CHAPTER TWENTY

 

cross creek

The deer trail branched before them, and Rachael guided the mare down the left track. Lindsay followed on the gelding, and Lucian guarded their rear, his countenance grim. As they neared the Citadel, he’d made no secret of his displeasure with her plans. Rachael wouldn’t be swayed.

She had to have Catarina’s Psalter. When the complicit saw Lucian, they would scatter to the four winds, but with the Psalter, Rachael could find them. There was power in a name, and a name written in blood was doubly potent. With the Psalter, she could chase them through their dreams and bring them to justice.

Lucian thought Reynard kept the book at the Citadel. That made no sense; the Psalter would carry its own taint from the Fallen. Reynard was no fool; he wouldn’t keep such a damning piece of evidence at the Citadel. No, it was at Cross Creek—at her house. All so Reynard could implicate her if his plot was discovered.

Rachael stifled her need for revenge and surveyed the land before her. The pale afternoon sunlight drifted behind a mist that seemed to have followed them from the Wasteland. Through the foliage, she glimpsed a boulder; flecks of moss marred the dark gray stone jutting out of the ground between two oaks. The rock marked one of Cross Creek’s boundaries. She reined the mare to a halt.

Lindsay stopped the gelding and rubbed the horse’s neck, probably more to calm herself than the animal. The slash on her cheek was healing nicely, but the same couldn’t be said for the burns on her arm and palm. Lindsay didn’t complain of any pain, but Rachael could already see she would carry the scars for life.

In spite of Rachael’s efforts to keep Lucian and Lindsay apart, the girl had drawn closer to Lucian, sharing his grief for a lost sibling. The dark circles beneath Lindsay’s eyes bore mute testimony to the nightmares she endured after her encounter with Speight and Catarina.

“Why are we stopping?” she asked.

Rachael gestured at the stone. “We’re at Cross Creek.”

Lindsay glanced at the boundary marker and twisted the reins in her fingers. “Is your house near here?”

“Half a league that way,” Rachael said as she pointed through the trees.

Lucian navigated Ignatius around Lindsay’s gelding. The new homespun shirt and brown cloak he wore were nowhere near as fine as his old woolen shirt and ermine-lined mantle. Yet Catarina’s blood had covered his old shirt, and Rachael couldn’t bear the way he’d kept wiping his hands over the stains. He’d buried her in the mantle and Caleb’s coat had barely fit him, but the jacket had kept him warm until they’d reached a border town.

Unsure whether she could trust the Katharoi at the Eilat outpost, she’d avoided all contact with other people. Her only foray into town was to secure more provisions and purchase the clothes for Lucian. She’d been surprised at his gratitude and rather than complain of the quality, he’d treated the gifts with reverence.

“I don’t like this, Rachael,” he said. “We should stay together.”

“I have to go on foot. That automatically rules you out.” She hated how pitiless the words sounded. “Lindsay needs to be with someone who can protect her. That’s you.” She dismounted and handed him the mare’s reins.

“You should go to John. He will order Cross Creek searched.”

Frustration laced her tone. “And they will have plenty of time to destroy the evidence. Reynard keeps the book away from the Citadel for a reason. He’ll be the first to know if John orders a search. Then it’s just a matter of his messenger beating the constables to Cross Creek.” She rested her hand on his thigh. “It’s my house, Lucian. I know every pitch and angle. I’ll be fine. Do you remember where we used to meet at Bear Creek?” He nodded and opened his mouth, but she didn’t give him time to speak. “Take Lindsay and meet me there.”

His frown deepened. “They will have wards to protect the Psalter. Don’t move anything without checking for traps.”

“I will be on my guard.” She reached in her pocket and placed the box holding the sigil into his hand. “I’ve done this before, you know.”

“I know.” A whisper of smile touched his lips.

Nothing she said would ease his apprehension. He wanted to be beside her, and she wanted someone to watch her blind side, but he couldn’t be with her and Lindsay both. Rachael licked her lips and continued. “If I haven’t joined you by morning, take Lindsay and go to the Rabbinate. Ask for Adam Zimmer. He’s a good friend. He’ll give you shelter and will know what to do.”

Lucian bent sideways and touched her cheek. His hand looked naked without his father’s ring, but neither she nor Lindsay had been able to find it. Lucian hadn’t cared, and even now, she didn’t believe he missed the burden the signet represented; he seemed lighter without it.

“If you’re not back by dawn,” he said, “I’m coming for you.” Before she could answer, he straightened and tucked the box containing the sigil into his breast pocket. “Lindsay, let’s go.”

Rachael moved aside as he nudged Ignatius to a slow walk.

Lindsay didn’t immediately follow him. She looked down at Rachael with a worried gaze. “Be careful, okay?” She made a fist.

“I will.” Rachael touched knuckles with her. The girl smiled and her weariness momentarily dissipated to reveal the child beneath the sorrow. She must have been a joy to her parents on Earth. Rachael wished she could leave Lindsay with a reassurance. Instead, she said, “Protect him like you did in the Wasteland. We’re not safe yet.”

The child faded to reveal the young woman Lindsay would become. Her fragility was a guise; Lindsay Richardson would one day make a fierce Katharos. No fear laced her words. “I will.” She brought her heels against the gelding’s sides and the horse ambled after Ignatius.

Rachael waited until they were out of sight before she turned to walk toward the farmhouse at Cross Creek. She didn’t hurry; she didn’t want to arrive before dusk. The path she took went down a small hill and she recognized the place where she and Caleb had found Peter’s cell phone. There she had seen Lucian for the first time in sixteen years.

No, that wasn’t true. She had first seen him in her dream. The Hell Gate hadn’t been the only thing he’d opened that dawn. He’d resurrected her memories and had drawn her back into the vortex of his days with a sorcerer’s skill.

During their journey back, every word he’d uttered, each familiar gesture had triggered a remembrance, a conversation, a touch. Yet the poised man she remembered was gone, buried beneath this new Lucian, who now seemed so unsure of his place in the world.

In the distance, a cow lowed, and the sound jarred her from her thoughts. Long expanses of meadowland were visible through the trees. She was at the edge of the farm.

Shades of dusk feathered the gray air, and a mild breeze rattled the autumn leaves. Stephan would be finishing the chores while Sara prepared their dinner. Rachael stopped beneath a gnarled oak on the border of the field. A row of apple trees stretched halfway between the woods and the house. About a hundred yards behind the house, the horse barn rose out of the gloom.

The pungent odor of horseflesh drifted beneath the tart smell of ripe apples. A simple longing rose in Rachael as she inhaled the scents of home, a place where she had once belonged. Before her possession, she’d loved visiting Cross Creek, taking her coffee on the porch while the world awakened around her. She hadn’t been alone then; friends sometimes joined her, and Lucian often came to visit.

Rachael rubbed the patch over her missing eye. Everything circled back to Lucian. All those years, she’d lived with her fury directed at him when his sister and Reynard had played them both for fools. Catarina had devised the perfect scheme to drive Rachael away from Lucian because Rachael would never forgive a lie.

Except Lucian never lied. Rachael had analyzed the transcripts of his trial like some Katharoi studied Revelation, and he had never lied. He accepted his culpability in the plot and begged for a chance to redeem himself.

Darkness nestled around the house and lights from inside shed a warm glow. A shadow passed before one of the windows. A man’s figure paused and he moved the curtain to look into the yard. Rachael drew behind the tree although she was sure she couldn’t be seen. She had no idea if Stephan and Sara were complicit with the others; she would take no chances.

The man turned away from the window, disappearing into the house. She imagined them there, eating her food, staining her sheets with their sex, laughing at her, at the monster she had become. Rage flushed her cheeks.

An image surfaced in her mind: Caleb embracing her, mashing his lips against hers as she struggled against the Wyrm. She squashed the memory and closed her heart against the self-loathing rising in her breast. She wasn’t ready to deal with those dark reminiscences, not yet, so she shoved them deep in the caldron of her heart.

The hours passed until a sliver of the moon rose high in the sky. All the interior lights had been extinguished for at least two hours. In her mind, she saw her home, trying to imagine where they held their rites. She would have noticed anything amiss inside the story and a half home.

The one place she seldom ventured was the cellar. Ever since her time in Hell, she couldn’t stand to be underground. Whenever she needed something from the basement, she’d either send one of her hired men or fetch it herself during the daylight hours when she could leave the trapdoor open. She made no secret of her dislike for the space, and they would choose a place on her property that she shunned. She was certain that was where they held their rites.

Rachael left her hiding spot and crept toward the house. She crossed the distance and soon experienced the first echoes of the Wyrm’s resonance. The demon’s presence lingered around her home, a bitter odor that hid another spell. An unpleasant humming sensation vibrated into her arms and upper torso, and she discerned the sour magic of the Fallen. Had she not known to sift past the Wyrm’s malevolent resonance, she would have assumed the evil surrounding Cross Creek originated with the demon.

Rachael circled to the back of the house to the root cellar’s trap door. She held her fingers over the supple leather handle, trying to feel any wards that might protect the entrance. Nothing. She tugged on the door and the snap of wood against metal caused her to catch her breath.

The noise was explosive in the night. What the hell? She froze and glanced at the bedroom, but no light shone through the window.

She ran her hand up the door until she felt the cold metal of a lock. Lucian had her so concerned over wards and spells, it never occurred to her to look for something as simple as a lock. She felt like an idiot. Rachael fingered the simple padlock and checked for wards. She’d never kept a lock on the door, so why should they bolt it in her absence? Rachael clenched her jaw. Either Reynard didn’t trust Sara and Stephan, or no one had expected her to return.

For all Reynard knew, she wandered the Wasteland beneath the thrall of the Wyrm. Let him think what he would. She was coming for him, and the less warning he had, the better.

Rachael found her tools and within seconds picked the padlock open. Before she tried opening the door again, she checked for more bolts and found none. The well-oiled hinges didn’t make a sound. Rachael slipped the lock into her pocket and went down three steps, then eased the door shut behind her.

Her pulse thudded loud in her ears and sweat broke across her upper lip. She took a deep breath and inhaled the cider smell of apples and damp earth. Beneath the apples lay a rancid odor like vomit.

Rachael closed her eye and opened it but couldn’t tell a difference. The darkness was complete, enveloping her in a cocoon of black. She gritted her teeth. She wasn’t a child wailing in the valleys of Hell. She was a woman, and she had faced her demon. I’ve spit in Mastema’s face. This is nothing.

She forced herself to go down one step. The wood creaked beneath her boot. Rachael froze and listened for footsteps overhead. She counted to twenty, then to fifty, ready to pivot and run for the exit. No one moved in the house. She lowered her weight to the next step and silence greeted her.

There should be a lamp hanging from a peg at the foot of the stairs. Her fingers groped along the wooden rafter, searching for the lantern. She touched something wet and sticky. Rachael jerked her hand back and wiped her trembling fingers on her pants. God, what had they been doing down here?

She debated using her soul-light. If she called forth a pinprick of light, she could see to get the lantern. Too much magic and she’d awaken Sara or Stephan. It was a chance she’d have to take. Rachael summoned her illumination and her eye settled on the lamp hanging from a nail below her. She grabbed the cold metal handle and flicked her soul-light to flame the wick.

Again she listened for movement from above while she waited for her sight to adjust. Shadows crawled along the walls. She shuddered and looked around the room, wondering where to begin.

Several wooden tables and shelves lined the three walls. Jars of varying sizes, all full of Cross Creek’s fruits and vegetables stored for the winter, rested on the shelves and tables. Skid marks indicated one of the tables had been dragged to the center of the cellar. At the rear wall, directly across from the stairs, the marks stopped in front of a table. Baskets of apples were stored in neat rows between the legs. In the center of the tabletop, a five-gallon jar rested. A large mass floated in the dark liquid.

Rachael kept the lantern close to the floor. She was on top of evil; she felt it vibrate through her flesh and into her bones. With Lucian’s warning singing through her head, she didn’t disturb the jar. Whatever lay inside was dormant, and she wanted it to stay that way.

She touched the edge of the wood, feeling the echoes of dark spells, nothing more than old resonations. She gripped the edge of the table. Whatever ward they used to protect the Psalter would be similar to the low-level spell that protected the sigil in Caleb’s coat. The complicit wouldn’t use a spell that was too powerful or other Katharoi would feel the reverberation. She set the lantern down and ran her fingers beneath the table’s ledge.

Still nothing. She moved two baskets of apples and knelt on the floor to look up. Nothing underneath, either. The wound in her side seeped a trickle of blood into the dressing Lucian had fashioned for her. She ignored the pain and moved the lantern close to the wall where the foundation stones were neatly fitted together. She ran her hands over the stones. One rock wiggled when she touched it. A tingle of magic whispered into her arms and she found the ward. It was similar to the one Caleb had worn on his coat.

Rachael summoned her prayer and cancelled the ward. A dark oily substance oozed into the hard-packed dirt at her feet. She pried the brick out of the wall. Overhead, she heard liquid slosh. Rachael glanced upward. Sweat leaked into her eye. The splash quieted.

Hurry, hurry, hurry. She withdrew the book from the niche. It was Catarina’s. The first five pages were unchanged, as were the last five, but everything in between had been torn out. New pages had been sewn into the binding with the names of the complicit written in dark brownish-red ink.

The essence of each individual resided in his or her signature and here she had their name written with the power of a Katharos’s blood. None of them could escape justice now. Oh, God, she had them. She tucked the Psalter into the pouch at her belt.

Another splash distracted her. Something bumped against the tabletop. Her hands shook as she replaced the brick and the baskets. She grasped the lantern’s handle and stood. The jar on the table rocked. The lump inside flung itself forward and pressed its wizened face against the glass. It was a fetus. The child was large enough to have been taken late in the second or early third trimester, probably from one of the river town’s whores. Whatever its parentage, it wasn’t human anymore.

Rachael’s limbs froze and she almost dropped the lantern. The fetus’ milk-white eyes squinted with hate and the pinched lips opened in a silent scream. Needle-sharp teeth glinted in the light. It pushed against the inside of the jar, tiny, clawed feet kicking to thrust its body from one side to the other. The jar rocked precariously close to the table’s edge.

Rachael set the lantern on the floor. A crate full of rags was in the corner. She ran and scooped up as many as she could carry. Dust motes flew into the air and she sneezed. The jar thudded against the table.

Too much noise, the damn thing was making too much noise. The floor overhead groaned. Someone stood. Rachael’s heart drowned everything as she rushed back to the table. The fetus slapped the glass and grinned at her.

She covered her hands with several rags. Even with the cloth covering her fingers, she was loath to touch the jar, but she wrapped her hands around it. The fetus raked one claw against her palm, and Rachael flinched.

Voices murmured overhead.

Rachael swallowed and shoved the jar back against the wall, wincing as it scraped on the tabletop. She swathed the glass in the rags, then snatched the crate and up-ended it over the jar to hold the rags in place. If the fetus succeeded in knocking its prison over, the glass wouldn’t break.

Heavy footfalls hurried across the floor overhead. She snatched up the lantern and reached the stairs in four quick strides. She extinguished the flame and left the lamp on the bottom stair as she ran. Her palm shot upward to shove the door open. She took in a great lungful of the night air. On her left, a light shone from a window.

Rachael let the trapdoor down and searched for the padlock with shaking fingers. On the second try, she shot the lock through the bolt and slammed it home. She ran for the woods.

The cloudy sky obliterated the moon, but she knew her yard like she knew her body. She reached the trees and plunged into the underbrush. A branch snagged her hair; she slowed her pace to look back. Light from the bedroom window shined onto the yard. A lone figure carrying a lantern emerged around the corner. She recognized the man’s silhouette as the one she’d seen in the window earlier. He stopped by the cellar door and leaned forward to listen. Rachael held her breath.

He tested the lock and pulled on the door, then lingered as if unsure of what to do. A cricket ticked the seconds with a song. Stephan turned and held the lantern high to search the darkness, then returned his attention to the cellar door. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other. He turned and stalked back into the house. A door slammed and within minutes, the light in the bedroom went out.

Were they complicit? Caleb had been worried the stewards might find something like the burned account book. He wouldn’t have been concerned if he had confidence they were complicit. She recalled the fear oozing from Caleb’s pores like sweat; he must have been terrified of being discovered.

Stephan and Sara were there by John’s command, not Reynard’s, so it was possible they weren’t involved in the Inquisitor’s scheme. Rachael touched the Psalter. Soon she’d know for sure.

She forced her weak limbs to move and stumbled through the forest until she felt safe enough to stop beneath a pine tree. She withdrew the book and summoned her soul-light.

The first part of the book was the pact, and it was followed by a list of those who had taken their final vows. Neither Sara nor Stephan’s names were there.

Yet Lucian hadn’t led her wrong. Reynard’s name was there in addition to the names of four other Council members.

“Merciful God.” She remembered Reynard kissing her face, the Wyrm rising to meet its master. Each exorcism he’d performed had brought the demon closer to manifestation. Reynard, who didn’t want to lose the Citadel’s symbolic heir, who smiled with his face and spread lies with his mouth. Rage seared her chest. When she was done, they’d all know the wrath of days had come.