled the tall wooden ladder by nothing more than sheer dint of will.
She imagined a village of women cutting and stripping the wooden boughs of a great birch tree, lashing together the rungs and side rails with hand-woven rope. She felt their energy, their strength flooding into her, urging her upward even as exhaustion made the task seem impossible.
She was halfway up the ladder when her right hand grasped a broken rung, and it snapped in half. Her arm flew away from the ladder, her hand still wrapped around the now useless piece of wood. The other half of the rung fell away from the rock face and disappeared into the darkness, cracking against the pillar as it fell to Earth. She stared at her hand, at the piece of ruined wood, and then instinct kicked in and she dropped it, letting it join its other half on the long descent to the ground.
She still possessed a good grip with her left hand, but the muscles were starting to shake. She looked upward, saw that the next unbroken rung was within her grasp, and reached out her right hand, her whole body stretching as she tried to catch hold of it. Her raw hands protested, but then her fingers slipped around the solid wooden rung, and she choked back a sob of relief.
She thought back to the Slough coven as she thrust her arms forward again, grasping onto the next unbroken rung and the next and the next, pulling herself up into the clouds.
She reached the edge of the cliff and used a rope handhold to drag her body up and over the side, where she lay panting on the ground, exhaustion flooding through her body and begging her to stop. If she thought she’d been tired before, this added a whole new level of fatigue to her repertoire. She closed her eyes, letting the cold air fill her nose and lungs, and then she opened them again, slowly, wishing she were back in her own bed in Echo Park.
She rolled over on her stomach and crawled to her feet, ignoring the cold and wet as it blew against her, peppering her face with condensation. She looked around and saw a lone church at the edge of the rock. It was a Gothic structure made of red stone and it looked menacing in the darkness—but it wasn’t why she was here. Something else that lived atop this rock was her goal, and she needed to find it before the blood moon reached the meridian and revealed itself.
Only then could it be seen.
And only for five minutes.
This was her tiny window, and if s
he missed it, all would be lost.
She walked across the rock island, which to her resembled a magical castle in the sky surrounded by a moat of cloudy gray, and easily found the set of standing stones she’d been looking for. There were five of them embedded in the Earth, each signifying one of the blood sisters’ five magical powers. In the middle of the ring of stones was a small depression in the ground, and this was where she was supposed to be standing when the blood moon crossed the meridian.
This was where everything that Francesca had poured inside her would finally be released.
She walked over to the stones, marveling at how small they were—barely reaching her thighs—and then stepped in between them. She threw her head back and looked up at the sky, the wind buffeting against her.
That was when she heard the sound of a helicopter approaching.
Lyse
Time was a sieve and the hours of Lyse’s life poured through it as slowly as blackstrap molasses drizzled from a spoon. Hours of trying to extract herself from a very bad situation had, at least, whiled away some of the time she’d been trapped inside the sterile metal room. Treated like an animal, caged and alone, she’d felt her anger swelling to a fever pitch. But then it had ebbed away as she’d tried—and failed—to free her arms from their bindings, getting nothing but raw and bloody wrists and a massive headache for her troubles.
When she was focused on something, Lyse worked with a single-mindedness that was unsettling. All she could see was the task at hand. But now she was done trying to get away—exhaustion clogged her brain and made it impossible to focus. Instead, she stared at the unblinking glow of the overhead bulb and the long shadows it cast along the sharp edges of the metal table in front of her.
There was so much information to parse through; so many things had happened in the last forty-eight hours that she felt overwhelmed. She worried about Daniela and Lizbeth, about Dev and the girls left alone in Echo Park . . . and she had no idea where Arrabelle was—hopefully out bringing others to their side in case everything else failed. And then there she was, trapped in an interrogation room, alone with her thoughts . . . thoughts she didn’t want to deal with.
Weir.
No, she wouldn’t go there. Couldn’t go there.
She heard the sound of a latch being undone, and then the heavy door slid open. It was a welcome distraction from the misery of her thoughts.
She looked up, eyes searching the darkness for her visitor. It was the mutilated woman. The one who’d brought her water. Only now she carried a tray laden with food: baked salmon, a salad, steamed green beans, and coffee.
Obviously they didn’t want to starve her to death . . . they were just putting her on a diet.
Her first inclination was to refuse the food, to tell the woman to throw it all away, that she wouldn’t eat it. But now that they were finally deigning to bring her something, she found herself ravenous—making it difficult to refuse the food on principle alone.
Her stomach growled.
“I wish I could tell you to take the food and shove it,” Lyse said, eyeing the pink salmon, her mouth watering.
—Eat. You’re starving.
The woman’s voice came into her head, unbidden. The same telepathy as before. But she was right. Lyse had no idea how long it had been since she last ate. The only meal she could remember eating was a sandwich she’d shared with Daniela in Rome before they’d gone into the catacombs. The panini was a mere memory, and she’d been running on its fumes for God knew how long.
The woman set the tray down on the table in front of Lyse, and without thinking, Lyse reached for the utensils. She grimaced in pain as the restraints caught her wrists, trapping her to the chair. The woman’s scarred face didn’t register any emotion as she reached into the pocket of her black dress and extracted a key.
—I can only undo one hand.
Lyse gave an almost imperceptible nod that she understood.
—They are watching you. Just so you know.
The young woman looked up into the shadows with her one good eye.
—A camera behind you and one directly in front.
Lyse started to follow the woman’s gaze, but the woman frowned.
—Don’t look. They have no idea that we can communicate. You’ll give me away.
Keeping her face neutral, the woman undid the handcuff encircling Lyse’s right hand.
“I’m a lefty. I make a mess with my right.”
The woman nodded and returned Lyse’s right hand to its binding before reaching for the other wrist.
“Thanks,” Lyse said, shaking out her left hand. She rolled her wrist back and forth, trying to get some circulation into her fingers before picking up the plastic fork where it lay on the tray in front of her.
The woman bowed her head as if to say You’re welcome, then moved toward the exit, disappearing into the shadows.
But not before Lyse heard these words:
—We will help you.
Lyse held the fork in her hand, but the sound of the door sliding closed behind the woman almost took her appetite away.
You’re gonna need the energy before this night is through, she thought. Damn, I don’t even know if it is night anymore.
She attacked the food. She was so hungry that she couldn’t stop herself from shoveling it in. She ate fast, barely tasting what was going into her mouth, but at least her stomach wasn’t growling anymore.
Finished, she pushed the plate away—and that was when she noticed what the woman had done. The metal restraint around Lyse’s right wrist was now loose enough that she could easily slip her hand out of it. Not wanting to give anything away, she rested her head on the tabletop and pressed her cheek into the cold metal. Closing her eyes, she was able to hide her excitement, the nervous glee she felt as a wave of adrenaline surged through her.
I have one chance. One try to get it right and that’s it—so what the hell’s my plan?
She opened her eyes and lifted her head, running the possibilities through her mind. Her hands were free, but there were at least two cameras and a metal door to get through before she could attain her freedom. Her eyes fixed on the naked overhead bulb, the only light in the room, and she knew then what she had to do.
Have a little faith, she thought, and slipped her right hand out of its shackle.
She jumped up on the metal chair and punched the bulb out with her bare left fist, the glass shattering in a shower of orange sparks.
Holy shit, she thought as darkness blanketed the room, and her hand throbbed where tiny pieces of glass stuck into her skin.
She brushed the back of her hand against her jeans and jumped off the chair, the food tray clattering to the floor. It was dark as night in the room, but she had a general idea of the layout and a good idea of where the door might be. She placed her fingertips on top of the metal table to orient herself, then took a tentative step to the side. Once she gave over to the idea that she was going to slam into a few immovable objects on her way to the door, she progressed quickly.
“Damn,” she mumbled, tears of pain springing to her eyes. Whatever she’d just run into was sharp and metal, and now her left shin ached. Another leg wound to add to her growing collection.
She did her best to ignore the pain, and after a few failed attempts—her fingers finding empty air where she’d expected metal—she finally located one of the walls, using it to guide herself toward the door. Sliding the tips of her fingers along the metal surface of the wall was like touching an iceberg; the cold was so intense it burned.
Just a little farther, she thought—and then her fingers stumbled across the long perpendicular doorframe and she almost shouted with joy. She stayed put, one hand on the frame, the other fumbling around for the latch. But after a few seconds when she still hadn’t found anything, she started to get nervous. It had only been a few minutes in the dark
, but it felt like forever.
Behind her, Lyse heard a strange scratching sound, like long nails on a chalkboard, or, more likely, long nails on a metal wall. The hair on the back of her neck rose to attention and she began to sweat, the salty liquid pouring out from underneath her arms and drenching the pits of the red flannel shirt she was wearing.
Ignore it. Whatever it is doesn’t matter. You need to get out of this fucking room, she thought, but fear had ratcheted up her nerves to the point where she’d begun to shake.
She let go of the doorframe, blindly inching her way along the wall until she found the opposite side of the door. She ran her hands up and down the cold metal surface, searching for the door latch, but there was still nothing.
She moaned under her breath as she felt something come up behind her. She let out a soft whimper as the scent of rose petals wafted underneath her nose and the moist heat from a living creature’s breath tickled the nape of her neck. The scratching sound came again, much closer now—almost inside her head—and the claustrophobia she felt was enough to make a sane person go crazy. To be trapped alone in a dark room with a monster was every human being’s nightmare. One shared by the collective unconscious of humanity.
“Go away,” Lyse murmured, her tongue moving of its own volition.
Whatever the creature was, it could understand her words. She heard a guttural chuckle, but one that sounded as though it had been run backward through a blender and stuffed into a pig’s throat. It made Lyse’s skin crawl, and now she really couldn’t stop shaking.
Something heavy touched her shoulder—a cloven hoof, possibly, Lyse thought as the image of a giant minotaur penetrated her brain—and she shuddered.
“Please,” she whispered.
The hoof, if that was even what it was, dug into her shoulder, cutting the flesh. She couldn’t see it, but she could taste the salty scent of iron as blood poured down her sleeve. She redoubled her efforts, her fingers scrambling to find the door latch, but without success. The beast removed its hoof from her shoulder, and the pain lessened. She slid away from where she thought the creature was and dropped down to a squat, her back pressed against the wall.