The Devil's Bible

by Dana Chamblee Carpenter

  “By the saints!” she muttered. It was Jack Gray.

  He rang the bell again. Mouse flinched and Bodie took off for the back of the house.

  With a sigh and pulling her robe more tightly around her, Mouse opened the door.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “What do you want?” She spoke softly and carefully to keep the power at bay, but she also meant to be rude enough to make him leave her alone.

  Jack smiled at her anyway. “You sick?”

  “Yeah,” she lied and started to close the door.

  “Wait a sec! You ran out of the bar so fast last night I didn’t get a chance to apologize.”

  “For what?”

  “Being drunk. And being a jerk.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” Mouse tried again to close the door.

  “Hey, wait.” He put his hand on the door. “Seriously, I wanted to make sure you’d gotten home okay.”

  “I’m fine. See?”

  “Why don’t you let me take you out for a late lunch or early dinner so we can be friends again?”

  Mouse could hear the lie in his voice, the quick jolt in his heartbeat, but as much as she wanted to unravel the mystery of whatever game he was playing, she couldn’t risk letting the power loose again.

  Her decision had been made for her anyway. Here, surrounded by things she cared too much about, she would never be able to lull the power back to sleep, not while she played with Nate or cuddled Bodie or reveled in her books and teaching, not when they whet her desire for more. No, Mouse had to get out. She’d wrap up a few dangling threads, and then she’d move on. What Jack knew or didn’t was irrelevant now.

  “I don’t have friends, Jack.”

  Mouse closed the door and slid the dead bolt in place.

  PODLAŽICE MONASTERY,

  BOHEMIA

  1278

  The good dreams were the worst.

  Mouse had long lived with nightmares, some real and some not. As a girl, she had been visited by dark creatures that looked like children except for their hollow eyes and jagged teeth. The nasty games they had played, torturing little Mouse, were meant to twist her mind, to break her so she would use her power to do their bidding. Another creature, Moloch, had come, too. He never asked her for anything; he just took what he wanted. But then Father Lucas had taught her how to protect herself from those real nightmares.

  The not-real ones she had to deal with on her own.

  Some were old fears revisited in the terror of the night: Mouse trapped in the dark of the pit at Houska—a mysterious, gaping hole long guarded and thought by many to be the mouth of Hell. She’d lured the hollow-eyed children there to trap them. But then Mouse had been trapped, too, until Father Lucas saved her. The nothingness of the pit, the absence of sound, and the piercing cold—it all came back to her in her nightmares. She would wake, surrounded by the darkness of her cell, thinking she was in the pit at Houska again. But a single whispered word would break the spell, and Mouse would pull the blanket close and sing the fear away, her quavering tune running like water against the stone walls of the monastery.

  Other nightmares picked at wounds that would never heal. Mouse would wake with the sounds of battle still ringing in her ears—the high whistle of arrows in flight, the squeal of bodkins as they pierced armor, the cries of dying men. She could still feel the stickiness of Ottakar’s blood on her hands, feel the dull quake in her bones of the thousands of soldiers and horses dropping dead in an instant. Her mouth open in a silent scream, her chest on fire with the pain of knowing that her own son was also on that battlefield and dead by her command—Mouse would beat out the worst of the rage and agony from those dreams against the floor of her cell. And then, with bruised and swollen hands, she would numb what pain she could by picking up the quill and filling a page with words.

  But the good dreams were the worst. She couldn’t sing them away. She couldn’t write enough words to numb the agony they brought. Because she didn’t want to.

  Those good dreams played on the joys she’d shared with Ottakar and Nicholas, and Mouse’s perfect memory brought every detail vividly to life. She was there once more at Teplá Abbey with Ottakar, the then-young king of Bohemia, asking her to go back to Prague with him. She was dancing in the great hall with him, the minnesinger’s lilt swirling around them, Ottakar’s hand on her back, his eyes bright with the want of her. She was in a rain-soaked tent, thunder crashing, as she looked down on her son for the first time and discovered a mother’s love. She was part of a family for the first time. She was in a garden swinging little Nicholas in her arms. “More, more, Mama,” he was saying. She was laughing.

  And then the first tendrils of wakefulness seeped in.

  A smile still on her face, Mouse would lay in the bliss of half-sleep, wrapped in the smell of them—Ottakar’s sweet wine and the earthy scents of the woods or the lavender soap and sunshine trapped in Nicholas’s tiny golden curls. She could feel the warmth of them, their cuddles and caresses there on the surface of skin, the fine hairs on her arm tickling as if she’d just been touched.

  All of it so real, so tangible, everything as it should be.

  Even as she opened her eyes, their scents were still floating in the air as if they’d just left the room, and Mouse sat up quickly. Hoping.

  The feel of Ottakar’s soft breath still on her neck and the weight of her golden-haired little boy still cradled in her arms, Mouse frantically looked around her tiny cell. Hoping.

  Yes, those good dreams were the worst because even though the moment of bliss disappeared like fog burned off by the too-bright sun and the truth settled on her that Ottakar and Nicholas were dead, Mouse clung to that impossible hope. The hope cut her like razors, seared her like hot iron, but Mouse clung to it all the same, for as long as she could, making herself believe that they were alive again and had just stepped away. She held onto that hope for as long as she could stand it, then pulled her empty arms to her chest, curled in on herself, and wept with a longing that would never go away.

  Her father watched these scenes from the darkness beyond the wall of her cell. And he wept a tear, too. Not for her exactly, but because he understood the pain of longing. He had dreams, too, of what had been and what might be.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mouse pressed SEND on her resignation letter.

  She didn’t bother to give an excuse, just said it would be her last semester at the university. She wouldn’t be asking Dr. Williams for a letter of recommendation anyway; there would be no more ivory towers for her. No more books or students. No more reminders of what her life had once been. No more dreams about what it might be. She would do whatever it took to stay hard and resolute against the dark power that lurked in her.

  Mouse scrolled through the internet looking at ads for nurses willing to travel. It was hard work that would keep her moving and leave no time for her to let her guard down again. She had spent the better part of seven centuries chasing epidemics and wars, tending to the sick and wounded; it was the perfect way for a seemingly immortal person with a healer’s skills to pay penance for the death she’d caused. Over the years, Mouse had kept a running tally in her head, and when she’d saved twice as many people as she had killed at Marchfeld, she finally understood: She would never be free of the guilt, no matter how many she saved, no matter how long she lived. She could never undo what had been done.

  Instead, Mouse clung to the oath she swore when she fled Podlažice and joined the world again. She swore she would never take another life. Every night since, she had measured herself against that oath. Whether camping in the dark along a country road centuries ago or overlooking the streets of Paris at the end of World War II or turning off the television in a shabby apartment in some pithy town, she would give herself a moment’s redemption in five whispered words: “I didn’t kill anyone today.”

  Mouse slammed her laptop shut. It didn’t matter what job she took. It didn’t matter where she went. All that mattered was that she didn�
�t kill anyone today. That was her anchor, her purpose in life. All the rest of it—staying free from her father, keeping the emotions at bay so that the power stayed asleep—all if it was so that when she went to sleep at night, she could say, “I didn’t kill anyone today.”

  But Mouse couldn’t help wonder: What was the endgame for someone like her?

  With no answers and the day waning, she shoved the question away and counted her way upstairs to change clothes. Even if she didn’t know where she was going, she needed to start severing the ties that held her here.

  “See you soon, Bodie,” she said, giving him a rub under the chin before closing the door behind her. She hadn’t figured out what to do about him either.

  There was at least one silver lining in her decision to leave Nashville—she was going to give her house to someone who needed it, and Mouse focused on that happier note as she ran down the porch steps. Mouse didn’t own a car. She kept her world small enough for her to walk wherever she needed to go—a leftover habit from childhood. The trek on foot to Fort Negley would take just under an hour. The day was already sliding into early evening, and her task would be harder after nightfall. Mouse picked up her pace to race the dying light.

  As she sped past the edge of the hedgerow onto the sidewalk in front of her house, she saw him. He was studying the chalk drawings she’d done with Nate.

  “What do you want, Jack?” She spoke in an even, emotionless tone.

  He looked up, startled. “I—I want to take you out to eat.”

  “I can’t. I have to meet a friend.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t have friends.”

  “I have one.”

  “Well, let me tag along. I want to see a little of the city before I hop on the plane in the morning.”

  It didn’t take Mouse’s heightened awareness to see that Jack was nervous. Whatever he wanted from her, he wanted it badly—or someone did. Which meant that Mouse really needed to figure out both who was doing the wanting and what it was they thought she could give them.

  “You got a car?” she asked.

  He grinned. “Really nice rental. See?” He pointed at a huge SUV parked on the street, its flashy silver hood already covered with a smattering of cicada shells. “Where are we going?”

  She gave him directions as they climbed into the car, and then she decided to force his hand. “Look, Jack, it’s clear you want something from me. Why not just ask?”

  “You won’t like it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I’ve asked you already.”

  Mouse couldn’t decide if she should be relieved or aggravated. “I’m not going to sleep with you, Jack.”

  He laughed but stopped a little too quickly. “No, not that, though I’m still open to the possibility if you change your mind. What I want is the same thing I wanted back at Chapel Hill. How do you know the Devil’s Bible was written at Podlažice?” There was something darker than curiosity in Jack’s voice.

  Smiling tightly, Mouse turned to look at him. “That was a long time ago. I think you’re misremembering what I said,” she lied.

  “No. You were sure.”

  “I merely suggested that scholars—”

  “Come on, you know that everyone believes that the monastery at Podlažice was too small and poor to make the Devil’s Bible. No other books were made there. Not one, Dr. Nicholas. I . . . I need to know what makes you so sure it was written at Podlažice.”

  “I told you, I read it in an—”

  “I’ve looked for that article you claim you read. I can’t find it. Tell me what your source was. Please, I need to know. I told my benefactor . . .” Mouse could hear a touch of panic before his voice trailed off.

  She waited a moment, but when it was clear he wasn’t going to continue, she pressed him. She needed answers as much he did. “What did you tell him, Jack?”

  “I was trying to impress him.” Jack gripped the steering wheel a little harder.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him what you said, that the Devil’s Bible had been written at Podlažice. No doubt. Only . . . only I made it sound like it was my idea and based on my own research.”

  “You didn’t tell him I’d told you?”

  “No.”

  Mouse sighed and eased back into the soft leather seat.

  “Not at first.”

  Her head sank against the headrest.

  “But he kept demanding that I send him my research, so I told him about you and the article you’d read. That’s how I learned how powerful these guys are.”

  “Wait. There’s more than one?”

  “Apparently. I’ve only ever talked to the one guy, but I think he must be part of a group that’s interested in—”

  “The Devil’s Bible.”

  “It’s more than that. I think they’re really into the occult and the Devil’s Bible is just part of it.” Jack looked over at her as they stopped for a red light. There was something odd in the way he was looking at her, something different from how he looked at her last night, like he was trying to figure out a puzzle.

  “The light’s green,” Mouse said, pointing. She felt exposed.

  “These guys aren’t lightweights,” Jack continued as soon as he got the car rolling again. “They’re serious and they seem to be everywhere. My benefactor had people all over the world looking for the article you said you’d read—people searching online but also in some really obscure, private libraries, too. These people get what they want.” He blew out a sigh. “And when they couldn’t find that article . . . my benefactor wasn’t happy.”

  Mouse could see a flash of fear in his eyes now. It reflected her own.

  “Did he send you here?”

  Jack didn’t answer the question. “Do you have someone’s notes or something? Something unpublished? That you’re holding onto for what—tenure? Promotion?”

  Mouse relaxed just a little. A wealthy group tracking her down to get unpublished notes they thought she was squirreling away might prove tricky and inconvenient, but she wasn’t sure that made them a threat. Mouse would need to learn more about them, but she could feel the first tickles of power stirring in her. She had to put an end to the questions—both his and hers.

  “I’m not talking about this with you right now, Jack. I’m looking for Solomon.”

  He turned to look at her for a second, clearly thinking about pushing her for answers, but then he nodded sharply. “Sure. Solomon. Is that your friend? How do you know him?” he asked, frustrated but playing along.

  Mouse knew that sooner or later Jack would get around to asking for the notes he thought she had. Hopefully, she’d have a better answer for him by then or be on a plane to somewhere else. But she didn’t want to answer his questions about Solomon either. She needed him to shut up so she could count—words on the radio, trees, cars rushing past—anything to lull that tickle of power back to sleep.

  She didn’t know how she’d explain her relationship to Solomon anyway. She wasn’t sure she would have called Solomon a friend before today. As Mouse had told Jack, she didn’t have friends. But Solomon and Nate and Bodie were her first regrets when she realized she had no choice but to leave Nashville—surely that made them friends. They would be her only good-byes, and Solomon would be the first.

  Like Nate, Solomon had given Mouse something unexpected: a sense of belonging. They’d met on one of Mouse’s many late night counting sprees—hours of walking and tens of thousands of steps and breaths and streetlights. She’d found Solomon and her little dog, Wise, huddled under a thin blanket in a cluster of trees at the top of Reservoir Park. Solomon had been on the way to the homeless camp at Fort Negley, but her feet had made her stop. January had been particularly bitter in Nashville, and Solomon had a bad case of frostbite, but she refused to go to the hospital because she couldn’t take her dog. Mouse got her to a warming shelter and stayed with her for several days to tend her feet—lancing the blisters, slowly wa
rming the damaged tissue, and taking care of Wise.

  During those days at the shelter, watching the people come and go and listening to Solomon’s stories, Mouse realized that these were her people. They carried everything they owned on their backs. Mouse had done that, too. She had wandered; she had walked on feet swollen with frostbite and rot. She belonged here with them and their vacant eyes and their false names. Their deep desire for home in pitched warfare against their running and restlessness—these were Mouse’s battle scars, too.

  She especially felt a kinship with Solomon, who had also seen the brutality of war and come home broken—so broken that she couldn’t keep a job or a place to live, which meant that when she found herself pregnant, she couldn’t keep the baby either. Solomon had given away her little girl to a couple who would love her and keep her safe. And even though Solomon knew she’d done the right thing for her baby, she told Mouse that she had a hole in her, body and soul, that would never fill, a longing that would never go away.

  “Not many folks know a pain like that,” Solomon had said as she put her hand on Mouse’s cheek. “But I can see you do.” Mouse hadn’t said a word. She didn’t have to. Solomon just knew things.

  Mouse had met Solomon at the foot clinic every week since. Like Nate and Bodie, Solomon was a little light in the darkness of Mouse’s life—but she had no intention of sharing that with Jack.

  “Solomon is none of your business,” she said to him now.

  “You seriously need to work on your social skills,” Jack muttered.

  For a moment, Mouse thought she’d finally been rude enough to silence him. But then Jack found his courage.

  “I touched it. The Devil’s Bible.” He kept his eyes on the road, but his muscles tightened. “When we were there to scan the pages for the computer program. You know they barely let you breathe in the room. The damned thing’s insured for millions.” He laughed to himself, but it didn’t ease the tension. “When the guard wasn’t looking, I slipped my hand out of the glove. I just had to touch it. I don’t know why. And I felt . . . something.”