The Grotesques

by Tia Reed

  “Let me try,” Ella said, placing a hand on Doer’s arm. “Romain?”

  The hammering stopped. “Bats up,” came the annoyed reply.

  “Romain, it’s Ella.”

  A pause, then, “Go.”

  “Romain, your grotesques are in danger.”

  There was shuffling inside. The door creaked open. Romain, one eye quizzically closed, poked his head out. “Go. Danger. Go.”

  Doer shoved the door wide open. A formless marble block occupied the floor, chisel marks apparent on its surface. Tools were scattered over the central table.

  “I don’t know what twisted game you and Genord are playing but I want my son back. Now.”

  Romain nudged around them and looked about the outer chamber. Doer sidled into the workroom and examined the stone. Agitated by his interest, Romain came back inside and pushed him from the block. Doer picked up a chisel.

  “Where’s my son?” he asked, scraping the surface of the stone.

  “No!” Ella said, flying at him. For all she knew it could be some hapless person waiting for Romain’s healing touch.

  Doer threw the chisel to the back of the room. It thumped onto a leather jacket draped over a pair of boots. They both stared. Doer recovered more quickly, rounding on Romain and pushing him into the bench along the wall.

  “Those are Brodie’s clothes. Where is he?”

  Eyes wide, Ella looked at the stone carving. “Brodie?”

  Romain pushed Doer off him and ambled to her. “Stone.”

  Doer brought out his gun. Basil leaves spilled from the holster. Ella scooped them up as Doer pushed Romain toward the door.

  “Let’s go, hunchback.”

  “Bad man.”

  “You got that right. Now move.”

  “Up.”

  “Down to the underwater passage.”

  Being here was bad enough. Entering the crypt was unthinkable. Taking the steps to the nave two at a time, she said, “If Brodie’s alive, he’ll be on the roof.”

  Doer shot her a distrustful look. “Okay,” he grudged.

  They climbed the stairs at the back of the church. With Romain unable to hurry because of his awkward gait, their progress along the walkway seemed painfully slow. The sound of scuffles reached them from below. Terrific. The police were already entering the church. If they were using the window to get in, it could only mean the front door was barred. With any luck, given the events of the last couple of days, they would check the crypt first. At least she had provided them with the excuse they needed to search the church again. That had to benefit Brodie. She studied the fresco as Romain fumbled with a key.

  “Where are you, Romain?” she asked when the mason had opened the door.

  Romain shuffled to the left of the painting and pointed to two boys. “Romain. Genord.”

  Ella peered at the figures. One boy, tall and blonde, bore a striking similarity to the caretaker. The other, while stocky and dark, looked healthy and in possession of his full mental faculties.

  “La Gargouille?”

  Her pronunciation was off but Romain pointed to the sky, where a serpentine dragon twisted, flame erupting from between dagger-like teeth. Ella shuddered and hoped it was not about to terrorise Adelaide.

  “You first,” Doer directed when the door clicked open.

  Romain started up, Doer behind him and Ella last. Her mouth had become dry, her hands clammy. She barely noticed the walk across the platform and down the stairs to the roof.

  In daylight, the leonine grotesque was nothing more than a stone statue. She ran her hands over the head and behind the ears, just as she did with Tilly. The yearning in its eyes had to be proof a trapped soul inhabited the lifeless mineral.

  “Who’s that supposed to be?” Doer asked from near the stairs.

  “Come and see for yourself.”

  Gun still at the ready, Doer approached. His jaw clicked as his eyes followed hers to the stone bracelet. She had to force herself to move to the newest statue. Adam’s expression was pure terror. She removed a handful of basil leaves from her bag and crushed them against his horned head. The stone remained hard. Frantic digging beneath the herb produced three tubs of pesto. She tore off the lids and smeared the dip along the arm. Nothing changed.

  Romain bent to examine her work. He dipped a finger in the paste and put it in his mouth. Scratching his head, he turned a quizzical face to hers. “Why?”

  “I want them to turn back.”

  “Basil?”

  “Cure for the gaze of a basilisk?”

  He snorted. “Romain not basilisk.”

  Ella went to run her hand through her hair, noticed the pesto and stopped.

  “This is why we raided three supermarkets?” Doer said. “Some bullshit fairy tale about people turned to stone? I thought you were a credible reporter.”

  “I tried to tell you.”

  Waving the gun at Romain, Doer shook his head. “I came here for one reason. Where’s Brodie?”

  “Romain no know Brodie.”

  “Cecily,” Ella pleaded. “Adam. The police are getting ready to shoot the grotesques. The Chief Inspector is blaming them for the murders. If you understand, give me a sign.”

  Romain hopped from foot to foot. “Safe. Safe.”

  Unable to bear hearing that again, Ella buried her face in her hands. “They’re not safe. If the police don’t shoot them, the dragon will tear them to shreds.”

  “Enough talk of dragons. Enough about people turned to stone,” Doer said, advancing on Romain. “I want to know what’s going on.”

  Ella moved between Doer and the mason. “They’ve been hurt. I’ve seen them in your workshop. It’s only a matter of time before they get killed.”

  Doer shoved her out of the way and curled a finger around the trigger. “I’m not going to ask you again. Where’s Brodie?”

  Romain pointed toward the belfry. “Brodie there.” He lumbered away.

  “Get back here, you coward.” Doer chased after Romain but the hunchback displayed surprising speed. He hobbled up the stairs, Doer on his tail. Abandoning the pesto, Ella jogged after them.

  Inside the belfry, Doer had the gun pointed at Romain’s heart. He bullied Romain to the edge of the pit. Romain wobbled. Doer eased up. A gust clanged the door shut.

  “I think he’s on our side,” Ella said. That gun was making her nervous. She edged between it and Romain. Doer stepped around her.

  “One last time. Where’s my son?”

  “Look.” Romain scampered to the door. Light spilled in as he cracked it open.

  Doer’s breath became jagged. Fear rooted Ella to the spot. The reptilian and the beaked grotesques had moved from the ledge. The stone statues stood abreast of each other, both facing the door. Romain reached past her and closed the door. Ella stared at the wood. She had not been hallucinating after all. Grunting, the hunchback threw open the door again. Ella drew a shaky breath. The grotesque Cecily was at the base of the stairs. Adam had turned. He was a hunk of stone, nothing more, but his eyes looked directly into hers. Once again Romain closed the door.

  “Turn them back,” Ella whispered, still unable to move.

  Romain grunted again. Doer’s breathing was gradually getting louder.

  “Please, Romain.”

  A third time Romain opened the door. The lizard grotesque was crouched on the opposite side of the stairs to Cecily. The beaked grotesque was looking away from her, at Adam, who had bowed his head and was pointing a clawed finger to the ground.

  “Go,” Romain said.

  Where she found the will, Ella would never know. Doer swinging the gun toward the grotesques probably spurred her on. She tripped down the steps, weak at the knees and her heart pounding erratically. Adam’s expression had changed from disbelief to something akin concern.

  “Adam.”

  No response. She followed the line of his arm. A torn fragment of paper wobbled in the faint breeze. Ella bent to retrieve it. The sketch she had made of th
e bracelet was sliced sharply through. She turned it over, the sceptic in her insisting Adam must have dropped it there when he searched for his cousin. She swallowed. Slashed through a green, oily stain on the paper were the words not yet. Her hand trembled, blurring the writing.

  “I’ll get you back,” she whispered, for a moment unable to move. “All of you. I promise.”

  Still in the doorway, Doer looked like he might collapse of a heart attack. “Is this your idea of a joke?”

  Footsteps thumped up in the stairwell.

  “Please tell me you believe me now.”

  A police officer leapt onto the creaky platform. Ella stepped inside, and Romain closed the outer door. The beam of a torch shone at Romain, then Ella, and finally Doer. The cop’s gun was out of its holster in a second.

  “Drop your weapon.”

  “Not till I find out what’s going on.” Doer pointed his own gun right back.

  A policewoman stepped up. The platform groaned under the additional weight. Her own pistol was out and pointed as soon as her back foot hit the platform.

  “Drop your gun,” the policeman repeated.

  “Is everything all right?” the policewoman asked Ella.

  “Fine,” Ella said. Unwilling to explain the inexplicable, she slipped the shredded sketch into her jeans’ pocket.

  “No,” said Doer. “My son is somewhere in this church.”

  “There’s nobody here but us and the caretaker. Now put that gun down,” the policeman said.

  “We found it on the roof. Genord shot at me last night. That could be the gun he used. Detective Sergeant Hamlyn has a full report,” Ella said. Wasting valuable time in a police cell while all this got sorted out was not on her agenda. In the mood Roan was in, he might just order Rob to forget about her for a few hours.

  “And I suppose you were about to call the police?” the policewoman said.

  “I was just getting my mobile out when you arrived, but we couldn’t risk Genord disposing of the evidence.”

  “So you picked it up?”

  “You should take it in as evidence.”

  “Put the weapon down.” The policeman, disturbingly ill at ease, was shifting his weight from foot to foot.

  Ella placed a hand on Doer’s extended arm. “You can’t help Brodie from jail,” she muttered through the side of her mouth.

  “You didn’t think that gun would be registered to me?” Doer murmured to her.

  “You’re smarter than that,” she whispered.

  “Yeah, I am.” Eyes on the policeman, Doer lowered his arm and tossed the gun to his feet.

  “Up against the wall,” the policeman ordered.

  Genord chose that moment to appear at the top of the stairs. “You will excuse my old legs,” he said to the policeman, the younger of the two. “My rheumatic joints prevent me from moving as fast as I’d like.” The caretaker stepped onto the platform. The floorboards seemed to sag beneath their weight. Both officers looked decidedly uncomfortable.

  Genord flashed a wicked smile. “I see you have apprehended the intruders. Well, Miss Jerome, it is always a pleasure. I do not believe I have had the honour of making your companion’s acquaintance.” Genord offered Doer his hand. Doer placed his hands on his hips.

  “Do you know this woman?” the policewoman asked.

  “She’s a reporter. Although, I believe I made plain the consequences of her returning the last time we met.”

  Ella swallowed. A bat fluttered around Genord’s head. Romain followed its movement. When it dived down the stairwell, he shuffled to the stairs and went down, peering over the edge for signs of its progress. The young policeman let out a sigh of relief as the floor groaned its approval. Ella itched to follow the mason, but under the circumstances thought she had better stay put.

  “You’ll need to accompany us to the station,” the policeman said, his pistol still trained on Doer as the policewoman slapped handcuffs on him.

  “I want to know what happened to my son.”

  “Perhaps you should assert more control over your teenager,” Genord said. “Now, officers, if you would kindly escort these trespassers off my property.”

  The platform creaked in relief as they stepped off, Genord leading, Doer and Ella between the police.

  At the last step, a bat swooped past Ella’s face. Throwing her hands up, she spun. The sudden movement unbalanced her. She toppled past the emerging policewoman back into the stairwell. She grabbed at the door. Her hands slashed through the air. The door banged closed.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  29th October. Early Afternoon.

  ELLA RATTLED THE handle of the door to the balcony.

  “I’m afraid it’s an automatic lock,” Genord called from the other side. “A safety precaution, you understand. If you sit tight, I shall fetch the key.”

  She yelped as a bat fluttered around her face. “Get me out.” She banged on the door.

  “You bastard,” Doer said.

  The scrapes and grunts of a scuffle penetrated the thick door.

  “Cool it,” the policeman said.

  More scuffing. Then the noise dimmed.

  “Wait. Please.” They couldn’t just leave her here. Not with Genord just outside.

  “We’ll be back in a moment, miss,” the policeman said.

  “He’s done something to my son. He’ll kill her too.”

  “That’s enough.”

  From the continued thumps, Doer was not cooperating. Idiot, she wanted to shout. He was forcing both officers to accompany him. Before she could open her mouth, the bat tangled itself in her hair. She started, stepped precariously close to the edge and wobbled over the drop. Her arms flew in erratic circles until she steadied herself enough to ease to the wall. The platform had to be a whole lot safer than this. Wary of more bats, she clambered up on hands and feet; pride was not about to make her fall.

  The wooden floor trembled as the door to the church thumped closed. The police had to come back for her. Surely if she didn’t come down, they would. They couldn’t leave her here with whirring wings and scaly feet latching onto her ear. She squealed as she swiped at the cloud dropping from the rafters. Battered from above, she dropped to her knees and covered her head. The swarm tipped her over. Her head dropped into the central chasm. The movement shifted her back, throwing her shoulders free of the platform. Her fingers raked the boards, seeking purchase. She struggled to sit up but the onslaught drove her further over the edge.

  LA GARGOUILLE’S APPETITE burned in Genord. It was an apt name Rouen had tagged to her. Her long slender throat ravaged the town, razing houses to the ground, drowning the cobbled streets down which lads foolish enough to pelt her hide with rocks fled. He watched her winged figure diminish in the distance, heard her bugles carry on the breeze. Her hunger penetrated every bone, its ache weakening her. She skipped over a hag, too shrivelled to provide nourishment, spied a maiden running for cover, young and tender, all alluring curves. Her talons rent the screaming girl’s shoulders as she plucked the lass from the streets, before—

  Sickened, Genord wrenched his mind free and went to his bed, unable to blot the crunch of the girl’s broken body, the bloody taste of her raw flesh from his mind. Alluring curves. That one thought in the tumult of ideas had been his. That single one. When Gargouille returned, he would tease another fragment of her spirit into the crude carving he had buried in the slope. Such was the secret to his control. The fragmented spirit he could mould to his will, the whole—her power exceeded even his gargantuan mind. He fell asleep envisioning total obedience. And was woken by angry shouts outside his fort.

  Shaking tumbled dreams of flight from his mind, he strode to the top of the wall. A rabble of townsfolk, haggard after months of conflict and ransoms, fell silent as he appeared. Arms pushed a reluctant Jeac to the front. The scrawny boy had grown into an athletic man but his cowardice had not diminished for he stammered without speaking a word.

  Genord shook his head. “Why come i
f you lack the confidence to speak?” He started to descend, his mind already on the delights he would convince a maiden to perform.

  “Wait.”

  He turned. “You may speak.” The corners of his lips twitched. At that moment he was every bit the lord.

  Jeac spat. The phlegm did not reach the wall but Genord’s smile died. “You think this is funny! You think this is just? Just what kind of man are you, Genord? We slaved for years to build your fort. We offer our choicest fruit and tenderest meat while our townsfolk starve. We tolerate flood and fire but now you allow your evil monster to take our daughters. You sick, misbegotten son of a demon. We will not stand for this. Do you understand? If we have to quit the town and leave you with nothing to plunder, you will not have our children.” He seized a pear from a cart laden with more bounty than Genord could consume and hurled it. Genord blasted it into mush before it was halfway across. It was a little magic. La Gargouille would barely notice the drain. This rabble, however . . .

  He waited until they had wiped their faces of the splattered flesh. Placing hands atop the wall, he leaned forward. “Kneel.”

  “Your dragon is not here—”

  She did not need to be. Genord seized her lifeforce and drove it at Jake. Spirit talons rent long gouges through his skin. The imbeciles took their lesson, dropping to their knees even as they beseeched him to release their piddling leader.

  “Please,” Jeac begged. Genord complied. The coward staggered into an old man, gasping for breath.

  “Well?”

  Shaking with anger, Jeac went down on his knees. Genord straightened.

  “There are limits to even my power, Jeac. You sent mercenaries to attack.” Perched in the cave below, La Gargouille had slain with talon, teeth, and fire. In minutes, she had reduced the twenty to two fleeing cowards. “Flame and flight beget a ferocious appetite. In that famished state there is precious little that will satisfy her. She has tasted human blood. Now nothing else will suffice. Quit the town if you would save every life. But think on this. Where will you run? With La Gargouille acquiescing to my every command, the Frankish Kingdoms will bow before me.” A low trumpet embellished his last words. The dragon, it seemed, agreed. Genord tucked his hands behind his back, well proud of the terror he inspired.