The Convent of the Pure

by Sara M. Harvey

  Nigel was on his feet. He had plucked the scalpel from his eye and was holding his neck. The unearthly sound still reverberated from him, and his chest was still most unnaturally enlarged. His breath came in short bursts and his skin glimmered with a sheen of sweat.

  “The Gyony have trained you well.” He spoke while he hummed. “And perhaps if you had not been so careless with Katriel, leaving him helpless and sedated right where I could find him, you might have had a chance against me, albeit a small one. I have always been able to take care of myself, you know, quite a powerful being, even when I was a child. Katriel was a powerful being, even if the Aldias did own what remained of his pitiful, ragged soul. It was tasty nonetheless, that soul, like sucking the sweet marrow from a bone. Thank you for leaving him for me, Portia, so defenseless and tender, just waiting for my appetite. This is the secret Maynard taught me. It cost me much to learn, but what is a small thing like virginity weighed against the balance of this power? Besides, I got it back, after a fashion. He tasted of peat and cold autumn nights. And Analise...” his eyes, both now functioning even if one was rimed with blood, rolled back in ecstasy, “she was more delectable than I could have ever imagined. In my wildest dreams, and my dreams are indeed wild, I never imagined that her soul could taste so delicious. Like peaches rolled in cloves and honey. And my tongue trembles with anticipation to taste you, my sister, just a little taste. I can smell it on you, cherry blossoms and ginger,” his nostrils flared inhumanly wide, “and tart green apples.” Saliva moistened the corners of his mouth.

  His breathing was still rough, almost labored. His ribcage flexed, stretching and compressing like a bellows. The tattoos and scars became more evident through the over-stretched undershirt. She could see his pulse beating hard in his neck and temples and she could feel it dimly in a rhythmic shadow of the throb behind her own breastbone. He seemed to have grown even larger.

  “Ah, sweet sister, I couldn’t consume you. Not until you gave me enough children to complete my plan. I dare not yet dream what they will taste of, but I yearn for it already.”

  Portia slowly slid one step back, and then another. “Nigel,” she began, not knowing what she could possibly say to him. “Nigel, is this what you want? A trail of death that ends at your feet?”

  His voice was deeper now, darker, somehow incorporating the hum. His jaws had thickened, distorting the sound. “What I want at my feet is the world. We have lived banished to the shadows for too long, for millennia. Why should we defend humanity when they seek and have always sought to destroy us? Analise and the rest of them, they always thought too small. They wanted to undermine the Primacy and take control of the Grigori. But that still leaves us trotting at the heels of humanity like dogs. But no longer! The Aldias tried to orchestrate the make-up of the Nephilim. They spliced genes, they implanted souls, they searched tirelessly for centuries to find this place in order to tap into this undiluted bloodline of what they termed the ‘Pure Children,’ the true Watchers, the Bene ‘elim. Short-sighted.” He snorted. “I prefer the long view. And you will, as well.”

  Portia continued to move toward the door. She did not like her chances against this new Nigel. The old Nigel had been bad enough. She knew her only hope lay in reaching her gear in his room. He needed nothing so much as a Blessedwood bolt in his head. She needed a distraction, something to give her enough time to make the dash back to his grotesque exhibition, and to Imogen.

  “So, what do you have planned, then? How are you going to do this differently than she did?” Portia nodded toward the grisly pile of what once had been Lady Analise.

  Nigel leaned back against Analise’s writing table, considering. It creaked ominously beneath his growing bulk. His face was smooth and untroubled, both eyes gleaming grey above his broadening cheekbones. The only signs of trauma to his thickly muscled neck were raw red welts, nothing serious. Portia sidled up to him, schooling her features into a smiling, calm mask. She opened herself to the echo within, feeling the power of it surge easily into her fingertips. She did not think the encasement in which she’d trapped Lamia, the succubus, would hold Nigel, but it might buy her just enough time.

  He spoke, but Portia could not hear him; she was listening to the rush of light in her ears. She pressed both of her palms into his chest. His heart beat erratically and his ribs strained. It was as if there was something inside of him attempting to come out. In the shadow of Nigel’s heartbeat, Portia could hear an echoing voice. Something was there within him, as there was a celestial being within her, but his was thumping, dark, and violent. It was dangerous; it was demonic. It wanted nothing more than to do her harm.

  Rape her. Consume her. Rape her. Consume her, it rasped. Her strength, her power, her soul! Take them from her!

  Portia channeled all the fierce heat and light within her at Nigel. She was not a magus by nature or by training, and for a moment he resisted, clenching his teeth, but the dreadful light finally surrounded him. Portia could easily feel his strength barely contained within the enveloping glow and knew that she could not destroy him this way. She could hear his muffled cries as she ran upstairs, fleeing as if all the demons in hell were on her heels. For all she knew, in a few moments, they would be.

  Chapter Nine

  Portia went straight for her crossbow. It pained her to run past Imogen, but she’d be much more able to defend them both with a range weapon. She nocked a bolt and pulled the rest off the wall and threw them into the Gladstone. She quickly packed all the other articles that Nigel had punctiliously laid out in his unwholesome little shrine. Among the items was her Saint Christopher medallion. She could feel her spell still working in it. Whoever shall behold the image of Saint Christopher shall not faint or fall on that day. It was without its chain, so she slipped it into her corset, nestling it between her breasts.

  An ominous rumble shook the floor, urging her on. She dumped the contents of the doctor’s bag in as well and yanked her duster down. She shrugged into it and threw the Gladstone across her shoulder as if it were any other day. She felt better at once, familiar and in control. Only then did Portia turn her attention to Imogen. Moving quickly, she found no discernable door in the glass.

  “Imogen, shut your eyes!” Portia did not wait to see if her lover complied. She pulled out the bolt and rammed the butt of her crossbow into the case over and over again. Spidery cracks spread out from the small, jagged hole she created, but the glass would not break.

  Portia reached for the wingback chair, still toppled onto the floor. She hefted it with ease, surprised by her own strength, but before she could heave it into Imogen’s glass prison, a thunder-like peal moved through the building once more, rattling the books and curios on the shelves. It was followed by a piercing preternatural howl. Nigel, or what was left of him, had broken free. The chair fell to the ground, forgotten, as Portia clapped her hands over her ears to blot out the sound. The windows and cabinets around the room hummed and sang along with the roiling yowl emanating from the Mother Superior’s office below.

  At long last, the glass of Imogen’s cell shattered, along with every other breakable item in the room. The deafening wail broke off sharply, but it took a moment for Portia to notice the silence beneath the ringing in her ears.

  Glass littered the room, some pieces powder-fine, others large and jagged. Portia picked her way over to Imogen, who stood still and smiling with glittered shards frosting her cheeks, hair, and eyelashes like snowflakes. Gently, Portia ran her fingertip along the inside of Imogen’s eyelids before closing them and brushing away the glass. Imogen remained doll-like and pliant.

  Portia heard a loud but distant thud, and then another, each one growing louder, closer. Footsteps, she reasoned, and heavy ones at that. She pulled Imogen free of the broken cell and carried her into the bedroom. She laid her down and began to inspect her flesh for any kind of marking that would be keeping her in this state. The footsteps came nearer. Portia could hear the treads of the stairs creaking, often breaking, ben
eath the strain of whatever creature headed toward them.

  With trembling hands, Portia pulled Imogen’s tawdry dress aside and searched her familiar skin once more, but to no avail. Portia would hear her assailant panting at the far end of the corridor. Panicked, she rolled Imogen over, meaning to start her search a third time when she saw them: two small sigils carved into the soles of Imogen’s feet. Delicately, Portia sliced an X through each one with her last remaining scalpel.

  Imogen’s muscles relaxed, and she sank into the bedding with a long sigh. For a moment, Portia feared she has destroyed the wrong signs, but the steady beat that mirrored her own heart’s remained strong. Slowly, far too slowly as the splintering groan of heavy feet on wood drew ever nearer, Imogen pushed herself up off the bed and sat back on her knees.

  “You must listen carefully, Portia, we will have but few chances at him.”

  “Him?”

  “That sound you hear. I know what it is. And I know why it is.” She turned to look at Portia, her eyes haunted with shadow. “The books on his table. Hurry, bring them here.”

  Portia hesitated a moment before bringing back the books, the scrolls, and the journal, each spattered with ink and covered in glass grit. Imogen took them at once and began to page through.

  “He carved himself up in front of me. He wanted me to see.” She smiled wryly. “But I don’t think he expected me to be able to use it against him.”

  “Do you understand any of this?” Portia’s skill with cryptography, sigils, and glyphs was limited to what she had been taught in her younger years at the knee of her Aldias teacher, mostly a smattering of charms and spells calling on various angels and saints.

  Imogen nodded, her eyes still scanning the pages in quick succession. “We were taught magic. And lots of it.” She paused and glanced up. “Portia, I was only a Gyony for you, because they wanted me to stay close to you. I am not sure how it was done. I was certain I failed the trials, but somehow I became a warrior. I tried my best at it. You must know, Portia, it was not your fault that I died. I was never meant to be a Gyony. I am a terrible fighter.”

  Portia was surprised to find tears on her cheeks. “What are you saying?”

  Imogen laid the book aside to put her arms around her. “That there was nothing you could have done. When you stepped away from me to face the langsuir, you should have been able to trust me to cover you as you would trust any other Gyony. The demon sensed my weakness, and it came straight for me. It knew I was a fraud, and it took its advantage. It was not you who failed me. I failed you. And I am so sorry. My love, you always did right by me. Even now, after all of this. Let me return the favor.” Her kiss melted away Portia’s fear, filling her with a warm sense of calm. “Keep him distracted for as long as you are able. Go.”

  A weight suddenly lifted from Portia’s being, an old wound breaking open to vent its purulent contents and finally heal properly. She held onto Imogen a moment longer, savoring the feel of her, solid and real, in her arms once more, relishing the evaporation of guilt and shame she had carried for far too long. “I love you,” she whispered. Taking up her weapons and readying a crossbow bolt, Portia walked resolutely to the bedroom door. She turned back. Imogen was watching her go. “Imogen, I want you to know, you have never dishonored the name of the Gyony.” She shut the door and moved into the main room to establish a defensible position.

  After moving several of pieces of furniture in front of the door and spreading a liberal sprinkling of the most jagged glass shards she could find across that half of the room, Portia climbed onto the sturdy table. She fortified her position with one of the wingback chairs and crouched behind it, taking careful and steady aim at the door. She waited. In the early years of her training, her muscles would have quivered and complained. They were stronger now and capable of long hours of vigil if need be, but a few minutes were all she had.

  The solid wooden door cracked down the center with the first blow and was nearly split in two by the second. Whatever was on the other side was relentless, beating until the door finally caved into a mass of splinters. Portia stood at the ready, her Blessedwood ammunition laid out at her feet and the last scalpel shoved into her hair once more.

  For a breathless moment, nothing happened. The pieces of the door lay where they fell, and the hallway beyond was so swathed in shadows that it seemed empty. Then, the low growling began again and the creature outside began to force its way through. The sturdy doorframe held fast at first, but soon it too bowed and broke, pulled open into a gaping hole that tore large chunks of plaster free from the walls, showing the lathing beneath.

  What shambled into the room was not what Portia expected. She had fought and slain demons of all kinds, but had never before seen a transformation like this.

  “Nigel?”

  The bulbous head swung toward the sound of her voice and four great eyes regarded her, each a different color: black, red, milky-white, and grey. The grey eye rolled in its socket, looking at her while the other three scanned the rest of the room. “Portia, sweet sister,” it lisped through a lipless mouth of needle-like teeth. In that single gaze was all the cunning, malice, and avarice that had been in Nigel, multiplied a hundredfold.

  Portia aimed as the massive, distended torso pushed through the broken doorway. She pulled the trigger. The bolt leapt forward and pierced the grey orb, spattering blackish blood across the slick and putrefied flesh. The thing that had been Nigel staggered back, keening, fumes billowing from the wound. It reached up with one hand full of multiple-jointed fingers and wrenched the stake free from the burnt and blistered flesh. It swung its head toward Portia and bellowed, spewing a rank vapor from its maw. The scars she had seen branded into Nigel’s flesh were nearly invisible against the pale, puckered skin of his new body, but the tattoos stood out starkly. The glyphs seemed to undulate and shift as she stared, open-mouthed.

  She fired again, aiming for the mouth, but the demon threw up a forearm, catching the bolt through the meat of the limb. The stake sizzled where it made contact, but the demon pulled it out and tossed at aside.

  Two stakes gone, ten left of the dozen she usually packed. She would have to ration them carefully. She plugged one into the thing’s left foot, and when it bent down to remove it, she sank another into its right shoulder. Ignoring the smoldering bolt lodged in its back, the demon advanced on her.

  The bedroom door remained closed, and Portia wished Imogen would hurry up. A cartload of Blessedwood bolts might be enough to destroy the creature, but the eight she had left were not going to do much more than wound it. But she still had eight chances.

  The fifth bolt was a shot to the groin that went wide, burying itself in the demon’s thigh. It howled with displeasure and clawed at the deeply penetrated bolt. Portia loosed a sixth shot into its chest, aiming carefully to avoid the scars and tattoos. It plunged home with a spate of blood already beginning to form into purplish clots. The demon threw its head back and roared, sending a tremor through the room. Quickly, Portia dropped behind the chair and wrapped a bolt with some of the gauze. It took her three attempts to get a match to strike, but it finally flared and took flame in the wrapped cotton. She aimed for the body again, hoping to catch the clothing on fire. The bolt flew, the flames fanned into a fury by the passing air. It struck a glyph on the beast's stomach squarely and blew apart into slivers. Smoldering gauze and Blessedwood embers landed everywhere. She prepared another and aimed higher, hoping to strike the head. It flew true, eliciting another terrible and bone-rattling roar.

  Portia surveyed the damage. Small fires began to catch along one side of the room where the burning bits had landed on Nigel’s books. The demon, for all its corporal wounds, kept advancing. It put its massive hands around the edge of the table and flipped it, sending Portia sliding to the floor in a jumble of stakes, books, and glass. She ducked beneath the wingback chair as it fell, shielding her body with it as the table came crashing down over her. She curled up around the crossbow and waited until
the demon came looking for her. The table groaned as the creature lifted it, and Portia startled at the crack as it was thrown across the room, demolishing a curio cabinet and the potted palm in its path. The demon wrenched Portia's chair away. She fired, catching the thing under the chin with a bolt that left a ragged hole in its wake, destroying what had remained--despite the transformation--Nigel’s incongruously patrician nose.

  The demon arched back, both hands covering a face that gushed more fetid blood. But before Portia could reload, something struck her hard in the chest. She recovered her breath and was aghast to see what was left of Nigel's shirt torn open and sprawling arms of flesh reaching for her. The greasy-fleshed writhing tentacles stretched out from two gill-like slits in the demon's sides. They struck out with amazing speed, landing blows and wrapping around her arms, wrists, hair, and finally her throat. She struggled to retrieve the scalpel, but her feeble cuts and shallow stabs did little to slacken the onslaught. The sticky mucous coating gave them a firm grip. Their touch burned bright and searing like the nectar of a stinging nettle.

  One well-muscled appendage wrapped itself twice around Portia’s neck; the others held back her defense as the first began to squeeze. She gathered the light within her, and it began to glow through her skin. The echo began to sing and she along with it as the light grew brighter and brighter until it seemed Portia’s flesh was that of a star, blindly and powerfully bright. The grasping appendages began to weaken and wither and finally to crack apart. She broke free of their suffocating embrace and staggered to her feet.

  The demon had weakened considerably, but it was nowhere near defeated. It pushed itself to its knees, gatherings its strength as the tentacles still groped for her. The crossbow lay only a few yards from her, but she could not see either of her two remaining bolts. Her spent ammunition was somewhere in the flames across the room. Smoke thickened the air, and Portia grew light-headed.