A Fire in the Shell: Circle of Nine Trilogy 3

by Josephine Pennicott

  Hand in hand they walked streets they had walked many times before. Little had changed in this city of water. Venezia was crumbling slowly; the sea would reclaim her. But all Sati saw was the coldness in Khartyn’s eyes, her complete rejection. An old nun approached them as they stood in Piazza San Marco, her wizened mouth working slowly, her eyes peering in suspicion as she passed by. Sati noted the way her ancient hands reached for the large wooden crucifix around her neck. The old one could smell their evil, in a way the tourists caught up in photographing themselves in this holy place could not. The Azephim Queen felt weak and confused. What was wrong with her? She had achieved everything she had wanted. Power, Ishran, beauty. She understood the fabric of life and death. But there was a terrible hole within her, a screaming need. Fenn. She understood suddenly, looking at Ishran as he ran scattering pigeons across the square. She would never again hold Fenn. Silence.

  Late in the afternoon they hired a gondola and joined the universe on the canal, gliding past elaborate stone buildings, sculpted lions, striped poles. Mansions, palaces and convents stood proudly on the canal, chipped, peeling, falling slowly to Shambzhla. Colours flashed past the boat; shell-pinks, browns, reds, mushrooms.

  A gondola filled with tourists yelled and waved to Ishran and Sati as they passed, filled with the joy of being alive, on holiday. Ishran waved back. He was excited, chattering away to the gondolier, asking him a million questions about his boat, how much he earned, his lovers, his health problems. Sati watched the dark green of the water. Far below in the cold depths were other cities, other dreams lost. Creatures that time had forgotten. Peace, rest. Where no grief or remorse could intrude on eternal slumber, and dead poets watched through glassy eyes as Venezia slowly fell into silence.

  Another gondola passed them, this one moving swiftly. A woman sat alone in the shiny black craft. The gondolier was singing to her, winds of love, of desire. She wore a white mask, a red-ruby dress the colour of blood. Her hair was powdered white. She carried a knife stained with blood. She was a ghost from another world, another time. The gondola passed swiftly by, retreating into the hell it had emerged from. The afternoon sun began to turn the mansions along the water to gold. They passed statues of saints, of lions. Ishran had tired of the gondolier and was contenting himself with waving at tourists and posing for photographs.

  Sati waited until the evening shadows began to darken the canal and lights began to glow along the harbour. Then she told him of Khartyn’s visit. He snarled at her first mention of the Crone, but fell silent when Sati told him of the fertility gift Khartyn had given her. He knew how much having a child meant to her. A long sigh escaped him as he stared at Venezia. Sati knew what the sigh meant. He had wanted to travel to Sweden, prey on Bluites, deny his heritage forever.

  But it was too late. They had never really had a choice, Sati could see that now. Despite the sighs and the theatrical protestations, a part of Ishran was hungering for the Web-Kondoell, loving the power and the attention he would receive when he returned home. Fenn’s dog Jessie was waiting for them there, Sati thought. Again her heart ripped.

  Seagulls flew around them crying in harsh voices. The gondolier was beginning to think about turning back. Boatloads of locals passed them coming home from work. Gondolas appeared and disappeared at unexpected moments through gates and alleys. The lap of the oars on the water was soothing to Sati. She felt for a moment as if they were in Charon’s ferry, journeying to the Underworld.

  They passed more grand, decaying houses. A statue that looked like the angoli Charmonzhla clung to the wall of a large brown building with green awnings. It was Charmonzhla, Sati thought, twisting her head to see, but they had already left him far behind. The night was melancholy, dark, unholy. It was at that moment Sati realised she would never know peace.

  Eronth — the Wastelands

  The Azephim guards were nearly upon them, and the song from the deadly glass Faery was growing stronger. Gwyndion looked at Samma, and in her beautiful dark eyes he recognised what she wanted him to do.

  Choose! He felt the Stag Man’s voice. There was no time to say goodbye, to embrace Samma, to mourn, to feel fear. With Samma beside him, he stepped up to the Eom. The angels began to scream as one, sensing what was about to occur. Gwyndion’s shocked mind registered that a trickle of sap was already seeping from Samma’s ear. That ooze decided him; they were going to die anyway.

  He raised the blade over the Eom, which seemed to mock him from its multiplicity of polished surfaces. You and I, linked together from the threads of the Norns. Never escaping this moment. He sensed the fury of the glass Faery as it flew towards him on its path of destruction. Images flashed through his mind, Samma in her meerwog form, and himself playing beside the glorious white sandy beaches of Zeglanada while the Eom, always in the background, controlled and manipulated events. The Eom in communion with the Azephim, signalling its location to the Dark Angel warriors just before the slaughter of the Day of Ashes. A dark vision of what would happen to Eronth if he chose not to destroy the Eom. His hesitation might see the entirety of the land blackened and smoking, charred bodies lying in the streets, no form of life to be found, while the nightmares inside the Eom swooped tree. Already, far too many shadows hail escaped.

  He raised the blade again. Samma’s hand on his back pressed firmly against him. No time for regrets. But if there was, his remorse would be deep, swift and never-ending at having to be parted from his only love. Then he smelt the Crone. She was in his mind, smiling into his eyes. He could feel her vast strength, her knowledge, her deep love and compassion for allkind.

  ‘They among us, who are willing to sacrifice their own life for their fellow kind, are mighty indeed,’ she said. ‘Ye can never die when you will be remembered for all time in the teachings of Eronth. Songs, poetry, writings, all will contain your name. Blessed are we that gave hospitality to one such as you, Gwyndion. There is no death, when memory and love keep you alive in the hearts of all you have touched.’ Her mouth, her touch lighted upon his forehead in a silent farewell and blessing. For a second he imagined he saw tears shimmer in her eyes, and then she was gone. He felt his Hostlings, Tanzen and Rozen, celebrating inside the spinnerets at the thought of their long captivity being over.

  He brought the blade down and his heart broke with loss. The blade seemed to melt into the Eom with no resistance, plunging into the crystal planes, as if it was spearing flesh. The interior of the enormous crystal felt soft. A large dark mass fell from the hole that he had made with the dagger and scuttled away on the floor. He could sense the Stag Man was fighting it with his hooves. White fluids poured from the Eom’s wound. Gwyndion raised the dagger and struck again. He was aware that the glass Faery was attacking him, frenziedly biting at his flesh trying to stop him, an unrelenting storm of winged death. Despite being half Gwyndion’s size, her teeth seemed to be everywhere. The Eom was screaming. He could see the insides of the crystal, the convolution of veins, arteries and inner organs. He attacked what looked to be the brain of the Eom; again another stab. Rage boiled in him at the damage the Eom had done to his race. It was because of the Eom that his Hostlings had been cocooned in the spinnerets, that he had to kill all the people he loved the most to save strangers he didn’t know or care for.

  Gwyndion stabbed again and again, not pausing to defend himself against the deadly Feary, who was trying to eat him alive. Samma was shouting something, it could have been a prayer, or a warning. The glass Faery looked into his eyes and screamed. He felt his eardrums shatter. Another black mass dropped from the Eom and began to die in silent screams.

  Bones melting and twisting, an enormous roar filled the room, his head. Something shattering. Pain, a quick series of blinding flashes. Light. Joy.

  Geferd paused and listened. Something was wrong. The air felt strange. She looked to Angerwulf, but he seemed unaware of the change. She knew from his expression that he was thinking about food. They were only another day’s walk from Faia, but Geferd suddenly lon
ged to return home. Two of their original war party had already returned to the Outerezt, tiring of the company of their fellow giants, their stomachs beginning to rumble.

  The frustration and resentments that had ignited Geferd into this adventure had somehow lost their hold, and she craved for the familiar world of her cave. Her feet hurt, her legs ached, and she had been stung by thousands of insects. She was thirsty and hungry, and now deeply troubled by the altered atmosphere.

  The giants had little knowledge of the Eom, only bits and pieces they had picked up from the messenger birds. They would have found it difficult to even sketch a picture of it on their cave wall. Geferd could never have deduced the connection between the destruction of the crystal by the Webx and her change of heart in advancing on Faia.

  ‘Geferd, what is wrong?’ Angerwulf said, puzzled. Geferd realised she had stopped her steady advance and was standing still. ‘Are your feet sore? Why are you looking at me like that?’

  ‘I want to go back,’ Geferd said. ‘I want to go home. Something is not right.’

  The giants exchanged confused glances, struggling to work it out. A difficult task when all of them were starving.

  ‘Are you sick?’ Angerwulf persisted. ‘Did you forget something?’ His mind refused to believe his mate wanted to give up when they were so near Faia.

  ‘Amolda!’ Geferd said. ‘I have to return to Amolda. My baby needs me. We can invade Faia another day.’

  ‘Crush and kill!’ the remaining giants yelled, waving their burning shell flag, looking to Angerwulf for support.

  ‘Come, Angerwulf,’ Geferd snapped. ‘We’re going home!’ She turned to retrace her steps. Angerwulf was mortified. His big face turned slowly red, and his hands grew clammy with sweat. He imagined he could hear a few of the giants sniggering, and misery swamped his body.

  ‘Geferd,’ he protested, dreading she would erupt and throw a tree at him. ‘We are so near! We have come so far. I am sure Amolda is safe with Fareirrod.’ His words had the opposite effect he had hoped for. With a loud roar, Geferd pounded her chest in fury and began to storm her way back to the Wastelands.

  Angerwulf looked on in disbelief. The remaining giants, after a few muttered grunts to each other, began to follow her. A red-bearded, one-eyed male who had carried the flay for most of the journey shot Angerwulf a look of contempt and spat at him.

  They were so near to Faia, so close to accomplishing their quest that Angerwulf suddenly felt as if Geferd had gone insane by changing her mind at the last moment. Then he too, noticed the unusual energy and he looked longingly after Geferd and the giants who were already in the distance, the chorus of ‘Crush and kill!’ echoing after them. Dominating Faia seemed a far more strenuous task than he was up to right now. He longed for some hot rabbit stew and cold rainwater, and suddenly missed his cave and familiar hunting ground.

  ‘Geferd!’ he sang out. ‘Wait for me!’ He hurried after the departing giants, forgetting all his previous anger at Mary and the Faiaites and instead thinking happily of Fareirrod and Amolda’s joy at their early return. ‘Crush and kill!’ he sang. ‘Geferd, wait for me!’

  Earth — Sydney, Australia

  The birth had been terrible, not at all what Theresa had been expecting. Women she had spoken to had seemed to casually brush away their own birthing experiences with assurances that the pain had been bearable and forgotten as soon as they saw their new baby. She had been unprepared for the cramping, the sensation of her flesh birthing itself, the terror of dying, the unfailing assault on her body, her senses and mind. Medication had proved useless. The pain was branded in her memory and she felt betrayed. The sisterhood had lied to her, let her down.

  Lazariel cried when he saw the tiny head appear and had cut the cord. Theresa noticed the lost, haunted expression in his eyes disappear when he held their daughter in his arms. The two had been inseparable since that first meeting. Daddy’s girl. They had named her Rachel, a name that had come to Theresa after the birth. She had never known Lazariel to be so content. It was as if his life now had a purpose it had lacked before. His face would light up at the sight of his daughter, and his conversations revolved totally around Rachel. The nightmares he had suffered from since the experience at Light Vision had slowly eased. Gradually, a semblance of normal life had returned to them. He had even taken a night job packing boxes in a large warehouse in the western suburbs of Sydney. It was far from well-paid work, but Lazariel was now totally focused on providing for Rachel and Theresa. He was even talking about enrolling in a nursing degree.

  He had lost his wings, or at least to all outward appearances he looked as if he had no wings. Before returning to France, Leonora, Agatha and Faline had performed a spell placing Glamour around his wings, making them invisible. Despite the fact they could not be seen, Theresa spent many hours altering his clothes so they could lie flat against his back. This world did not cater for angels.

  They were happy, the three of them together, despite never seeming to have enough money. Isolated from the world, they never sought the company of others, knowing that normal people wouldn’t understand the knowledge they shared. But for the first time in her life, Theresa didn’t feel lonely. Lazariel and Rachel were her kindred spirits. She needed nothing and no one.

  There remained, however, a wing of uneasiness casting a shadow over their small rented home in Marrickville. Late at night, unable to sleep, she would go to Rachel’s cradle and peer at her child. Once Rachel’s eyes had opened and Theresa was shocked by the knowing that she had seen within them. It was eerie, unnatural, but when she had mentioned her fears to Lazariel he had laughed and just joked that of course she knew everything, she was his daughter. Yet, Theresa found it difficult to relax. She began to feel safe only when she was at home, and she developed certain rituals. She could never answer the telephone, and she began to fear the light, the sun. The night offered her no solace. When the moon rose and the traffic quietened, when she tried to sleep as Lazariel worked at packing diaries and calendars into boxes, it was then that her imagination shook her mercilessly.

  She saw herself running with a pack of wild dogs in the mountains. They were hunting — livestock, smaller dogs, wild cats, people. She could smell the earth beneath her paws, and the excitement of the animals around her as they followed the scent. She saw corpses, bleached dry, hanging in unnatural poses from trees; an owl woman in a frantic dance while hush animals provided a silent audience in a forested wilderness; fields of brilliant yellow wattle splattered with blood, decaying gum trees filled with black, gory lumps and a sickly-looking sky reached for her with cloud-like long grey fingers.

  She saw herself running through the dense scrub, the vision so real that she could feel the prickles and stones beneath her feet. Trees leered at her as she ran fearfully, knowing that something from the belly of hell would appear through the foliage at any moment.

  Every evening before Lazariel left for work they would sit and watch the evening news on the television dreading hearing of a disaster in the Blue Mountains. Any incident, no matter how innocuous, would attract their attention; a bus accident, a shooting, a helicopter smash, a bushfire, bushwalkers missing. They would avoid each other’s eyes when they heard of disasters, deaths, or accidents. Once Lazariel considered returning to the mountains, taking some flowers and scattering them over the charred remains of Light Vision, but Theresa became hysterical at the idea. She couldn’t trust that the energies they had battled had been diminished. In her nightly dreams they walked free, conquering and triumphant.

  Dea Dreamer was still living in the inner city of Sydney, but they didn’t make contact with her. Theresa only felt pity whenever she thought of her. Dea had sacrificed her personal beliefs when they had closed the portal, and she could not easily forget her haunted eyes when they had said their goodbyes. The remaining coven had returned to Europe. Theresa felt only relief when she knew they had left the country. There were far too many disturbing memories associated with them. It was with
trepidation that she spotted the return address on an envelope in her mailbox and saw the English stamps on the bone-coloured stationery. The letter was from Faline. She took it into the kitchen to read while Lazariel bathed with Rachel, putting off opening it until she made herself a cup of tea.

  Hello Beloved,

  I am writing to you from an overcast London. The weather reflects my mood. We are staying in Chingford with friends while Lucius works with Robert Sterling on his series of talks on the occult practices of the ancient Egyptians. I am using the time to do plenty of research at the British Museum for our latest book. I am afraid I must warn you up front that this letter may distress and alarm you. I have been warned not to send it to you. But my inner feeling is so strong that I should write, I have ignored the opinions of others. I do not have your telephone number, and the small amount of information Leonora was able to scry regarding you, tells us you are living a reclusive life with Lazariel and tiny Rachel. I regret deeply that I have to disturb your peace.

  I wish I did not have to write to you with this news, but the others have been contacted and I feel you should also know. Dea Dreamer is dead. Her body was found under very strange circumstances in her flat in Kings Cross. The police are treating her death as a burglary that went wrong. But there is doubt in my mind.

  Phillip and Odolf are flying back to attend her funeral. Leonora had to be sedated when she heard the news, she is incapable of the journey. Agatha has remained behind to comfort her. It is impossible for Lucius to leave London at this time. My poor little Dea Dreamer.

  My heart feels sad and broken at having to give you this news. Now another one of our precious circle of nine is gone. The link is broken. We are being scattered. Absorbed into the evil we created.