Scribe IV returned to his tower room and closed the door. Prayers awaited him. There was work to do, and he couldn’t bring himself to approach any of it. At least Dominic and Agnetta were together, but were they safe? Were any of them in the Bastion safe?
A whump of displaced air buffeted him, bringing with it a scent like scorched ozone. A column of flame appeared and faded just as quickly to reveal an angel clad in leather and spandex, alongside a rumpled man in sweatpants and a t-shirt.
“Aquinas St. John,” Scribe IV said.
When he’d sent out his desperate call, he’d wondered if it might find St. John still on Heaven’s Ark, but he hadn’t allowed himself too much hope. He allowed himself a little now, trying to put aside the fact that St. John answering his call in person meant that Scribe IV had put the man in danger.
“I apologize. I didn’t think I would have company so soon,” Scribe IV said.
He swept a dismayed gaze over the room. Bottles of ink that ought to be neatly replaced in racks and scrolls of paper that should be tucked away littered his desk. He couldn’t even give himself the excuse of having left the room in a hurry. He’d picked up terrible habits from so long spent among humans; keeping a disorderly workspace was one of them.
“I tried to send a reply,” St. John said.
He indicated the prayer scrolls that Scribe IV had not yet had time to review, but the gesture wobbled. His face had a queasy pallor, as though he might be sick.
“Angel.” The angel stepped forward and held out xyr hand, looking pleased.
Scribe IV took it, inclining his head in a gesture of respect, noting as he did that Angel had given xemself chewed-short nails. St. John looked up, still unsteady. Scribe IV pulled over a chair, but the investigator merely braced himself against the back of it, gaping at the angel.
“Your name is Angel? You’re an angel and your name is…” He trailed off, shaking his head.
“It suits me,” Angel said.
“Of course it does,” St. John said. He turned his attention back to Scribe IV. “And you and I, we do know each other, then?”
Human memory was so faulty. “You were here several years ago—”
“The missing boy.”
“He became a god,” Scribe IV confirmed.
“Right. His family thought he was a runaway, but he…” St. John frowned as if he’d forgotten the word – or as if the word itself troubled him.
“Ascended,” Scribe IV said. “May I offer you a drink, Mr. St. John?”
“Quin. A drink would be great. Thanks.”
“Me too?” Angel asked. Xyr tone of hope, almost giddy, took Scribe IV by surprise, but he dutifully removed the stopper from the heavy cut-glass decanter of the scotch he kept for the rare instances when he had visitors and poured two measures.
Angel beamed as Scribe IV handed the glasses over. Xe lifted the glass and the liquid within caught fire. Delighted, Angel swallowed the flame whole.
Quin finally sat. He looked steadier now, but the worn expression remained. He’d aged since Scribe IV had seen him last, beyond the physical passing of years. When they’d found the soon-to-ascend child in the sea-hollowed caverns beneath the Bastion, instead of dragging the child back to his family and collecting his pay, Quin had readily accepted the boy’s imminent godhood and let him go. Not many investigators would be so accommodating.
Scribe IV recalled the boy’s beatific smile, the scent of warmed beeswax, which only that moment of divine intervention allowed him to smell, and the way the light clung to the child’s brown skin and soft, dark curls. It wasn’t long before he’d become too bright to look upon. Aquinas St. John’s face in that moment of transcendence had been a mixture of melancholy, fear and wonder. It seemed to Scribe IV that the melancholy had remained, making itself a permanent part of Quin’s features.
“So,” Quin said, “there’s been a murder.”
“Yes,” Scribe IV said.
The pressure of the Sisters’ rising buzzed against his skin, but Quin and Angel were already here, and while he did have a healthy appreciation for mystery, sometimes the most satisfying thing about a mystery was knowing it could be solved.
“The Pope,” Scribe IV said.
“Shit.” Quin grimaced, sipping his drink, then gestured toward the oppressive sky above the tower. “And the Sisters have taken over the investigation, or they’re about to.”
“Indeed.”
“Were there any witnesses? A motive? A murder weapon?” Angel asked.
Xe gripped the back of Quin’s chair, holding xemself in place, doing a poor job of concealing xyr excitement. The idea of investigating a mystery clearly thrilled xem.
Scribe IV had once presumed angels to be omniscient. Now, he understood that they were constrained by certain rules. Those rules were capricious, like the gods themselves. Prayer could compel an angel to act, bind them, but they were afforded certain graces as well. They could, for instance, choose how much to know, when to know it, much as Scribe IV himself could put his memories aside. It was a matter of mercy – in both cases – as much as anything else. He’d heard of angels who’d cracked under the weight of knowing everything all at once. He wondered if Angel had been old at one time, and had chosen to become something new, or if xe was truly as young as xe seemed.
“There were no obvious wounds on the body. I couldn’t immediately determine the cause of death. The Pope was holding a piece of paper in his hand, but it was blank.” Scribe IV tried not to be discouraged as he catalogued the lack of information aloud. “The one thing we do have, however, is motive. The Pope came to the Bastion to propose that all organized religion be abolished.”
“I suppose that would make a lot of people nervous,” Quin said. “But nervous enough to kill?”
“That, I do not know.” Scribe IV thought of Dominic’s words about Johanna and her dislike of the Pope. All those keys left in the dark under the Bastion… Might they be prayers for the strength to do something awful? More likely, Scribe IV was letting his own biased opinion of the Chatelaine get in the way.
“There’s one witness,” Scribe IV added. “Dominic discovered the body. I don’t know what else he might have seen. He’s young, and he’s terrified, but I believe we should question him before we run out—”
A bell tolled, cutting off Scribe IV’s words. Not the rolling sound, like a swell building, that had first announced the Sisters’ rising. This was sharper, a wave breaking. It made Scribe IV think of a wet finger dragged around the rim of a glass. A warning, purposefully delivered too late. Scribe IV hurried toward the ruined tower wall.
“Shit,” Quin swore behind him, and Scribe IV turned to see blood pouring from his nose like an open faucet.
If frayed tempers and bloody noses were the worst of it, the humans of the Bastion could count themselves lucky. Scribe IV had heard of far worse occurring as a result of the Sisters’ proximity – burst eardrums, blood clots. He’d heard of people not only fainting, but falling into comas from which they never woke after encountering the Sisters. He suspected at least some of the tales had grown in the telling, rumored horrors mixed with reality, which was bad enough.
“All persons present will remain inside the Bastion. Departure is not permissible. Failure to comply will be met with swift retribution.”
The words came from everywhere. Whatever the Sisters had used to jam communications let them broadcast as well, voices clear from beneath the waves.
Scribe IV peered over the ruined wall. A figure pelted across the open, rocky ground toward the bay where the emergency shuttles were kept. From this high up, Scribe IV couldn’t tell whether it was a member of the permanent staff, or one of the temporary workers hired for the conclave.
A wave smashed against the cliffside, but instead of falling back again the water whirled together to form a spout. The running figure skidded, trying to turn back toward the Bastion. The column of water swayed for a moment, sinuous and terrible, like the limb of some great sea beast. All at once, it fell – a lightning strike, pulverizing the fleeing worker. Bones snapped in an instant, flesh pulped into the ground. Scribe IV was thankful his hearing wasn’t sharp enough to catch the sound from here, but that didn’t stop him imagining it.
A damp, precise crater remained as the waterspout withdrew.
“This,” the Sisters intoned, as a second, lower bell tolled like a mourning echo, “is our mercy.”
How could they have known from beneath the waves? But then, they’d known about the Pope’s murder. Perhaps, among the many stories Scribe IV had heard about the Sisters, the one that claimed their dreaming god whispered to them ceaselessly was true. He’d often wondered why anyone would swear to such a faith, how they could stand it. Maybe it was this, and the lightless depths that drove them to mete out such extreme punishments. Or were those who chose to follow the Drowned God already cruel, and that was what drew them to their strange worship in the first place?
“They… they shouldn’t. They can’t—” Angel had appeared beside him, leaning against the ruined wall, bitten nails gripping the stone. All xyr earlier glee had vanished, xyr expression stricken.
“I’m sorry,” Scribe IV said. “If I’d realized…” If he’d prayed, would Angel have been able to intervene? Would the prayers of a machine even count?
If he prayed now, perhaps Angel could undo what had been done. “Could you—”
“No.” Angel cut him off, the word in xyr mouth a sharp command.
There was enough force behind it that Scribe IV felt a physical hand placed against his chest, shoving him back, even though Angel hadn’t touched him. Xe trembled, xyr eyes the purple-gray of a storm, sparked with lightning hidden within the clouds.
“I’m sorry,” Scribe IV said again, chastised.
He understood without the angel telling him – preventing death was one thing, but turning it back would be something else altogether.
Angel blinked, xyr eyes clearing, though a fragment of doubt lingered. Quin joined them at the wall. Red spattered his shirt and smeared his skin, but the bleeding had stopped. His expression was grim as he looked over the edge of the wall.
“I guess we’d better work quickly.”
* * *
Angel transported them to the corridor outside Dominic’s room. The shorter hop seemed to have less effect on Quin, but he still looked queasy. Scribe IV considered the wisdom of introducing the already traumatized boy to a blood-stained man and an angel, but he needed a perspective other than his own.
“Dominic?” Scribe IV knocked softly.
A quiet response from within, and Scribe IV pushed open the door. A sliver of gray-green light showed through the window, but otherwise, the room was dark. Dominic sat up in his bed, knees tucked to his chest, arms wrapped around them.
“Where’s Agnetta?” Scribe IV asked.
“She… went to get the tea from the kitchen, but she hasn’t come back.” Dominic looked uncertain, his gaze moving past Scribe IV to Angel and Quin.
“These are my friends,” Scribe IV explained. He hoped it sounded reassuring.
He stepped further into the room, Angel and Quin following him. “We’d like to ask you some questions, about what you saw in the Pope’s room.”
Dominic hugged his knees, expression still wary. Quin hung back, looking uncomfortable, but Angel drew closer. A faint glow radiated from xyr skin. Not enough to light the room, just enough to make the dark seem a little less.
“You don’t have to be afraid, Dominic,” xe said. “We only want to help. Are you able to tell us what you saw?”
“It was…” Dominic looked between all three of them again, his gaze not seeming to know where to rest. Finally, he settled on Scribe IV, something familiar. His small body trembled when he spoke again. “The crawling dark, sir. I saw the crawling dark.”
Behind Scribe IV, Quin’s breath made a strange hitching sound. Scribe IV turned as Quin took an unsteady step, as if the floor had suddenly tilted beneath him. Quin shook his head, a sharp motion, like trying to dislodge a fly from his skin, and braced a hand against the wall.
“Mr. St. John?”
Quin’s breathing had become audible, panicked. Scribe IV took a step toward him, but Quin’s head jerked up.
“I have to… I can’t…” The sound of Quin’s breathing worsened, color draining from his face.
A panic attack. He seemed on the verge of falling, but Angel caught and steadied him. Quin flinched at the touch, looking for a moment like he would strike Angel, before gathering himself, trying to regain a measure of calm. Scribe IV wondered if this was only the effects of being folded through space combined with the Sisters rising, or whether it was something else, something Dominic had said.
The crawling dark.
“I’ll take him back to Heaven’s Ark,” Angel said.
“Go,” Scribe IV agreed. “I’ll stay with Dominic.”
Space folded where Quin and Angel stood, there one moment, gone the next.
“Did I do something wrong?” Dominic asked.
“No. Mr. St. John is… ill. Is there anything else you can tell me, Dominic? When you say you saw the crawling dark, what exactly did you see?”
“It was like smoke, or a shadow,” Dominic murmured, hesitant. “Only it moved fast. It crawled across the room, and then I couldn’t see it anymore.”
A demon might move like smoke – so might a cloud of insects. Flies gathered around corpses, but they were rarely the cause of death themselves. As a murder weapon, both seemed impractical.
“Was the Pope already lying on the floor when you went in, or did you see him fall? Did he say anything?” Scribe IV asked.
“He was already on the floor, sir.”
“Did you hear or smell anything? Feel anything strange?”
“No, sir. I saw him there, and I saw the crawling dark, and I got scared.”
“And there was no one else around?”
“Miss Anna-Maria was in the hall when I ran out of the room. She yelled at me to stop, and then she screamed,” Dominic said.
He looked miserable. Scribe IV felt a measure of guilt for putting the boy through this questioning. He’d already been through so much.
“Was it possible she was in the room before you?” he asked.
“I don’t know, sir.” Tears edged Dominic’s voice, his distress audible.
Scribe IV couldn’t help thinking that Angel would be better at this. That xe or Quin would think to ask something he had not. Perhaps he should have taken them to examine the Pope’s body first, instead of bringing them here. Was he going about this all wrong? He didn’t want to push Dominic too far, frighten him more than he was already, but he was also aware that they were running out of time.
“Why were you in the Pope’s room, Dominic?” Scribe IV tried to ask the question as gently as possible.
The tears that had been hovering on the boy’s lashes spilled over. “I went to get the tea tray, but I saw the crawling dark and the Pope, and I forgot. I’m sorry.” Dominic buried his face against his knees, his shoulders shaking.
“You didn’t do anything wrong, Dominic.” Scribe IV hesitated a moment, then touched the boy’s shoulder. He made sure to keep the touch light, but Dominic shuddered nonetheless. Scribe IV drew his hand away.
“You’ve been very helpful. Thank you,” he said. “I’ll go to the kitchen and see if I can find Agnetta. If not, I’ll ask Seb to bring you the tea himself.”
Dominic snuffled against his knees, but he didn’t raise his head. It felt wrong, leaving him alone, but Scribe IV had no idea how to comfort him.
“Stay here,” he said. “You’ll be safe, and I’m sure Agnetta will be back soon.”
He rose from the bed. The frame creaked, but Dominic didn’t look up. Scribe IV hadn’t been programmed for this. Weight clung to his metal bones, weariness and age he shouldn’t be able to feel as he stepped back into the hall and shut the door behind him. He wanted to lean against the wall and rest, but a sound too small for what it portended sounded in the air.
Not a ringing this time, but a single chime, as of a hammer struck against the side of a bell, an eerie stillness falling in its wake.
Satisfied that they’d drawn out the torture long enough, the Sisters had finally arrived.
Scribe IV very much wanted to utter the curse that had occurred to him upon seeing the Pope’s body, but he resisted the urge. He pushed away from the wall.
It was time to go outside.
Scribe IV made his way through the halls and exited by the cliffside door one level below the kitchen. The air felt changed, like a viscous oil coating his bones, one he would never be able to wash clean. Even he could taste it – sour brine and rotting seaweed slicking his throat.
He kept his attention fixed on the stairs. There was no rail guarding them, the drop beside him sheer. It was so rare for anyone to approach the Bastion from the water that the steps could afford to be wholly impractical. They were narrow, the color of rusted iron, the texture of basalt, scarcely wide enough for his feet – purpose-built to look foreboding.
The wind blowing off the water came heavily laden with salt, but did nothing to dispel the rancid air. Even the sky looked wrong, less bruised-green now, more like something left to spoil. The delicate balancing mechanisms inside Scribe IV worked overtime. At least he didn’t have the indignity of human lungs to leave him winded as he reached the bottom and made his way onto the rocky shore.
Other Bastion staff members had gathered on the beach, drawn by morbid curiosity, or perhaps fear that not appearing would be worse. The news would have spread, and by now, no doubt it had already been embellished. Wild rumors and conspiracy theories regarding the Pope’s death, gossip instilling enough worry to make even the innocent uneasy and fearful of suspicion falling on them. Scribe IV caught Agnetta’s eye, but she ducked her head immediately, perhaps feeling guilty for leaving Dominic alone. Her shoulders hitched; Seb stepped closer to her, putting an arm around her for comfort.
Marius was there, but Scribe IV didn’t see Johanna or Anna-Maria. Did they have a reason to avoid the Sisters, or were they simply afraid? Judging by the miserable faces around him – more than one looking seasick as they huddled against each other – Scribe IV couldn’t assign suspicion simply based on who had appeared on the beach and who had not. As much as he might wish he could.
Scribe IV stopped where the hissing tide hit his toes, watching the water heave and roil. There was one last unbearable moment of tension – then the leviathan broke the surface, waves curdling and sluicing from its hull. Metallic and organic, built and born, a gift to the Drowned Sisters of the Deep from their sleeping god. Or so they claimed. Limbs unfurled, thudding to the stony beach and dragging the creature halfway onto the shore. Its vast maw croaked open, disgorging a quartet of passengers.
Anglerfish.
It was the first word that came to Scribe IV’s mind. Like the leviathan, the Sister leading the delegation seemed both organic and constructed. The protruding underbite of her jaw gleamed – metal and bone. In the center of her forehead, a light burned like a lure. Behind her, the three other Sisters arrayed themselves, heads not quite bowed, hands folded against their diving suits, which were more ceremonial than practical.
None wore gloves, revealing each had webbed fingers. Their heads were bare – two bore spiny, crest-like fins. One had eyes like lanterns. Each wore a chain around her neck, hanging almost to her waist, ending in a small bell.
Though he stood slightly ahead of the rest of the Bastion’s staff, the Mother Superior didn’t address Scribe IV in particular, but the whole beach. The same voice that had sounded out of the waves as the fleeing person was struck down, more muted now, resonated in his bones.
“The Bastion has been sealed and is now under the sole purview of the Sisters of the Drowned Deep. The investigation into the matter of His Holiness’s untimely demise is ours. You will be informed when your assistance is required. Until such time, you are all remanded to your rooms, where you will remain until summoned. A strict curfew will be enforced. Anyone found in violation of these or any other orders issued by any Sister, at any time, will be Drowned.”