by Tia Reed
“I saw. Romain. He tamed a dragon.”
“I understand you have been through an ordeal but we need to move. Can you walk?”
Adam nodded, though he reached for the desk as his knees sagged. That didn’t stop him draping the police jacket back over her when he noticed her torn blouse. Ella pulled it around her neck.
“Give me a minute,” she said to Adam, placing a hand on his cheek.
ELLA FOUND ROB at his desk. He stood up as soon as she came into view.
“Work can’t wait?”
“You’re sounding like your old self,” he said.
She took that as an invitation to approach. “You don’t know how much it means to hear that. Thank you. For everything.”
“You and Adam have had more to do with solving this case than I have.”
“You believed in me. I needed that.”
Rob gave her a single nod. “I guess we both needed to learn to trust again.”
She took a deep breath. “I never meant to hurt you.”
His eyes drifted to an old copy of the Informer on his desk. She couldn’t fail to notice it lay open to a page with one of her articles. “It looks like that paper of yours has some credibility after all.”
She walked around the desk and kissed him in much the same way she had kissed Romain.
“Ella, I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault. I’m not particularly proud of the fact that my principles aided a drug smuggler.”
“But you’d do it again.”
“With no hesitation.”
“Then for you, this has all been worth it.” His eyes held bittersweet concern.
She ran a finger along her by-line. “Strangely enough, it has.”
He helped her put on the oversized jacket. “I suppose we’ve proven we make an unbeatable investigative team.”
Her smile turned humorous. “Maybe we can work together again sometime.”
Rob grew serious but she knew him too well not to see behind the facade. “Just so long as you come totally clean about what you know, when you know it.”
“Agreed. But this is not over yet.”
His expression lengthened. He took her hand and gestured with his head. She looked back as he led her toward the Chief Inspector’s office and caught a glimpse of a black coat. Even so, Rob paused with a hand on the knob. “He’s a good man, Ella.” He was watching her reflection in the glass. They both noticed the bat at the same time. Rob turned to watch it flutter. Her grab for his arm drew a sympathetic look as he threw open the door. It swooped toward the greying man in the black coat, cutting a line that drew his attention their way. Rob gestured her down the passage.
“We need to go. Now.”
Chapter Thirty
30th October. Mid-morning.
THE SMUGGLER OPENED his house to them without question. A copy of the Informer in his hand, he watched her carefully as they piled into his living room. They had lost Osbourne. The detectives at the station, loyal to their chief, had detained him with by-the-book procedure until they could commandeer two police cars and slip away. If Doer was going to have problems with the blue and white vehicles parked out front, he gave no sign. Neither did he comment on the front page news. From what she could see of the headline, Phil had come through. Her name was attached to trash nobody would have believed a day ago. She made herself comfortable in one of the egg chairs and soaked up the overcast view of the city. She figured after what she had been through she deserved it. The others took the modern chaises except for Brendan, who sat stiffly on a hard chair and looked everywhere except at Doer and Roan.
“You need to hear this,” she said to the silent felon, wishing the bat fluttering at the window would just go away.
His missus, a curvy woman with spiked, bleached hair, dressed in tight leather pants and jacket, prepared sandwiches for them to eat while Ella and Adam related in awkward spurts what they had learned of Genord and his church. This time, she held nothing back. “That bat is Genord’s spy,” she concluded because it had persisted in thumping the glass. A moment later the missus was outside and swiping it with a broom.
“So what are we are left with?” Rob asked.
“A dragon head that wasn’t destroyed in seventh century Rouen and a wooden body created in our time.” Nobody said anything. “Sacrifices that give Genord power.” Doer made a hoarse noise in the back of his throat. It was the first sound he had made since they arrived. “And bring the dragon to life,” she added. He choked. She went to sit next to him.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Brodie, is he one of those creatures?”
“I’m so sorry.” She kept looking him in the eye until her comment sank in.
The boy’s name drew Adam over. She moved her hand to her shoulder, and he took it. “Romain was at the police station, and we couldn’t get past Genord’s magic. We couldn’t help your son.”
Even in the pallid light Ella could see Doer’s face was a mask.
“Then there’s little left of him.” Doer got up and went to stand by the window, hands on hips. “The bastard is going to pay.” He sounded like he was crying. His missus, seeing something was wrong, came back in. The evasive bat flapped against the window. The glass rattled. Ella flinched. She couldn’t relax even after Adam whispered a reassurance.
“We all want Genord dead,” Adam said.
Ella flicked her eyes to Rob. He did not disagree. “We wanted to tell you in person,” Ella said to Doer, “but I also thought you might be able to help.”
“From what I’ve heard, guns don’t touch that devil but I’m willing to go in blazing with everyone who owes me the slightest favour.”
“It won’t do the least bit of good. We need to find the dragon head. You mentioned you had a man working on the excavation. Were there any other anomalies besides the connection to the river, anywhere at all Genord might have hidden it?” she asked.
Doer shook his head. His expression was hard. “No, but something that important, he’d have gotten his own crew to do it and disposed of them afterward. You don’t take chances with cargo that valuable.”
Ella cringed at the matter of fact way he discussed murder.
Doer picked up on her sentiments. “Unlike Genord, I do not murder innocents. You asked to come here, Ella.”
“I could never approve of your work, but, yes, I, we, are asking for your help.”
“What do you need?”
Her lips parted but she really had no idea what to say.
“Do not think for a minute I am condoning a vigilante attack,” Roan said, “but why are we presuming the bastard is immune to ammunition?”
“I shot him,” Ella said. “About five times. He didn’t even bleed.”
The chief rubbed his neck as he fought down a first reaction. “Was he wearing Kevlar?”
“On his head?” She took a deep breath, quaking even before she said, “There’s a way to find out for sure.”
Adam stood as she did. She could see by the laxity in his jaw he guessed what she intended. “It’s a bad idea,” he said. “It rattles you every time.”
She gave him a subtle shake of her head because it was the only way they might ever learn how to defeat Genord.
“Do you even know why it happens?” he asked.
“Romain thinks I’m sensitive in some way. He thinks I picked up on Genord’s thoughts when he tried to detect mine with the bats.”
“What if Genord takes control? We don’t know what he’s capable of.”
“He already knows where we are. It’s best I do it now, before we have a plan.” She licked her lips, watching the bat weave to and fro in its search for a way in. The only blessing was that it remained a solitary nuisance. “And we’ve got Romain.”
The poor mason was kneeling in front of the coffee table, the awkward cross around his neck. He swallowed half a sandwich and wiped his mouth. “Ella see past.” He attacked the remainder of the sandwich and plucked another from the tra
y. “Ella safe,” he said with a full mouth. Ella leaned forward and squeezed his shoulder.
“Do you have any idea who he is?” Roan asked.
“Would you believe me if I said he’s a saint from about 600 A.D.?” she replied as Adam squeezed her hand.
Roan took only a second before answering. “After this morning, I’ll believe anything.”
Ella took a deep breath. “Will you let the bat in?” she said.
Doer narrowed his eyes. “You want a spy in here?”
She swallowed. He flicked his head. His missus, less confident in her movements though Doer had thus far spared her news of Brodie’s death, opened the back door in the adjoining room. The bat darted in. Adam stepped away. Cringing, she reached out a hand as it flapped past. Her shuddery touch set her stumbling. She tripped against the table as Romain sprung up with a desperate cry. One of his brutish hands grabbed her while the other knocked the bat across the room.
HIS FEET ITCHED on this, the night of old Samhain. Romain padded to the roof of the church and there, beneath twinkling stars, laid a loving hand upon the grotesques he had fashioned. King Dagobert had thought his bishop’s craft amusing. The townspeople had thought it apt as they flocked to a new faith beneath the symbols of the old. The ancient souls taking refuge within the stone had protected Rouen through many a year of dwindling belief, content to stand sentinel rather than fade from existence.
Breath drawn, Romain descended and made his way around the bell tower, to the gargoyle he must sight before his heart could rest. High on the walls, La Gargouille’s head made amends for her former mischief by draining water from the sacred walls.
The mystic night had seduced another. Beneath the bell tower, Genord reached tenderly toward his adored Gargouille. A blue wisp of energy cackled from her snout, teasing itself toward his fingers. A wraith-like head formed, its eyes flickering, its jaws snapping. Romain swallowed. This yearly ritual weighed heavy upon his heart. He had lowered flood waters from the city, cursed foul demons to hell, and dismantled pagan temples stone by stone, but the scourge of his heart he could never betray.
“Brother, do not be tempted down that evil road again.”
Genord smiled. “It is I who tempt the fates.”
Romain clutched the heavy cross he wore.
“Not this time, brother bishop.” Genord’s laughter belted him from every side.
The ghostly dragon slipped from the shrivelled jaws of the mummified head, writhing through air as the flesh and blood beast had coursed through water. “See. I reign more powerful than your pitiful God.”
Romain raised the cross. Dragon and wood collided. The jarring impact dropped him to his knees but he held fast to the symbol of his faith. Before it, the wraith balked. He stood and pushed. With each heavy step, the dragon retreated to the shrivelled head.
“No!” Genord thrust his mind upon the wraith, drawing it inside him, knitting its energy through his blood. With crushing strength, he clasped Romain’s shoulder. “Yield.”
Energy blasted Romain’s innards, tearing his heart from his chest. Through clenched teeth, Romain called for his God. Pure light burst out of the cross, bathing Genord in a radiance that set him screaming. The wraith whipped from his body and coiled back to the tempered head. Their bodies flung apart.
Unable to rise, Romain took laboured breaths. His battered body lay broken and twisted. Beside him, Genord lay face down, limbs sprawled at odd angles. Romain reached a shaking hand and turned his brother’s bloody face. His fair skin was cold and pale, his breath uneven, his lips parting with a dying message. Romain dragged himself to place an ear near the withered mouth. A tear dribbled down his chin and splashed onto his brother’s cheek as his brother clutched at his shoulder, his nails digging deep into his raw flesh.
“We are matched in power. Perhaps victory shall be determined on the battlefield of the hereafter.”
Romain closed his eyes and cradled Genord’s head upon his lap. He tried to speak his thoughts but managed only a fragmented rasp. “Can . . . not . . . kill . . . bro . . . ther.” He stroked the downy, blonde hair, praying for pity, for mercy, for life. God did not hear. Genord’s blue spirit floated out of his chest.
God was not the only power on this, the night of old Samhain. Romain threw back his head and howled for the Old Ones he had sheltered within his grotesques. In their debt and their pity, they came to him. With their blessing he seized the spirit, forced it back into Genord’s body, coaxed the air elementals to fill his lungs, the water elementals to surge through his veins, the fire elementals to warm his blood. Genord’s limbs jerked. His chest heaved. Colour infused his grey skin. His breath deepened and his eyes regained the spark of life. Weary beyond recovery, Romain slumped to the ground. He would answer to his maker for this.
A sure hand pressed cold upon his forehead. “My poor, misguided brother, whose presence is all that can pierce my heart.” The words were like a balm. Alas, they were not the last he heard. Genord leaned close to his ear. “I cannot face eternity without you. I must do for you what you did for me.”
His hand trembled onto Genord’s. He tried to speak, to plead for death, but only a gurgle left his throat. He watched his vexed spirit leave his body, struggle to soar to heaven, watched his brother seize it and force it back within his misshapen form.
He breathed. He lived. A travesty. He tried to stand straight in the shadow of God’s house, but his back swayed crooked. He cried out for forgiveness, but the sound distorted in his skewed mouth. He staggered to Genord, saw the tiny image of a blue dragon stamped in his eyes, reeled, and tripped upon the cross. It was cold beneath his hand. It was then he understood. Old and new religion alike had they defiled. And so they were doomed to aid and thwart one another in an eternal struggle that could only end when one twin killed the other.
THE BAT SPIRALLED erratically, then thumped to the wooden floor. Romain released her, picked it up by a wing, and loped to the back door. She watched him toss it far into the sloping garden then buried her face in Adam’s chest.
“Ella safe.” The mason shuffled over and stroked her hair.
She extricated herself from Adam’s comforting embrace and rubbed the mason’s arm. “Thank you, Romain.”
Adam affected a put out expression. “I killed a hundred or so bats just for you.”
“I was going to say thank you to you too.”
He caught her as her knees buckled. She was grateful he helped her back into the cocooning egg chair, and rather pleased he leaned across to hold her hand through her entire narrative. It made her think she had not made the best choice of seat after all.
“Are you saying the only one who can kill Genord is a saint?” Roan asked when she had finished recounting her vision, an altogether saner word than hallucination.
“From what I understand, our task is the dragon head. They’re saying we need to destroy it,” Rob clarified.
“Yes,” Adam confirmed. “The spirit of the original dragon is confined there.”
“Before Genord sacrifices a certain number of victims,” Rob continued.
“Nine, or three times three, was a potent number to old believers,” Ella said, trying to recall what Bill Travellian had said. She had been only half listening. “That will be enough to turn the wooden body to life.” She had no idea how Genord intended to attach the head to the body but it seemed the least of his feats.
“And before Halloween is over.” Rob really was coming up a champ.
“Exactly,” Adam said.
“Halloween is old Samhain. It’s supposed to be the time when the veil between the worlds is thinnest. It’s also when Genord was born.”
“Or else?” Roan asked. He had blank look on his face, like he didn’t quite believe he had been drawn into discussing dragons and gargoyles.
“The dragon comes to life,” Ella said.
“And Genord accesses the power of the elementals,” Adam said.
“Which will give it fire and flight and Heaven
only knows what else,” she added.
Adam stood and moved to the window. “But is Genord only toying with us? It seems he has the power to kill a hundred victims before tomorrow.”
“I don’t think so.” She was shaking her head. “Something he said to me when I was down in the crypt, something I saw in . . . the visions. When he works . . . magic,”—how could she really believe that was the right word?—“it diminishes the spirits he’s captured. If he drains them, he would need more sacrifices to turn wood to flesh.” And for occult reasons she never intended to comprehend, nine was important for this evil Pinocchio to morph.
Roan cleared his throat. The thin line of his lips showed the trouble he was having accepting any of this. “How many victims has he claimed?”
“Six. Six. Six,” Romain said, beating his palms against his temples.
“The three girls, Alicia Moffat, Joanne Trevallian, and Melanie Denham. Matt Hayes.” She shot a quick look at Doer and lowered her voice. “Brodie.”
“The two police officers,” Rob said.
“That’s seven,” Adam pointed out.
“Six. Six.”
“I think—” She rubbed her hands over her face, realised she must look a wreck and put them back in her lap. “From what I’ve seen Genord’s never been able to capture two souls at once.” While both officers were dead, only one would be suffering his thrall.
“With the warnings out, people aren’t likely to go anywhere near the church,” Adam said.
Rob took a deep breath. “There are always fools who believe they’re indestructible heroes.”
“Not to mention those who believe Genord persecuted.” She would not be surprised if the Trevallians marched straight to the Port to offer their support.
“To my reckoning a flesh and blood creature would be easier to destroy than a spirit,” Roan said. The frown had not left his face.
Romain clutched his head and dug his fingers into his scalp. “Power. Power.”
“I have a feeling a dragon that can execute aerial manoeuvres the way La Gargouille can, that can breathe fire and swim underwater would be near on invincible,” she whispered. “Not to mention that Genord might keep resurrecting it.”