“Out of my way, cat!” Serena O’Malley’s angry voice carried through the apartment. Over the connection she received from the familiar bonding ceremony, Rachel could feel Mistletoe hissing at the newcomer. Good for him! “This is taking too long! Where’s the little pest? That ghost had better not have been lying to us!”
A tiny gasp escaped Rachel’s lips. She covered her mouth more tightly. Remus Starkadder had told Veltdammerung where she was. Why would he do such a thing?
Oh.
Recollecting her conversation with the dead prince, Rachel realized that she should have known something was wrong. The shade had turned pale when she mentioned the demon, yet the ghosts at the Dead Men’s Ball had not known what demons were. She should have realized that Remus, who had made a deal with Egg in life, might still be under the sway of Veltdammerung, even in death.
Footsteps grew suddenly louder. Before Rachel could pull out her wand, the blankets were ripped from the bed, exposing her body to cold air.
“There you are, you little minx!” Serena O’Malley bent and lifted Rachel by her throat.
Chapter Thirty-Five:
Saturn’s Army
“Rachel, I’m home! I have a surprise!” Sandra’s voice sang out, followed by, “Good gracious! What happened to the front door? Rachel? Rachel!”
Relief flooded through Rachel. Sandra was home!
Everything would be okay.
Serena O’Malley jabbed her in the ribs with the tip of her fulgurator’s wand. Blue sparkles danced across Rachel’s body. Her limbs froze, unable to move.
Then, light was everywhere.
• • •
Warm air and the sound of drums was the first thing Rachel noticed. Then the light faded, and she stood under the night sky, surrounded by men in purple robes carrying torches. In front of her, flames leapt out of an open door in the bottom of a huge furnace with outstretched arms and the head of a bull. The firelight illuminated marble steps, columns, and a bit of the brass of the furnace-statue.
Beyond and above, Rachel could see the bulk of the temple, a rectangular building with an octagonal tower that rose from the top of it—each story of the tower smaller than the story below it, like eight-sided nest-&-stack blocks. The whole temple was plated in gold, or perhaps, gold-tinted glass, upon which the reflections of the furnace flames flickered and danced. At the edge of her field of vision, was the glint of city lights. Beyond that was a deep blackness. Rachel could smell the ocean.
In the distance, there was a flash, like heat lightning, across the sky.
“Master,” Serena knelt before a robed figure with glowing coals for eyes and bull-horns protruding from his temples. Rachel recognized him, the man from Beaumont, whom the demon Morax had possessed, “I have brought you a sacrifice.”
The glowing coals swiveled to Rachel. “What good is that one. No one here loves it.”
Serena bowed her head. “I have a plan, your viciousness. We can do it the other way.”
The red-haired woman rose and returned to where she had left Rachel, some twenty-five feet away. “You two, watch her. You six, come with me.”
Serena and her minions departed. In the distance, another flash of heat lightning.
The temple was still forming, Rachel realized. Parts of it were merely ghostly shadows. As she watched, rocks and rubble rose into the air, making the ghostly form solid. The stones rumbled and grated, as they jostled for their ancient positions. Rock dust mingled with the scent of the sea.
More flashes in the distance. There was something odd about the lightning. Rachel recalled it one fraction of a second at a time. Slowed down, she saw white pillars bright against the dark of the night.
Someone was jumping.
The horned man raised his arms. “Ancient servants of my master, arise and serve me! Mine elite, my master’s followers, rise. Stir!”
The ground trembled. The robed cultists with the torches turned and looked outward. Time went by. Nothing seemed to happen, except that Rachel counted more pillars of light, flashing in and out in the distance.
“Why does nothing come forth?” bellowed Morax, through the mouth of his horned human servant.
One of the robed figures stepped forward and bowed to one knee. “Your viciousness, the Romans salted the earth. The dead cannot rise here.”
A noise like the wrathful bellow of a bull rose from Morax. The horned man raised his head and sniffed the air.
“Ah! I call the ones given to my master!” Morax’s voice was beast-like and grating. “Arise! Come forth!”
More flashes in the distance. Suddenly, Rachel realized what she was seeing. The Agents were looking for this place. Mrs. March had alerted her husband, and he had sent his people to Tunis through the nearest glass. Now they were trying to find this temple, but none of them had ever been here or knew what it looked like. They were using an advanced trick to make their jumps look like lightning, so as not to draw the attention of the Unwary.
She wished she could do something to help them, but she could do nothing at all.
It was frustrating not to be able to move, but a strange calm settled over her. Her previous terror fled. She did not even feel frightened. It was as if her lack of ability to act had relieved her of all responsibility, and now she could calmly await the unfolding of events.
In her heart, however, she made one solemn vow. She was tired of being paralyzed during battles. If she lived through this, she was going to insist her parents buy her an anti-paralysis talisman. Once she had it, she would to wear it at all times, even in the bath.
“Morax, I did as you asked. You promised my brother and me a kingdom,” Remus Starkadder’s voice came faintly from the darkness.
The horned man gestured. The ghost jerked into view as if pulled by a chain.
“And so I did. A kingdom of pain!” grunted Morax. “You are of no more use to me. To Hell with you, where you belong.”
The shade of the handsome, blond Transylvanian prince let out a bloodcurdling, horrible scream. Pale, colorless flames lapped at his legs. They began to consume his insubstantial form. He looked so vulnerable, so young, as his face contorted in unspeakable torment.
Paralyzed, Rachel could not avert her eyes or close them. She was forced to watch as the terrified prince was simultaneously devoured by the flames and dragged down into the ground.
It was horrible to behold.
She could not scream or even twitch. The horror remained locked inside her, searing her with an excruciating spiritual agony. The image of his tormented face would be with her for as long as she lived. She did not care what he had done, even betraying her. No one should have to suffer so terribly—not for so much as a moment, much less forever.
Everything within her cried out against such evil as this.
Another flash, this one close at hand. Serena O’Malley reappeared with a paralyzed Sandra and a second person.
Mother!
Three burly, robed cultists hustled Rachel’s diminutive mother up the stairs and to the right of the temple porch. They turned her toward the statue, holding her arms. In the light of the flames, Rachel could see her mother, as gentle as a fawn, with eyes as dark as any doe, staring pale-faced at her paralyzed daughters. Her lovely face was completely calm, but Rachel could see her hands. Her pinky fingers were rigid as stone.
“My, my. The Duchess of Devon,” smirked Serena O’Malley, stalking back and forth at the bottom of the marble steps. “Isn’t it ironic? All that power, and no way to use it. No instrument to play enchantments. No cantrips…since you can’t move your arms. And I have your rings of mastery.” She held up her hand. Objects glittered on her palm. “You’re helpless.”
Serena’s sarcastic banter turned to a snarl. “So here’s the deal, duchess. I am going to kill your youngest daughter. If you do not react, if you don’t weep, or cry, or say word, I will spare your older daughter.” Serena turned to the horned man. “Is that acceptable?”
“Yes. If it proves to be
of stern stuff, the older daughter shall go free.” Morax spoke from the man’s mouth. “If not, kill them both before the mother’s eyes and consecrate both the temple and the priest—since our first efforts, last month, were interrupted by the Wisecraft.”
“She’ll crack, master,” said one of the robed thugs. “She’s a frail little thing.”
“But a tempting morsel,” crowed another. “May we have use of her when this is done?”
“Only if it breaks,” rumbled the demon. “Otherwise, it may go free.”
Ellen Griffin’s face was a mask of perfect calm. Her voice was sweet and gentle, and yet it rang out clearly for all to hear. “Touch one hair on the head of a single child of mine, and it shall be the last thing you shall ever do. My husband will find you, and he will destroy you, utterly. And nothing shall keep you safe: neither walls, nor wards, nor sacred weapons.”
Serena O’Malley snorted derisively.
Around her, however, the Veltdammerung followers shifted nervously, as if, perhaps, they did not think being threatened with the wrath of Agent Griffin, The Duke of Devon, was a laughing matter.
Watching her mother, so calm and collected, her eyes ablaze with faith in her husband, Rachel could not help but think that, if they could have seen her now, her imperious Victorian grandparents would finally have applauded their son’s choice of wife.
“Now we begin,” bellowed the horned man. “When this is done, we go to my master.”
Serena’s voice faltered slightly. “Go to him?”
“When first I spied it, I did not recognize his prison,” replied the demon. “Now that I know where he is, it will be a simple matter to rouse him during Saturnalia.”
“Excellent.” Serena O’Malley’s eyes gleamed red in the furnace-light as she rubbed her hands together.
“The hour soon dawns of my master’s return. First, he shall waken. Then, he shall retake his ancient throne. Once again, agony shall be the law of the land, and all the universe shall tremble. And with each sacrifice in my master’s honor, the Enemy shall weep blood—for He shall be forced to admit the slaughter of His Lamb ended in failure. The great sacrifice-to-end-all-sacrifices has come and gone; yet nothing has been accomplished. Mortals still pay my master’s toll of pain.”
The two men watching Rachel lifted her up, tipping her sideways. The star-studded night sky shone above her. For a time, that was all she could see. The constellation of Orion shone above her, the three stars of the hunter’s belt twinkling brightly. Below, she could see the higher portions of the eight-sided tower atop the temple, gleaming like golden glass in the firelight.
The tower moved closer. The heat of the furnace kissed her cheek. Then, it grew uncomfortably warm. Then stifling. She could not even squirm away as Juma had done.
As she stared at the stars, her right cheek feeling as if she had stuck it in an oven, Rachel wondered whether the Raven would have come to rescue her, had she been able to call him. No, she decided. He would not. A supernatural force, like the Horseman, was one thing. Veltdammerung, a group of human beings who had called up dangerous magic, was quite another. It was like the difference between questions about the world Outside and questions about the dealings of men here within.
The heat grew hotter still. Rachel composed herself to die.
She was not happy to be going so young. She had wanted to grow up, to learn magic, to see the Elf’s home, maybe even to marry, have a family, and become the librarian of the Library of All Worlds. True, she had given up all that when she gave her life to the Raven, but he had returned it, and she had hoped to make something of it—to justify his faith in her.
But it was not to be.
She wondered if, once she was gone, Gaius might carry on with that plan in her memory. The thought made her happy.
Around her was drumming and chanting. She thought by the jerks of motion that she was now two stairs from the top. She wondered how those carrying her could stand the heat. Maybe they wore protective talismans or had cast cantrips to shield themselves ahead of time. Though she told herself that she was still fearless, her heart felt odd in her chest.
It was very sad to be about to die and not even able to cry.
Seeking comfort, she thought back, one last time, to her last meeting with Kitten’s familiar in the Memorial Garden. In her memory, the Comfort Lion turned and spoke to her again: “Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”
Wait…what? This time was different.
How could that even happen?
The idea he had voiced so astonished Rachel that it entirely derailed her fear. Knowing everything was all very well. But was that what she truly wanted? Or did she want to know the truth? What a shame that she would not live long enough to discover the answer.
“GERONIMO!”
Sigfried Smith plummeted out of mid-air and landed, feet first, on the cultists carrying Rachel toward the statue’s arms. At precisely the same moment, Rachel’s mother whistled. Blue sparks flew from her mouth and struck the nearest of the cultists carrying Rachel. The result was that the five of them, Rachel, the three cultists, and Siggy, tumbled pell-mell down the steps.
Lucky, who had been wrapped around Sigfried, flew free and barreled into the bull-horned man, knocking him backward, toward the furnace.
“Pick on someone of your own supernatural magnitude, your stupid bullish-bully!” growled the dragon.
“Oh, gee!” Sigfried exclaimed in the least convincing voice ever. He stood with one foot on the back of the head of one of the cultists, pinning him down. “I just accidentally fell out of dreamland! I must have wandered too far from Zoë Forrest. Purely by mistake.”
From behind her mother, whom Rachel could see from her current angle, laying head down across the fallen cultists, there came a bloodcurdling shriek.
Rachel knew that sound!
“Siggy, did you fall out again?” came Zoë Forrest’s sing-song voice, as she swung her greenstone patu into the head of one of the brutes holding Rachel’s mother. “You silly boy. I’m sure that happened entirely by accident!”
Freed of the thugs Zoë had just decked, the Duchess of Devon’s voice cried out, “Obé!”
Rachel’s limbs moved.
Without even getting up, Rachel whistled, freezing the man beneath her and then the one struggling under Siggy’s foot. Grabbing her wand from her pocket, she cast one of the shield cantrips stored by her grandmother on herself and another on Sigfried. Then, she rolled to her feet and turned toward where she had last seen Sandra. Spells from angry cultists out in the dark somewhere bounced off the shields. Behind them, the enormous furnace-statue rocked dangerously as Lucky and the horned man wrestled.
“Rachel, are you all right?” came her mother’s sweet voice.
“Yes. Mummy!”
“Stay where you are!”
A flash of light, and Serena O’Malley appeared next to the diminutive duchess, up on the temple porch. The red-headed woman pointed her wand at Rachel’s mother, but the tiny, doll-like duchess threw up a bey-athe shield, deflecting the attack. The Duchess of Devon retreated, moving out of sight, but, Rachel could hear her mother’s whistle and see the pretty glints of tiny blue sparkles dancing in the night. Whether they reached their target, Rachel could not tell.
“We must free Sandra!” Rachel cried. “She’s over there!”
“She’s okay at the moment.” Siggy still stood, one foot still resting on the paralyzed cultist’s head, watching Lucky and the man with the bull horns wrestle back and forth. His arm pointed off to the left, firing bursts of silver or blue sparkles, without even turning his head—apparently he was sighting with his amulet. “I just paralyzed the jokers who were guarding her.”
“Still,” Rachel said, “we should…”
A flash in the sky, closer than before. Its gleam illuminated something strange. A parade stretched away to the southwest. The foremost members had nearly reached the courtyard of large slabs in front of the temple. Hundred
s marched toward them, perhaps thousands. A shiver ran down Rachel’s spine. The light of the jump had bleached their faces and bodies bone white.
Click-clack.
Beside her, Zoë shivered. “What’s that?”
“There are people approaching,” Rachel whispered back. “Lots of them.”
Click-clack. Click-clack. Click-clack.
“Why are they making that noise?” Zoë sounded spooked. The three students moved closer together, though Siggy still faced the other way, watching Lucky.
The vanguard of the parade came into the torch-light. They marched with a jerky motion, like marionettes. Yet there was something wrong with this army. Beside her, she heard the hiss of Zoë’s indrawn breath.
Skeletons marched toward them, with bones that were cracked and black with soot. Or rather, some were skeletons. Others had flesh, but it was a dried, shriveled flesh, like a mummy, and what there was of it was blackened and charred.
“Are they ghosts?” asked Siggy, finally turning around. He was trying to make himself look, but his arm was up in front of his face, shielding his eyes.
“Just skeletons.” Zoë’s voice shook.
“Oh, that’s all right.” Siggy lowered his arm and looked at the new arrivals, twirling his trumpet between his fingers. “Um…why are they so short?” His voice caught oddly. “Oh, no. That is…so gross! Why does evil always have to be so gross?”
Rachel looked again, a cold sweat forming on the back of her neck, despite the heat from the furnace up the stairs behind her. Sigfried was correct. The figures were all too short, ranging from four feet tall to tiny ones that crawled slavishly along the ground. Most of them were around three feet. With them walked the bones of some animals, lambs, perhaps, or dogs?
Rachel felt her blood turn to ice.
The ones given to my master. The demon had summoned the remains of sacrificed children out of the Tophet of Carthage.
“Baby zombies?” Siggy’s asked. “That is so wrong! This demon must go down!”
Rachel and the Many-Splendored Dreamland (The Books of Unexpected Enlightenment Book 3) Page 44