Perilous Prophecy

by Leanna Renee Hieber

  “Careful, we’re vulnerable. Oh, no, this is the moment!” he wailed. “The moment of warning!”

  A skeletal form appeared in their midst, clad in a rotting robe—the spirit that had followed them from Egypt. Its jaw sagging in a constant scream or some dreadful song, it had been waiting for an opportunity all along.

  Ibrahim tried to intercede. “Verena!” he cried, throwing himself before her as if to stop a bullet or sword, but the transparent spirit passed right through him, seeking a more delicate, vulnerable target, as had been foreseen.

  The phantasm hurled itself atop Verena, who cried out and collapsed. Her warm golden face instantly turned a glowing gray. She had become a darkly luminous case, endangered.

  Ahmed caught her just before she dashed her head on the cobbles. With surprising strength, he lifted her and turned to the others. “We must get her to a doctor,” he said in Arabic.

  George shook his head. “No English doctor can treat this.”

  “To the academy, then,” Ibrahim growled. “To the infirmary. If Muses are off to find a new Guard, they sure as hell better bring them back to us—and we can tell them a thing or two then.”

  Seeing that Ahmed would have trouble walking with his burden—he was sure to trip over Verena’s dangling skirts—Ibrahim, a taller man, lifted Verena into his own arms, saying, “Allow me.”

  Beatrice noticed how the muscles of his neck strained and his knuckles went white. Verena was shaking violently in his hold and Ibrahim was holding on to her for dear life. The odd entourage set off at a quick pace.

  “They’re looking at us,” George remarked. The Londoners around there were indeed staring at their motley cadre.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t turn them away,” Belle said mournfully, holding up her powerless hands. She kept her tears silent, knowing they were of no aid. George grabbed one hand and dragged her along.

  Beatrice fought back fury. Somewhere in this city, right now, was a new Guard who could help them. For all she knew, they might be crossing paths right now, missing one another by a few streets.

  At last they reached Athens. The school was still boarded up, not scheduled to open for another few months. As they climbed the stairs, they felt pressed back, as if a great hand kept them at a distance. The air before the door was threaded by lightning and held a dim blue shimmer.

  “What the hell is that?” George barked.

  Beatrice’s stomach fell and her anger soared. “The goddess put a protective barrier over the academy, presumably to keep out the wrong sorts.”

  Ibrahim growled. “We are no longer the Guard, and in our arms we have exactly the wrong sort.”

  The two of them shared a look of helpless fury. If they had struggled with the Grand Work before, they’d never felt so grievously wronged.

  With Athens off limits, a chapel down the street seemed the safest bet. Their coterie ducked into the shadowed nave, grateful for empty pews bereft of inquisitive priests. Ibrahim laid Verena on one with a velvet cushion.

  Verena’s body lurched and her lungs rattled, the mysterious and horrible fluids that seemed inherent to possession welling from her eyes and down her nose. Ahmed, unflinching, wiped it all away with the sleeve of his tunic. Beatrice tore the hem of her skirt to provide more fabric, and Belle did the same, then walked away, her face showing the pain she felt, seeing her friend in such a state.

  Beatrice sat and held Verena’s shaking feet. Ahmed took her head in his lap, and Ibrahim knelt upon a padded cushion meant for prostration, trying to make sure she didn’t fall off the pew. It seemed oddly fitting in that moment.

  “Can you say anything to keep it at bay?” Beatrice asked, feeling useless. There was no power in her fingertips but they itched to cast out demons. She wondered if this phantom feeling of sensation was what amputees suffered, this awful yet certain feeling of something that was no longer there.

  Ibrahim could not stop staring at Verena. “I … I’ve nothing. My library is gone,” he said, looking as helpless as Beatrice felt.

  Ahmed launched into a recitation of Rumi, hoping to ease her pain or at least distract her from it. No one could tell if it was working.

  Ibrahim jumped up. “I’ll go to the Athens library. If I do not have a library here”—he tapped his temple—“I shall re-create it. I’m harmless to the barrier on my own; I won’t be shut out.” He ran out.

  Ahmed kept reciting poetry, offering verses he had written for Verena. She said nothing, only shuddered and wept noxious fluid, and Ahmed wept with her.

  Soon Ibrahim returned, carrying an armload of tomes on faith and beauty. He took over for Ahmed, whose voice was growing increasingly faint. Ibrahim’s was sure and clear, and the passages he chose were intelligent and to the point. Beatrice had never found herself admiring him more.

  This might not cast out the demon, but it clearly kept the horrific thing from progressing in its evil work; they were not seeing in Verena the full extent of damage they had seen in others during their short time of service.

  Beatrice turned to George, nodding to the still weeping Belle. “Take her elsewhere. She doesn’t have to see this; there’s nothing she can do. It’s all right; we’ll wait for the others.”

  “No,” Belle said quietly. “The … new ones. I want to see them, too. I’m praying for them to come with every prayer I have.”

  “Then sit and try to calm yourself,” Beatrice said firmly. “There is no sense in you suffering in addition.”

  Belle nodded and crossed to a baptismal alcove opposite, where she sat stiff vigil near a tomb. George flanked her, a silent sentinel much like the statue of the saint that bore his name, the patron of England who stood in grim marble triumph at the entrance to this place of worship.

  Beatrice squeezed Verena’s hand. “The goddess gave you a kiss of life, remember? Don’t you dare forget it. That must count for something,” she said. But truthfully, she felt they could only count on one another. Mortals were best looking out for themselves. But if Beatrice wasn’t mistaken, at the reminder of Persephone’s kiss, Verena’s cold hand flickered a small ray of light.

  * * *

  Everything in Alexi’s body screamed for him to remain with his new friends; everything in his heart screamed for the love of that unnamed goddess. His senses were reeling, and he wanted to go home. So he did.

  He entered to find madness at his family estate. His sister lay broken in a heap on the floor, breathing shallowly and looking dazed, and his grandmother was wheezing like she was about to die of fright. The house looked like a storm had cut a swath through it, glass broken, vases overturned, doors unhinged.

  Rushing to hold his grandmother, asking what had happened, all she offered were mad notions of demons and great winds tearing through the house; intimations of witchcraft.

  “There’s something different about you,” she said, staring at him intently. Eyes widening, she exclaimed in Russian: “The firebird—that’s it. A darkness comes, my boy. You must light the darkness with your fire.” That cryptic instruction became her last words. She did not breathe again.

  Alexi crumpled to the floor, staring at those most precious to him. The help came, made wailing noises, and at length went about sending for a doctor for Alexandra. They also shouted that a bed should be made up for the departed Katarina.

  “What’s happened?” whispered his elder sister. Though she was unable to move and the extent of her injuries was unclear, her mind seemed undamaged. She stared at Alexi, clearly trying to figure out what was different about him.

  He wanted to answer with the only reply he had—“We’re haunted, we’re bloody cursed!”—but before he could, his head seared as if someone had split his skull. Gasping, he recoiled, and Alexandra put her hand to her mouth and did not say another word.

  The staff returned; some took Alexandra off to her bed. Others were carrying off Katarina’s dead body as Alexi struggled to his feet and backed away.

  “I’m so sorry, I must go,” he said, already k
nowing that he’d never forget the helpless, frightened look on his sister’s pallid face.

  The Pull had him, and it dragged him, with claws on his heart, back toward Bloomsbury. He should not, it seemed, have left his fellows. Everything and everyone he and the rest of the Guard once loved was now haunted and cursed, but he had no time to grieve. He was the firebird. He was Leader, so he’d better rise to the challenge. If he did not, his curse would surely worsen.

  * * *

  Verena made a sound like a growl or a dog’s bark as the creature inside struggled to claim her completely. Belle wept softly against the baptismal font, George’s white-knuckled hand on her shoulder, trying to be comforting. Time inched by. Ibrahim moved on to another tome.

  “Should we move her?” Ahmed asked. “Try for a doctor?”

  “They’ll come,” Beatrice stated, glancing at Ibrahim, who nodded.

  “If I read whatever ghost of Intuition remains correctly,” he added, “they’ll come.”

  As if responding to his assurance, there came a sound, and the door was flung open. Beatrice held her breath. A young man, tall and black-haired, striking featured and dressed in fine but austere clothes, made his entrance.

  A distinct wind picked up, filling her mind with a strange music that Beatrice knew well. The newcomer charged forward, blue fire trailing from his outstretched hands.

  The new Guard.

  Dear God, they were young, even the Leader. Fourteen, fifteen, perhaps? But his spirit was strong, Beatrice could feel the timelessness about him. Blue fire poured from his hands, and his fellows stared at him in awe and fear.

  It will take getting used to, she wanted to say, but she couldn’t even hail the newcomers, so entranced was she by their Leader. Beatrice wondered for a moment if she had ever looked so full of power, so unbelievable as this young man did now. Perhaps the Grand Work would always amaze, no matter who wielded it.

  “Luminous,” the Leader murmured, “I believe we call this a luminous case. A possession with intent to harm.” The five youngsters gathered around, terrified acolytes.

  Beatrice opened her mouth to say, Yes, luminous! Help us, you hapless fools, then run for your lives! Damn this Work, it’s nothing but a curse! But no words escaped her.

  She glanced at her fellows, who were all also staring at the other six, Guard to Guard, though no one said so. Ahmed and Ibrahim stepped back from Verena, clearing the way. Even as he moved, Ibrahim’s attention was fixed on the spindly brunette at the new Leader’s side. She was assessing the situation with a sharp, undaunted gaze. The Thompson girl was Intuition indeed.

  A thin, blond boy in fine, if foppish, clothes stepped close and stared with apprehension at each of Beatrice’s assembled company. “And I make them forget we’re here … how?” he asked.

  “I wasn’t given a guidebook, Lord Withersby. Use your hands,” the Leader retorted.

  Beatrice smirked despite herself as the young lord waved a hand in front of her. Her thoughts and memories remained unchanged, but since the Cairo Guard were frozen and unable to participate, that was a moot point. Perhaps it was best, after all, that they stood there, staring. Beatrice had received no help when leading the Grand Work for the first time, so why should anyone else?

  A dark-blond woman in a plain dress, blushing, knelt by Verena’s bedside. “I’m so sorry for yer pain,” she murmured in a soft Irish brogue. “My name is Jane, and I’ll try an’ help you like Alexi said.” She rallied herself with a meek smile and held up her hand, which glowed with a flickering white luminescence.

  Though it was pale and untrained, Verena seemed to recognize the light. Her pained expression eased, as did the tears coursing from her eyes.

  Jane put her healing hand on Verena’s forehead, and Verena’s body was racked with a new seizure—the London Guard had hardly come to their first charge as experts. The work was progressing, however, and Alexi urged his power outward, commanding the phoenix fire to contain and extract the offending spirit. Beatrice prayed he could finish the job.

  She wanted to tell him to stay steady, that results were not immediate. She couldn’t know what he was thinking, of course. Nor could she really help. No one could tell you about the Grand Work—you had to feel it. You had to own it for yourself.

  Beatrice was suddenly sure this was why none of them could offer instruction, encouragement, or reprimand; that would only get in the way. The goddess had said there were never two Guards. A Guard was always on its own. Some force beyond them had stilled their tongues to make sure of it.

  The Intuition glided forward, a surprising air of elegant, refined grace about her for one so young. The Grand Work had aged them years in a less than single day, severed their innocence and youth. Beatrice remembered the very same happening to her.

  “Lord Withersby,” the Intuition began crisply, “if you and your touch might offer us some clue about the offender, I might be able to wield my newfound library to best effect.”

  The blond boy, the Memory, said, “Indeed, Miss Thompson, indeed.” He stepped closer to Verena, angling past Jane and bending over her to speak softly to the suffering one. “My, you are beautiful, miss! Whatever brought you to England, this land of dreary gray, when you are a queen of a golden kingdom?”

  “Miss Belledoux,” Alexi called, “as you’ve not had time to produce a studio full of fine work, what do your Artistic instincts tell you about how you might be of service?”

  The gorgeous brunette who had been studying Withersby snapped to attention. She thought a moment, then smiled and darted to procure a golden icon of a dove from the baptismal alcove; she kissed it softly and rejoined the circle with the icon in hand.

  Beatrice watched, fascinated. She glanced at Belle, who was furrowing her brow as the Memory touched Verena’s hand and winced in pain.

  “Victim’s name? Verena. Attacker violent,” Withersby murmured. “Towers, shouting from towers … It’s so angry, it has followed us, waiting for us…”

  It was a muezzin, Beatrice yearned to say. It followed us here, here where everything changed, here where the dead so terribly outnumber you …

  Perhaps there was divine commonality in the air, bringing them together, for Miss Thompson began to recite a verse Beatrice recognized instantly. Rumi. Ibrahim and Ahmed had tears in their eyes as she spoke with clarion confidence, and so did a strapping young lad who was circling his fellows and touching their collars. It seemed the new Heart was an amiable, ruddy-cheeked and bushy-haired man, the sort you instantly wanted to be your friend.

  The Heart bowed his head and bestowed his gift. “Lovely verse, Miss Thompson.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Carroll,” the Intuition replied. To Beatrice’s surprise, he blushed.

  In the tumult Beatrice hadn’t noticed until that moment that the air near them was shining with a strange light and carrying a vague, familiar scent. The goddess was present, hidden from view, managing the situation. That’s why they were paralyzed, she realized, because Persephone likely knew they would tell these poor sots to run for their bloody lives. She was ensuring that the new Guard learned the Grand Work in their own way, undisturbed.

  The new Artist set the icon hanging from the side of the pew to be in Verena’s line of sight, then moved with fluid grace to Alexi’s side. Beatrice saw George gaping at her. She was beautiful.

  “Pardon me,” the Artist said with gentle deference, and in a French accent, no less. She lifted the Leader’s hand, which cupped a ball of blue fire, and blew the flames toward the dove. The fire nestled into the heart of the bird, and the icon lit, luminous from the inside, becoming a magic talisman. The girl repositioned Verena’s head, saying “Gaze on that, dear.”

  Verena’s rolling eyes steadied now that she had a point upon which to focus her strength. Beatrice wanted to look at the icon, too. The Grand Work was affecting them in the way they’d always affected others. At least in part.

  “Simply brilliant,” said Withersby, giving the Artist a wide, appreciative smile.
She was clearly flattered by his approval. Beatrice saw couples forming within their group, just as they had for her company. Only their Leader stood apart, not struck by anything or anyone besides his purpose.

  The possessing spirit made Verena flail her limbs, refusing to go quietly into any good night. Alexi narrowed his eyes, undaunted by the challenge, and began to experiment with his new power. He pressed the fire closer, moving it in; then he withdrew, gauging what the spirit did in reaction.

  He looked like an orchestra conductor, Beatrice decided, which made her wonder what the Grand Work sounded like to spirits. To the Guard it was always wonderful, and even now she could faintly hear the music of the stars playing in her ears, though the song was different than it had been when she directed it herself. How did the notes sound to spirits? Terrible, like death knells? Or sweet, seducing them toward Peace?

  “Quietus,” Alexi said. “Thus is our cantus. I assume it is in your minds as well as mine?”

  A burst of song was affirmation; the air was thick with magic. Beatrice fought against those enthralling strains, fought to clear her mind of the cosmic lullaby of wind and stars, wanting to shout that Quietus wasn’t strong enough. But she couldn’t. He’d have to learn on his own. This spirit was the first one her Guard had battled, in a Cairo alley. They’d failed, and perhaps it had grown stronger for its success.

  Verena shuddered and convulsed, causing more tears to fall among the women and the men’s faces to harden. She screamed in pain as the spirit ripped free, which surprised them all, but Jane was immediately responsive with a healing hand. The specter careened loose.

  Alexi swiped at it with an impressive arc of fire, but it eluded him and vanished. “Damn!” He bellowed and flung open the church door, rushing into the lane to chase the monstrosity, but it was gone. Beatrice felt a small flare of satisfaction, seeing that the new Guard had proven unable to destroy it, either.

  Then Alexi reentered, and Beatrice well remembered the frustration, shame, and sense of failure evident on his face. She did not wish that on anyone. “I didn’t choose a strong enough spell,” he said.