a terrible beauty

by Unknown Author

  But first she had to see about Father Baltazar.

  She pulled Paul Narcisse’s headless and bloodless body off him, and laid it aside as reverently as she could, though she hadn’t recovered enough strength to keep it from dropping the last foot or so to the hard concrete floor. Holding back tears, she turned the priest’s face toward hers, so that she could see his features. She tore a scrap of cloth from the tatters of her shirt, not noticing that she nearly bared her chest, and wiped away the blood flowing down the side of his face.

  Gingerly, she probed the wound on the side of his skull, feeling through his hair clogged with blood, and then had to fight back tears of relief. The bullet had only creased the side of his skull, tearing his scalp. Like most scalp wounds, this one was bleeding like a mother, making it seem much more serious than it actually was. She probed the area of the wound gently with her fingers, feeling around his skull. As near as she could tell, it wasn’t broken. His wound wasn’t fatal, or probably even particularly serious. She tore another strip of cloth from her tattered raiment and bound his head loosely to help ease the already slowing flow of blood.

  Sara then realized that someone was calling her name. She recognized Alek’s voice and shouted back.

  “Here! We’re here!”

  It took the brothers a couple of moments to find her, but they finally tracked her by the sound of her voice. They burst through the' warren of the caille mysteres disheveled and a little bloody. She was damn happy to see them.

  She managed to get to her feet and started to hug a startled Alek Gervelis, but gasped in pain as they met in an embrace. This time, she thought, something is broken.

  He looked down at her, still a little wild-eyed because of the adrenalin running through his system. He had shed the initiate’s robe and his duster was tattered by bullets that had come uncomfortably close, but he seemed unwounded. Kris was bleeding from his right arm, but the wound was already bound and didn’t seem to be troubling him half as much as the scene he now gazed upon.

  “What happened here?” he asked in a small voice, his eyes wide at the sight of Gene’s body, and Paul Narcisse’s. “And-?” ’ '

  He looked at Sara, who made no attempt to hide her near nakedness. Now wasn’t the time for false modesty. She was too tired, too sore, too mentally exhausted. Wordlessly, Alek stripped off his duster and put it around her shoulders. She draped it around herself, grateful for his silent chivalry, grateful that his garment still retained his human warmth.

  “What are we going to do?” Kris asked, as they heard approaching sirens in the distance. “What are we going to do?”

  Sara shook her head. She had run out of ideas.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  rp

  1 here was only one thing to do. Run.

  It wasn’t the first time since Sara had acquired the Witchblade that she’d found herself running from her fellow officers like a common criminal, but maybe it was the most painful time. She wasn’t alone. She was with others who depended on her. Some of them needed medical attention, and she had no real idea of what to do besides bolt like rats from a burning building.

  Fortunately they were able to exit the building before the police arrived in any appreciable numbers. Their presence at the hounfort was not something she wanted to explain to anyone in an official capacity. Not only would her career be over, she and her friends would be looking at serious jail time if their participation in the night’s activities was ever discovered.

  Although they all hated to do it, they had to abandon Paul Narcisse’s body. There was simply no way they could take it with them and hope to avoid capture. It was difficult enough to drag Father Baltazar along, but fortunately he revived as they were making their way out of the building, and was soon able to walk under his own power.

  He took one look at their faces as they stepped into the chill of the late September evening, and Sara knew that he didn’t have to ask about Paul Narcisse. He knew his friend was dead, flis expression hardened, as if he simply refused to let himself grieve at this time.

  “Where are we headed"?” he asked.

  “I’m glad you’re conscious, Caz,” Sara said. “I want to go to your place-but not without your permission. We can't go to Paul’s. The police will be there soon. And my apartment is too far to be our bolt-hole.”

  “That’s a good idea,” the priest said. “You can tell me what happened when we get to the rectory.”

  Sara nodded and they set off down the alley, one step ahead of the cops, who were still arriving by the car-full. Ironically, it was Sara herself who now slowed them the most. Her side ached at every step, as if a red-hot poker were lodged between her ribs. But she gritted her teeth and kept walking.

  Alek Gervelis was a welcome presence beside her. She leaned into him and he helped her along as best as he could. He was smart enough to stay silent, secure enough to keep his thoughts, worries, and doubts to himself as they made their way across the borough back to Cypress Hills. " ’ ‘

  They kept to the dark as best they could, avoiding streetlights and crowds and all forms of public transportation. They couldn’t afford to take a cab or bus or subway. Father Baltazar’s clothes were soaked in blood from his creased scalp. Kris had an obvious gunshot wound. It was pretty clear that Sara had been in a serious fight. Anyone taking a long look at them would call the cops just on general principles. They looked like the aftermath of the climactic battle in a cheap gang movie.

  It took longer, much longer than the trip out, but, bleeding and wounded, they finally got back to Cypress Hills and St. Casimir’s, exhausted in body, mind, and soul. Father Baltazar’scozy study felt like a little bit of heaven as Sara flopji^d down into the comfortable old chair by the sofa.

  The priest sighed. “Let me wash the blood off my face. Then I’ll check everyone else. You can tell me what happened after I lost consciousness."

  Father Baltazar saw to their wounds after he came back from the bathroom with a clean face and a gauze bandage wrapped around his head. Alek Gervelis was the only one to escape the raid on the hounfort essentially unscathed. Kris had taken several wounds, but they all were rather minor, the worst occurring when a bullet passed entirely though his upper right arm without hitting bone or anything vital.

  Sara’s injury appeared to be the most serious. She winced as the priest opened the duster and gently probed her ribcage.

  “Follow me,” he ordered, leading her to the bathroom. He detoured for a moment to his bedroom, coming out with a pair of sweatpants and an old shirt for her to wear, and then took her into his tiny bathroom to examine her more closely. She sucked in her breath as he ran his hands lightly up her ribcage. He nodded seriously.

  “Looks like at least one rib’s broken. I can tape them for now, but you’ll have to see a real doctor soon to make sure nothing’s floating around loose in there.” He looked up at Sara. “In the meantime,” he said quietly, “you can tell me what happened to Paul.”

  Sara did so, gasping a couple times as the priest put a little too much pressure on her ribcage. She finished the story just as the priest finished bandaging her.

  “I’m so 'sorry about'Paul,” she said. “I feel so bad to have gotten him Into this mess.”

  Father Baltazarshook his head. “Paul was involved in this long before you realized that it even existed.” He sighed. “He loved the people of Cypress Hills. He’d give anything for their welfare—up to and including his life. But there’s one thing he must not lose.”

  “What’s that?” Sara asked.

  “His soul,” the priest said.

  “His soul? But, surely, on his death-”

  "It’s not that simple for those who believe in voudon— certainly not that simple for initiates of the religion. Paul has already had his soul stripped from him. And, so to speak, put aside for safekeeping.”

  “Is that possible?” Sara asked incredulously.

  “Certainly. At least Paul thought so,” Father Baltazar said
. “Voudonists call the soul the gros-bon-ange—the great good angel-and believe that with the proper ceremony it can literary be taken from the body and placed in a pot-de-tete, a small jar which is then kept for safekeeping on the houngan’s altar.”

  She remembered the confrontation Guillaume Sam had had with the cop searching his altar. But the whole idea still seemed crazy to her.

  “Safekeeping from what?” Sara asked.

  “From getting stolen and placed in a zombie’s body, or an animal’s body. From being trapped after the death of the body and not allow.ed an existence in the afterlife. Which is exactly what I’m afraid Guillaume Sam will try to do with Paul’s soul.”

  “How-” Sara started, then stopped. She realized that she had no business questioning someone’s supernatural beliefs, considering her experience with the Witchblade. “What do we have to do?” she asked simply.

  “One of us has to g6 to the altar in Paul’s office and retrieve his pot-de-tete,” Father Baltazar said.

  “I’ll do it.” Sara said.

  Father Baltazar looked at her gratefully. “You’d be the best choice-but even so, you’re hurt. Tired.”

  “I’ve been hurt worse in my life, and been more tired,” Sara said, though truthfully she wasn’t sure of the latter. “If you think the fate of Paul’s immortal soul rests on whoever has control of this pot, we can’t let it fall into Guillaume Sam’s hands.”

  “You’re right,” Father Baltazar said. He took a ring of keys out of his pocket and extracted one, handing it to Sara. “This is to the back door of the bookstore. The pot-de-tete is on his altar. You can’t miss it. It’s a round earthenware jug about six inches high stoppered with a cork. Plain brown color, but with a rainbow painted in a horizontal arc on the front—or back, if he turned it around the last time he dusted.”

  Sara could hear the sudden catch in Father Baltazar’s voice and for a moment she thought he was going to cry. She took him in his arms and held him as hard as she could with her sore ribs. He responded, hugging her tight enough to cause her to gasp.

  “Sony,” he said.

  “Nothing to be sorry about, Caz,” she said. “I wouldn’t be anywhere near stopping Guillaume Sam without you

  and Paul. Now it’s just you, but we’ll get him yet. We’ll take him down together, no matter what it takes. For Paul. For all the helpless people of Cypress Hills whom he’s preyed upon for years. We’ll get the bastard. Don’t worry.” , .

  The priest released her and stepped back, smiling.

  “Go with God, Sara,’’.he said.

  Though unhappy about going out dressed like a refugee from a gym class, Sara knew she didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. She couldn’t waste time going back to her apartment to change clothes, and at this time of night, or morning, no stores were open.

  She went back into the study and holstered her piece in the snug of her back. Kris was off making coffee in the kitchen. Alek watched her worriedly.

  -“What are you up to?" he asked.

  “Just a little errand to run,” Sara answered as lightly as possible.

  “I’ll go with you," he offered.

  Sara shook her head. “No need.”

  “Still-”

  ”No need,” she said again, with a little more emphasis.

  They looked at each other silently for a moment.

  “All right,” Alek finally said.

  She nodded, went to go by him. He touched her arm lightly and she stopped and looked into his eyes. He bent his head down and, mindful of her injuries, took her gently in his arms and kissed her softly and lingeringly.

  “For luck,” he said.

  She smiled back at him and walked out of his arms.

  “Come back to me in one piece,” he called after her.

  “I’ll do my best,” Sara said.

  The Serpent and the Rainbow was shuttered and dark. Looking in, Sara thought it seemed a sad place. She wondered what would happen to all the books without Paul Narcisse to shepherd them. She hoped they wouldn’t end up in some big garage sale priced at a quarter each. She hoped they’d all firfd a home Someplace with someone who would love and cherish them as much as Paul Narcisse had. ■'?

  She went past the store on the dark and empty street, into the nearest alley and headed for the rear entrance. She took the key that Father Baltazar had given her and silently unlocked the door and silently went into the building. The rear door opened into the receiving room where Paul Narcisse had unpacked his book shipments. She went into the corridor beyond, past the restroom, and finally to the office with the old, comfortable furniture that she remembered from her first visit.

  She flicked on the lights as she entered the room, heading toward the altar. There was a slight creaking sound behind her and the voices in her head screamed a sudden warning. She whirled, drawing her weapon in the same motion, and found herself staring at Lt. Carl Dickey, who sat in the comfortable old chair behind Paul Nar-cisse’s desk.

  “You’re pretty fast with that, aren’t you?” he observed mildly.

  “You’re an eighth of an inch from dead,” Sara said, “which is exactly how far I have to move my finger to pull the trigger. Let me see your hands.”

  Wordlessly, the lieutenant took his hands from his lap and placed them, palms down, on the desk. They were empty.

  “What are you doing here?” Sara asked.

  “Same as you, I imagine. Looking for the pot-de-tete with Narcisse’s soul. Only, I don’t ‘have a single damn idea what it looks like and there’s only about two and a half dozen jars on that damn altar to choose from.” “Pot-de-tete?", Sara asked. “How do you know about that?” '*

  They stared at each other wordlessly for a long second, and then Sara nodded hef head.

  “Of course,” she said. “When you’ve been at this job long enough, you’re not surprised at anything.”

  “That’s right,” Detective Dickey said.

  “How long have you been Guillaume Sam’s man?” she asked.

  The detective sighed from the depths of his soul. “Long as I’ve known what he’s been doing in Cypress Hills.”

  • “Why?” Sara asked with gritted teeth. She hated criminals who preyed on the helpless, but most of all she hated those who took their salary, hid behind their badge, and helped criminals feast on the helpless.

  Lt. Dickey shrugged. “I wanted to go on living.” “You’re saying he threatened you?” Sara asked. “’Course he did. Just like he threatened you.” Lt. Dickey looked at her with pursed lips, considering her as if she were some kind of odd bug he'd just discovered. “But you. There’s something strange about you, girl. People around you turn up dead. Or worse.”

  “You’ve got something to say about me,” she said, “say it.”

  Lt. Dickey shook his head. “Nope. Got nothing to say. I can keep my mouth shut. That doesn’t mean others aren't talking. You got something strange going on. That partner of yours, and your Captain, they can’t cover for you forever.”

  “Is that a threat?” ,

  .. -v

  “Lord, no.” Lt. Dickey frowned. “I already got one son of a bitch oddball on my ass. I don’t need another.”

  “I see,” Sara said, suddenly understanding the gist of their conversation. “And you don’t know which oddball is going to win this particular confrontation, me or Guillaume Sam?” /.

  “I never bet against Guillaume Sam,” the policeman said, “but, like I said, people around you seem to end up dead. Or worse. He ends up dead or worse ...” Lt. Dickey shrugged. “No meat off my bones.”

  “And I end up dead? Or worse?”

  “I’ll be sorry. Real sorry. But I’ll still be here.”

  “Uh-huh. I suppose you were the one who warned Guillaume Sam about the raid of Club Carrefour,” Sara said.

  * Dickey heaved one of his patented sighs. “I suppose I was,” he said.

  Sara shook her head and went up to the altar, keeping her gun out and an eye on Dickey at all
times. She scanned the neatly cluttered tribute to Paul Narcisse’s protector, Damballah, and wondered with a pang, Who will lovingly take care of the altar with Paul gone? No one, she thought sadly. It’ll all just go to the dustbin.

  She spied the pot-de-tete. Much like Paul Narcisse himself, it didn’t occupy a place in the spotlight. It was tucked behind a pair of votive candles in glass containers dedicated to Aida-Wedo, Damballah’s wife, the rainbow. She took the pot and turned back to Lt. Dickey.

  “Here it is,” she said. “You want it?” It wasn’t an offer. It was a challenge.

  Lt. Dickey shook his head. “You can have it.”

  “You’re letting your boss down.”

  “Guillaume Sam may, have a mortgage on my soul,” the policeman said, “but he don’t own it outright.”

  Sara sidled toward the door, gun in one hand, pot-de-tete in the other. She stopped in the doorway and looked at the cop, who had swiveled in Paul Narcisse’s old chair to keep his eyes directly on here.

  “We’ll talk again,” Sara told him.

  Lt. Dickey nodded. “1’fn sure we will. Maybe on this earth, maybe in hell.” He sighed again, sincerely enough that Sara believed in the sadness that seemed to course through his system. “You probably won’t believe this. But good luck.”

  She turned the light off and left him sitting there in the dark, in a dead man’s chair.

  That night Sara found herself in the priest’s bed.

  She had brought the pot-de-tete to the rectory. After thinking it over she’d decided to keep quiet about Lt. Dickey’s secret allegiance to Guillaume Sam, at least for the present. She recognized that she’d made the decision partly because of her secretive nature, which had become all the more secretive during her association with the Witchblade, but also because for now it would do no good to share such a confidence. Certainly things could change, and if she’d have to rat him out for the safety of her fellow conspirators she would. But for now, she’d hold it among the other secrets she was forced to live with on a daily basis.

  Sara, Father Baltazar, and the Gervelis brothers held a brief strategy session despite the weariness that hung over them like an impenetrable fog. But the only strategy they could come up with was to have a good night’s sleep and see what the next day would bring. Their battle against Guillaume Sam was like a heavyweight fight reaching its final rounds. They’d spent most of the first rounds slugging it out toe to toe and both sides had suffered grievous losses. Neither side could allow the struggle to go on much longer. Both had to go for the decisive knockout, and deliver it soon.