The Scarecrow (Master of Malice Book 1)

by Peace, Cas

  The two of them stood there, shaking. He could see the ruby light of his eyes reflected in their dilated pupils and their tremble only increased as he smiled cruelly at them. And at what they held.

  “Bring her in,” he commanded, stepping aside.

  They bundled their struggling, whimpering captive into the room, avoiding the Baron’s gaze as well as his touch. The young woman they held was dark-skinned, dressed in a bodice and skirts as Roamerling girls usually were, and her long, dark hair fell over her face as she struggled against her captors. They manhandled her over to the bed and secured her hands and feet to the bedposts. Her eyes were black and wide, wild with fear; sweat stood out on her skin. She knew what would happen to her.

  Reen regarded her as his servants hastened silently from the room. He was surprised they had managed to find a Roamerling—most of them had left Bordenn by now—and also that she should be so afraid. Roamerling girls prostituted their bodies all the time, which was the main reason he had chosen the race for his experiments. Not only were they an affront to his God by their unnaturalness, but they also profaned the Matria Church’s laws on decency and propriety. They deserved punishment and, by God, Reen was going to mete it out.

  The pious thoughts running through his mind as he approached the writhing girl inflamed his soul. He was doing his God’s will in this, using the holy Fire that had transformed his body and his life, and which burned still within his heart, to snuff out and redeem these pagan outlander souls. He came close to his captive and stared down into her wide, frightened eyes.

  The Roamerling girl saw him clearly for the first time and shrieked through the gag. The purple, slumped flesh, the stiffened, clawed hands, the shriveled muscles and wasted sinews, all combined to assault her with nightmares she couldn’t bear. And the eyes! They appeared at first as if embers from the fire reflected in them, but the fire was behind Reen now and the sullen, ruby light remained. It glared out at her with the strength of his lust, growing and flaring with unholy desire. He must appear to her as some demon, some monster, and not a natural being at all.

  The manner of his being was not important to Reen right now. What he needed was. He reached down and drew the girl’s skirts up over her waist. She continued to struggle, futile though it was. The Baron climbed on the bed and knelt between her legs, smiling cruelly all the while. She tried not to look, but was unable to help herself. He knew she could feel the heat of his flesh against her body, and it burned her. It was as if he raged with a fever that should have consumed his flesh, eating it away until only bone was left. But that had already happened. Only his will and the Fire within sustained the outward illusion.

  He leaned over her, reaching down to raise his robes. Whimpering in terror, she screwed her eyes shut. The scarecrow shifted his weight, centered his will, and took her.

  At his first touch she screamed as if the gag wasn’t there. Joined, he felt what she felt. White-hot fire lanced through her belly and her back arched in agony. It flooded every fiber of her being until she was no longer herself. She could feel it eating through her, consuming her from within, pulsing with the rhythm of the scarecrow’s thrusting hips, his gasping breath. And with every pulse, she lost more of her self.

  Reen was falling, lost in the sensations, totally out of control. This would not do. This was worse than when he used his cane. Surely the lust and the Fire weren’t so intense when he had taken Serrin? Surely he’d had more control? If he wasn’t careful, he would lose himself too far and the experiment would fail. And that couldn’t be allowed to happen. Gasping, desperate, he tried to pull away. But the drive of his Fire was too compelling, the dark sweetness of his pleasure too great. He couldn’t let go, couldn’t give up such intense ecstasy.

  He threw his head back and cried out in rage and fear, forcing himself to slow, forcing his rampant body to obey him. He hadn’t bargained on this, hadn’t realized how his enforced abstinence would affect him. There had been no one since Serrin, and he now understood how he had hampered his self-control by forbearing. This realization calmed his fervor, soothed the fear. It was easily rectified, this issue of abstinence. It was a remedy he would enjoy.

  Calm now and fully in control, he resumed. He could feel the fires raging within him, flowing into his victim, and he could now feel her life force flowing back. This was better. This was what he needed to control. Pure physical desire he could satisfy anytime, and would now that he knew how important it was. But for now, controlling what he received was all that mattered. He exerted his will and altered the flow. It changed, sluggishly, and halted. He smiled a wide grin of triumph and resumed his absorption. The girl’s life force flowed to his command and he laughed with the knowledge of his mastery.

  He gasped and gave a mighty surge, hearing his victim’s shattered scream. He allowed his own cry of release and knew the instant she died. All her young strength, all her vibrant life force, was sucked out, flooding into him, and he was sated. He collapsed onto her lifeless body and lay there panting, his need fulfilled.

  After a time, he pushed himself up and stood looking down on her. She lay as if sleeping, although the gray pallor of her skin and the wide, dull stare of her eyes told the true story of her state. He was pleased. Not a mark remained on her body, apart from the obvious, but what among normal men and women was a loving and giving thing had been transformed by the scarecrow’s dreadful touch into reaving.

  Full of savage joy and feeling strong and fit for the first time since absorbing Serrin’s life force, the Baron called once more for his servants.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jinella spent the morning in her solar composing a letter to Taran. She took her time, examining every line, every sentiment expressed, until she was certain she had a true account of her feelings. She spared herself no pain and clearly told of her disappointment and anger, but she also told him of her deep love and commitment, her willingness to forgive and forget. She set out her reasons for this change of heart and the brutal honesty of the letter, when she read it back, gave her pause.

  She wasn’t sure she actually meant to send the letter, or whether writing it was merely an exercise in understanding her own emotions and motivations. Certainly, it helped clarify what she had felt during the night. She was pleased to realize she still believed in the sentiments expressed, painfully honest though they were. Taran should be able to appreciate and comprehend her meaning. She certainly hoped so, for now she had admitted the depth of her commitment, she wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  Folding the parchment, she slipped it into the little silver box Taran bought her at the last fair they attended. Looking at its delicately chased lid, she smiled at her memories. She had seen the box on the silversmith’s stall and tried to wheedle it as a gift from Taran, but he passed it by. He then purchased it without her knowledge and presented it to her later, once she had forgotten the incident. The look of pleasure on his handsome features at her delight still warmed her heart. As did the memory of how she thanked him.

  How could she have doubted the strength of his feelings for her? The more she remembered their passionate couplings, even in the cold light of examination, the more she realized how deeply he loved her. It must have been the shock of his revelations and the hurt that he hadn’t come to her first with his misgivings that had made her react so badly. It was only his lack of confidence in her long-term plans that had stopped him asking formally for her hand. She knew that now. They were both as bad as each other, and there always had to be one who made the first move. As the one with the most to lose—or share—it was up to her to make that gesture. She was openhearted enough not to resent it.

  Feeling a happy anticipation for the reconciliation to come, Jinny trailed her fingers over the silver box as she left her solar to begin the day’s business.

  + + + + +

  As befitted the Matria Church of Loxton Province, Loxton’s Minster was huge. Twin-spired and magnificent, its gilded, carved stonework reared to the heavens in an
impressive example of the stonemason’s art. Arches, niches, and buttresses all showed signs of the gold spent by previous Arch Patrios to glorify their faith, and the current incumbent, His Immanence the Lord Neremiah, didn’t intend to leave his beloved Minster unadorned by his own devotion.

  In the early morning chill, Neremiah strolled down the long central nave, admiring the Minster’s ornate interior. Intricate marble mosaics were set into the nave floor, the aisles flagged in good local stone. The pillars and arches supporting the vaulted roof were of marble also, decorated with representations of the various aspects of the Wheel. The crossing was plain and unadorned, but the transepts leading to the ancillary altars were paved with more creamy marble. The floor of the chancel could scarcely be seen due to the seating for the choir, and the carved altar beyond took the eye and swept it upward to meet the stained-glass window above, which spiraled the glowing colors of the Wheel down upon the congregation. The gold work of the altar cloth and the delicate crystal of the bowl resting upon it sparkled in the sunlight, lending an illusion of summer to the frigid air of the Minster’s interior. Lamps and candles burned in the votive niches, but did nothing to warm the air. On holy days, braziers would flame to take off the chill, but it was the warm breath and bodies of the worshippers that transformed the cold of the vast, majestic building.

  Neremiah reached the main altar and turned, gazing back along the nave toward the Minster’s huge, wooden double doors. They stood open to the freezing wind and the man beside the Arch Patrio shivered, drawing his rough cloak tighter about his body.

  “There, Master Withen—that’s where I intend to make my mark.” Neremiah flung out one arm, his heavy black robe trimmed with gray silk falling back from his liver-spotted hand.

  The stonemason looked in the general direction of the cleric’s arm, but was none the wiser. “Your Immanence?”

  Neremiah huffed in irritation. “Look, man! In the whole of this highly-decorated edifice to the glory of God, where do you see room for improvement? Where is there a lack, a plainness, which cries out for adornment?”

  Now the master stonemason saw what the cleric meant. It was true the crossing had been left plain deliberately, as a definite boundary between the congregation and the choir before the altar. Meant to signify the difference between the secular city and the clerics’ holiness, the crossing became a symbol of the altar’s purity when one stepped upon it to approach the holy place. Yet Neremiah wasn’t content for it to be a symbol. He intended it to be a depiction of what might ensue should one dare to approach the altar—or God—with a less than humble heart. His Immanence intended his addition to the Minster’s glories to be the most magnificent yet, the most worthy of note.

  He turned to the short, square-jawed man beside him and drew a parchment from his heavy velvet robes. He unrolled it and held it before Withen’s eyes. “Here, man. I have laid out a sketch of what I want.”

  The master mason took the parchment and squinted at it. The Arch Patrio’s artistic skills weren’t as honed as his oratorical, but Withen valued this contract too highly to say so. Nevertheless, the impression Withen got of what Neremiah intended was as strong as the cleric had hoped judging by the mason’s widening eyes.

  “But, Your Immanence, this will take months to complete! I’d have to employ others, workers more skilled in the setting of mosaics.” He glanced at the Arch Patrio. “It will also be very costly.”

  “How costly?” The last thing Neremiah wanted was to be told his ideas were beyond his means, but it was essential the work be expensive. No one who came after him should say, in the years to come, he had stinted on his contribution to the glory of the Matria Church.

  Withen considered, muttering about materials and the cost of skilled labor. He then named a sum that caused Neremiah to gasp.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, man. I could rebuild half the Minster for that! This was what I had in mind.”

  The sum he named was less than a quarter of Withen’s, and they fell to bargaining in earnest. Neremiah enjoyed pitting his wits against craftsmen. He always had the last say because they had to give in eventually if they didn’t want to endanger their souls. It might have been spiritual blackmail, but Neremiah preferred to see it as obtaining good value for his God.

  They finally reached an agreeable sum for the buying of materials and hiring the necessary workmen. Neremiah then named a further amount for Withen alone, and a bonus amount to be shared among the workers if they finished within a certain time. Withen left feeling more than happy, and Neremiah was finally alone in his beloved Minster, well pleased with what he had achieved.

  He walked back to the crossing to stare at where his masterpiece would soon be revealed—a depiction of godless souls being tormented upon the Wheel as they slowly revolved toward the fires of damnation. Above all was the beatific representation of his God, beckoning the worthy and pious to step off the Wheel of Creation and enter his paradise, there to partake of the rewards they had earned before rejoining the Wheel to continue their journey toward spiritual purity. If the figure of God in Neremiah’s depiction should bear a striking resemblance to His Immanence, well, that was just a passing fancy. Neremiah wouldn’t be the first Arch Patrio to have himself so represented. Whatever awaited him in the darkness beyond life, here, at least, Neremiah would live forever.

  Hearing a noise behind him, he turned. The huge doors were still open and a man had entered the Minster, stooped and shuffling. As Neremiah watched, the man stumbled, catching himself on one of the wooden seats. The cleric started toward the peasant, who was obviously unwell. As he neared the man, Neremiah caught the stench of disease and nearly gagged. The fellow needed an infirmary, not his nice, clean Minster.

  He reached the man and stretched out his hand in blessing. The man looked up at him from dull eyes and stooped a little more. “Mercy,” he mumbled.

  Neremiah looked about, but he was quite alone. His fellow clerics were all at their prayers, one of the reasons Neremiah had chosen this hour to meet with the master mason. He didn’t want knowledge of his plans getting out until he was ready to make the announcement. He had to have exact figures and times before instructing his congregation in their generosity.

  Sighing, he bent to the figure, trying not to inhale the stench. “Here, man, you’re not well. Are you fevered? Have you no family to care for you?”

  The man shook his head, his breath coarse in his throat. Neremiah could scarce make out the words, but finally caught the whispered plea. “I need to be shriven, Your Immanence.”

  Neremiah frowned. Such petitions were never refused, but he preferred his junior clerics to deal with them. Yet none of them were about and he couldn’t drag one from his devotions without good reason. Besides, this poor soul might not last that long. He sighed in frustration. He had intended to retire to his rooms to begin work on the sermon that would convince the good people of Port Loxton to part with vast amounts of hard-earned gold, but he supposed that could wait. This shouldn’t take too long.

  “Very well, man, I will hear your avowal. Once you’ve made it, I suggest you take yourself to the infirmary in the cloister square. You need more than spiritual help today.”

  The man mumbled his thanks and followed Neremiah to the small set of cells off the western aisle reserved for the hearing of avowals and penitence.

  Neremiah entered the nearest cell and lit the branch lamp on the table. The suffering penitent entered behind him and closed the solid door. Neremiah sat behind the table and gestured for the supplicant to do the same. But the man leaned both hands on the table and stared most disconcertingly into Neremiah’s eyes.

  “Your Immanence, would it trouble you to dispense with the lamp? The brightness hurts my eyes, and besides, I’ve lost all rights to the comforts of men. I’d feel easier giving my avowal in darkness.”

  Neremiah pursed his lips. This was one of the more unusual requests, but he had heard many variations on this theme of self-punishment. He saw no real reason t
o deny the man’s wishes, if it made him better able to confess his trouble. He turned down the lamp, intoning piously, “Light was made for all men. It is not for us to judge who has forfeited the right to its benefits.”

  “Ah, Neremiah! The next few moments may see you change your mind about that. I know others have so judged me.”

  Neremiah blinked in surprise. Not only was he sure he recognized the voice—impossible!—but he could also see two glowing points of ruby flame. Nothing in the room could have caused such a glow. The cleric felt his blood freeze and his aged hands gripped the wood of his chair. A frown furrowed his brow and he opened his mouth, but the dreadful voice came again, its sound cleaving Neremiah’s tongue to the roof of his mouth.

  “Yes, Your Immanence, you’ve recognized me, haven’t you? My servant has done well to secure this private audience. I hadn’t dared hope to have such leisure to talk with you. Do you fear me, Neremiah?”

  The question was rhetorical, for as soon as Neremiah’s brain accepted what he was hearing, sweat leaped out all over his body. If not for the foul miasma coming from the figure before him, Neremiah thought the whole of Loxton would smell his fear.

  “Hezra Reen? How is this possible?”

  A throaty chuckle issued from the vagrant fellow’s mouth, prickling Neremiah’s skin. Sarcasm dripped heavy in the cold voice. “You of all people should be able to work out how this is possible, my old friend. I will not, however, enlighten you. Not about that, anyway. I haven’t come here to explain myself to you. I’ve come for revenge.”