Darkness Calls (32 page)

“It’s complicated,” he said, after a long pause. “You need to see for yourself.”

“Grant.”

“Just . . .” He stopped, sighing wearily. “Just wait.”

I frowned and studied the shadows around us. I saw nothing, not one hint of a man. Grant continued limping down the hill, then cut to the right, toward some boulders. Dek and Mal stopped purring. Zee and Aaz were suddenly nowhere in sight.

Grant took my hand just before we walked around a dip in the jutting round stone. I did not know if it was for his comfort or mine, but my uneasiness spiked, and when I could finally see the other side, I was ready for anything.

Except, nothing was there. No Cribari. Not even a smear of him. Just the boys—even Raw—crouched in front of a craggy rock that was half my height and irregularly shaped, like a squashed pumpkin.

“What?” I said. Zee looked up at me, then shared a long look with the others. Raw and Aaz shrugged.

The boys stepped sideways, away from the boulder.

Which, after a moment, blinked rapidly at me.

I did not blink back. I stood, frozen. Staring at a pair of human eyes encased in stone.

Grant said something, but I heard none of it. Just took one step, then another, until I crouched in front of the boulder and gazed into the remains of Antony Cribari’s face.

I could see more than his eyes. Some flesh was visible: part of his cheek and brow, and half his nose—just one nostril, flaring wildly. Stone covered his mouth. A fragment of his ear was visible, so perhaps he could hear. I searched for the rest of his body and found nothing. The priest was too large to be stuffed entirely inside the rock. Part of him, I suspected, was underneath.

His eyes, though. His eyes said everything. He had been weeping. The stone below his eyes was damp, as was the spot beneath his single nostril. I suspected he was having trouble breathing.
I
was having difficulty getting enough air into my lungs. I sat back, faint, heart hammering so hard it made me nauseous.

“Maxine,” Grant rumbled.

I started to wave him away, then grabbed his hand, squeezing. I was going to be sick. Antony Cribari in that rock was one of the most horrific things I had ever seen. As affecting as my mother’s murder—but in a different way, one that had nothing to do with love, or grief.

I had been buried alive once. Encased in another kind of tomb: unable to speak, unable to breathe—except for the breath the boys had given me. I had stayed like that for a long time. Months, maybe. Years. Time moved differently in the Labyrinth. If I had not freed myself, I would have stayed buried forever.

“I lost consciousness somewhere along the way,” Grant said, bending over to peer into my face. “I woke up close by. If I hadn’t seen his aura, I would never have known to look for him . . . in that.”

“You wish you had never found him,” I whispered, and Cribari’s gaze met mine, sending a jolt from my heart to my gut that was as painful as a blade, sticking me. I was afraid to look at the priest, fearful of my memories, the things he made me feel.

“I wish a lot of things,” Grant replied roughly. “I stayed here until Jack showed up. I think . . . I came very close to ending Antony’s life for him.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He gave me a long, steady look. “According to Jack, there’s a promise involved.”

I breathed out, slowly. Zee and the others crouched in front of the rock, staring at Cribari. My little wolves, raking trenches through the earth with their claws, spines bristled and quivering, growls rumbling. The priest stared at them, and the weight of his furious helplessness was terrible.

“Sharp man,” Zee rasped. “Debt of blood needs to be paid. Your kind cut our old mother dead.”

I grabbed Zee’s shoulder and forced him to look at me. “Can you free him? Tear out the stone around his body?”

Raw and Aaz slammed their fists into the rock beside Cribari’s face. Chunks broke loose, and the imprisoned priest briefly squeezed shut his eyes. The twins giggled.

“Stop,” I snapped. “This is not funny.”

“Now or later. Dead be dead.” Zee glanced over his shoulder at Cribari. “Stone will break. Stone breaks, he breaks. Still dead. You promised.”

“Then leave Antony to die slowly,” Grant said. “Or make it fast and clean.”

I looked at him, startled. Cribari’s nose snorted, snot bubbling from his single nostril—and his bloodshot eyes filled with hatred. Mary, kneeling a short distance away, dug her stone blade into the ground. She studied Cribari with little emotion, though her eyes glittered, and her mouth twitched suddenly with satisfaction.

“Used man,” she whispered. “Gabriel’s Hounds have come.”

Grant approached slowly—stopping less than a foot away, bending close to look into Cribari’s eyes. The priest watched him, eyelids twitching, which suddenly had the same power as a scream.

“So. Here we are,” Grant said quietly. “You have a lot to answer for, Antony.”

Cribari did not blink—with defiance, or fear, I could not tell. Sweat trickled down his brow, around his eyes. Grant leaned in closer, and whispered, “It’s easier for me if you’re dead. Dead, I won’t be able to hurt you. And I want to, Antony. I’m only a man. I’m weak. You said that, all those years ago. Born to the devil. You believe that still. You’re afraid of all your secrets that I see.”

Grant smiled, and it was chilling because it was sincere; his smile a weapon, like a wink from the executioner, just before the ax. “I would like to finish what I started. Remember how that felt, Antony, to have me in your soul?”

Cribari started blinking rapidly. Zee laughed, a hard, cold sound like broken glass; while Raw and Aaz lounged in the grass, grinning at Cribari as they idly stabbed themselves with spikes pulled from each other’s spines. Dek and Mal hung loosely from my neck, harmonizing Gladys Knight’s “Tenderness Is His Way.”

I stood on unsteady feet and joined Grant. Unsure what I would find when I touched his hand. His fingers were hot and slid instantly around mine, squeezing hard. Trembling.

He let go of my hand and took one last step toward Cribari. I did not stop him. I did not move, not even when he placed his palm just over the imprisoned priest’s head. Both men stared into each other’s eyes, and as long as I lived, I would never forget the sensation of cold, hard history that passed between them; or the charge that rode over my skin like the echo of a lightning storm. I held my breath, watching Grant.

Who, moments later, began administering Last Rites.

His voice was so soft I could barely hear him, but his tone was steady and controlled, without anger or joy or pain. He said the words simply, and gently, and Cribari watched him without blinking, until the end. Tears broke, making his cheek shine; but without remorse. Just resignation, and that simmering anger, which seemed to burn through the remains of his pale flesh like a terrible invisible fire.

Grant finished, and after a moment of silence, reached for my hand. He pulled me close until I stood directly in front of Cribari.

“Look at her,” he whispered, and this time power flooded his voice. “You look, Antony. She is going to live and have her child. She is going to change this world. Everything you did was in vain.”

Cribari stared at him—and then his gaze ticked sideways, settling on me with such weight and darkness my skin recoiled, and my heart pounded with dizzying speed. The boys gathered close, and Grant’s fingers tightened, solid and strong.

I’m sorry,
I wanted to tell Cribari, as a great swell of pity rose up my throat. But I swallowed the words. I stood still as Zee glided close to the rock and rose on his toes to peer thoughtfully into the priest’s face. Cribari’s nostril flared, the visible remains of his face contorting in disgust and terror.

“Maxine,” Zee rasped.

“Make it fast,” I said, and turned, pulling Grant with me. We walked away, and Mary joined us, singing softly under her breath. No one looked back, except for Dek and Mal—sitting high in my hair, quiet as the night.

When Cribari was out of sight, hidden by a curve in the hill and stone, the old woman’s voice grew stronger, unintelligible words mixed with a melody so melancholy it was as though she sung a lament, some poem of mourning for the dead.

Grant gave her a strange look. “I know that music.”

He tried to join her, his voice sliding over the song like a velvet glove, but within moments he began coughing. He could not stop. He hacked uncontrollably into his hand, doubling over. I stopped breathing until he stopped coughing. Blood covered his palm.

Mary ripped away a piece of her dress and wiped his hand. Grant tried to stop her, but she grabbed his wrist, relentless.

“Never stand alone,” she muttered.

The back of my neck prickled. I looked up the hillside, toward the mountain, and saw a lone figure watching us. Starlight made his silver hair glow, but his lean, gaunt frame was little more than a dark slash.

Jack waited for us as we climbed the hill. By the time we reached him, Zee and Aaz had begun prowling through the shadows again. I shared a long look with them, and they nodded once. Raw was nowhere in sight.

“It’s done,” I said to the old man, suddenly so exhausted all I wanted was to sink into the hill and close my eyes, close my eyes and never see that grisly face again.

“Good,” he replied.

“Good,” I echoed. “Nothing
good
happened.”

Jack’s shoulders sagged, but he turned and began striding up the hill. “The boy came, with the others. They’re waiting. We need to decide what to do.”

“Jack,” Grant called after him, his voice low and dangerous. The old man did not slow, and I sprinted up the hill. He stopped just before I reached him, and looked at me—tense, and wary.

“I want to know how you’re involved in all this,” I said.

“That’s not what you want to know,” Jack replied. “What you want is to not feel responsible for any more deaths.”

“Like you feel responsible?” I shot back, stung. “Why are you so hard with secrets? Didn’t you ever tell your
daughter
the truth?”

Jack flinched. So did I. I had not expected those words to come out of my mouth; too emotional, too intimate.
Your daughter. My mother. My grandfather.

“Jeannie,” he said hoarsely, then stopped, briefly, only to start again, but ever more quietly, his voice broken on words. “Jeannie didn’t tell me about your mother. I didn’t know I had . . . anyone . . . until Jolene found me. Much later, my dear. Much too late.”

“Well,” I whispered. “You have me now.”

Jack stood so still, until a tremor raced through him, and his face crumpled, ever so briefly that it could have been my imagination. Shadows played tricks like that.

Grant joined us, then Mary. The old man did not look at them, just me, and said, “It started with the Wardens.”

I exhaled, slowly. “What did? Cribari’s order?”

“
My
order,” he said, and started walking up the hill again, carefully. “There were many Wardens in the old days. You cannot imagine their power, or how much they were needed. The prison veil did not hold the entire Reaper army. Many demons were left free, and the Wardens hunted them across the earth. Some humans worshipped them for that.”

“Some,” I said. “And those
some
became men like Antony Cribari?”

“Don’t simplify this,” Jack said tersely. “The Wardens predated Christianity by eight thousand years. After they were—after they were gone—all that was left, eventually, was your bloodline. Which had to be protected, at any cost. All I did was harness the preexisting fascination, the mythology created by your existence and the Wardens, to make something that was, for a time, useful.”

Jack gave me a serious look. “You are the descendent of women who shook the world, my dear, and who entered the blood of human dreams. Wherever there are dark goddesses, and warrior queens, you will find yourself.”

I felt chilled by the idea. “Father Cribari’s opinion wasn’t quite so uplifting.”

“Times changed,” he said, grim. “I needed help in those early days and gathered those I trusted, setting them to the task of watching, recording—sometimes giving aid to the women in your family. That first handful of men and women recruited and trained others, and became . . . an order. When it seemed Christianity was going to gain a rather significant foothold in the cultural fabric, they insinuated themselves into various traditions, beginning first in Rome. It was quite convenient. Unfortunately, around the thirteenth century, certain . . . misunderstandings arose. And what I had created was corrupted.”

“You mean,” I said slowly, “they started to fear my bloodline.”

“They always feared it,” Jack replied. “In the same way some fear the wrath of an avenging angel. But up until then they had considered your bloodline a force for good.”

“What changed?”

Jack did not immediately answer. Grant, who had been carefully silent, slid his hand around mine.

“It must have been the Inquisition,” he said quietly. “In the late twelfth century, the Dominicans were given full authority to root out heretics.”

The old man did not look at us but instead searched out the stars, as I had done. “Divine fear is something quite different from the fear inspired by torture and condemnation. And while others were being burned alive and broken for crimes as small as praying to a different god, that order was holding a secret that would have . . . changed everything.”

The old man paused to take a breath, running a hand over his throat. “Fear led to doubt; doubt led to misgivings. By the time the witch trials began in earnest, the groundwork had been laid to condemn what had once been upheld as the last living force to fight against the Armageddon.”

“The falling of the prison veil.” I slid my fingers over the scar beneath my ear; so much trouble over such a mundane knot of dead skin. “Cribari wasn’t far wrong. There
is
a darkness inside me. You know it, you
believe
in it, or else you wouldn’t be wearing that tattoo of my scar. You wouldn’t have helped my mother hide so much from me. You wouldn’t be afraid that I’m becoming a monster.”