by P. W. Child
Sam laughed gently. "Of course, you did. Spoken like a true history scholar, Nina."
She went quiet. It took Sam a moment to notice, because he was accustomed to lapsing into companionable silence with Nina, or breaks that occurred naturally while they both smoked. She picked up a stone from the shale bank beside them and lobbed it into the water. "Not anymore," she whispered.
Little by little, in between long drags and long silences, Nina began to tell Sam what had happened after their last encounter at the university. After Matlock's book had come out to great fanfare, it left Nina in the unenviable position of being asked about it by staff and students. Had she known about Matlock's expedition? Was it true that she had been there too? Had she worried about Matlock when he insisted on going alone into uncharted areas of the ice station in search of Nazi artifacts? Knowing that she had been a much more proactive member of the expedition party than her boss—indeed, knowing that he had actually attempted to ensure that she would not be part of the expedition—Nina had found this galling. The fact that Matlock had appropriated her research and a handful of artifacts that rightly belonged to her and Sam made things even worse.
Sam nodded. He remembered how upset she was by being done in and he still felt bad about helping Matlock with his book and causing a rift between him and Nina's possible romance. But he knew that they had put that behind them during the last collaborative journey. Still it vexed her, of course, because it was the genesis of her resentment.
"Then when my annual review came up, the bastard had the audacity to tell me that I wasn't an enthusiastic enough member of the team—as if we were ever a fucking team! That department was a nest of vipers, not a team. And he said that the department wasn't happy that I'd taken a sabbatical before Wolfenstein! Never mind that if I hadn't, he wouldn't have his precious book.
Then he had all these shitty remarks about my shooting for tenure, of course disguising his smugness under a smooth delivery, which he thought sufficed as 'advice' . . . " she sneered and paused for a second, then continued her rant, "Anyway, he made all sorts of irritating comments about how I'd better start toeing the line a bit more if I wanted to have a career in academia, and said that maybe once my fellowship was up I should try a different university and maybe shift my focus to something along the lines of gender theory. It wasn't such bad advice, but coming from him . . . I'm not going to be told that I'm not allowed to write about anything other than the role of women in the Third Reich, especially not by him. I might not have been able to stop him cheating me, but I don't have to let him patronize me into the bargain." She looked up at the sky and under her breath she added, "Wish I could introduce that fucker to Calisto . . . "
Sam could not help but smile at the thought of Purdue's female ex-bodyguard leaping into Matlock's office, ripping his misogynistic face off in a comic book spill of justice.
Nina's anger spent, she took a deep breath and reached down to scoop some cool water in her cupped hands. She poured it straight over her head. It cascaded down her bobbed black hair and trickled onto her pale skin, catching the moonlight. "It's so hot," she said. "How are you coping? I'm melting out here."
Sam wondered about the new position he played in the Nina game. She was so nonchalant about it all, as if she had never noticed their closeness while working on the Spear of Destiny in Purdue's sinister laboratories. Alas, Sam decided to let it go and enjoy the fact that they were at least talking, that they were once more in each other's company.
"Where's your light? Take a look at this." Sam pulled up the side of his T-shirt to show Nina the heat rash that had been developing down his left side during the course of the day.
"Ouch. Well, I don't have that, at least. I might have no job; I might have torched any prospects I had of a career in academia by telling the head of my department to go fuck himself; I might have no clue what I'm doing with my life; but I haven't got a heat rash. Have you got anything to put on that? Of course, you haven't. Try talking to Cody about it; he'll probably be able to give you something. For a man who arrived here with nothing but a small backpack, that man's got supplies for everything.
"That Hunter guy managed to get himself bitten by something while we were all down by the river—I don't know what, probably a mosquito or something—and Cody disappeared for a couple of minutes and came back with a whole range of antihistamines. Pills, creams, capsules, drowsy, nondrowsy . . . he must have had a dozen different kinds. Who just carries all that around with them?"
"Sounds like a hypochondriac," said Sam. "Though I must admit, I wondered where all the cooking stuff came from. They got dinner ready in no time. Must be a chest freezer stashed away under a rock or something, chock full of frozen lentil dinners. He probably buys them in bulk from some crap catering company that pads them out with floor sweepings."
"Ha, probably." Nina stubbed out her cigarette, smoked right down to the filter, and carefully tucked the butt in her pocket. She tapped gingerly at Purdue's device until it flashed up a digital clock. "Christ. It's after midnight. That's, what, about 6:00 AM back home? I still haven't adjusted. I suppose we should head back and try to get some sleep." She trailed her hand over the smooth rock. "I wish I could sleep out here without getting eaten by something or getting baked alive when the sun comes up. The tent's a bit close for my liking."
"Well, you know, I'm always game for a midnight cigarette if you need company," Sam offered. "Especially because these people don't seem to take kindly to the idea of us pumping ourselves full of toxins on their time."
Nina snorted. "Toxins." She pulled herself up and slipped her wet feet back into her shoes, grimacing at the sensation. "Next time remind me to bring a towel," she said, then led the way up the gentle slope toward the campsite.
As they approached their tent, the desert silence was broken by a sudden clash. They froze. Sam squinted in the direction the sound had come from, trying to make out what it had been. It was probably just someone dropping something, though it had sounded a little more . . . precise.
The sound came again, harsh and metallic, like a muffled cymbal. It was followed by a faint, rhythmic sound, like a soft but intense drum beat. Nina squeezed Sam's arm to get his attention and pointed toward the connection tent. Sure enough, a sliver of light showed through the tent flap. Sam was not sure whether it was just residual light from the dying fire, but it seemed to match the direction from which the noise had come. Together, Sam and Nina crept over to the tent, where they peered through the flap.
What they saw was the exaltation of Jefferson Daniels.
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Chapter Thirteen
Inside the connection tent, the fire pit was heaped with glowing coals. Cody crouched beside it, drizzling the hot stones with water and handfuls of herbs so that the air of the tent was heavily wreathed with scented steam. His face was concealed by a mask of bone and his golden hair was released from its ponytail so that it flowed down his back and over his shoulders. His pale shorts had been replaced by a white linen robe. For the first time since Sam had met him, Cody's tattoos no longer looked like the trappings of a poseur. In this context, they looked like they signified membership of some sort of tribe.
The drums and cymbals that Sam and Nina had heard were in the hands of the twin acolytes. The two people were indistinguishable, their faces concealed by white masks like Cody's and their bodies covered by loose ceremonial garments that revealed nothing of their shapes. They knelt together at the far end of the tent, where one caressed a cymbal with a menacing metal beater, filling the tent with a scratchy metallic undertone, and the other patted feverishly at a set of hand drums. Two large buffalo horns lay in front of them, presumably for use later in the ritual.
Sara Stromer stood in front of the twins, her arms flung wide in a gesture of abandon or perhaps communion. Her own robe was flaming red, shot through with strands of gold, and she wore a heavy cloak of black feathers that spilled across the reed floor behind her in a long train. Her mask was not a simpl
e disguise, but part of an elaborate headdress. Its base looked like polished jet, perhaps obsidian. Sam could only imagine the weight of it. It was overlaid with a filigree of gold, the metal twisted into intricate, swirling patterns. It encased her head like a helmet, and the point where the shimmering stone gave way to her long dark hair was obscured by a cascade of golden strands.
Paige and Henley lay prostrate at Sara's feet, motionless as she chanted over them. Sam could not discern her words, or even the language in which she spoke, because she never raised her voice above a half-whisper. The thick material of the tent prevented the sounds of the ceremony from carrying to the rest of the campsite, but Sara was making certain.
She knelt and offered one hand to Paige and the other to Henley, helping them to their feet. As they rose, Sam could see that they wore brown shifts that put him in mind of the sackcloth worn by penitent sinners of the past. Sara kissed each woman on both cheeks, and then beckoned to Cody. He reached for a large brass pitcher that stood a little way from the fire and set it down beside an obsidian bowl. A pair of metal tongs hung from the apparatus that he had used for cooking earlier. Cody took hold of them and lifted six hot coals, one by one, into the bowl. From a leather pouch hung at his waist, he took a handful of herbs. As he poured water from the pitcher over the glowing stones, he scattered the herbs into the flow.
The bowl was carried with slow steps toward Sara, Paige, and Henley. By the time Cody had reached them and knelt before Sara in an attitude of supplication, holding the bowl above his bowed head, the scent of the aromatic herbs had reached Sam and Nina. They saw Paige and Henley being invited to inhale deep drafts of the fragrant steam. Sam did not know what plants had been used, but as the scent filled his lungs he was aware of a sensation of lightheadedness. The word "hallucinogenic" scarcely had time to cross his mind before he saw Sara dipping two small horn cups into the hot water. She offered one to each woman.
Paige wore no mask, but she hardly needed one. Her usual polite blankness did not waver as she sipped the contents of the cup. Henley made a valiant attempt to control her reaction as she tasted the liquid, but she could not help a slight wrinkling of her nose. Swallowing her desire to object, she closed her eyes and knocked the drink back like a shot, downing it in a single gulp. As she handed the cup to Cody, she staggered slightly before kneeling before Sara once again.
Sam's head was beginning to feel a little fuzzy. He looked away from the tent flap for a moment, hoping that he could shake his head clear in the cool midnight air. It did not work. By the time he looked back, Sara had produced two white bone masks and was fitting them over Paige and Henley's heads. She laid a hand on each of their heads and chanted over them, then stepped back with a smile and welcomed them into FireStorm. Their initiation complete, Paige and Henley took up places beside the acolytes, clearing the way for the ceremony to which theirs had been nothing but a warm-up.
Jefferson's robes were gold. His cloak was gold. His arms were circled with gold bands. In the firelight he looked like he was ablaze. The only thing that was not of gold was the bone mask that covered his face. He approached Sara in a slow glide, as the drumming began again, and then gracefully got down on his knees. She took his face in her hands and held it while she addressed him in the unknown language. To judge by her tone, she seemed to be questioning him, even imploring him. Jefferson's reply was as confident as it could be, but it was clear that his grasp on the language was slight. Nevertheless, his answer satisfied Sara, and she placed a kiss in the center of his masked forehead.
More chanting followed, and more smudging with the bundle of burning herbs. At intervals Sara would call out, her voice rising to the volume of normal speech, and wait for the others to chant the appropriate response. The rhythm of their speech grew more rapid, their tone more fervent, and the drumming more intense.
Cody reached for the obsidian bowl once again, but instead of giving Jefferson the horn cup to drink from, he passed him the bowl and helped him to hold it as he drank deeply from it, swallowing great gulps of seasoned water until he had emptied the bowl. As he did so, the acolytes picked up the buffalo horns and blew softly into them, filling the tent with a soft moaning sound. When he released the bowl, Sara ripped off the bone mask and threw it aside, leaving Jefferson's face bare. His skin was pink with heat and streaked with sweat, as he sweltered in the steamy heat.
Sam was not even aware that Cody had moved, but suddenly he saw him appear at Sara's side to place a long, glistening knife in her hand. The blade looked wickedly sharp, even clouded with condensation. As the chanting rose to a frenzy, Sara offered the blade to Jefferson. His fingers closed around it as he raised his free hand, his left hand. He dragged the tip of the knife across it. Blood welled up in the line of slit flesh. The acolytes hissed and gasped in approbation.
The knife changed hands, passing back to Sara, who applied it to her own palm before throwing it aside. She brought her hand around in a swift gesture, as if to strike Jefferson, but instead her palm slapped against his and they clasped hand to hand, blood to blood.
When Sara released him, Jefferson held out his arm, his palm upward, his hand open. Cody was at his side, the tongs in his hand, with a coal fresh from the fire gripped in its sharp teeth. Jefferson stood perfectly still as Cody lowered the sizzling stone onto his bloody palm, though Sam could see the effort it cost him not to flinch. His face was contorted in agony, but he did not cry out. The stone was removed. Sara trailed the fingers of her own cut hand down Jefferson's cheek while Cody fetched a fresh bowl of water.
As Jefferson plunged his hand into the cool liquid, he hissed gently. The buffalo horns reached a crescendo. It was only a tiny part of the volume of which they were capable, but its effect was chilling. Jefferson's legs were beginning to shake, collapsing under the immense pain he was experiencing. Creams and bandages had been laid out in readiness, and Sara reached for them now, smoothing ointment onto Jefferson's freshly cauterized skin and wrapping it carefully as the music and chanting began to wane.
By the time the sounds had died away to nothing, Sara was holding Jefferson close. She signaled the others to approach and join together in a strangely choreographed group hug, while she returned to speaking English and uttered a series of confirmations. Jefferson had supplicated himself to them in order to become an official rather than simply an initiate. He had worn and cast aside the mask of his initiation. He had joined blood to blood with the embodiment of FireStorm and had accepted fire into his blood as it sealed his wound.
Apparently from nowhere, she produced a gold mask that would mark Jefferson as an official at future ceremonies. She placed it on him, and then declared the ritual to be at an end. She stood back from the little group and admired the new official and his recently initiated wife and daughter. They were, she said, the perfect picture of the perfect family, and it would be FireStorm's pleasure to work toward their well-being and prosperity.
Sam realized that his head was still woozy from the scent of the smoke, but Nina was tapping his shoulder in a manner that suggested that she was keen to leave. She hissed at him that she was sure they were being watched and that they weren't meant to be here, observing this apparently secret ritual. He wanted to turn around, to creep back to their tent and process the things he had just seen. Perhaps he would be able to ask Jefferson about it in the morning, or perhaps in a couple of days, once he had thought about it. But he found himself barely in control of his feet, unable to stand as his spine chose not to obey him, and his vision was thrown off-kilter by the constant rippling of everything in his peripheral vision.
He turned, trying to follow here, and his legs made it clear that they had no intention of carrying him to where he needed to be. He felt the soft whump of his body collapsing on the sand; he felt his tongue flopping thick and useless in his mouth. The last thing he heard before he lost consciousness was a familiar, but dreaded, voice saying "Well . . . this is a surprise. And what might you two be up to at this time of night?"
☼
Chapter Fourteen
"Shhh!" Nina hissed, her finger pressed to her lips. "You'll get us caught!" She took Purdue by the hand and led him back toward their tent, then remembered that Julia Rose and Hunter would still be sleeping there. "Damn it, is there anywhere we can go for a bit of privacy? I'm fucking sick of all this communal stuff."
"After only a day," Purdue smirked. "Patience really isn't one of your virtues, is it, my darling? Might I have my device back now?"
Flushing slightly, Nina handed over the folding tablet. Purdue opened it to the size of his palm and reactivated the light, spilling a pool of illumination onto the sand. "This way," he said.
Nina followed him past their tent, away from the campsite—not toward the river this time, but in the direction of a rock formation about a hundred yards from the site. On the far side of the rocks, the ground dropped away to form a little hollow, large enough for them both to sit.
"How did you know about this place?" Nina asked. "Have you been out here before?"
"No," said Purdue. "There was no need. I am perfectly capable of remotely conducting all the reconnaissance I need on a place like this."
"But how? You can't exactly look a place like this up on Google Maps. I tried, back when you told me this was where we would be going. You can only zoom in far enough to get a distant aerial view, there's nothing at this level of detail."
"I think my methods might have been a little more sophisticated than yours, Nina. Look." He opened up the tablet to its full size, a little larger than a sheet of paper and about as thin. Nina had seen him do this several times before and she had wondered exactly what the device was made of. He had explained it to her, but Purdue always struggled to talk about his work in terms that a layperson could understand, and his talk of gelatinous properties, molecular scale electronics, and catalytic homopolymerization had gone over her head. All she knew was that it was infinitely flexible, incapable of running out of battery life, and sometimes struggled to get a signal in some of the rooms in Wrichtishousis, Purdue's home near Edinburgh.