by Tia Reed
“That person would surely be evil, for the devil and his minions are the opponents of my Lord. Now come. Your brother is hungry.”
“Tell me how to channel this power,” he said as they walked over grazed grass.
“In time, if you choose to stay and pledge your faith.” The monk opened the door to the hut. At one end, a table, chair, and stool were arranged near the smouldering hearth. Brother Pierre kindled the fire and warmed some stew. When it was heated through, he handed the boys a bowlful each, took the single chair, and indicated the pallet tucked into the opposite corner. As Romain raised a spoonful to his mouth, the monk cleared his throat. Romain froze, mouth open.
“We must give thanks for our meal.”
Genord slurped all through the prayer. He tossed his empty bowl to Romain who washed them without protest.
“Why are we sleeping here?” Romain asked as they fumbled with the straw the monk had instructed them to gather for bedding.
Genord snorted. Sometimes his brother’s stupidity amazed him. He supposed he should spell it out, to see the hurt on his brother’s face if nothing else. “Father kicked us out, and Rouen is likely to stone us for communion with the dead.”
“As I understood it,” the monk said gently, “your brother is not accused of any such misconduct.”
“You mean I can go home?” Romain’s voice was full of longing.
“If you wish,” the monk nodded. He was whittling on a piece of wood.
Romain sucked one cheek as he pondered his choice. Genord fell back upon his pallet and crossed his hands behind his head.
“You’re staying.” Romain frowned, in disapproval of his liberty not his choice.
“I need to learn about the power of the cross. If you recall, you chose to accompany me.”
“You’re my twin,” he said simply.
“So, what do you hope to gain from your hospitality, monk?” Genord demanded.
“This is perhaps your first lesson about the cross, to offer welcome without reward.”
Genord watched Romain examine carved figures on the single shelf, turning each in his hand and naming them in turn as the monk prattled on without divulging a single point of worth.
“Dog, bear, deer. Dragon,” Romain breathed in awe. Picking it up, he pulled a stool to Brother Pierre’s side and watched him work. Genord had never seen his twin sit so still for so long. He moved only to light some candles at Brother Pierre’s direction.
“What do you think?” the brother asked, showing Romain the finished work.
“A lamb.” His brother could not help but reach for it. “It’s perfect.”
“And it’s for you.” Brother Pierre spun round and offered it to Genord.
Genord’s eyes narrowed. The brother’s face might hold no guile, but the monk’s choice of subject was intended to rattle, he was sure of it. “I am not a child in need of toys.”
“Nevertheless, I made it for you.” He set the carving on the table.
Romain’s face fell. Brother Pierre selected another piece of wood and handed it to Romain. “Can you make a hare?”
Romain’s face lit up as he jerked the knife over the wood. Soon he put it down, brows knitted in frustration.
“It looks like a tree root,” Genord laughed.
“Like everything, carving takes practice. Here.” Brother Pierre selected another piece from a basket by the door. “Look at it and visualise what you want to create.” Romain turned the piece of wood. “Where are the legs? Good. And the head? What position is it in? You can see it? Good. Now try again.”
Romain remained engrossed in the task. Before long, he had carved an acceptable hare. Triumphant, he held it out to the monk, who took it and made a show of inspecting his work. Genord glared. He should have been the first person to whom Romain showed his work.
“Its back is humped,” he sniped.
“For a first attempt, it is outstanding,” Brother Pierre praised. “I should very much like to swap you your hare for the dragon.”
Romain’s eyes widened. He nodded and picked up the beast, beginning a game of make believe where the monster flew through the night. Even by candlelight, the detailed carving showed every scale and ridge. The nostrils flared, the open mouth displayed rows of teeth, and the claws spread from curled toes. The figure was by far the best of them all.
Genord coveted it.
Chapter Seventeen
Adelaide. Present Day.
28th October. Night.
ELLA COULDN’T MOVE. She couldn’t scream. She couldn’t twitch from beneath Romain’s thick hand which was stroking her head. In the distance, a muted roar rattled the window in the chamber outside. Glass shattered. The mason moaned.
“What happened?” It sounded like Danes.
“It just left. Slid under the water,” Rob replied. Glass cracked from the sill.
“You’re breaking in?”
“I sure as hell am.”
She was saved!
“I think we have grounds enough to use a general search warrant.”
“And bloody extenuating circumstances.” Rob’s tone made it clear he was not looking for Danes’ approval. Shards crunched between foot and stone. She wanted to hug him. “Clear.”
“What the hell was it?” Danes asked. She could hear his body scraping over the sill, his feet tapping to the floor. “Rastas, here.” Nails clicked lightly on the stone.
“Ask the zoologist when we find him.”
“What about the other things?”
“Gone. Back to the roof. One scampered right up the wall, just like an overgrown gecko. Ella!” They were moving behind the broken door, picking up the axe so its head clinked on the stone. She could see them. Here, she tried to say.
“Ella!” Rob called. “Ella!” He banged on the broken door. She wanted to yell for help, but her throat was stuck. “Open up,” Rob called. “Police. Open up.”
They had heard. She hadn’t thought she made a sound but they were coming for her. Maybe the mason had saved her because he was shuffling to meet them, only she could no longer see Rob for his bulk. And was she ever desperate to see him.
“Bats up,” Romain said, sticking his head through the door.
“Open the door.”
Romain stumbled back, knocking his head on the edge of the hole as Rob shouldered through the door and stepped around the cross. He turned his gun barrel to the ceiling as the mason slapped one hand over his sagging cheek and whined.
“Isn’t that . . .” Danes said.
Rastas sat by the mason’s feet and wagged his tail.
“Say it,” Rob said, frowning at the dog.
“A statue of the lion monster that attacked us outside.”
It is the monster, she wanted to scream but it was stone, crouched on the edge of the table with its wings tucked back, and they were looking at it because they couldn’t see her behind Romain, and she was screaming, screaming, screaming without sound. She had to be dying, and they needed to find her because she didn’t want to die here alone with two psychopaths who would dismember her and feed her to a wooden dragon and a hologram that would tear her limb from limb.
Please, she begged, silent, unheard, as Rob dared to brush the carved bracelet with Cecily’s name. His fingers came away wet with gritty sludge. He wiped them over the ridge of the wing and bent closer when he should have been looking past, to her, where she sat on the floor behind Romain.
“Do you see that?” His face creased with tension, Rob pointed to a circular area on the wing. It was filled with the sludge.
Danes took a sharp breath and exchanged a telling look with Rob. “That’s where I hit the real one.”
It is the real one, she screamed.
“Where’s Ella?” Rob asked Romain as the mason scratched at his cheek. He frowned as Rastas licked the huge, calloused hand. “That dog needs training. Is that a knife?”
“Blood,” Danes stated.
“Not enough to suggest real harm.”
&nbs
p; Rastas yapped agreement.
“We’ll bag it and get it analysed just in case.”
By then it would be too late. How could Danes move past her without blinking? Of course his search of the bedroom would be fruitless, she was out here, and the hunchback too, cowering and wringing his hands. She could see how agitated he was, but she wanted him to tell them because she couldn’t understand why they couldn’t see her when she was right there.
“We’re worried about Ella, Romain. Have you seen her?” Rob spoke to the mason as he might a frightened child, but it was she who needed his comfort because the mason had done this to her, only she didn’t know what this was, but she was right here.
The hunchback leered. “Safe.” He pointed at her. “Ella there. Ella safe.”
Rastas trotted over and yapped. He sat, tilted his head to Rob, and whimpered. Good dog!
“The sick bastard is naming his statues after people,” Danes said, coming out of the bedroom.
“The man is obviously mentally ill. He knows something, though. We’ll get a psychiatrist to help find out what, but she’s not here. We’re wasting time.”
They walked out the door. Rastas stayed where he was. His tongue lolled out, and he gave her a wet lick right across the face. Seemed the cat biscuits she had smuggled him had bought her a friend for life. Bring them back, Rastas, she tried to say.
“That one is ugly. Looks like a goblin out of my son’s fairy tale book,” Danes said.
“Here,” Rob called from behind the stairs. Broken glass clinked as he tugged on the door to the crypt.
Come back! They would see though, if they went down there. They would see the shambles of overturned candelabras pooling wax on the stone floor. They would know she had fought so they would search again until they found her because Rob was a first rate detective. He would know the tomb was a trophy. He would know she was in the church if her effigy was there. But what if they walked right past her again?
Through a veil of confusion, she heard Romain’s voice, felt his hands on her shoulder. Warmth began to suffuse her veins. Her muscles twitched. Her joints creaked. Ella reached toward the mason. A sinewy, deformed limb wobbled in front of her, jerking to her command. An alien sound escaped her lips, piercing and distressed and reminiscent of the sound she and Adam had heard when they first explored the church. It took a moment for her to register that she was, in fact, the innocent victim screaming for her life because someone, somehow had mutilated her body.
“Quiet,” Romain drawled. “Ella safe.”
She tried to rise, but her limbs would not obey her. She tried to speak. Only growls escaped her lips.
“Calm. Ella safe.”
True or not, calm was the best state of mind to think. Achieving it took a monumental reminder that Rob would never abandon her. Even then she had to will herself to take ten deep breaths.
“Hmm. Good,” Romain said, as though he was privy to her thoughts. He pointed at the leonine grotesque. The very alive grotesque. “You learn.”
The creature cocked its head in curiosity.
Romain nodded. “Cecily teach.”
Ella thought she was going to be sick. The demented mason had called the creature after Adam’s cousin. She tried to convince herself it was the innocent mimicry of a childish mind, but failed. Whatever the creature was, it responded to Romain. She hoped he had it well under control. Nothing Genord could dream up for her would approach the horror of a mauling by that beast.
Can you hear me?
Confused, Ella turned her head to locate the source of the gentle voice reverberating in her head.
Don’t be frightened. You are safe, at least for the moment.
Who is it? Ella tried to ask, but the question emerged as snarls rather than words.
The grotesque held out a paw, showing off a gold bracelet. My name is Cecily. Don’t try to talk. Just think what you want to say.
Help me, Ella pleaded, no longer trying to make sense of what was happening. I have to find Detective Rob Hamlyn.
The grotesque looked at Romain. He scratched his head. “Bitter.”
Ella heard a giggle inside her head. He thinks you’re too bitter to help. I don’t think so. I’ve seen you here with Adam. You were trying to help.
You’re Adam’s cousin?
Yes.
Where are you?
In front of you. You told the policemen who I am. Remember?
Dear God, she had too. But she hadn’t really believed it. And if she had reached that conclusion, then none of this could be a nightmare or hallucination. Calm was fast taking wing. What’s hap-pen-ing?
The grotesque inclined its head at Romain, who shook his. This is going to take a while. We need to get to the roof before dawn. Come. Slowly. Her feline head nudged Ella’s shoulder. Oh, and don’t try to fly. You’re not ready for it.
Ella’s frustrated exclamation was cut short by a shove from Romain. Left no real choice, she crawled forward, following the Cecily creature out of the workshop. A clink echoed up from the crypt. Rob had gone down there. Genord. She had to warn him. She waddled under the arch, tried to take a step, and tumbled down, legs and arms and wings tangling around each other. It would be just her luck to evade a gunshot but suffer a broken neck. People said you died for real if you died in your nightmares.
“What was that?” Rob was pointing his gun at Genord. She could just see him through the half open door. More importantly, he had heard her. She was about to be saved! Except Romain stepped over her into the crypt, kicked the door ajar, and stubbed the toppled candelabras into the coffins. Sprawled over the steps, Ella panted. Her legs and arms wouldn’t obey her brain.
“Where is she?” Rob asked.
No! Rob couldn’t just dismiss the sound like that. But Genord was ambling toward him.
“To whom do you refer?” His affable front was such a charade.
Rob saw right through it. He rammed Genord into the wall and cocked the gun at his head. “I’m in no mood for games.” She hadn’t realised he still cared so much.
“This is police brutality.”
The great leonine head bumped her.
“I won’t ask you again.”
She pushed herself to hands and knees, determined to roll the rest of the way into the crypt, but the furry mouth clamped on her leg. You can’t. They’ll shoot you.
Rob’s the one with the gun, she tried to say.
“If you are going to point a gun to my head, I must insist on calling my lawyer.”
Rob lowered the gun and shot the floor a centimetre from the bastard’s foot. “Ella Jerome. Where is she?”
Genord kept his mouth shut. Rob pushed him from the wall to the tombs and rammed him over the one with Ella’s effigy. “Open it.”
“You’ve already seen it takes—”
She pulled. The lion bit harder. She managed a growl but Romain was making so much noise as he slammed the candelabras back on their feet they didn’t hear.
“You got it here in the space of a few hours, you open it,” Rob said. He stepped back but kept the gun aimed squarely at Genord, who calmly placed a hand over the effigy. The air under Genord’s hand buzzed blue. Ella’s skin crawled as the marble slab scraped against its base and wobbled into the air. She told her sluggish arm to open the door.
Danes, who seemed to be keeping it together, balanced his hands on the rim and leant inside. “It’s clean.” He bent to examine the exterior, sliding one hand along the marble. “Where’s the trigger mechanism?”
The marble top crashed down, crushing one of Danes’ hands. The junior detective hollered. Rob jabbed his gun in his holster and pushed the slab, grunting with the effort as Genord looked on. Its almost imperceptible movement was sufficient for Danes to yank his hand free. His fingers bent at odd angles, his face contorted with pain as he bit back screams.
Ella started, knocking the door closed.
“You will forgive my restraint, but my back is not what it used to be,” Genord’s voice sa
id. “You can see for yourself Miss Jerome is not here.”
The door opened. Romain squeezed back into the stairwell, banging the door behind him. She tugged but the beast held fast until Romain seized her under the arms and hefted her up. He lumbered all the way up to the nave and deposited her in the transept.
“Up or die.”
She waddled for the back of the church, for the foyer and entrance. If she reached the car she could radio for help. The lion grotesque flew over her head, made a dainty landing, and blocked her way with outstretched wings. The only other direction was up. She had to trust Rob would search the rest of the church. With each step her muscles limbered, and movement came more easily.
On the balcony, noise carried with startling clarity into her ears: the sweep of a stiff broom against stone; the regular tap of footsteps on the stairs; the crack of glass beneath soles; Danes’ voice, They’re gone; and Rob’s, That’s not possible; Romain saying Bat’s up; and Rob telling Danes they needed to check nave and roof.
The lion beast nudged her through the bell tower door. On the platform, it pawed the door to the roof, caught the latch, and swung it open. With a shiver of delight, it leapt from the outer steps and winged into position on the inner ledge.
Come, quickly, before we are seen, the grotesque urged, turning her head to Ella. Come sit next to me.
Quuiiick, Romain drawled inside her head.
Gripped by an attack of nerves, she backed away. Her unnaturally heavy limbs moved awkwardly, and she almost tripped over herself. The precipitous drop to the crypt set the bell tower spinning around her head. Suddenly the starlit expanse of the roof appeared safer than the claustrophobic confines of the belfry. She scrambled outside and onto the ledge. An icy trickle spread through her veins. The chill seeped into her hardening bones. Turning her head to the Cecily beast required such a show of willpower.
It’s okay, the grotesque beside her said. You can still talk to me.
Ella fought her rising inertia. The roof was not the haven she had imagined it to be. She had to get to the edge. She had to see if Rob and Danes were okay. She had to tell them she was here.
Don’t. Don’t fight it. That was a new voice, stronger, deeper than the Cecily beast. A picture of the beaked grotesque with the bloodied wing filled her mind. Too overwhelmed to deal with the situation, Ella strove to cast the voices from her mind.