The Darkening Dream (41 page)

He opened his arms and she fell into them. He was solid and warm, smelling of pipe smoke. She was going to have to watch herself with Alex. One little slip-up and Papa would see right through her.

They pulled away. “We know from your dreams,” Papa said, “that this undead Caliph is allied with the Egyptians I faced in Vienna. Mr. Parris is mortal, a newcomer. So we ask ourselves: why did they involve him?”

Sarah called to memory the only image she had of the pastor, from her vision the night of the failed ritual.

“He’s ugly?”

Papa nearly choked on pipe smoke laughing.

“That may be true, but no. I made inquiries among my esoteric colleagues. It seems our Mr. Parris’ romantic life is more sordid than one might have supposed — word is he has a demon lover.”

Sarah scrunched up her nose.

“Vile indeed.” Papa smiled. “But demons who consort with mortals are able to walk between worlds. I think that is why the vampire needs him. They must know the Horn isn’t in this universe.”

“And how does that help us?”

“The household defenses are modeled on the Temple of Solomon. Which should make it possible to open a gateway to the real celestial temple. If we encourage the villains to think the Horn is there, they’ll enter, and we can trap them.” He pointed out the window. “God’s aspect is a tree growing from the layered soil of reality. The mortal realm is the lowest node of the
Sephirot
, and God’s incomprehensible secret self the highest.”

“The Temple is closer to God?” Sarah said.

“Most certainly. The Temple is the House of the Lord, and the very presence of these fiends — particularly the vampire — will draw God’s wrath.”

Sarah stifled a yawn.

“I think you should get some sleep,” Papa said. “One cannot fight the undead in such a state.”

“What about school? I’m already an hour late.”

“Sleep, Sarah. The Lord’s work will have to take precedence.”

Sarah smiled. “Then I’m all for God’s wrath.”

The bath water burned. She scrubbed herself so hard her skin turned pink. Nothing had actually touched her last night, but all the same…

After washing, she relaxed in the warmth. The air in the room was chilly, in fact cold, so she scrunched low into the water. This exposed her legs and feet, so she braced her toes against the foot of the tub and pushed back to compensate. Now her breasts were above the surface, which made her feel not only uncomfortable but embarrassed, despite the locked door in a room with no windows.

She gazed down at her small pink nipples and beyond to the submerged dark wedge. What would it be like to be with a man? For all she knew, the vampire or the pastor would kill her first. Grim, but all too possible.

She sighed and cupped her breasts. Were they too small? What would Alex think of them if he saw them? Not that she wanted him to — yet. They’d have to be married, and that was impossible. Still… Had he been with a woman before? She didn’t dare ask. The only girl he’d ever mentioned was the little vampire on Santorini.

Sarah felt herself smile. She didn’t have to feel bad that one was no more.

The bath felt cathartic. The horror of the last twelve hours seemed to be washing away with the grime. Maybe they could win. God was, after all, on their side, and He’d listened — not just once, but several times.

Alex came over before dusk, and they installed him in Judah’s old room. Sarah was glad Mama had taken the noon train to Boston. She might not be able to handle a boy sleeping just down the hall from her daughter. While they got him settled, Anne phoned. Her father had been called to his sister Edna’s on some emergency, so she and Sam had to stay with Emily until tomorrow.

Lying in her bed that night, Sarah prayed for the Williamses’ safety. She felt the warm presence of the protection she’d thrown over their house in her belly, almost like an extension of herself. It might not be even a tenth as strong as her father’s, but it had kept the vampire out and it was still there.

Sarah dreamt that she and the wolf ate lunch on a blanket spread across a hilltop. A gnarled sycamore sheltered them, its branches bare but for a few wilted leaves. Below, the hillside swept down to a junction of two rivers. An ancient city of domed buildings occupied the peninsula between. Red banners festooned the fortified walls, and thin streams of smoke from countless kitchen fires wound their way into the clear blue sky.

“Your home is beautiful,” she said, feeling radiant in Isabella’s gold and burgundy velvet dress, the red and white doe embroidered on her breast.

The wolf wore purple silk studded with diamonds, sapphires, and emeralds. His ruby eyes looked warm and weary.

“So the poets and saints always tell me, but a great foe approaches from the east.”

Sarah looked across the larger of the two rivers. Far in the distance, angry green clouds roiled in the shape of a ram’s head.

“Still, there’s cause to celebrate,” the wolf said. “Do you see the city decorated with red? Today is the Orthodox Feast of Saint Gabriel.” He poured her a glass of red wine from a jewel-encrusted decanter. “The vintage is exotic and ancient, quite lovely.”

Sarah took the goblet from his hands and sipped, knowing how it would taste: meaty, salty, perfumed.

They enjoyed the soft quality of the air as it wafted up the hill. Small galleys rowed themselves every which way across the confluence of waters.

Then she saw the beetle, large as a house. He entered the river on the far shore and began to swim across, an island of approaching blackness.

The wolf’s red eyes glowed. “Our ancient foe wishes to join the feast.”
The beetle is the ram’s pawn. They seek to rob God of his Strength, but that can be their undoing.

The wolf nodded as if he’d heard Isabella’s voice in
his
head.

“This time, I’ll be ready for him.”

Trust the wolf
.
His revenge shall unite us and unlock everything. The passage is almost open, beyond lies Paradise, and the dark gift redeemed.

The wolf stood, pulled Sarah into his arms, and kissed her bare neck.

Sarah woke, her room lit only by the feeble yellow glow from the streetlights. She was cold. Her neck hurt. The window stood open and the wind rattled its frame.

Someone else was in the room.

Forty-Eight:

Bump in the Night

Salem, Massachusetts, Wednesday night, November 19, 1913

D
INNER WITH
S
ARAH AND
Mr. Engelmann had been strange, to say the least. How different he was from Grandfather, though nearly as cryptic. This afternoon, after Sarah had invited him over, Alex went so far as to climb most of the way to the icon room. But he paused on the stairs, still angry over Grandfather’s role in the failed ritual. Did he really want to live in a world where a young girl’s life was less important than secrets he wasn’t even allowed to know? In the end, he left without saying a word.

The bed the Engelmanns had put him in was so short he had to sleep half upright, propped on pillows. Perhaps it was the early morning hour and his full bladder, or perhaps it was the thought of Sarah just a wall away, but he was as hard as a rifle barrel. He rose and tiptoed to the hall where he heard Mr. Engelmann’s snores drifting down from the floor above.

Sarah’s door creaked as Alex slipped in and closed it behind him. His flannels were riffled by a blast of cold air. Thinking he saw something — someone? — leap from the open window into the street below, he rushed over and peered out. Nothing.

“Who’s there?” It was Sarah.

“Just me,” he said.

She looked pale as a ghost.

“Thank God. I thought for a moment the vampire somehow got in. I was having a nightmare.”

Alex crept over. “I couldn’t sleep. I’m sorry I’m here.”

“I’m not.”

He sat on the edge of her bed. She took his hand.

“What we had was nice,” she said. “Scary, too. In some ways, more frightening than
him
.”

Her hand, held in his, sat in his lap. His erection, having subsided on the way to the room, returned. Alex tried to move her hand away before she noticed.

“Did he really make you hate me?” he said.

She glanced down. “While I was glamoured, it was awful. But it didn’t feel right.”

He raised his other hand, caressed her cheek with his thumb. She reached for him and he kissed her. It was different this time — slower, yet somehow more urgent. Better than before.

She pulled the covers over herself and he slid under with her. He kissed her chin, then her neck. She tasted of salt and copper. She made little noises and they made him want to hold her tighter, to just inhale her. Her feet were cold, but he rubbed his against them anyway.

He kissed her on the lips again, sliding a hand down from her neck to her breast. So soft and yet firm through the single sheet of fabric. Gently she pushed the hand away.

“Are you mad at me?” he whispered.

He felt her shake her head. “We’d better stop. I don’t want to do anything we’ll regret.”

“I won’t regret it.”

They kissed some more, her body pressed against his. She stopped him again.