Isabella set the key in the lock and stepped inside. She shut the door behind her with a comforting crack and stood back, her hands flat against the wood, her head rested hard against it. The young Sister exhaled and blew strands of hair from her face.
She pushed her weary body forward with her hands and stepped lightly down the passageway to her apartment. The Catholic Church was generous with their hospitality for travelling dignitaries and official personnel. The apartment could have housed four people comfortably. In the lounge, she unlaced her boots and slipped them off her feet, nursing her cramped and bruised toes. The boots she wore were made for practicalities, not comfort; for delivering a hefty kick and scooting out of dangerous situations, not for ensuring toes remained pristine and dainty.
She unbuttoned her cape and laid it on the back of a chair, stepping into the kitchen and pouring herself a glass of water from the jug. It was warm, but she enjoyed the refreshment of it in her dry mouth. She stood there, glass in hand, staring down at the wash sink, her mind half in, half out of consciousness.
“This will never do,” she whispered to herself, and set down the glass.
Her brown travelling gown had been discarded beside her empty glass. She was already unbuttoning her basque as she stepped into her bedroom, clean and tidy, and scented with the remnants of lavender. She liked that about the Catholic Church; little touches left by the maids like adding lavender fragrance to the room for women, a stronger musk for men. She threw her basque to the bed and rubbed her breasts and armpits through her brassiere to sooth their pained and crushed flesh.
Toes and breasts, Isabella thought to herself, as she unbuttoned her undershirt and let that fall, followed by her corset. She breathed deeply as they tumbled to the floor and she stepped out of them now, wearing only her lightly weighted undergarments. She stretched and bent herself sideways and down to her toes, enjoying the sensation of movement, the tight pull of her tired muscles. She knew why she put herself through the misery of such confining clothes. Men were weak minded.
It was amazing what secrets could be gleaned, what weaknesses could be exposed by the enticing beauty of the female form. But that didn’t make the wearing of such garments any easier.
She stood up straight and looked out of the lace lined window to the darkness beyond. She was suddenly aware that, with the gaslight on in the room and the blinds drawn, people from the street would be able to see her. But who would be passing at this hour, who would be looking in? Everyone would be taking refuge in their homes, the bars, or within the city’s tunnels, not walking the streets whilst bombs were falling. But there was someone, or something, looking, two flaming red eyes staring at her from the other side of the glass.
She had already turned to run by the time the feral beast smashed through the window, shattering glass to all corners. The odious stench of the wolf engulfed Isabella as soon as it was through the window. She slipped, scrambling to get away, the howling roar of the beast almost deafening her, chilling her to her bones. Glass scattered between her feet and toes, as she found purchase and leapt aside before the monstrous wolf crashed into a nearby table and chairs, flinging them aside, talons rending vast gashes into the wooden floor of the apartment.
Isabella landed and rolled behind an armchair, her feet torn with glass, terror bringing tears to her eyes. Her heart pounded in her chest, her breast rising and falling like a bellows. She grabbed a peek from behind the chair, shuddering as she watched the grotesque matted form of the grey black wolf, vast crimson jaws, scalding red eyes, raise itself up to its immense height and stare down at her.
It leapt and, as it did so, so did she, rolling and tumbling to the door of the apartment, her hand fumbling desperately at the lock of the door. No good. Her fingers were too clumsy, her fear too great. She could feel the wolf rise up to strike from behind.
All of a sudden, there was a tremendous thump which sent the Sister sprawling, dazed, to the side of the room. She guessed she’d been struck by the creature, expecting to look down and find herself drenched in her blood, bones broken, her side ripped open and torn, paralysed, unable to move as the creature sank down to feed upon her.
But her body was untouched, despite the dull ache of bruising. In front of her stood the Inquisitor, standing in the remains of the shattered door, which he had kicked clean off its hinges, thrusting Isabella to one side, silver revolver raised in his right hand. The cylinder turned and the gun exploded. In a blur the wolf was upon him, casting him back through the open door, the pair of them rolling like fighting cats.
Isabella tried to lever herself up. Her ribs screamed in agony, her head span. In the corridor outside her apartment, barks and roars sounded as if a frightful feeding frenzy was underway.
“Tacit!” Isabella cried, rising up onto a knee and forcing herself onto her feet. “Tac –!”
With that, the wolf came sprawling through the doorway, its nose thick with blood and gore. Tacit came after it a moment later, like a great black bull, fists raised, thumping and thrusting as the wolf tried to find its balance. A taloned claw swooshed through the air and Tacit deflected it with the barrel of his revolver, punching hard up into the ribcage of the creature. It lowered its jaws and crunched hard onto the Inquisitor’s thrusting forearm, snapping and tearing like a rabid dog, the Inquisitor’s weapon falling away.
Beneath his robes, Tacit’s intricately woven dress of steel, forged in the hottest fires of the Vatican’s smithies and hammered impenetrable and light by its most skilled of blacksmiths, hung impervious against the creature’s terrible teeth. Tacit raised his left fist and thrust it once, twice, into the eye of the wolf. The beast drew back, blinking hard. An upper cut and it stumbled up groggily onto its hind legs. It tottered left and then right, floundering into furniture.
A sharp grip of claw on stone thrust the wolf forward again, striking Tacit hard in his side with a taloned hand, slashing open his cassock, rending a great gash in his inquisitorial chain mail, blood staining dark crimson against the fabric. The Inquisitor went down in a heap. Immediately the beast turned and focused its fiery glare onto the Sister. It leapt, but as quickly as it did so, it stopped, mid air, and staggered to the ground, Tacit having grasped the creature by the tail. He wrenched it back towards him and gathered it into a bear hug, tightening hard about its yawning jaws and neck.
It was then that Isabella caught sight of Tacit’s silver revolver on the ground. She rushed forward and took it up. It felt cold and terrible in her hands, the weight of it unsettling. She raised the gun and fired. The shot rang about the apartment like a thunderbolt. The wolf barked out in pain, going down on one leg. Immediately it pulled itself free from Tacit and spun on the Sister. She levelled the revolver at the creature’s chest. And then it was gone, launched like a spring from its good right leg, through the door and out of the building as if pursued by unseen furies.
She charged after it as far as the door, but already it had fled into the dark of the city. She looked back and watched the Inquisitor stumble onto the floor, his hand at his side, his face broken and bruised.
“Tacit!” she called, rushing to him, a hand to his ribs, another to the back of his head, supporting his body down to the flat of the floor. “Tacit, are you okay?”
The Inquisitor scowled in pain, and then chuckled coldly.
“Tacit, I fail to see what is so funny!” the Sister retorted, pushing the hair from his face and wincing as she peered down at the cruel wound in his side.
“Shame. I do. It would seem our enemy is scared.”
“Scared?!” stuttered Isabella. If anyone was scared, it was her. “If you say so, Inquisitor.” She pulled her hand away from his side, fingers and palm drenched in his blood. “Tsk, this is nasty. I’ll get some water and a cloth.”
She ran for the kitchen to gather the water jug. She was suddenly aware of how her feet smarted with glass embedded deep within them. She stopped and hobbled to a chair to examine the sole of her left foot.
Tacit tried to get up. “Yes, scared,” he muttered, turning awkwardly onto an elbow. “Clearly they don’t want us going to Fampoux.” He growled out his words like a prophecy. “I wonder what it is we will find there that so terrifies?”