Two other men carried a lead-gray box between them. It measured a yard on the longest side, two feet high and two wide. Brass caps reinforced the corners and heavy iron chains wrapped it twice round in each direction. A heavy padlock gathered the chains on the top and secured them tightly. Marcus, following them closely, directed them to set the box down outside the circle of candles. They complied, then withdrew.
“Please, Idris, the key to unbinding the curse.”
He nodded assent. “A kitten sleeps in sunlight.”
“A kitten?” Marcus snorted and advanced toward the box. “It’ll be open in no time.”
“Wait, Marcus.”
“I know the unbinding, my lady, have no fear.”
She considered for a heartbeat letting him reap the whirlwind his confidence had sown, but she stayed him with a hand on his shoulder. “This, Marcus, is Idris Rake. You have never met a warlock of his skill, and never will again. To work with his key, you must feel the kitten’s fur soft against your skin. Likewise, the warm sun. You must hear the contented purring.”
Marcus, being far from a complete idiot, brought his hand back to his belt.
“How can words convey all that?”
“They cannot.” Rake’s lips pressed into a thin smile. “You must touch the lock and weave your sensory perceptions into the unbinding. Silently.”
Marcus looked at his mistress.
“Yes, Marcus, you are capable of this”
Marcus dropped to a knee beside the box. He touched his index finger to a rivet on the lock, as if a child poking a dead animal to see if all life had flown. He closed his eyes and began to work. He’d never been a strong magician—were it not from the way he moved his lips as he worked through the disenchantment, Ariadne would have had no indication that magic was in play.
The lock clicked. Marcus jerked his hand back. The lock clicked and a sliver of spring-steel curled out the keyhole. It glistened with a crystalline fluid.
Marcus paled noticeably.
Rake smiled. “Kittens have claws.”
“But poison, Idris? Is that not beneath you?”
“I was pressed for time safeguarding the bones. You were hunting me, if you will recall. Poison was the quickest and most efficacious manner I could assembling for dispatching a meddlesome witch.”
Ariadne arched an eyebrow. “And the poison, yet viscous after at least a century?”
“Urchin.”
“I would have thought you had time back then to gather a sufficient supply of sea urchins.”
“True. I defaulted the more plentiful and locally sourced alternative.” Rake flicked a silver-sheathed finger at the box. “Go ahead, Marcus. Nothing lethal remains therein.”
Marcus carefully freed the chains from the lock and gingerly set aside the latter device. With the help of his two, half-naked aides, he freed the box from the chains. The one who carried the chains away returned with a small pry-bar. Marcus worried a hole in the casket’s lead sheathing with it, then peeled the soft metal away. The oaken box beneath had weathered the years well beneath a slab in Holy Trinity Church, with the general hue only slightly darkened with age.
Ariadne raised a hand to her throat. “Gently. Carefully.”
Marcus rolled the lead sheets down, and momentarily set the pry-bar down. He gently hit the box along the lid’s base with the heel of his hand, then repeated the process using the pry-bar. A small crack appeared between lid and the box. He inserted the bar’s tapered edge and worked at opening the box with a gentleness he’d never exhibited outside their lovemaking. He worked his way around, then signaled his two aides to remove the top.
They did so, revealing a tattered cloth lining and a withered corpse of a man laying on his left side. His knees had been drawn up to his chest, and his head bowed to rest on them. His clothing, of much rougher manufacture than the box’s lining, had survived well in the grave, with only the odd stain to hint at time’s passage.
“That is as I left him.” Rake’s smile betrayed an uncommon affection for the man in the box. “He’d specified how he was to be buried next to his wife, recalling his early days as a conjuror’s assistant at faires and entertainments. She relayed his wishes to me—she believed he’d modeled Prospero on me…”
“An honor you purchased.”
“All great artists rely on patrons.” Rake sighed. “No money changed hands. He asked that I guarantee his bones would lay undisturbed for eternity. I gave him my word.”
“And now you break it.”
Rake shrugged. “To you goes the shame for that, Ariadne. Had I foreseen this day, I should have made other arrangements.”
“Had you not doubted, you would have foreseen. The shame is yours once more.” Ariadne clapped her hands. “Now, ladies, prepare him.”
Two acolytes lifted the body from the casket. Another came behind, scooping up all the bits that fell away. Quickly and efficiently, they laid him on the canvas. They straightened his arms and legs. Ancient ligaments popped and parted, but the women carefully returned scattered bones to their proper positions on the canvas. They tucked dried muscles beneath flaps of leathery skin tanned with age. One even combed wisps of brittle hair into place with her fingers. In very short order, the body stretched out as if he had lain in a full length casket.
While they worked, Marcus’ aides carried a small table to the side of the pool. On it, Marcus arranged a golden chalice, a sharpened goose quill, a brass key and a razor-edged dagger. He moved with a solemn efficiency which pleased her. She even encouraged him with a smile when he looked back, seeking her approval for the way he’d placed her tools. He beamed, then lit a taper. Ariadne nodded and he proceeded to light the candles, starting nearest the pool, then working his way around widdershins until he completed the circle.
Rake yawned. “That they require such sanctimonious mummery is why I have always had contempt for the gods.”
Ariadne stopped Marcus with a simple gesture. “What vice is ritual which allows you to perform miracles?”
“Gods want what gods want.” Rake stepped back. “I shall say nothing more.”
“That would be appreciated.” Ariadne kept her tone even. Now that the bones had been freed from the casket, she did not need her former master. In fact, slitting his throat and adding his bits to the pool would doubtlessly make the ritual much easier. Marcus would have happily killed him for her—yet one more act of undying devotion.
The same devotion the Bard should have for Death. And should have had for me.
But she didn’t order Rake’s death. It wasn’t even that she wanted to kill him herself—while quite willing to do so, she had no burning desire to murder him. What stayed her hand at that very moment was her desire to watch his face as she did what he had thought impossible. She wanted to see his expression, as he realized not only had her powers vastly outstripped his, but that he was entirely in her power, and yet lived only at her whim. Only then will the doom his arrogance has so long demanded crush him.
Ariadne moved to the corpse’s feet, standing between them and the pool. She raised her hands and immediately the resurrected congregants ceased their mutterings. A few—those most in need of renewal—stood and turned toward the pool. None approached. The acolytes formed a living screen to keep them back. Marcus took his place at her side.
“We gather here, brothers and sisters, beneath our god’s black gaze, to accept from Him another of our brethren. Our brother William, who had the gift of composition.”
She paused and Marcus handed her the quill. She ran her fingers over it, then returned it to him. Marcus bent and tucked the feather beneath the bones of the corpse’s right hand.
She continued as Marcus again stood. “Our brother William had more, and it is this greater gift for which our Lord returns him to us. As with all of you, William had the key to the mysteries of the human heart and mind and soul. He could see what so many others could not, and shared his vision of those mysteries with us.”
Marcu
s gave her the brass key, which she caressed. Her lover took it from her, then placed it in the corpse’s left hand. He stood again, and took up the chalice. He knelt at the pool and dipped some of the dark liquid into it. Though no mist rose from the pool, the liquid steamed in the gold cup.
Ariadne accepted the cup from him. “In this cup, Brother William, you shall find all that you once were, and all you shall be. This is the cup of mysteries. This is the cup of Death’s blessing. Drink of this, and know you drink of His favor.”
Ariadne advanced and lowered herself at the corpse’s left shoulder. Marcus knelt at the right and slipped a hand under the corpse’s head. He lifted it carefully, as one might raise the head of a person deathly ill, so they could drink more easily. Ariadne tipped the cup, allowing the black liquid to pour through the open mouth and spread out on the canvas. Marcus set the head back down, and the liquid slowly flowed back to seep into the bones.
Marcus took the cup from her and returned it to the table. He picked up the knife. As Ariadne bared her left wrist, he offered her the dagger hilt first.
“Oh, Brother William, you have drunk of His favor. Know that we, your brethren in His Worship, also welcome you. I welcome you.” Ariadne drew the knife over her wrist lightly, barely feeling the sting. She held her left hand out, and let a single drop of her blood flow down. It splashed onto the skeletal breastbone and sank in immediately.
Marcus bared his own wrist as Ariadne walked around the skull to his side. He cleared his throat, then spoke in solemn tones. “Oh, brother William, you have drunk of His grace. Know that we, your brethren in His Worship, also welcome you. I welcome you.”
“Thank you, Marcus.”
In a flash of silver, the blade came up from his wrist. Without hesitation, Ariadne stroked the blade across Marcus’ throat. She grabbed a handful of his curly black hair and yanked back hard. The wound gaped, bright arterial blood spraying gloriously. She caught her dying lover’s shoulder as he sank to his knees, twisting his body so the blood would splash the Bard’s face, then directed the flow over his chest and abdomen. By the time she turned him the blood pulsed more weakly, but still drenched the body’s legs and feet, pooling on the canvas.
She let the body slump to the floor, willfully ignoring the surprise contorting his features. She wiped the blade on a tiny but dry bit of Marcus’ shirt and looked up. “Do not judge me harshly, Idris. Though eager and quite faithful, Marcus did not understand all that my Lord would demand of him. He will be remembered amongst our martyrs, which is considerably more than he could have ever expected had he continued to draw breath.”
Rake wiped a smear of blood from his cheek. “Doubtless, you are correct.”
“Now, brothers and sisters, your work.”
The acolytes now fell upon Marcus. Enthusiastically employing their ceremonial knives, they quickly took Marcus to pieces. While the women minced his flesh and carried away the offal, the men produced hammers to shatter his bones. They scraped out the marrow and, in concert with the women, sank it and the other traces of their comrade into the pool.
They then positioned themselves as would pall bearers and took hold of the canvas. They marched into the pool, which rose to mid-thigh on even the smallest of them, and laid the Bard’s blood-soaked corpse on the surface. It did not sink, nor did the dark fluid cling to or stain them as they emerged. They each took two candlesticks and sank them into the Resurrection Pool, again surrounding the corpse. They returned, pristine, to flank Ariadne, facing the pool and the floating corpse.
Ariadne raised the knife overhead, holding it such that it unmistakably resembled a sickle. “By this, Your sign, the blade which cuts all threads of life, we ask you, Lord and Dread Master, to fulfill Your promise to Your brother, William. Life for life. A gift of love so that you may reveal Your love. That all may know the truth of Your love of those who fall before Your magnificence, grant William your favor. Thy will be done.”
“Thy will be done.”
The tingle began in her belly as the fluid’s undulations rippled out from the corpse. As she felt the presence of Death sizzle through her, little waves splashed against the pool’s edge, then lapped back onto the canvas. The Bard’s corpse began to rise and fall as ripples built into waves beneath him. As the head and feet dipped, they vanished for a moment. They returned, covered in dark red, which froze as if wax. Layer by layer it coated the bones.
The sheer weight of the hardening liquid drew the corpse down. It sank beneath the viscous fluid, which once it had flowed over the body, sealed itself seamlessly and ceased all motion. If not for the beating of her heart and the flicker of candle flames, she could have believed that time itself had died.
Ariadne caught Rake’s doubtful expression again. Just wait, just wait.
The Bard burst up through the congealed surface, as if shattering ice on a pond. The whole of the liquid became fluid again, yet remained quite turgid. It flowed slowly down his body, but never off. It molded itself to him, melting into flesh, sinking even deeper. It covered his face in a featureless mask. Waves returned, crashing against him, rocking him back and forth. With each wave that covered him in spray, his appearance became sharper, his muscles redefined, his bones clad again and his skin made whole.
His old rags had fallen away in the pool, but his hands still clutched the quill and the key. The Bard took one staggering step toward the pool’s edge, then another. The liquid dripped from the tokens he held, then from him. His flesh became transparent for a moment, then took on the innocent pallor of a newborn’s skin.
As he rose, coming up hidden steps inside the pool’s edge, the fluid finished renewing his legs. The mask into which the liquid had hardened finally cracked and fell away. The Bard sucked in a huge breath, the gasping breath of a drowning man having finally struck to the surface. His eyes snapped open. He glanced at his hands, then down at his body and finally up at her.
Victory blossomed hot in Ariadne’s belly. She smiled, forcing herself to smile triumphantly for Idris’ benefit, and opened her arms. My lord’s will is done. “Welcome, Brother William. We rejoice that you have been returned to us.”
The Bard stepped from the pool, pale and naked. “You… did this… to me?”
Ariadne stepped toward him holding out a blanket she’d accepted from one of her acolytes. “By the Will of our Lord, yes.”
The Bard smiled, opening his arms so she could wrap the blanket around him. He took another step toward her, more steady by the moment.
She approached, the blanket ready to accept him. “Come, Brother, and be welcome.”
The Bard nodded, then buried the key in her throat, and tore it out sideways.
Pain ripped through her. Blood gushed into her shredded windpipe. She coughed a crimson fountain. She wavered, then hit the floor, banging her head on stone. Shimmering lights exploded before her eyes. Panic quickened her heart. More blood spurted.
Then Idris was there, on a knee beside her, his right hand closing the wound and pressing firmly. “You did not heed the warning.”
Ariadne stared up at him, bloody hands grasping his shirt tightly. How? Her lips moved, but only red bubbles emerged. Why?
“When I warned you off this path, it was not because I feared you would surpass me. Nor was it fear you would spend centuries in folly.” He stroked her hair with his other hand. “I never doubted you would succeed. Succeed beyond your wildest dreams.”
You believed! A smile rose to her lips unbidden, the pain banished for a heartbeat.
“Your success was Death’s nightmare.” Rake looked over toward the congregants and the idol beyond. “Death did not give you these people out of love. They were to appease you, to sate you, to blind you. You did not need to worship Death. You surpassed Death. You could have taken the sickle and sprig yourself, become Death yourself. And when Death realized you would soon understand that truth, retaliation was the only recourse.”
Confusion knitted her brows.
“I kept my word
to the Bard. His bones are safe, elsewhere.” Idris sighed. “Knowing you would eventually want to punish him for the jest, I buried another in his place—one who had cause to hate you. Deimos.”
The revivified man grunted at the mention of his name.
Ariadne stiffened, and cold stole into her bones. She met Rake’s dark gaze and tried to rise. I must…
“Do not struggle, Ariadne. I would remember you as being peaceful.”
This is not my end.
“Would that I could save you.” Rake, his gaze frigid, raised his blood-stained, silver-gloved hands from her throat. “Alas, right now, you have made my working magic quite simply… impossible.”
4
the empress
heather graham
Upright: Fertility, femininity, beauty, nature, abundance
Reversed: Creative block, dependence on others
Max Thibault reset the last of the connections for his “Rue Morgue” collection in his family’s “Monster Manse” attraction. His older brother, Ethan, who was actually going to take over the business, nodded with satisfaction.
“Love this rogue’s gallery!” Ethan said, smiling in admiration of their attraction. Then he looked at Max again. “Thanks for the help. Dad hasn’t been up to the manual stuff for a while, and for a last minute adjustment… well, I’m glad you could come by on a break.”
“Not to worry; I’m legit. I called it in, I am on break and my partner—you’ve met him, Dale Hickman—is a great guy, and he’s representing our shift, just in case of anything,” Max said.
Ethan nodded. He would be playing a vampire count—host of the place—when they opened tonight. He was great for it with his dark eyes and refined features. “Dale is a great guy,” he agreed. “As for the manse this year, this gallery… creepy as can be, yes? Darkness, black lights, the fog machine rolling away—it’s going to be amazing. Better than ever. Really—thanks for the help!”
Never Fear - The Tarot: Do You Really Want To Know? Page 7