The Grotesques

by Tia Reed

  At last, someone has a body more beastly than mine!

  Oh, be quiet Bekka, Cecily said. You remember what it was like.

  They just would not stop. What’s going on? Ella screamed to nobody in particular. Her entire body was frozen down to her smallest knuckle.

  Romain saved you from Genord. It was the second voice.

  What has he done to me?

  We thought you’d figured it out. There was silence. A sigh when Ella offered no thoughts. He has turned us into grotesques. You feel confused, but it will pass.

  This isn’t possible. She was tottering on the edge of hysteria.

  Accept it. We’re the lucky ones. There were three girls. Genord got to them first.

  Frightening scenes burst unbidden into Ella’s mind. A trusting girl with wavy brown hair hung on Genord’s arm. He whispered sweet nothings in her ear. Giggling, she tossed a note into the drophole as Romain, heavy pot in hand, lumbered toward the pair. Beside him, paws skittered over the floor. The girl looked up and screamed. It was Alicia Moffat.

  Genord held up a hand. A lightning bolt of blue shot out. The grotesque whose eyes Ella had usurped feinted and yelped. The end of its wing drooped and it was pained into shivers. Still it stalked Genord long enough for Romain to grab the girl. She kicked and screamed, slipped out of his grasp, oblivious to where the real danger lay. The frustrated hunchback beat the pot against the wall. The whimpering girl sidled toward Genord. Romain charged her, pinning her against the wall. Wedging the pot against her right shoulder, he smeared a slurry along her arm and began the chant now ingrained in Ella’s brain. Alicia struggled but the mason’s bulk held her fast. The tips of her fingers blanched before becoming hard and brittle. The rot creeped along her arm and seeped into her shoulder.

  The grotesque shrieked. Ella’s nausea swelled as bone splintered under Genord’s unnatural attack. Startled, Romain dropped his pot. The screaming girl ran for the exit, but the water in the drop hole churned and the ghostly dragon head emerged. It thrashed through the air, snapping at the grotesque’s heels. Romain formed a cross with his index fingers and held it high. Unperturbed, the beast roared. Romain crossed his arms. The dragon’s wooden neck still rose. Too late, he ran into the path of the dragon. It lunged, grabbed the girl around the waist and snapped her in half, as brutal as a monster of flesh. Genord laughed, the grotesque shrieked, and the ghostly beast slid into the water below. Blood spilled across the floor.

  Genord walked to the severed torso, the triumph of a lifetime in the curve of his mouth. A blue spirit was rising from the broken girl. It looked like her. How could it look like her? She was struggling against him though his hands were at his side. She tried to drift into the sky but Genord shot the spirit into her tomb. It crackled and buzzed, trapped for whatever vile purpose he schemed. He turned from the stone, as if what he had done were of no consequence, and watched blood clot beneath the corpse. Lifting it as though it was no weight, he carried it to the hole and dropped it into the water.

  “Fool,” he said to Romain. “A creature birthed under a cross cannot be defeated by it. My powers have grown, brother, and I will triumph.”

  The scene abruptly changed. Ella was perched on the roof looking down on the grounds as a car pulled into a parking space. A naïve looking girl smiled as she picked up a note and read it. With a love-sick sigh, she entered the church. A grotesque with the face of a goblin and bat-like wings clambered from the ledge and bounded stiffly toward the door to the belfry. Inside, an agitated Romain shifted from foot to foot. He lumbered down the steps as the grotesque dropped down the central void, flapping wings furiously to halt its descent.

  From the walkway, the pair looked silently down. Melanie Denham was in Genord’s arms. She was kissing him. His hands explored her body but his eyes travelled to Romain even as the girl rested her head against his chest.

  “You really had to see me tonight?” she asked.

  “I have a surprise for you,” the caretaker said, loud enough for them to hear. He led her to the steps, locking the grille behind him before the grotesque had winged its way down.

  It took some time for Romain to descend to the nave and open the lock. When they reached the crypt, Genord was showing Melanie the tomb with her effigy. She gasped.

  “It is only the privileged who are afforded a tomb in churchs, you know.” He stroked her hair and kissed her lips before turning her to face the tomb his body had been blocking.

  She frowned. “That looks like —”

  “Alicia Moffat. Yes, my dear.”

  “Then you, and her?” Her voice cracked with hurt.

  “No, my love. Never. There has only ever been you. It is only that her untimely death warrants a memorial. You would not begrudge her that, would you?” Her face lit up when he tucked her hair behind her shoulders. “There is, however, one thing you must do for me to earn the right to be buried here.”

  “Anything.”

  “I’m so glad to hear it.”

  Genord guided Melanie to the gaping hole at the back of the crypt. Romain and the grotesque stole forward. Well aware of their presence, Genord kept the girl turned away from them. Ella sensed that after his failure with Alicia, Romain was reluctant to rush.

  “The mystery of the church lies in that hole. You shall be one of the few to witness it. We must have a valid reason to inter your remains in the crypt after all.” She was oblivious to his mocking tone. Genord slid behind Melanie and placed his hands on her arms. “Look down and tell me what you see,” he whispered in her ear.

  “There’s only water.”

  “Only that?”

  Waves lapped against stone. At the sound, the grotesque sprang toward Genord.

  “You’re not nearly in time, brother,” he said, and pushed the unsuspecting girl into the hole. She fell with a splash that drowned her cry. She thrashed as Genord began to slide the floor stone back into place. Romain charged his brother while the grotesque pounced to the edge. The terrified girl ducked beneath the water to avoid a swiping arm, the only lifeline the snarling grotesque could offer. Changing tactics, the grotesque leaped toward Genord. The caretaker dodged, allowing Romain to drop an arm into the hole. The mason’s fingers, coated with sludge, brushed the girl’s before she slipped under again. He had barely started the chant, when the water turned red. He howled and howled as the grotesque snarled and clawed Genord. With casual indifference to his bloody scratches, Genord caught the bewildered, sobbing spirit and flung it into the tomb. It fought for release, and for one thrilling moment Ella thought it might break free. A tendril of blue, her young form, her innocent face, blurred out of the tomb. It zapped into the grotesque, which twitched and screeched until Romain slid his cross against its leg.

  The tableau spun. Ella’s mind reeled. No more, she pleaded. She couldn’t cope with the sight of Joanne Trevallian. But she was looking down from the roof again, this time through the beaked grotesque’s eyes. She saw herself walk along the path to the church, shoulders hunched as she waited for Adam; saw a lone jogger scared off by the lizard-like grotesque, making noise from the shadows in the passage; saw the beaked grotesque warn the dragon away from her as she rounded the belfry while Genord tracked her movements. An instant later, Adam surprised her. She felt the keen relief of the grotesque and nearly fainted to realise how close she had been to death that night.

  The vision changed again, this time to her house on the night of the fire. The leonine grotesque—she still could not bring herself to call it Cecily—was hammering at the glass door, trying to break the glass as the fire spread, to provide her with an escape.

  We are the lucky ones, the voice repeated.

  Who are you? she asked.

  I am Caroline Jones, the beaked grotesque said.

  I’m Bekka Hayes, the reptilian grotesque said.

  You already know I’m Cecily.

  They were protecting her. That she could accept. But that she was one of them? Are we trapped in the stone? Do we need someone
to break us out?

  We are the stone, Cecily said.

  This isn’t possible.

  We are here for a reason. There are things you must know. The dragon you saw will destroy the city. We’ve been warding it off but it grows stronger with each sacrifice he makes. This time Genord might succeed.

  This time? Why here? Why Adelaide? Why me?

  Cecily sighed. We still don’t know but we can help you understand some of the rest. Romain showed us. We can show you.

  Ella experienced a sensation of profound dizziness before she was whirled again into the past.

  HE HAD TARGET practice. Good. Birds twittered in the leafy branches and a squirrel was busy hiding acorns in the hole of an oak. Genord settled himself on a fallen log and considered which one he should kill first. He raised the bow he had stolen from a careless hunter and took aim at a carolling magpie. Leaves crunched as the string twanged the arrow’s release. Cawing alarm, the bird swooped from the branch. All Genord had to show for his efforts was a shower of fiery leaves. Clenching his jaw, he rose to confront his imbecile of a brother.

  “I’ve found you.” Romain danced his childish wooden carvings through the air.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be planting vegetables?” Genord plucked another arrow from his quiver.

  Romain dropped his hands and frowned at the bow. “Were you trying to hurt something? You know Brother Pierre disapproves of it.” Acorns crunched as Romain shuffled from foot to foot.

  “What if I was?” Genord ground his teeth as he nocked another arrow and aimed. “Doesn’t the monk say animals were created to serve man?”

  “Serve, not be slaughtered.”

  “Its death serves me.” Romain was a gullible fool to accept the monk’s teaching without question. The new religion placed too much store in the power of peace.

  Genord let the arrow fly. The skewered squirrel dropped.

  “What did you do that for?”

  With remarkable restraint Genord kicked leaves into Romain’s face. What he really wanted was to beat the placidity out of his dim-witted brother. “Grow up, Romain. Brother Pierre kills his chickens for meat.”

  “That’s different.”

  A crow landed in a nearby beech and cawed death. He lowered the bow to better watch the squirrel twitch. “The purpose of an action does not change its inherent nature.”

  “You’re using big words again,” Romain huffed.

  “I have a big mind, big expectations, and a very big destiny.” Which was why he visited Rouen to eavesdrop on the upper classes. Brother Pierre in his isolated hut provided food and lodging but little of his education.

  “You didn’t have to kill it.”

  “Have you looked at the dead since Samhain?”

  “What?”

  Genord strode to the squirrel. Its blue spirit was drifting from the furry body, a lightning streak with a vague resemblance to the dumb beast. Quick of hand, he grabbed it. It zapped through his body, almost tore free. His hands fisted, his jaw clenched. Oh, yes, he had the will to bind it. To shove it at the crow, inside it. The bird cawed and flapped, torn apart from the inside out as the squirrel gnawed through feathers and flesh. It did not take ten heartbeats for it to drop from its perch. Genord snatched. Its spirit flapped through his fingers.

  “I am the link between the world and the veil. Did you witness how I control the power of death?”

  His snivelling brother stood with open mouth, a stunned rabbit useful for naught but a blow to the head. Above, leaves rustled. The magpie was back at its perch. Genord lifted his bow as it preened a wing. He needed a way to bind the spirits to him, to harness their power to his will.

  “No.” Romain charged. He was more simple than a fool to think their childish wrestling could still make amends.

  Genord stepped aside and spun, digging an elbow into his brother’s stomach and kicking his ankles from under him. Romain hit the ground hard. The dirt smeared across his gawping mouth made him look stupider than normal. Up in the oak, the squirrel spirit was chittering in disgust. If spirits drew air, Genord would have crushed its chest until it couldn’t breathe. Ah! It was caught by his intent, squealing and thrashing as he drew it to him. He was Lord of the Dead indeed.

  “No, Genord.” Romain had jostled up and looked ready to charge.

  “Very well. I’ll trade you. The magpie’s life for your dragon carving.” The dragon was a beast removed from this Christian religion; a beast so terrifying the bravest hero would quake in its shadow; a beast so indomitable it was the perfect servant for the Lord he would one day become.

  “I made this for you.” Romain held out a carved hare.

  Genord laughed. As if he cared his imbecilic brother crafted him a carving for every beast he slaughtered. Their images would never kindle regret. On the contrary, they were a memento, every one. As for this piece, its workmanship would have rivalled that of the dragon if it had not had a fragment chipped off one toe. Too bad it was only prey. He tossed it onto the clump of bloodied feathers and raised the bow once more.

  “Wait. Here. Have it.” Romain held out the dragon.

  Genord’s lips parted. He shrugged and took the carving. There were other beasts to practice on and Romain had little else to trade. “I’m going to the cave.”

  How fitting that inspiration descended when he stepped over the corpse of the squirrel. Here was a vessel perfect in shape and size. He willed the spirit inside, held it down, punched it until it stuck with a sensation like the suck of mud. The limp body flopped over the leaves, landing on one side, then the other, and at last on broken legs. As they wobbled and swayed beneath it, he picked it up by the tail.

  “You can come and wrestle me if you wish.”

  Romain stood rooted to the middle of the feathered butchery.

  Genord avoided looking at him as he strode out of the clearing, the corpse twitching in his hand. His disappointment was an ant to be squashed compared to the expanse of his relief.

  Chapter Eighteen

  28th October. Night.

  SHE HAD BEEN drugged. It was the only rational explanation. She hadn’t realised before because her mind had been too fogged.

  No, came the mind voice of the Caroline beast. You’ve seen us. You’ve seen it.

  The wooden platform in the belfry creaked. The door to the roof squeaked open. Danes groaned creepily enough to scare any boogie monster. His hand had to be killing him.

  “You should wait for the paramedics downstairs.”

  “Waiting won’t fix . . . aah . . . my fingers . . . ow . . . any faster,” Danes said through gritted teeth.

  A torch flicked across roof and wall as the two detectives made their way down and to the right. No way that all she had seen could have happened during the detectives’ few steps. That proved it was a hallucination.

  You have to believe, the Cecily beast said.

  She held her breath hoping they would find her.

  Rob’s blinding beam shone right in her eyes. He had to see her.

  “That’s the same statue we saw below.” Danes was hunched over, grimacing.

  “It can’t be. It’s in a different pose.” Rob sounded uneasy. His harsh breathing sent white puffs of vapour into the air as he swept his light across her to the lion beast and the wingless creature that had leapt at them by the canal. “These statues are out of order.”

  “Can’t be,” Danes grunted. His agony might have made his vision blurry but there was no reason Rob couldn’t see her unless she was stuffed in some hidey hole in the wall. Oh, dear God, what if Romain intended to leave her hidden here until she starved and shrivelled to dust?

  “This one,” said Rob, swinging the beam onto the wingless statue, “was on the left this afternoon and that one, the lion-headed one, was closest to the front of the building.” He hung his torch on his belt. “Lend me a shoulder.”

  “Anything, To. Distract. Me. From. This. Pain.”

  They combined their weight and tried to shove the statue f
rom its perch. It didn’t budge. Of course it didn’t because statues couldn’t come to life. Rob should have known that. He shouldn’t have mumbled about taking back every statement he ever made about the Informer because a meticulous report would read like a formal version of their articles.

  Danes made a noise between a scoff and a laugh. Or it could have been pain.

  Rob shook his head as he ran the torchlight over the carved bracelet. “There has to be a duplicate. The mason is screaming for help through these carvings. We need to find a qualified therapist pronto. He knows something.”

  Sirens blared toward the church.

  “That’s my painkiller,” Danes said.

  “And our backup. Let’s go meet them. They can search the copse while I give the church another once over.”

  Their footsteps receded. The sirens grew louder.

  Ella rummaged through memories of the past few days. She had to find a logical flaw to shatter this illusion. When she succeeded, she laughed hysterically. Who was the first? she asked. If you are the missing women, then what did Adam see the night Cecily disappeared?

  She waited for the nightmare to disperse. Instead, she felt an ancient mind quiver in her own. It was I, Igulum. The fragile voice creaked from a pointy winged grotesque with a face similar to her own. Ella recognised the statue from the day she had first set eyes on Romain’s workshop.

  Who are you? she whispered, awed by a sense of faded might.

  Igulum crawled from the opposite ledge. Joints creaking with age, he manoeuvred to her side and gazed upon the Southern Cross. I am one of the old gods. I am one who refused to fade into oblivion with the old beliefs. I am one who chose to protect the new world from evil. I am ancient as the dawn. I am dying with the dusk. I am the last of those who made compact with Romain for a body to remain in this world in exchange for my protection. And I am no longer capable of my task.