Scenting Hallowed Blood

by Storm Constantine

  Then there was Israel, whose skin was a soft, satiny purple-black. He came from a far Grigori family whose ancestors had been worshipped as demons in the dust and heat of a famished land. His people were very enclosed, he said, which was why he’d chosen to flee them. He had travelled much about the world and had seen many strange and disturbing things. For a while, to obey some facetious urge to mimic art, he’d lived as a vampire, although admitted he didn’t much like the taste of blood. Israel possessed a beautiful, foreign, stringed instrument, which he took out onto the street and played. People threw him coins. Unlike some of the other residents of the building he did not appear to have recourse to his family’s assets, although the others tended to share what they had without thought.

  Money, Lily had quickly learned, was never a problem for Grigori, even the outcasts. They treated it without reverence. It was as vital to them as air, but just as easily obtained. Not for them the life-long love/hate affair with the demons of lucre, the humiliating entreaties and prayers of desperation, the draining offerings of time and energy for meagre rewards, spiced by the occasional god-like yet sardonic windfalls. Lily too had money — a legacy from her mother — but Emma had told her not to try withdrawing it from her account, because it would make her easier to trace. Naomi gave her money sometimes: ‘Do you want this?’ Offering a crumpled twenty pound note, as if it was some little bauble she’d found and did not want to keep. Lily always took these presents, feeling that one day she might need them.

  Her favourite new friend among the Grigori was Johcasta, although she was perhaps the most threatening. Johcasta had a sharp tongue and often resorted to slapping people if they annoyed her, which was often. But her fiery temperament, flashing and dashing about the dour halls and corridors of the Rooms, fascinated Lily. Also, she seemed to have taken a shine to the fey hybrid twin, and asked her questions about what it was like to be half human, half Grigori. Lily could not answer with any great honesty, for she had no comparisons to make, but she made up twisted feelings and dark angst, which seemed to satisfy her friend.

  Johcasta’s hair looked like gold wire, and glinted metallically in artificial light. She wore it tossed up on the top of her head, where it was loosely confined with tortoise-shell combs. This abundant shining mass reminded Lily of the hair on a doll she’d possessed as a child; unreal. She’d always wished it could be possible to have hair like that.

  Johcasta made divining tools from many different materials. Once, in the green darkness of her room, where the windows were occluded by coloured blinds, Johcasta had held out her white hand to Lily. A spill of semi-precious stones lay there in the dry palm, gleaming dully. Johcasta cast them onto the floor, where a fringed cloth lay.

  ‘This,’ said Johcasta, picking up a dark stone, ‘is Mevanya. See her green veins. She has great power, but her plans are always sabotaged by her jealousy, which is insane.’ She placed the stone in Lily’s hand.

  ‘And this pink crystal is Marmoset, the child of love. When he touches the red flank of Garibaster, the angry, he bleeds and love turns to hate.’

  Lily handled Marmoset; the stone felt warm to the touch.

  ‘And here,’ said Johcasta, lifting a smooth tablet of turquoise, ‘is Fairuzi, a lady of protection. Evil eyes close in her presence and she drains the poison of Aglax, the black stone. Falling next to him, she drives his negative influence to sleep.

  ‘Now look at this,’ said Johcasta, and put a piece of cold green stone into Lily’s hand. ‘Mark her well, for it is the guardian, Zahtumuzgi, the Serpent Lady. Scorpions, snakes and bees do her bidding, as do the spider and the lizard, for good or ill.’

  Lily let the stones run through her fingers.

  ‘There are more,’ said Johcasta, indicating the fringed cloth. ‘I will tell you their stories another time. Now gather them all and cast them, and I’ll read you their messages.’

  Lily felt nervous of doing so. She was sure Garibaster, Aglax and the less clement aspect of Zahtumuzgi would gang up against her and pronounce evil omens. Still, she was equally nervous of Johcasta’s displeasure, so threw the stones onto the cloth.

  ‘Ah,’ said Johcasta, peering. She rested her hand on one raised knee and leaned forward to inspect the falling. ‘Zahtumuzgi stands alone, although her eyes are directed towards the Maiden stone, Melandra, the lapiz lazuli, which represents yourself. But the sick lover, the androgynous pearl, rolls close behind you. He is Tarturophane, and his still, stagnant waters can drag you down.’

  Lily had a sinking feeling. ‘Is there anything good there?’

  Johcasta laughed. ‘But of course, Aglax the black gives you his power of dark manipulation, while Marmoset lingers back, wondering whether Tarturophane will wither his feathers of love. But he will wait until the androgyne swims away on a river of tears. What seems to be drained of all hope will be restored.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Lily. She wasn’t sure how good that sounded.

  Johcasta carelessly gathered up the stones and jingled them loosely in her hand. ‘Each day brings a new falling. Don’t be depressed. You’re probably affected by some crisis within your group.’

  ‘Mm,’ Lily said, nodding glumly. She was thinking of her twin brother, Owen. Ever since they’d left Little Moor, he’d spoken little. The bright spark of his being was eclipsed by memories so dark they could only be repressed by catatonia. Peverel Othman had destroyed Owen and ruined his relationship with Daniel. Guilt afflicted Lily, because she knew she had assisted Othman. He had seduced her and she had loved him, but that was no excuse. His dextrous love-making had concealed the message ‘give me your brother’, and she had willingly held Owen out to Othman, saying, ‘take him, take him, but still be mine!’ Sacrifice, desire, lust and sin; Othman’s heady cocktail of subtle demands. Daniel insisted that the dark presence of Peverel Othman was gone now, although Lily was not convinced of that. She had tried to talk to Emma, who simply told her that everything would sort itself out in its own time, but Lily could not stand seeing Owen as he was now. Avoiding the sight of him, she spent as much time as possible in the company of the other Grigori in the Rooms. Sometimes she wished Shem and the others would leave, so she could stay behind with her new friends. She could imagine herself drifting into their lifestyle so that her past life would become a blur in her mind. She wanted to sit all day and do things like Naomi and Johcasta did, hiding away from the world, half-existing, but safe.

  One day, after she’d been in the Rooms for about two weeks, Israel asked her about her companions. They were walking down a dusty gallery, where lighter spaces on the yellowy walls showed where paintings had once hung. The windows that ran down one side, and overlooked the square, were cracked in the corners and dusty. When the wind blew, they rattled.

  Israel padded light-footed beside her, taller than Lily by over a foot. ‘What are you doing here?’ he enquired. His voice, like his body, was dark and velvety.

  Lily shrugged. She wasn’t surprised at the question, only at how long it had taken someone to ask it. ‘We have nowhere to go.’

  Israel sighed. ‘Such is often the case. The Grigori, Shem, is your father? And the woman, Emma, your mother?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Lily lied. She thought it best to.

  ‘Dangerous,’ said Israel, ‘the mating of one kind with another. It is why you are estranged, of course.’

  ‘I expect so,’ Lily answered. ‘We lived in one place for a while, but it became... difficult.’

  Israel frowned. ‘The human boy, Daniel, is your half-brother?’

  Lily thought it was all getting too convenient, so decided to tell a little truth, to lend authenticity to her story. ‘No, he was, is, my brother’s lover.’

  ‘Your brother is unwell.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lily. She hoped Israel wouldn’t ask what his illness entailed. ‘I don’t know what we’re going to do,’ she said quickly, if a little lamely. ‘We can’t stay here for ever.’

  ‘Your father is in trouble.’ Israel smiled wide
ly. ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.’

  Lily grinned awkwardly, but did not answer. ‘I would like to stay here,’ she said, ‘but not with my family.’

  Israel didn’t know who Shem was or what he represented. If she came out with the truth and said, ‘He is Shemyaza, the Shemyaza,’ Israel would laugh, and believe Shem’s guardians had only called him that as a child because it was a powerful name. Many Grigori were named after the fallen ones. She had learned that her own father had possessed such a name: Kashday. She had never met him, nor had any hope of doing so. She presumed he was dead, perhaps reunited with her mother, a woman who had dared to love an angel.

  In Little Moor, Lily had thought she was in love with Peverel Othman, only now the infection had left her. She felt empty of love, dried out; free but somehow melancholy because of it. Shem was beautiful, the ultimate desirable object, yet she could not love him. Whatever he was now, she knew too much of his past, the killing, the deceit and corruption. She could not feel sorry for Shemyaza now. He had made himself in his own image, a warped and bitter reflection. Daniel believed Shemyaza was some kind of messiah, but Lily could not share that belief. She admired Daniel’s courage and tenacity, his determination to push and bully Shemyaza into caring about the world and his as yet unspecified destiny, but ultimately, she thought Daniel was wasting his time. If Shemyaza was so powerful, why didn’t he do something about Owen?

  It was only a short time ago that Lily and Owen had learned the truth about what they were, and who their father had been. All their lives, they had listened to their mother’s various tall tales about the man who had loved her and either left her or died, depending on which story she was using. She had kept back the truth, which ironically would have been the most outrageous and least credible story of all. Kashday Murkaster had been Grigori, and his family had virtually owned the village of Little Moor for centuries. Twenty years ago, Helen had gone there to work for a local farmer, and had attracted the attention of Kashday. Inevitably, perhaps, they had become lovers, but once Helen learned the truth about Kashday, she had wanted to share his Grigori power. A ritual had been enacted, which had decimated the Murkasters, and dispersed the survivors. All that had been left was the old empty house, Long Eden, and a bank account full of money for Helen and her half-breed children. Lily and Owen might have never discovered what they were, but for the arrival in Little Moor of Peverel Othman. He had sniffed them out, prompting Emma, an old dependant of the Murkaster family, to reveal the truth to the twins. Emma had demanded back her lost youth from Othman, and he had apparently given it to her without question. Lily still didn’t know how he’d done this, and shrank from asking, sensing the answer would not be pleasant. Since then, Emma had appointed herself as the twins’ guardian. Lily wasn’t sure what the woman thought of Shemyaza, but doubted she shared Daniel’s view. Probably, to Emma, Shemyaza was simply a resource, like food or water. If forced into making a choice, she would undoubtedly choose him and discard the twins. Lily didn’t care.

  ‘Israel, where do you go when you go out at night?’ Lily asked. They had come to the end of the gallery. She wanted to ask him to take her with him some time.

  Israel chuckled. ‘Nowhere, child, you would want to see.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Lily snapped. She did not like being referred to as a child.

  Israel shrugged. ‘You are sweet,’ he said, which could have meant anything.

  Lily sighed. She wasn’t bored, because she spent most evenings with either Johcasta or Naomi, or else watching TV with Emma and Daniel, but she wanted to become part of the Grigoris’ lives in this place. She wanted to become strange, and wear eccentric clothes, do something unusual to her body or hair, smile like a cat.

  ‘What would your parents think?’ Israel said, and a certain tone in his voice suggested he didn’t believe her story at all.

  Chapter Six

  Chaining the Maiden

  Tamara walked the coastal path that rose from the village and snaked high above the sea. The sun was a watery halo over the dark surge of the waves and the nipping wind snatched at Tamara’s long coat. The brightness of the day was unseasonal, and served only to illuminate the bleakness of the winter land, the greys, duns and muddy greens of sleeping verdure. Tamara knew that today Delmar Tremayne was not in school. She had meditated on his whereabouts only an hour earlier and discovered he was down at the shore in Quoit’s Cove, grubbing through the rock-pools. Often he took Agatha with him on these forays, but today he was alone. It was almost as if Tamara had planned the whole thing, but if anything was working for her, it was synchronicity.

  She made her way down the steep path, pausing to watch the boy who was sitting on the sand, his straightened legs pointing towards the waves. His hair blew around his head and shoulders, spray-dampened into weedy tendrils. Delmar was sea-born and fey, having spent too much time attuned to the goddess Seference; he seemed hardly conscious of reality. Tamara wondered how he coped among people his own age. Not every Cornish youth was aware of the strange and magical things that went on around them, and those who didn’t must consider Delmar very peculiar.

  She came up behind him. ‘Del!’

  For a moment, he made no movement and then turned his head slowly towards her, fixing her with his wide, green eyes. ‘Hello, Tamara.’ Sometimes, it sounded as if words of the human language came with difficulty to his lips.

  She squatted down beside him. ‘Will you come with me to the sacred cave?’ She knew there was no point in trying to explain to Delmar what she wanted from him. Neither did she have to ask for his silence. He spoke only when spoken to, and would offer no information voluntarily to the other Pelleth.

  The boy looked at her steadily, then said, ‘All right.’

  They went there in silence, for Delmar was not a person who could make light conversation. As the tide was out, they walked across the sands, climbing over rocks when necessary to reach the further coves. Tamara kept close to the cliff as they approached the Penhaligon beach. Far across the bay, miles distant, she could see the long chimneys of High Crag rearing against the clear sky. Soon, she would creep to their private cove, but first certain preparations had to be made.

  Delmar ran into the cave ahead of her, as if returning to a home he loved and had missed. He jumped up onto the giant’s chair and squatted there, grinning. Tamara smiled at him. The light was very dim, as no candles or lanterns were lit. The stone chair gleamed dark and wet in the gloom and the air was cold and damp against the skin. ‘Come, Delmar.’ Tamara beckoned the boy towards the scrying pool, which appeared like a puddle of black ink in the darkness beyond the chair. Delmar hunkered down on the lip of the pool and reached down with his thin hands to scoop up the water and throw it over his face. He was like a mer-boy, yearning for the touch of the sea.

  Tamara settled herself down opposite him, and gestured at the pool. ‘Scry for me, Del. Look for the Fallen One and the lady associated with him.’

  Delmar scratched his head and then leaned right out over the pool, extending his neck like a snake or a cat. The ends of his hair dipped into the water, causing delicate ripples to spiral out. Tamara could scry herself, but she knew Delmar’s unfettered psyche could probably achieve far more in a much shorter time. Also, she knew she needed more specific information about Shemyaza’s woman. Being female, and too drawn to Shemyaza, she could not get close to the female image at the scrying pool.

  As he stared at the water, Delmar became still, his whole body concentrating on what might come through to him. Tamara did not bother to focus on the pool; she watched the boy.

  ‘He is very handsome,’ Delmar said at last.

  ‘Yes,’ Tamara agreed. ‘What’s he doing?’

  ‘He’s just sitting on a bed in a horrible room. He’s not doing much at all. He’s sad. He’s very sad.’ Delmar frowned in empathy.

  ‘Look into him, Del,’ Tamara instructed. ‘Find the woman inside him. Tell me her name.’

  Delmar concentr
ated for a full two minutes without speaking, which seemed like an age to Tamara. Eventually, he said, ‘Ishtahar.’

  ‘Good.’ Tamara was satisfied. Barbelo had already mentioned this name and explained that Ishtahar would be important in their plans, but Tamara had wanted to make sure she was telling the truth. The name Ishtahar was not totally unknown to her. The Pelleth called her Ishtara, or Isatar, but basically, she was the original temptress, who had lured Shemyaza away from his people, thereby instigating the Fall from grace. However, she had never figured greatly in the lore of the Pelleth. Had they made a mistake in under-estimating her significance now? ‘Can you see her face?’ Tamara asked.

  Delmar turned his head from side to side, inquisitively, like a monkey. ‘Yes. She’s pulled back her veil to me. It’s made of gold disks. I can see a big eye painted upon her belly.’

  Tamara was pleased. This meant Delmar could visualise Ishtahar with ease, and thereby expedite her work. She reached out to touch his face. ‘Thank you, Del. Now, I want you to do something more for me.’