The Grotesques (20 page)

“No!” she cried as she caught sight of the leonine head and the terrible impossibility of who it was confronted her.

“Go!”

She tried to pull the gun from his hand. Rob pushed her away. The dog kept barking.

“Run!”

“No!” she repeated, battling for the weapon. Under simultaneous attack from her and the winged monster, Rob dropped the gun. The creature immediately took the weapon in its mouth and spiralled upward.

Rastas bounded after it as far as the canal, his tail wagging crazy encouragement. His attention turned to the water when a large object broke the surface with a prolonged whoosh. Hackles raised, the dog growled.

Danes fired a shot into the air. With a piercing shriek, the flying creature wheeled over the canal, one lopsided wing testament to his aim. Ella bolted toward the detective.

“You can’t!” she panted, grabbing his arm. “It’s Cecily. It has her DNA.”

Danes threw her off with a warning look before taking aim again.

“No!” she yelled, then, “Oh, please, no!”

Another impossible being was slinking along the ground toward the detective. Wingless, crouched low, it padded forward on paws that sported dagger-sharp claws at the end of four long toes. Rastas turned toward it, whined, then trotted to the canal to stand guard.

“Look out!” Danes warned, adjusting his aim. He did not seem to have registered what she had said. The creature pounced, toppling the detective and sending the bullet wide. Its wide, yellow eyes glowered from under prominent ridges that met in a central depression. It pecked at his nose with the beak-like protrusion at the end of its triangular mouth. Were it not for a leathery hide and backward pointing ears, Ella would have thought it an overgrown, mutant lizard. The creature eyed her before sliding off Danes and scampering toward the canal, taut muscles rippling under oily skin. In that moment of eye-contact, Ella was sure: the creature was sentient. As Danes got to his feet, gun still in hand, Ella pummelled him down before he could shoot. She scrambled up and dashed to the canal. The winged grotesque was not visible, but there on the rocks the gecko beast faced the water, watching, guarding.

“They’ll shoot,” she yelled at it, questioning her sanity and ignoring Rob’s shouts for her to get out of the way. She waved hand and torch to shoo it off. “They’ll shoot you.”

Rastas whined, then yipped, not the least fazed by whatever the creature was. If that was not enough proof it meant them no harm, the grotesque hissed and spit to drive her back as a dark elongated shape rose from the canal and cruised toward the shore. The shape submerged, but the blue light surfaced to the crash of breaking waves. Long fangs gleamed as they rose from the water, terribly solid in that insubstantial jaw. An almighty roar shook the ground she stood on. Fear sent cold goose bumps tickling down her spine. Rastas yelped then bolted. She backed up, then ran toward the others. They were running in her direction.

“Back,” she shouted.

“Get out of here,” Rob said, eyes glued to the canal.

“Get back or I’ll arrest you for obstructing a police officer,” Danes said.

She ran to the sheltering wall of the bell tower. When she looked back, Danes and Rob were clearing the area. Danes still held his gun at the ready. The lizard grotesque had vanished, but whatever was in the river was drawing close to the bank. She sidled toward the canal, skidding as another pair of wings batted before her. The grotesque she had discovered blood on, terribly alive, alighted on the grass, blocking her line of vision. It pecked its beak toward her, driving her away. Another roar forced her to cover her ears. The grotesque shrieked like a raptor on the hunt. Ella ran.

THE PALE LIGHT
shining through the narrow slit of the ground level window screamed warning. Ella barely glanced in its direction as she dashed for the main doors. Behind her, insistent roars battled with furious screeches, shattering the night’s calm. In front, one arched door stood ajar. The evil lurking inside had to be a whole lot saner than the monsters by the canal. A whole lot safer even. She squeezed into total darkness, shuddering as she remembered the dragon gargoyle keeping watch above. At least it wasn’t about to tear her into morsels. She switched on the torch. Its wan light failed to dispel the shadows.

A rumble shook the flagstones beneath her. The doors to the church slammed shut. Off balance, Ella tottered against them and steadied herself. Worried the others would require quick entry, she grabbed the handles. The doors wouldn’t budge. She forced her shoulder against them and pushed. Still they held fast. She shone the torch along their length, feeling for a latch, a bolt, anything that might assist her. She found nothing. Dizzy from exertion and worry, she leaned against the wood. Neither bestial cry nor human shout penetrated their thick mass. She shivered. The temperature had plummeted. She flicked the torch around, certain a predator lurked nearby, watching, waiting for her to be at her most vulnerable.

A faint chant drifted out of the nave. She edged toward the distorted sound. The statues loomed on either side, their expressions no longer serene and saintly but judgemental and accusing. Ella swung the torch from left to right, half expecting them to change position.
Stop being fanciful,
she told herself. Then she swallowed because she knew what she had seen on the roof.

She chose to walk down the central aisle, as far from the stone personages as was possible. She was relieved the chant did not originate from their mouths.
As if
, she told herself, but she was not sure she would have been completely dumbfounded if it had. Petrified, yes, but not surprised. She hurried through the choir and turned left into the south transept. The grille to the lower area was unlatched. The chanting, still a faint, indecipherable sound, had assumed a more urgent tempo. Her skin prickled as the sensation that someone was watching intensified. She pivoted and checked the rear, then swung the beam up. It did not even brush the balustrade. Taking a deep breath, she went down.

In the stone chamber, wooden torches burned in wall sconces behind the grey arches. She rattled the handle on the door to Romain’s workshop. It was locked. Banging produced no answer. She listened but could not hear anyone inside. The chant grew louder. It tingled with an undercurrent of power, pulling her almost involuntarily toward the stairs. The sounds had separated into words, foreign but discernible. She recognised it now as the same hymn that had played at the Travellians’. Breathing fast, she passed through the arch. The door to the crypt stood wide open. More torches lit the stairs. Ella dropped wary feet onto each step.

The crypt was illuminated solely by white candles in an array of metal candelabras of varying height. Scattered around the edges of the room and perched on the tombs, their flickering flames cast evil shadows against the polished walls. Ella’s heart thumped wildly. She decided against calling out, reluctant to reveal her presence to the human or monster which prowled these walls. In the unlikely event that it didn’t already know she was here.

She tried not to look at the effigies. In the candlelight the marble faces appeared peaceful, and yet she knew, wherever the women were, whatever they had endured, these likenesses told a lie. She crept past. And abruptly stopped. Her mind raced as she replayed her walk in her mind. Eight coffins, each with an elaborately carved effigy on top. Six missing girls and Matt Hayes. Seven coffins by light of day. Eight in the dead of night. Not even Romain could have worked that quick. How then?

Her heart almost bouncing into her throat, Ella inched back to the last tomb. And broke into a cold sweat. Two seven-branch candelabras rested at head and foot of a striking likeness of herself. Unable to tear her eyes away, she studied every minute detail. Somewhere, anywhere there had to be a discrepancy that marked this woman as someone else. But the artist had done an incredible job, from the stray strands of hair that never seemed to sit quite right to the pert angle of her jaw.

“Do you approve?” Startled, Ella jumped round to face Genord. His brutal eyes molested her. Unnerved, she took a step back. His lips curved into a wry smile. With the quickness of a large predator, he pulled a gun and aimed at her chest. “I think it a remarkable likeness myself.”

She drew in a sharp breath as her knees started shaking. “Let me go.”

“I think not, Miss Jerome. You want to know what happened to those girls. I think it time you found out.”

“Detectives Hamlyn and Danes are just outside. They know I’m in here.” A bead of sweat trickled down her forehead and onto her eyelashes, blurring her vision.

“That may be, but it is too late, I’m afraid.”

“You won’t get away with it.” The words were barely more than a breath.

“With what, Miss Jerome?” The assumed innocence in his voice mocked her.

“Murder.”

“I
am
disappointed. Do you think I would stoop so low?”

Ella’s face twisted in confusion. “The girls. Are they alive?”

“No. They are dead.” He took a step forward and caught her arm in a vice-like grip. “It was nothing so mundane as murder, though.” He turned his lips into her ear and whispered, “It was sacrifice.”

Ella’s blood turned cold. “This is a church.”

“It would seem that way, wouldn’t it? But it was built for a very specific purpose.”

“It’s still holy ground.”

“Its sanctity has been violated.”

“Look, it’s not too late, Genord. Let me go, and I’m sure the prosecutor will cut you a deal.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. You see, my little pet is hungry.”

Ella glanced around, afraid the monsters had found a way down, afraid what she had thought was Caroline Jones was in reality a mutant beast Genord intended to set upon her. He waved her on. She walked, certain he would shoot if she ran. She stopped when she reached the bare wall at the far end of the crypt and turned to face her captor.

“The lowest stone in the wall in front of you will move. Depress it.”

One eye on the gun, Ella dropped to one knee. She needed both her hands to grate the stone back.

“Now lift the floor stone.”

Ella inserted her hand into the hole, tucking her fingers under until they rested on the bottom of the stone square. “Did you frighten all the girls into doing this?” she fished, hoping to delay.

“On the contrary. Most were extremely obliging until they realised the fate I had in store. Now lift the panel, Miss Jerome.”

The stone was not as heavy as she had expected. As the corner rose, she pushed herself up and flipped it into Genord’s path. The bang echoed through the chamber as the foul stench of stagnant water drenched the room. Ella gagged and moved back.

“Down there, my dear, is the underground passage you were seeking. Your fate awaits you within.”

“Then the girls are all in the Port River.”

“I believe the remains of Alicia Moffat and Melanie Denham were extracted from the river, yes. It is only a matter of time before some part of Joanne Travellian surfaces.”

“You drowned them.”

“Sacrificed, my dear. You really do not use those ears of yours.”

“And the others?”

“Things did not go as planned. But little twists add to the fun of the game, don’t you think?”

“Adam?”

He smiled.

Her heart turned to ice. “What happened to them?”

“That, Miss Jerome, is not your concern.” He gestured the gun toward the hole.

“What’s down there?”

“Take a look.”

She crouched by the hole, trying not to breathe too deep of the putrid smell. Ripples rocked the glassy surface. She gasped as wood emerged, and shone the torchlight along a thick, headless neck carved with scales. The artist had done a meticulous job of painting them a lifelike shimmery sapphire.

“What is it?” she asked, though she thought she knew.

“It is a dragon.”

“Wooden carvings and holograms don’t kill.”

“Would you believe this dragon is quite real?” She shot him a quizzical look. “I didn’t think so, but it is the truth. Now, will you go willingly, or shall I shoot?”

After all she had seen, Ella certainly did believe, and as much as the journalist in her craved information about the what and the how and the why, instinct screamed Genord was not about to tolerate delay. She had, if she was lucky, one more chance to stall.

“Why are you doing this, Genord?”

“If you have not had the wits to discover it, I shall not waste my breath explaining, especially if your friends are outside. The world will soon suffer the truth. Goodbye, Miss Jerome. I cannot say it has been a pleasure. Your interference has made my life more difficult this last week.” He braced his wrist. The barrel of the gun threatened.

With as much strength as she could muster, Ella lunged and spun the floor stone into Genord’s legs, ducking to the side to avoid the gun shot that never came. Genord stumbled. Ella leaped at him, the force of her flight driving him to the ground. The gun flew from his hand. Ella rolled off Genord and scrambled to reach it. Genord grabbed her ankle, holding her tight and flipping her to the floor. She stretched. Her fingers brushed cold metal and hooked the trigger guard. Twisting, she pointed the gun and shot. Genord’s head snapped back. She pulled her leg, but he held fast. She shot. His head jerked. He let go.