The Darkening Dream (42 page)

“You might — regret it, I mean. I don’t know what we’re doing, but with so much evil surrounding us, this is one of the things that feels right.”

He nibbled at her neck. “So I’m just a comforter?”

“I’ve always loved goose feathers.”

Forty-Nine:

Waxen Images

Salem, Massachusetts, Wednesday before dawn, November 19, 1913

A
L-
N
ASIR WAITED WITH EMPTY PATIENCE
in his townhouse basement.

“Khepri always emerges just before dawn,” Fouad reiterated needlessly.

Not very convenient. As if hunting those murdering thieves and tomorrow’s expedition weren’t enough to contend with.

The prisoner’s whimper only sharpened the edge of his mood.

“Fouad. Shut that thing up.”

The human was wrapped in strips of linen cloth, as requested. The Moor delivered a swift kick, and the whimpers turned to loud moans.

“Fool,” the vampire said, “the beetle needs it unharmed. Just stuff its mouth with extra linen.”

“My humblest apologies, Great Master.” Fouad did as instructed.

Al-Nasir was letting his irritation get the better of him. Really, Fouad and Tarik had seen to most of the preparations, but it was sharing the glory with Khepri that truly chafed.

The topsoil began to shudder, and the vampire felt the ground vibrate under his feet. The Painted Man claimed the beetle could tunnel across the world in a night.

“Stoke the fire,” the vampire said. “He nears.”

Fouad threw more wood into the flames. Al-Nasir took a step away. An enormous copper pot had been brought to the cellar, filled with wax, and set over fire to melt.

The center of the basement gave way, opening a pit large enough to ride horses through. He heard Khepri’s hideous chitters and covered his sensitive ears.

Allah, cursed be His name, how he hated the creature.

Jutting from the sides of the shaft were bits of bone and decayed flesh. Fouad had buried a dozen corpses down here. Al-Nasir hoped the beetle enjoyed them.

For an insect the size of a cow, Khepri moved swiftly. His pincher-like mandibles emerged first, followed by bladed obsidian legs and the hideous dark carapace. The stench of dung filled the room.

Khepri settled beside the hole and shook off the dirt. He began to preen, all the while making that ghastly high-pitched sound. His mouth opened — dark, but something in there glinted.

“Where is the Horn?”

“
Salam alechem
to you as well,” the vampire said. Several of Khepri’s limbs were still swaddled in ichor-soaked bandages.

“The burns from the Hebrew God still pain you?” al-Nasir said. The beetle removed a femur snagged on his black-bladed body.

“You live in decaying squalor, Caliph.”

This from the Lord of Dung? At least the beetle no longer dragged a sun when he burrowed. Al-Nasir hadn’t seen it — he wouldn’t be here if he had — but he’d heard the beetle could still conjure a diminished solar body when so inclined.

“We have the things you require,” the vampire continued, taking the opportunity to kick the captive himself — hard enough to bruise. The Painted Man had said Khepri would inherit any blemishes when he copied the man’s form. Oh well.

“I must begin immediately,” the beetle shrieked, his voice so high it brought al-Nasir’s hands back to his ears.

The vampire glanced at Fouad, who dragged the squirming human to the vat of boiling wax. The slave got the man’s shoulders over the lip but was having a hard time with the legs. Khepri’s hideous Egyptian chanting filled the room.

He fast-stepped over to help Fouad. How low must he stoop in the name of the Great Plan? They tossed the victim into the simmering whiteness.

The screaming further grated on the vampire’s nerves.

Quick as a cat, Khepri sprang across the room and squeezed into the vat. Thick pale wax bubbled over the sides and sizzled in the fire. At least the beetle didn’t scream — in fact his chanting stopped as he submerged, dragging the victim with him.

The vampire and his thrall continued to wait. After a few minutes, a man-shaped figured clambered out of the cauldron, his limbs spasmodic and uncoordinated.

Khepri in disguise was tall, almost seven feet, and thin. He looked unformed, his skin a waxen caul drawn over obsidian edges. And he had no mouth, eyes, nose.

“Where’s your mutt?” the vampire asked.

The faceless thing beckoned toward the hole. Al-Nasir heard a shrill bark, and little Anubis climbed out of the dirt, panting heavily, tongue lolling, his silver fur and pointed ears caked in filth. The tiny jackal wandered to the corner and lifted his leg.

A black claw surfaced from the lower half of the waxen face to slice open a gash of a mouth.

“Now tell me where I might find the Horn!”

Al-Nasir sighed. “The Greek boy lives in the house outside of town, but I saw the horn bearer and her friends at another dwelling. This body you grow used to live there, so you should be able to find her.” He didn’t mention the wolf or the house the girl lived in. Let the bug iron out some wrinkles on his own.

Underneath the thing’s face, dark knives sculpted liquid wax. A crude nose erupted first, then the eye sockets began to pool. A likeness of sorts, but a long way from resembling the victim.

“I require a day for the wax to set,” the high voice said, “then I go to this Salem. The timing is perfect. Tomorrow is the archangel’s Feast in the East, and sunset is his hour.”

The vampire felt that feverish itching of the skin that signaled daybreak.

“I must retire to my coffin. At first dark tonight the warlock and I unleash our own gambit for the Horn.”

The white skin betrayed no emotion, but the seething pits of the eyes began to take on a hint of color.

“Either way, I will row my boat across the sky to hail our victories.”

“Poor company that you are,” al-Nasir said, “I would that it be so.”

Fifty:

Model Citizens

Salem, Massachusetts, Thursday, November 20, 1913

“
D
ON’T CROSS THE RITUAL CIRCLE,”
Parris warned the minute his guest entered the workroom.

“What do you take me for, a neophyte?” Mr. Nasir said.

Unlike Betty, he didn’t seem interested in testing any boundaries. Tiptoeing up to the chalk line, he inspected the remains of the donor and the magnificence of the model.

“Interesting.” He sniffed. “You’ve quite an eye for the details. The decorative trim on those central building walls is etched with shellacked strands of hair?”

“Indeed,” Parris said. “You can actually smell that?”

“Even when I was alive, I had refined senses.” Mr. Nasir inhaled again. “They’ve only improved with age. Are those altars dabbed in bile?”

Color him impressed. “I reconstituted it from powdered residue.”

“Delightful.” The vampire’s nostrils flared wide. “Did you have a woman in here?”

The creature’s nose was uncomfortably keen.

“One glimpse of your decor,” Parris said, “and any girl would run screaming.”

Mr. Nasir grinned back.

“I don’t begrudge a man his pleasures. Allah, cursed be His name, knows I have mine. But nothing is allowed to leave my lair alive.”

“What about me?”

Those dark eyes were examining him. Intently. “If we acquire the Horn, I’ll make an exception. How do we transport this construct?”

Parris had modified a case intended for a tuba, painstakingly forming blocks of compressed straw into various shapes and covering them in velvet from Lyon — only the best for his masterpiece. The real trouble had been replacing all the metal fittings with leather ones, but it was done now.

Mr. Nasir held the case steady while Parris situated the model inside. They carried it out together. One person could manage the weight, a mere twenty-five pounds, but keeping it level by oneself was another matter. Mr. Nasir seemed to have no trouble. Evidently dead muscles didn’t suffer the same fatigue as living ones.

Mr. Nasir flew Parris then the case to the roof of Mr. Engelmann’s house. He seemed unwilling to come close and so hovered a few feet above. The flapping of those terrible wings stirred up the already frigid air.

“Hurry,” the vampire called down.

Parris wedged the case above a chimney. Everything he needed was inside. He sketched a powerful amplifying circle on the roof. The one in the workshop had been designed to keep out impure influences, but this one should intensify the synergy between the model and its arcane form.

The thought was so exciting he had to place his tools on the shingles to allow his hands to dance by themselves.

“What’s the plan once we get inside?” he called up to the vampire.

“No offense, but ritual magic is an art requiring preparation. Once I get up close and personal, it’s no antidote for the speed and chaos of physical violence.”

Parris had to agree. His little trinkets hadn’t done him much good against even Fouad alone.

Parris uncovered the model and crouched inside the circle. The ugly doll that bound him to the Emily-vessel was still in his pocket. He took a healthy gulp of its energies and picked up the stolen blade, being careful not to touch it except through his silk handkerchief. He lifted the knife and slammed it into the center of the model.

A gasp escaped his lips as he watched his masterpiece shatter and collapse.

The whole house rumbled and shook, a deep and pervasive quaking. He released the letter-opener and wobbled to keep his balance on the canted roof. Blackness expanded outward from the model and it melted into the roof like a hot coal dropped onto a sheet of butter.

Fifty-One:

Into the Maelstrom

Salem, Massachusetts, Thursday evening, November 20, 1913

J
OSEPH THOUGHT IT PRUDENT
to keep Sarah home from school.

“Given,” he said, “the potential life-and-soul-shattering consequences.”

Pompous and pedantic, Rebecca called him, although she meant it in a loving way. Probably the Electra principle at work. Rabbi Epstein — her father and his mentor — had certainly deserved the same epitaphs.