The Grotesques (25 page)

The tableau spun. Ella’s mind reeled.
No more
, she pleaded. She couldn’t cope with the sight of Joanne Trevallian. But she was looking down from the roof again, this time through the beaked grotesque’s eyes. She saw herself walk along the path to the church, shoulders hunched as she waited for Adam; saw a lone jogger scared off by the lizard-like grotesque, making noise from the shadows in the passage; saw the beaked grotesque warn the dragon away from her as she rounded the belfry while Genord tracked her movements. An instant later, Adam surprised her. She felt the keen relief of the grotesque and nearly fainted to realise how close she had been to death that night.

The vision changed again, this time to her house on the night of the fire. The leonine grotesque—she still could not bring herself to call it Cecily—was hammering at the glass door, trying to break the glass as the fire spread, to provide her with an escape.

We are the lucky ones
, the voice repeated.

Who are you
? she asked.

I am Caroline Jones
, the beaked grotesque said.

I’m Bekka Hayes
, the reptilian grotesque said.

You already know I’m Cecily
.

They were protecting her. That she could accept. But that she was one of them?
Are we trapped in the stone? Do we need someone to break us out?

We are the stone
, Cecily said.

This isn’t possible
.

We are here for a reason. There are things you must know. The dragon you saw will destroy the city. We’ve been warding it off but it grows stronger with each sacrifice he makes. This time Genord might succeed.

This time? Why here? Why Adelaide? Why
me
?

Cecily sighed.
We still don’t know but we can help you understand some of the rest. Romain showed us. We can show you.

Ella experienced a sensation of profound dizziness before she was whirled again into the past.

HE HAD TARGET
practice. Good. Birds twittered in the leafy branches and a squirrel was busy hiding acorns in the hole of an oak. Genord settled himself on a fallen log and considered which one he should kill first. He raised the bow he had stolen from a careless hunter and took aim at a carolling magpie. Leaves crunched as the string twanged the arrow’s release. Cawing alarm, the bird swooped from the branch. All Genord had to show for his efforts was a shower of fiery leaves. Clenching his jaw, he rose to confront his imbecile of a brother.

“I’ve found you.” Romain danced his childish wooden carvings through the air.

“Aren’t you supposed to be planting vegetables?” Genord plucked another arrow from his quiver.

Romain dropped his hands and frowned at the bow. “Were you trying to hurt something? You know Brother Pierre disapproves of it.” Acorns crunched as Romain shuffled from foot to foot.

“What if I was?” Genord ground his teeth as he nocked another arrow and aimed. “Doesn’t the monk say animals were created to serve man?”

“Serve, not be slaughtered.”

“Its death serves me.” Romain was a gullible fool to accept the monk’s teaching without question. The new religion placed too much store in the power of peace.

Genord let the arrow fly. The skewered squirrel dropped.

“What did you do that for?”

With remarkable restraint Genord kicked leaves into Romain’s face. What he really wanted was to beat the placidity out of his dim-witted brother. “Grow up, Romain. Brother Pierre kills his chickens for meat.”

“That’s different.”

A crow landed in a nearby beech and cawed death. He lowered the bow to better watch the squirrel twitch. “The purpose of an action does not change its inherent nature.”

“You’re using big words again,” Romain huffed.

“I have a big mind, big expectations, and a very big destiny.” Which was why he visited Rouen to eavesdrop on the upper classes. Brother Pierre in his isolated hut provided food and lodging but little of his education.

“You didn’t have to kill it.”

“Have you looked at the dead since Samhain?”

“What?”

Genord strode to the squirrel. Its blue spirit was drifting from the furry body, a lightning streak with a vague resemblance to the dumb beast. Quick of hand, he grabbed it. It zapped through his body, almost tore free. His hands fisted, his jaw clenched. Oh, yes, he had the will to bind it. To shove it at the crow, inside it. The bird cawed and flapped, torn apart from the inside out as the squirrel gnawed through feathers and flesh. It did not take ten heartbeats for it to drop from its perch. Genord snatched. Its spirit flapped through his fingers.

“I am the link between the world and the veil. Did you witness how I control the power of death?”

His snivelling brother stood with open mouth, a stunned rabbit useful for naught but a blow to the head. Above, leaves rustled. The magpie was back at its perch. Genord lifted his bow as it preened a wing. He needed a way to bind the spirits to him, to harness their power to his will.

“No.” Romain charged. He was more simple than a fool to think their childish wrestling could still make amends.

Genord stepped aside and spun, digging an elbow into his brother’s stomach and kicking his ankles from under him. Romain hit the ground hard. The dirt smeared across his gawping mouth made him look stupider than normal. Up in the oak, the squirrel spirit was chittering in disgust. If spirits drew air, Genord would have crushed its chest until it couldn’t breathe. Ah! It
was
caught by his intent, squealing and thrashing as he drew it to him. He was Lord of the Dead indeed.

“No, Genord.” Romain had jostled up and looked ready to charge.

“Very well. I’ll trade you. The magpie’s life for your dragon carving.” The dragon was a beast removed from this Christian religion; a beast so terrifying the bravest hero would quake in its shadow; a beast so indomitable it was the perfect servant for the Lord he would one day become.

“I made this for you.” Romain held out a carved hare.

Genord laughed. As if he cared his imbecilic brother crafted him a carving for every beast he slaughtered. Their images would never kindle regret. On the contrary, they were a memento, every one. As for this piece, its workmanship would have rivalled that of the dragon if it had not had a fragment chipped off one toe. Too bad it was only prey. He tossed it onto the clump of bloodied feathers and raised the bow once more.

“Wait. Here. Have it.” Romain held out the dragon.

Genord’s lips parted. He shrugged and took the carving. There were other beasts to practice on and Romain had little else to trade. “I’m going to the cave.”

How fitting that inspiration descended when he stepped over the corpse of the squirrel. Here was a vessel perfect in shape and size. He willed the spirit inside, held it down, punched it until it stuck with a sensation like the suck of mud. The limp body flopped over the leaves, landing on one side, then the other, and at last on broken legs. As they wobbled and swayed beneath it, he picked it up by the tail.

“You can come and wrestle me if you wish.”

Romain stood rooted to the middle of the feathered butchery.

Genord avoided looking at him as he strode out of the clearing, the corpse twitching in his hand. His disappointment was an ant to be squashed compared to the expanse of his relief.

SHE HAD BEEN
drugged. It was the only rational explanation. She hadn’t realised before because her mind had been too fogged.

No
, came the mind voice of the Caroline beast.
You’ve seen us. You’ve seen
it.

The wooden platform in the belfry creaked. The door to the roof squeaked open. Danes groaned creepily enough to scare any boogie monster. His hand had to be killing him.

“You should wait for the paramedics downstairs.”

“Waiting won’t fix . . . aah . . . my fingers . . . ow . . . any faster,” Danes said through gritted teeth.

A torch flicked across roof and wall as the two detectives made their way down and to the right. No way that all she had seen could have happened during the detectives’ few steps. That proved it was a hallucination.

You have to believe
, the Cecily beast said.

She held her breath hoping they would find her.

Rob’s blinding beam shone right in her eyes. He had to see her.

“That’s the same statue we saw below.” Danes was hunched over, grimacing.

“It can’t be. It’s in a different pose.” Rob sounded uneasy. His harsh breathing sent white puffs of vapour into the air as he swept his light across her to the lion beast and the wingless creature that had leapt at them by the canal. “These statues are out of order.”

“Can’t be,” Danes grunted. His agony might have made his vision blurry but there was no reason Rob couldn’t see her unless she was stuffed in some hidey hole in the wall. Oh, dear God, what if Romain intended to leave her hidden here until she starved and shrivelled to dust?

“This one,” said Rob, swinging the beam onto the wingless statue, “was on the left this afternoon and that one, the lion-headed one, was closest to the front of the building.” He hung his torch on his belt. “Lend me a shoulder.”

“Anything, To. Distract. Me. From. This. Pain.”

They combined their weight and tried to shove the statue from its perch. It didn’t budge. Of course it didn’t because statues couldn’t come to life. Rob should have known that. He shouldn’t have mumbled about taking back every statement he ever made about the
Informer
because a meticulous report would read like a formal version of their articles.

Danes made a noise between a scoff and a laugh. Or it could have been pain.

Rob shook his head as he ran the torchlight over the carved bracelet. “There has to be a duplicate. The mason is screaming for help through these carvings. We need to find a qualified therapist pronto. He knows something.”

Sirens blared toward the church.

“That’s my painkiller,” Danes said.

“And our backup. Let’s go meet them. They can search the copse while I give the church another once over.”

Their footsteps receded. The sirens grew louder.

Ella rummaged through memories of the past few days. She had to find a logical flaw to shatter this illusion. When she succeeded, she laughed hysterically.
Who was the first?
she asked.
If you are the missing women, then what did Adam see the night Cecily disappeared?

She waited for the nightmare to disperse. Instead, she felt an ancient mind quiver in her own.
It was I, Igulum
. The fragile voice creaked from a pointy winged grotesque with a face similar to her own. Ella recognised the statue from the day she had first set eyes on Romain’s workshop.

Who are you?
she whispered, awed by a sense of faded might.

Igulum crawled from the opposite ledge. Joints creaking with age, he manoeuvred to her side and gazed upon the Southern Cross.
I am one of the old gods. I am one who refused to fade into oblivion with the old beliefs. I am one who chose to protect the new world from evil. I am ancient as the dawn. I am dying with the dusk. I am the last of those who made compact with Romain for a body to remain in this world in exchange for my protection. And I am no longer capable of my task.

Igulum squeezed her stone hand.
Learn of the threat approaching you
.

ROMAIN LIFTED A
sore knee from the cold hard floor of the stone church. Brother Pierre was saying the final prayer but he couldn’t wait any longer to crack an eye open and look out of the sun-drenched windows. Pressing his hands harder together would have to make up for the sin. He was off at a run when Brother Pierre released him, heading for the cave. Sure enough, his brother was seated at the mouth, arms on bent knees, cages full of quivering animals around him.

“I have things to do. You should go,” was the only greeting he received.

“What things?” He shifted as a pigeon flapped its wings.

“You need to find your own entertainment.”

At the back of the cave, pebbles clattered against rock. Romain peered around his brother. It was better not to ask Genord what animal he had decided to torment today. He searched his twin’s face for any sign he remembered, but Genord was staring at the rippling water with that detached look he got whenever he was about to kill.

More pebbles clinked, too far in to be breeze-tossed. Roman shook his head. He wouldn’t let Genord hurt one of God’s creatures. Not today.

“Don’t go back there.”

Romain gawped at the sharp command. “Happy birthday,” he grudged, tossing his carving at Genord’s feet.

His brother blinked at the present as though it were a mere distraction from whatever sadistic entertainment he had dreamt up today.