The Grotesques (33 page)

“I thought we had a deal,” Debbie called.

“Next time. I promise.” Ella jammed the clutch into reverse, hit the accelerator, and tore out of the parking lot, leaving the panting Debbie behind.

ROMAIN WAS SCULPTING
. He never did know when to concede defeat. Genord placed Brodie’s boots on the dirt floor of the workshop and draped the leather jacket over them. “You are ever too late, brother. La Gargouille has devoured her fifth sacrifice.”

Romain continued chipping away at the stone.

“I had thought to leave you languishing in jail, just so you know what it feels like. You owe me that, don’t you think? Only I do so want you here to witness my final victory.”

Genord walked to the formless hunk of granite. “Your creatures are ineffectual against a wraith, you know.” Romain’s chisel slipped. “Do you not applaud my genius? I shall enjoy watching the girls you thought saved massacred. I am not sure whose death will please me more, your doting Cecily’s or the irksome Miss Jerome’s.”

Chiselling an eye, Romain gave no indication he heard.

“Of course, you will crumble to dust in the wake of my victory. It must be hard to accept you have served an incompetent god all these centuries.”

Romain grunted. “Not yet Samhain. Too many to kill.”

“Not at all. Rest assured I will make a ninth sacrifice on Samhain even if I have to report your perverted fascination for young women to the police. You see, Romain, the nearer we draw, the less cautious I need be. My strength is already beyond what the imbeciles can counter.”

“Head.”

“It is quite secure. You will not locate it in time.”

The chisel slipped from Romain’s hands, gouging a channel in the rock. Genord chuckled and patted his twin’s shoulder. “Cheer up, brother dear. It is destiny. Now, attend to your mistake while I gather my strength.”

Genord left the workshop with a light step. The fragment of dragon spirit he had coaxed from his precious Gargouille was confined to Cecily’s tomb. For over a millennium he had nurtured it. Now he stood on the cusp of reincarnating his beloved. His cursed brother had nearly ruined his bid for domination when he smashed the dragon carving. Had Genord not gathered Romain’s intent, had he not followed to snare the spirit, that one act of sabotage might have undone his plot, for he yet needed Gargouille’s power to capture the more uncooperative of his sacrifices. This time he would not tease more of his beloved’s essence from her head. His dragon would remain whole, her location undiscovered until her body was incarnate and under his control, a vessel to receive the might of the elementals he would draw down when the veil dissolved. He had waited nigh on one thousand four hundred years for this. He would not have Romain thwart him again.

In the crypt, he wandered among the tombs. There was still time. Cecily, Caroline, Bekka, Adam, and most especially Ella Jerome—to turn wood into flesh, he would subjugate, humiliate, and sacrifice them all.

IT WAS TIME
. Genord led the dragon to the mouth of the cave. Her long serpentine neck arched, retracting her delicate snout from the light of the sun. She pranced on dainty feet atop curved talons harder than a sword, her wings twitching in anticipation of a full stretch. Genord slid onto her shoulders, in front of the first of the fins that adorned her back. Though he needed no more than a mind command to send her leaping from the cliff, he shouted in exultation. He had debts to pay and riches to collect.

They banked over the tranquil river, the dragon with her neck extended to the blazing sun, her sapphire scales shimmering to cyan as she revelled in the freedom the air elementals had bestowed. As he leaned forward, the dragon swooped. She skimmed the water so close her talons cut a deadly wake. Ahead, fishermen stood in their boats, a hand shading their eyes as they pointed. Genord grinned at their frantic shouts. The townsfolk of Rouen were about to learn what monster stole their cattle in the dead of night. So there could be no mistake, he steered his dragon to a familiar patched vessel with a sorrowful old man hunched inside. His useless father ducked as the dragon grabbed the boat and crushed the wood. Splinters fell from her talons. The old man too, curse him.

“That, Father, is for booting me out,” Genord said with no trace of humour. For the sheer fun of it, he turned his pet. At his command, a jet of flame surged from between her gleaming fangs, razing the small boats that bobbed to Hubin’s rescue. When the fishermen jumped overboard, Genord threw back his head and laughed. At last he was invincible.

They landed at the edge of the town, the dragon’s wings flapping as her hind legs contacted ground. She settled forelegs down and Genord alighted. Curious townsfolk had gathered among the relative safety of the buildings, exchanging hushed murmurs of disbelief. Even in his simple garb, stolen on one of his forays into town, he knew he cut an imposing figure, tall and lean, his eyes a match for La Gargouille’s scales. At his silent command, the dragon shot flame toward the crowd, a warning not to oppose his might. The people surged back from her fiery breath and tempered scales, a gift of the fire elementals he had trapped two Samhains past

“Do you know me?” he asked.

A plump, well-dressed man stepped forward. A seal of office hung against his chest. “We know you, Genord, demon spawn of Samhain. What business have you here?”

Genord placed a hand on the dragon’s snout, stilling the agitated beast.
Ah, but it is truth
, he thought, to calm them both. To the mayor he said, “The business of riches.”

The man shifted uncomfortably but placed defiant hands on his hips.

“The town will pay for my dragon’s protection. I require jewels and gold,” Genord said. His beast raised a forefoot to display gleaming talons.

“How much?” the mayor asked, his eyes on those lethal weapons.

“All that you have.”

Beneath his ruddy cheeks, the craven mayor turned white. “We require time to amass the ransom.”

“An hour,” he conceded, walking past. He stopped between the mayor and the crowd. Several burly men were inching forward, their faces grim.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” he warned. One bearded fool drew a knife, twisting it so the blade glinted in the sun. Genord snapped his fingers, and the dragon streamed fire. Clothing erupted in flames. The screaming man ran for the river and plunged into its icy waters. Genord waited until his charred body floated to the surface.

“You see,” he said, undressing a pretty brunette with his eyes because the falsely brave had backed off. She stared, mute within the whimpering crowd, unresponsive to the older woman who tried to draw her away. He knew the ancestry of that leathery face, for he had made it his business to track the source of the rumours about him.

“Give me your hand,” he said to the girl. Her lips parted as she froze. “No doubt your midwife grandmother told you stories of one Samhain night long past. It is yours to make amends or the dragon will burn you all.” He put thumb and middle finger together, poised to snap.

In creeping steps, she obliged, though her mother wailed and clutched. He pulled her from that desperate grasp to hold her against him and whisper through her long, straight hair of terrifying delights. When she stiffened, he turned to the crowd. “This daughter of Rouen is your surety. Do not attempt to foil me or her life is forfeit. You now have fifty-five minutes to deliver the ransom.” He stunned the whimpering wench so he could hoist her onto the dragon. Another breath of fire as they leapt into the sky lent gravity to his demand.

Inside the cave, he slung the girl onto his pallet. She was waking, her head lolling upon her soft, white neck. He imagined he might spend a very pleasant hour. He had known girls in Rouen. Pilfered trinkets were persuasion enough beyond his attractive face and educated manner. Not for him Brother Pierre’s celibate ways. He wondered what it would be like to take this wench by force and felt a delicious compulsion. He ripped her bodice open and cupped a soft breast in one hand as the other travelled under her skirts. She sobbed and beat his chest.

“Hush,” he soothed, gripping her wrists in one hand and stroking her hair with the other. He closed his mouth over hers, pressing harder as her struggles excited him. “Be grateful it is I who takes my pleasure with you and not the dragon.” Her eyes slid to the powerful haunches that blocked the niche, and she quietened. “Yes,” he said, exploring her firm body, forcing her hand to touch him. “That’s better. Yes,” he said as she turned her head to the wall and let the tears run.

She was docile enough after that he could sit her atop the dragon in front of him without restraint. His hungry hands dove inside her tattered clothing the entire ride back to Rouen where he pulled her by the hair off the dragon. She dropped to hands and knees beneath the beast, weeping, clutching the vestiges of her garment about her. The crowd shuffled and mumbled before it parted, allowing a withered man to shamble forward. Genord looked down his nose. The years had not been kind. Defeat had erased all trace of joy from his haggard face.

“The decision to turn me out has come back to haunt you, Father.”

Hubin spat. “You only prove me right.”

“Do you not wonder how events might have played had you shown me kindness?”

“What of the monk? Did he not teach you of such things?”

“He is dead,” Genord said, and the telling held great pleasure.

The murmurs brought a smile to his lips. “Quite right. It was at my hand. But you betray yourselves. I believed there were few among you of that zealot’s faith.”

“Your brother. What has become of your brother?” The urgency of the question drove Hubin forward, one wrinkled hand beseeching.

Genord laughed. “He follows the priest’s calling. Is that not a double blow to you,
Father
? You have lost one son to demons and the other to the new religion. Now, my tithe, if you please.”

“And if we do not?” The mayor had stepped forward. Genord smelled the rank fear behind the defiance.

“Do you really wish to suffer the consequences?”

The mayor’s eyes darted between Genord and the river. Genord tutted disappointment, inclining his head with a small shake. The town must think him an imbecile if they believed he had not noticed the throng encircle him. His forewarning was also the dragon’s.

She reared when he leaped upon her leg and back, balking the armed contingent which burst from the crowd. Her tail lashed men into the river; her breath flamed across the bystanders, roasting them where they stood. The recovering warriors threw axes and lances, but they bounced against her impervious scales while the nets the fishermen cast slid off her towering height. She dropped, trampling an attacker underfoot. The crunch of his spine caused more than one onlooker to retch, but a sinewy man took the opportunity to hurl an axe. Genord directed his angry dragon to whip her neck around and bite it in two.

The distraction allowed a net to hook over the tip of her wing. Before the assault could regroup, he harnessed the dragon’s power, lashed out and felled the remaining attackers. The dragon bolted forward, swinging her neck and torching those who stood in front of her as she tried to extricate her wing. Her tail swept along the ground, toppling the girl, who was crawling toward the crowd.

In the shocked aftermath, Genord flicked the flapping net loose, letting it float through the rising blue spirits of his victims. His fists balled, his jaw tight, he surveyed the remnants of the crowd. His mount pawed the ground, steam puffing from her nostrils, the whites of her eyes bulging.

“My remuneration. Now.”

Several townsfolk lugged bulging sacks forward. The contents clinked as the bearers dropped them and scurried back into the crowd. Genord hefted the loot upon the growling dragon, securing it with the remnants of the nets. She sniffed the carnage in front of her, her neck swaying from one broken body to another. Her tongue darted out as she nuzzled the shocked girl. She gurgled as she drew her neck high. Genord shuddered with thrilling shock as he realised, famished after flight and skirmish, she intended to feast upon human flesh. Had he not planned to claim the girl for his own, he might just have desired to witness the feed. He sent her images of cattle and sheep, but her disordered mind scattered his thoughts. Teeth gleaming, the dragon seized the girl across the middle. A flip of her head turned the body lengthwise. Two chomps and the girl disappeared down the gullet amidst the horrified screams of townsfolk fleeing in every direction. Leaving them to their chaos and grief, he mounted the dragon. With her appetite sated, order was returning to her mind. On his instruction she reared onto hinds and tail, leapt into the air, and circled the town before winging back to the cave.

Turning in the confined space was a squeeze she only just managed with a bloated belly. As Genord hauled the treasure to the back, he willed her to regenerative sleep. Head upon forepaws, she dozed in the glory of the afternoon sun. Would that he could have claimed the spirits of the dead warriors to restore her strength, but his dragon was now a beast complete, flesh and blood, will and intent. Rest alone would suffice. He ripped open the sacks. Coins and jewellery spilled onto the rocks, washing the odd pearl, ruby, and emerald to his feet. He was well pleased with the haul. Despite their childish ruse, the townsfolk had not stinted with the booty. In another few days he would return to procure some decent bedding: a real chair to replace his crude seat; textiles and crockery to help turn his cave into a more hospitable home.