But that’s not what I’m here for. I glance over at the door to the basement. The footprints disappear behind it.
I find that at least the stairs are in better shape than the last time I went down them, and they aren’t covered with blood—a serious improvement. And while the Aspinwall basement is still cold and vast, there are wooden shelves filled with jars of preserves, cases of wine and champagne, chopped wood for the numerous fireplaces. It feels inhabited.
A round card table has been placed in the center of the cavernous room. There’s a silver candelabra with thin, tapering white candles that give off a warm, flickering light. Around the table sits a bizarre cast of characters, as though extras from multiple genres of MGM films have gathered for some kind of smoke break. Not only is Khioniya here, alive and wearing her mask and demon horns, but the séance is attended by Little Bo Peep, Zorro, a Roman soldier wearing a metal breastplate and loincloth, the Tin Man, and two identical pale geisha with red, vibrant lips. Amelia holds court in a stunning Mardi Gras gown. She turns her head, and one of the feathers brushes through the flame of the candle, almost catches on fire.
“Oh no!” she cries, snatching it off quickly and throwing it on the floor.
And for the first time I see her face—shock freezes me instantly in place. Holy mother of God, this isn’t possible—this can’t be possible.
Because it’s my mother’s face.
She laughs then, a high, tinkling laugh I remember so well. It’s a sound that pierces my heart, reverberates through my rib cage like a drum. I want to drop to the floor; I want to cover my ears; I want to disappear like a ghost.
“You must see.” Poe lurks in the shadow under the stairs.
“A close call,” says the Tin Man cheerfully, stomping on the smoldering mask.
“Mom?” I gasp.
She can’t hear me. Christ, she can’t hear me.
Suddenly Khioniya moans dramatically. Her eyes roll in the back of her head, and she whispers, “These be the symbols and the names of the creator, which can bring terror and fear unto you. Obey me then, Sorath, by the power of these holy names and by these mysterious symbols of the secret of secrets.”
Oh shit. Did she just say Sorath?
Although no one else seems to notice, I feel a vibration in the air, a quivering hum that ripples through the basement and almost knocks me off my feet.
Little Bo Peep giggles nervously.
There’s a click as the door at the top of the stairs opens. Soft steps tread lightly down the wooden staircase, and the flames of the candles drift sideways. I turn to see Delia coming down the stairs, moving slowly like she’s dazed or sleepwalking. She’s dressed like a fairy—on her small back are delicate filmy wings, and her cheeks are dusted with something that sparkles. But in her right hand is no magic wand. Instead she clutches a large, menacing knife.
“Who called me?”
Was that Delia’s voice? A strange combination between a whisper and a hiss.
Little Bo Peep giggles again. “This is so scary,” she says, clutching Zorro’s sleeve.
“Delia,” says Amelia, “what are you doing up? You were supposed to be in bed by nine.”
No response. The hand that holds the knife twitches, like it’s on the receiving end of an electrical pulse.
“Delia,” says Amelia more firmly.
“Who!” Delia shrieks. Her head jerks like a puppet on a string from one face to another. And then I see her eyes—not the eyes of a little girl or a human. No, what stares back at my mother are two pitch-black orbs, fathomless, empty pits devoid of life or expression.
“Delia?” whispers my mother.
Khioniya stands. Her face is pale, triumphant, and exalted. “I, Khioniya Kuzminichna Gueseva, have called you.”
Delia’s head jerks to register Khioniya. “You cannot command me.”
“Oh great lord,” says Khioniya in a proud, defiant voice. “I would never dare. I only ask to be your humble servant, your instrument. But there is one here who wears the ring, who would command you and bind you.”
Amelia stands, pushing her chair back roughly; it grates against the cement floor. “Enough. Enough of this, Delia, I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but it’s not funny and you’re scaring our guests.”
“He is here?” hisses Delia.
There’s a dark rumble beneath our feet then, and this time the shelves with preserves start to tremble. Jars drop to the floor, smashing their contents, and the air smells sickly sweet, a mixture of summer strawberries, grape jelly, and honey.
“Yes, here,” says Khioniya, her voice now hesitant.
Delia smiles.
Oh God, oh God, oh God. My panicked heart starts to race, but my mother just stands there with a look of utter confusion—she has no idea the danger she’s in.
“So, Khioniya Kuzminichna Gueseva, humble servant,” Delia says mockingly. “I’m not sure you’ve entirely thought this whole thing through. Because if he is here, he can command me. Unless…”
“Unless?” stutters Khioniya.
“Don’t pretend.” Delia glances around the room. “Very convenient, all in one room. Six plus a spare. Who will I start with? This one?” She takes a menacing step toward Little Bo Peep and snarls.
Little Bo Peep, no fool, clatters up the stairs, the door slamming shut behind her. The other guests nervously look to Amelia, as if they’re unsure what the polite thing to do is. On the one hand, they’re obviously uncomfortable, but on the other, they don’t want to commit a social faux pas.
“A shame,” says Delia with a dark grin. “I’ve lost a sheep. But then you’re my servant, aren’t you?”
Khioniya swallows, obviously losing her nerve. She frantically looks to Amelia, points a shaking finger. “Her,” she whispers. “You can have her.”
“But what about you?”
Delia steps toward her; there is something feline about the way she moves, soft and deadly. “Won’t you offer yourself?”
Khioniya edges backward, aware that any sudden move could be her last. “You know I would,” she stammers, “but you only need six—”
“You called my name,” says Delia. “And I have come for you.” Delia pauses, tosses the knife up in the air; it turns once, twice, and when it falls she catches it easily in her small, outstretched palm. “I have come for all of you.”
Chaos reigns as all the guests simultaneously jump up from their seats, pushing each other out of the way as they race up the stairs, all pretenses at social graces gone. Only Amelia stands still, immobilized by shock. But the door at the top won’t open.
The Tin Man frantically pounds at it with his fist, screaming, “Let us out! For God’s sake, let us out!”
“No,” whispers Khioniya. She nervously glances behind her, no exit, nothing between her and the back wall except the well, which is uncovered and circled by a low brick wall two steps away.
Delia’s head cocks to the side. She smiles and lunges.
But Khioniya has already made the calculation. She races to the well, her feet barely graze the ridge of it, and then she’s gone. Her scream echoes against the stone walls, then a splash and silence.
“Well,” says Delia calmly, “I guess I’ll catch up with her later.” She turns to the panicked guests. “Anyone else care to go for a swim?”
The Roman soldier pushes his way to the front of the line as the stairs groan beneath their collective weight. He throws the whole force of his body against the door and it rattles but holds.
Suddenly, faster than I can register, Delia charges at the two geisha, who cringe by the stairway wall, easy targets, since they wear awkward wooden slippers and their legs are hampered by thick silk kimonos. Delia expertly slashes their throats; their bright red blood matches their bright red lips, and they crumple to the floor almost simultaneously, like broken flowers.
With a feral growl, she pounces next on Zorro, pulling him backward down the steps, and with an unimaginable strength, slices his n
eck like she’s cutting through butter. Blood spurts up over her face, the walls, the stairs, and he collapses to the floor. She roughly pulls up his shirt, cuts into his belly, and digs into his torso with her tiny hand almost absently while she sings in a strange lilting voice.
On a mountain,
Stands a lady,
Who she is I do not know.
Finally Delia finds what she’s looking for, the still-pulsing spleen. She rips it out, takes a large bite.
The Roman soldier at the top of the stairs shouts “It’s jammed! The door’s jammed!”
Still Amelia stands, frozen. She hasn’t moved; she hasn’t taken a breath since Khioniya dropped into the well. Delia licks the blood from her fingers, a childish gesture, like they’re covered with cake batter.
“Run!” I scream at my mother, but she can’t hear me, see me.
Desperate, the Tin Man spots Little Bo Peep’s staff on the ground. He stumbles his way back down the stairs—I can hear the clink of the tin coverings on his knees—and eventually he reaches the bottom. He snatches the staff and holds it over his head threateningly.
Delia smiles, her teeth bloody. “Oh please,” she says. “You can’t be serious.” Seconds later she’s at his throat, and this time she doesn’t even bother with a knife—she just tears at his jugular with her small teeth while he uselessly tries to club her with his arm.
At this the Roman soldier falls to his knees, gripping the doorknob, hopelessly trying to turn it. He starts to whimper. Delia laughs in delight and bounds up the outside rail of the stairway, like some kind of freakish gymnast. He drops into a fetal position, trying to protect his body with his costume armor, but this just leaves the back of his neck exposed. I hear a loud crack as she wraps her tiny hands around it and twists; then she throws the limp sack of his body down the stairs.
Finally, a flicker of movement from Amelia. Her right hand twitches. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, it reaches into her silver, glittering purse. Pulls out a lighter. Her eyes flick to the shelves on the wall.
“No!” I shout. I instinctively dart forward, reach out my arm, but something, someone holds me back. Poe.
“You cannot change what is done.”
Still, is it just my imagination or do my mother’s eyes meet mine for a split second? Does she sense my presence before she pulls a bottle of rum from the shelf and smashes it against the wall? There’s just the faintest click as she strikes the lighter, dropping the flame onto the broken glass, and the flame explodes into a roaring fire, licking its way down to the other cases of liquor stacked neatly by the wooden shelves.
This gets Delia’s attention.
For a moment she freezes, the glowing flames reflected in the dark orbs of her eyes. She focuses on Amelia.
“Oh for Christ’s sake, run,” I whisper.
And miraculously she does. Or tries to. But as soon as she darts for the stairs, Delia leaps, grabbing her roughly by the neck, and throws her onto the burning pyre. I watch in horror as the flames catch at my mother’s glittering dress, her hair. She screams in pain as she struggles to stamp out the fire, a piercing shriek that wrenches my heart from my chest. This is real, this happened, and there’s nothing in the world I can do to change it, to save my mother.
Suddenly the door at the top of the stairs flies open and there stands—my father? But it’s my father as I’ve never seen him before. He wears an expression of complete raging fury—he looks powerful, invincible, like an angry God. In his left hand he holds a burning candle, and on his right hand the ring glints, catching the reflection of the fire.
His voice booms, “I exorcise thee, O creature of fire, by him through whom all things have been made, so that every kind of phantasm may retire from thee, and be unable to harm or deceive in any way, through the invocation of the most high creator of all.”
“How do you like your meat,” Delia snarls, shoving my screaming, burning mother to the bottom of the stairs. “Medium or well done?”
“Such are the words!” shouts my father, and with that, he blows out the candle.
Instantly the basement is hit by a massive wind with the force of a tornado. It pulls the ash and debris into a swirling cloud, knocks over the shelves, and whips Delia’s hair from her small, blood-smeared face. She opens her delicate mouth and releases a sound that’s hard to describe. It’s like the roar of a jet turbine or some kind of sonic boom; it’s the sound Daniel made in my dream before the avalanche, and it shakes the earth beneath the house. I watch as the brick wall surrounding the well collapses and a large wooden beam falls from the ceiling, drawing the fire upward. Then, abruptly, Delia falls to the floor, unconscious.
My father drops the extinguished candle and races down the stairs. The fire now creeps across most of the ceiling, and above I can hear the panicked cries of servants and partygoers. Captain Aspinwall appears at the doorway dressed as a pirate. He shouts down through the haze of smoke.
“Have you seen my daughter, my wife?”
“Here!” my father shouts as he takes off his shirt to damp the flames on my mother’s inert form; his body is surprisingly wiry and muscular, like a gymnast’s. He gently lifts the hair from her raw, burned neck, and she whispers something unintelligible before closing her eyes.
Covering his nose with his handkerchief, the captain rushes down and spots Delia on the floor, covered with blood. “My baby, my baby girl,” he cries. Her eyes flutter and then open.
“Daddy?”
My father covers my mother’s now apparently lifeless face with his shirt; it’s hard to tell if she’s breathing. The captain clutches Delia to his chest, looks over to where my father is kneeling beside my mother’s body, and catches his eye. There is a wordless exchange. My father shakes his head solemnly. Delia coughs. Fighting back tears, Captain Aspinwall lifts his daughter and carries her past the bodies, dodging the growing flames, up the stairs and out into the night air.
For a moment I think stupidly that my father is just going to sit there, let them both burn, because he doesn’t move, doesn’t stir. All the rage is gone; in its place is an exhausted, haunted look, like he knows too much, has seen too much. It’s my mother who reaches out with a trembling hand, touches his leg. Quietly, gently, he lifts the rag from my mother’s face. She nods imperceptibly, and then he takes her hand and gathers her in his arms. She looks so small as he carries her up the stairs, like a child herself.
“Say my name.” Through the fire, Poe walks toward me, strangely triumphant, her pale face illuminated by the flames. “Say my name and we will have our revenge.”
But I don’t say her name. Instead another word escapes my lips: strange but familiar.
“Nachiel.”
Suddenly there’s a blazing pain like my ribs are being crushed, like someone has implanted a firecracker in my chest and lit it.
Poe’s eyes grow wide. “No,” she hisses. She reaches out an arm, but there’s nothing to reach for.
I’m gone again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: NACHIEL
For someone who’s not sure if they’re immortal, you sure take some chances.”
I’m lying on the cement floor of the basement, wet and cold—no, make that freezing; I can’t feel my feet or my fingers. The road flare is still burning, providing a small modicum of heat and giving off enough flickering light for me to see the man crouched next to me.
The guy from Sacred Heart Collectibles?
I take in his ordinary dark jeans, brown T-shirt, and gray baseball jacket with an electric blue embroidered logo, “Supreme Being,” but there’s something else about him that’s harder to place. Like his eyes. They’re a deep, wintry gray, and I can actually feel them probing me, like a delicate finger is brushing through my thoughts.
“Fuck,” I mutter, but even that small word causes pain to shoot through my chest. I spit out some brackish water and then vomit the content of my stomach—what little there is.
“Not easy pulling you up out of that well,” says the man chee
rfully. “Good thing I got to you first or you could’ve been on the way to the morgue again. Assuming they ever found you. Knew this spirit once, been possessing a body for years, right? Decided he wanted to do some cave exploring, live a little. But then part of the cave, it collapses on him, and he’s stuck there, like, for a century. Skin was crazy white when he came out, like one of those weird albino fish that live at the bottom of the ocean.”
I try to sit up—more pain.
“Might have broken a rib there. Sorry.”
“Feels like you broke all of them. Who are you?”
“Me? Who do you think?”
When I don’t immediately come up with the answer he looks offended. “Nachiel,” he says as if I’m very, very stupid.
I start to laugh bitterly but have to stop because the pain’s too intense. This is Nachiel, my protective spirit? A retail sales clerk? No wonder everything’s so fucked up. “Great job. How many people have been murdered now?”
“I watch over you. Who do you think scared Daniel off when he was in Lisa’s house or when he climbed the tree outside your window?”
The bootprints around the tree. It never occurred to me that there might be more than one set.
“The rest I’m not allowed to interfere with,” Nachiel adds. “Rules of engagement.”
“Rules of engagement. Next you’ll be talking about collateral damage.”
He shrugs. “Free will always results in collateral damage. Not my call.”
I consider this for a moment. What if he’s not really a good spirit but is working with Poe, or worse? How would I know the difference?
“So what happened on Halloween when I almost drowned? Had a night shift at Sacred Heart you couldn’t get out of?”
“You were off the radar. I had no idea where you were,” replies Nachiel defensively. “None of us did until you called.”
Poe Page 26