The Grotesques (21 page)

She scuttled back, gun pointed. Her chest was tight, her hand shaking, but she could swear she had hit the psychopath. Except, bloodless and unhurt, he was rising like some fiend from a horror movie. Somehow she found her feet and fired again. He walked straight through her shots, forcing her against the rough wall. His hand seized her wrist, squeezing and shaking until she dropped the gun. Ella kicked out, sending it sliding. Unbalanced, she lost her footing. With phenomenal strength, Genord dragged her up as the gun hit the corner of the dislodged flagstone. Her shoulder burned as he stretched her arm. She struggled to get her feet under her but her shoes kept slipping. In a desperate bid, she slid her body forward and used her foot to knock the gun. It plopped into the water. Genord seized both her wrists and jerked her to her feet at the edge of the hole.

“They—know—where—I—am, Genord.” She could barely stand, she was so scared. She found herself praying for any end except this, where all that remained of her would be a severed, petrified limb.

“It matters not. I am ready to reveal my might to the world.”

She eyed the hole. Her fingers clutched at his clammy wrist. “If we struggle, there’s as much chance of you going into that hole as me.” She was tense, ready to scratch and bite, but he was so much stronger than she.

“No, my dear there is not.” He let her go. Just like that.

She backed away, wondering why he had changed his mind, not trusting his derisory smile. The ghostly blue image of a dragon head writhed out of the wooden neck. As its glow brightened, Ella bolted for the stairs. Blue light flashed around her. She was going mad because all she could think, before pain seared through her, was it took the crazed, screaming form of Alicia Moffat, pulling at her hair, scratching at her eyes, kicking her back. She collapsed. The world darkened and lights spun about her head. The next thing she was aware of was Genord standing over her.

“You see,” he said. “I have no need of so crude a weapon as a gun, but to convince you otherwise would have deprived my pet of power, not to mention me of my amusement. I so desired you meet your death fully conscious of your fate. There is power in fear, Miss Jerome, and I have not yet come into my full measure.”

He grabbed her arm and dragged her. She forced her weakened legs to bend. Her strength had ebbed too far for her to tackle her captor, but she was not going to make this easy for him. He dumped her by the hole and stepped round to kick her in. The blue head was shining above the water. Its teeth were solidifying into terrifying fangs. She grabbed the edge, a ploy that would grant her seconds at best, and braced for the impact. As Genord raised his foot, a yell split her head. Romain was rushing at them, a heavy candelabra in his hand. Its candles streaming flame, he swung it at Genord. Mid-way through the arc, Alicia’s blue spirit crackled through the metal. Romain howled and dropped it. Candles rolled free, their flames flickering out. The teeth in the dragon head dulled as the wooden neck descended.

Ella was not about to wait to see who would prevail. She rolled onto her hands and knees and crawled toward the tombs, grabbed a corner of one to help her up, then scampered through the crypt and up the stairs. Feet pounded behind her. She dared not look back. Tripping over the top step, she slammed the door closed. It sprang open before she had cleared its arc, knocking her to the ground. Scrambling up, she headed for the stairs, but a rough hand shoved her toward the workroom door. She collided with the wood as Romain’s husky voice rasped at her.

“In. In.”

Shoving her away from the handle, he yanked the door open. Ella, panting heavily, considered fleeing to the nave. Just her luck the transept above was dark, no indication that Rob and Danes had found a way in.

“In or die.” Romain, clawing at his face in agitation, stared at the arch behind the steps. A drop of blood dribbled down his cheek and onto his chin. Footsteps echoed. He gawped at her and fled into his room. As Genord reached the chamber, she dashed after the hunchback. As soon as she was through, Romain banged the door closed. She heard a bolt scuff home.

The windowless room was pitch black. Hands in front of her, Ella shuffled forward and stubbed her toe on a tool. Moving around it, she bumped into the central workbench.

“Shh,” Romain cautioned.

Ella gripped the table, sure she would collapse without its support. Determined to put as much distance as possible between herself and the door, she edged toward the back.

Genord’s icy laugh echoed around them. “You do realise you are trapped, my dear. Submit to me or succumb to Romain’s special treatment. If you knew what he has in store for you, I think you might open the door.”

Ella forced herself to take slow, full breaths. The room was stuffy and stale with a musty odour that brought a sharp recollection of the night of the fire.

“No?” Genord continued. “Very well.”

The odour intensified. Ella felt goose bumps erupt along her arms. Romain hobbled about, seemingly oblivious to the tools he kicked. It was a small mercy the noise allowed her to track his progress but the flapping that stirred the air above was a curse. Ella felt her chest tighten. She patted the table, searching for something she could use as a weapon. Her hand closed on a chisel. She seized it so tightly her knuckles hurt.

A thump shook the door. It was followed by another, and the sound of dry wood splitting.
My God
, Ella thought as she suddenly comprehended the reason for the crisscrossed wooden beams,
Genord’s breaking through. He must have done this before
. An image of the missing girls cowering in this trap with Romain, whose sanity she did not fully trust, flashed through her mind. At the third thump, a draught stung her eyes. Something settled on the workbench. She heard it shift, nails clicking on the wooden surface, felt a breeze from the flap of what she could only guess would be wings. Just when Ella thought she would be sick, Romain lit a candle. The pale flame illuminated a monstrosity perched at the other end. Crouched on sinewy haunches, it watched the door, head ducked between shoulders, wings tucked as though ready to pounce. One candle after another sprang to life, each accentuating the impossibility of the beast. Fear alone kept Ella on her feet. She raised the chisel, ready to strike. The beast turned a lioness-like head toward her, its snarl flashing razor-sharp canines in warning before turning back to its post.

Genord continued to strike the door. A stray thought of the psychopath hacking Alicia Moffat to pieces materialised in her brain. Alicia metamorphosed into her. Frantic, Ella looked around the room and sprang at the inner door. She yanked it open. It led to a spartan bedroom, with nothing more than a cot and a wardrobe and no way out.

A rough hand seized her shoulder. Screaming, Ella spun round and jabbed with the chisel. Her arm arced through air. She overbalanced, would have fallen had Romain’s hand not been bracing her shoulder. With surprising force, the hunchback wrenched the tool from her hand and flung it across the room. It clanked against the side bench, falling to the dirt floor with a dull thud.

“Quiet,” Romain drawled, his lips contorted into an open-mouthed grimace. His eyes darted from side to side as though searching for the enemy, who, as far as Ella was concerned, was clearly behind him. “Quiet,” he repeated more softly, when Ella had forced herself to stillness. Every fibre of her being was rigid in anticipation of a life or death fight. Her spread fingers formed claws by her side. The back of her head was pounding from the tension in her neck. Her eyes searched vainly for a substantial weapon while tracking Genord’s progress into the room and watching the unnatural creature that thankfully remained intent on the door.

“Yes.” Romain nodded at her. “Quiet. Still.”

The hunchback hobbled to the side of the room, returning with a large iron pot he struggled to sit on the workbench. The tip of an axe cleaved through one of the planks in the door. The surrounding wood cracked and splintered as Genord struck again. Romain started hyperventilating. He removed a knotted wooden cross from the wall and jabbed it into the dirt in front of the door, then pointed to the door and muttered something incoherent. The cross began to glow. Sigils lit up along the jamb. Crazy how the thing she fixated on was the segment missing from that cross, a fragment that matched the splinter she had removed from Joanne Travellian’s bust. She hadn’t noticed the first time she had seen it; the defect had been on the far side, but oh dear God, here was proof Romain had murdered Joanne. He was going to sever her head and turn it to stone.

“You force me to this,” Genord said. Blue light cracked through the wood leaving a fist-sized hole. The surrounding wood smouldered, the hot red splinters threatening to burst into flame. The light from the cross flared, and the embers died.

Ella cursed whatever black cult she had stumbled into. Eyes glued to Genord’s progress, she didn’t notice Romain had procured a knife until he slit her finger in a quick movement that was over before she could react. Shocked, she backed away, staring at her throbbing middle finger and the blood it dripped onto the dirt floor. Romain shadowed her movements. As she bumped against the wall, he held the rusty, blood-stained blade between their faces. Ella raised a protective hand.

“Blood,” Romain demanded. “Blood or die.” He pointed the knife at the pot.

Blue light flashed through the wood, widening the hole to the size of a dinner plate. Romain jumped nervously. “Quick,” he rasped. Ella stood frozen to the spot. He grabbed her and dragged her to the workbench. Dropping the knife, he held her hand over the pot until three drops of blood had stained the grey sludge inside. Releasing her, he mixed the blood in.

Ella snapped out of her daze and lunged for the knife. She pointed it at Romain’s back. He ignored her until he grunted in satisfaction and turned, pot hugged to his bulky frame.

“Still,” he said.

Knife ready, Ella glared as he approached.

Romain risked a quick look at the door. “Still or die. Trust or die.”

Eyes narrowed, she said, “I’ve learned not to trust,” and wondered if she could take a life. She shuffled backward. Stopped as she realised she was trapped between the snarling beast and the advancing mason.

“I’m warning you,” she said, jabbing with the knife.

The next moment she dropped the knife as she was knocked to the ground. The creature sat atop her chest, pinning her, crushing her lungs. She fought to bring her arms over her face but they were trapped against her side. The beast lowered its face to her own. Ella’s eyes widened. She would have sworn the liquid eyes showed intelligence. It turned a pitying gaze on her before rasping its tongue across her face. Ella squeezed her eyes tight and turned her head. Any death was preferable to this. Then the grotesque hopped off and returned to its post. Romain extended a calloused hand. Shaking, Ella accepted his help to rise. The creature looked over its shoulder at them. This time it seemed to beg. Its wings open, it raised a paw toward the rapidly disintegrating door. Its nails were extended in threat but it guarded the torn membrane of one wing. Romain clucked in sympathy. Scraping some sludge onto two fingers he daubed it on the wounded area. The beast made a sound almost like a purr. It leapt onto the table, fixed her with a quizzically beseeching gaze, then returned its concentration to the door.

Romain faced her again. His face had relaxed into calmness. “Trust.”

Ella nodded but bent to retrieve the chisel. She meant to keep a firm grip on the tool. Her eyes darted to the knife, and she calculated how long it would take her to reach it should Genord break fully through, an event that seemed imminent.

Romain scooped handfuls of sludge and smeared it across her shoulder. Iciness penetrated her clothes, froze her skin, and seeped into her bones. Her heart began to slow, her breathing steady. Romain smiled lopsidedly at her.

“Good. Trust. Yes.” He mumbled words that sounded suspiciously like a chant. The room seemed to fill with energy. The area brightened. The beast was purring. Her mind cried out for her to move, but she found both her will and body sluggish.

“Still or die,” Romain, agitated again, cried before resuming his chant. He worked systematically, covering every inch of her body. With each smear, Ella found herself drifting deeper into sleep. Her blood grew cold. Her mind numbed. She struggled to retain her thoughts. One by one, they faded until she harboured no sense of danger. She was barely conscious of Romain pulling the chisel from her hand as the muscles in her body tore and knitted, tendons and ligaments stretched, nails grew, and skin hardened.

A new awareness crept into her. Romain was crooning over her. His hands stroked her as if she were a pet. Their path was odd, and she was unable to reconcile it with the curves of her body. She wanted to brush his hands away, but her own would not comply with her desire.

In a flash of blue light, the wood rent wide enough to admit Genord. The caretaker stepped gingerly around the cross, ever so careful not to touch the wood as the beast pounced. He sidestepped, revealing that horrendous dragon-head of light. A spear of blue flame left its mouth. The grotesque struggled into the air. The sickly smell of singed fur filled the room. Then Genord sighted her. His face purple with fury, he flicked his wrist. Another flame spurted out of the light. Her body did not obey her command to move. It crashed into her shoulder, but the pain she expected never came.

Romain shoved Genord. “Lose. Mine.” The grotesque settled on the table, snarling, though one paw dangled limp.