The Grotesques (24 page)

You’re Adam’s cousin?

Yes.

Where are you?

In front of you. You told the policemen who I am. Remember?

Dear God, she had too. But she hadn’t really
believed
it. And if she had reached that conclusion, then none of this could be a nightmare or hallucination. Calm was fast taking wing.
What’s hap-pen-ing?

The grotesque inclined its head at Romain, who shook his.
This is going to take a while. We need to get to the roof before dawn. Come. Slowly.
Her feline head nudged Ella’s shoulder.
Oh, and don’t try to fly. You’re not ready for it.

Ella’s frustrated exclamation was cut short by a shove from Romain. Left no real choice, she crawled forward, following the Cecily creature out of the workshop. A clink echoed up from the crypt. Rob had gone down there. Genord. She had to warn him. She waddled under the arch, tried to take a step, and tumbled down, legs and arms and wings tangling around each other. It would be just her luck to evade a gunshot but suffer a broken neck. People said you died for real if you died in your nightmares.

“What was that?” Rob was pointing his gun at Genord. She could just see him through the half open door. More importantly, he had heard her. She was about to be saved! Except Romain stepped over her into the crypt, kicked the door ajar, and stubbed the toppled candelabras into the coffins. Sprawled over the steps, Ella panted. Her legs and arms wouldn’t obey her brain.

“Where is she?” Rob asked.

No! Rob couldn’t just dismiss the sound like that. But Genord was ambling toward him.

“To whom do you refer?” His affable front was such a charade.

Rob saw right through it. He rammed Genord into the wall and cocked the gun at his head. “I’m in no mood for games.” She hadn’t realised he still cared so much.

“This is police brutality.”

The great leonine head bumped her.

“I won’t ask you again.”

She pushed herself to hands and knees, determined to roll the rest of the way into the crypt, but the furry mouth clamped on her leg.
You can’t. They’ll shoot you
.

Rob’s the one with the gun, she tried to say.

“If you are going to point a gun to my head, I must insist on calling my lawyer.”

Rob lowered the gun and shot the floor a centimetre from the bastard’s foot. “Ella Jerome. Where is she?”

Genord kept his mouth shut. Rob pushed him from the wall to the tombs and rammed him over the one with Ella’s effigy. “Open it.”

“You’ve already seen it takes—”

She pulled. The lion bit harder. She managed a growl but Romain was making so much noise as he slammed the candelabras back on their feet they didn’t hear.

“You got it here in the space of a few hours, you open it,” Rob said. He stepped back but kept the gun aimed squarely at Genord, who calmly placed a hand over the effigy. The air under Genord’s hand buzzed blue. Ella’s skin crawled as the marble slab scraped against its base and wobbled into the air. She told her sluggish arm to open the door.

Danes, who seemed to be keeping it together, balanced his hands on the rim and leant inside. “It’s clean.” He bent to examine the exterior, sliding one hand along the marble. “Where’s the trigger mechanism?”

The marble top crashed down, crushing one of Danes’ hands. The junior detective hollered. Rob jabbed his gun in his holster and pushed the slab, grunting with the effort as Genord looked on. Its almost imperceptible movement was sufficient for Danes to yank his hand free. His fingers bent at odd angles, his face contorted with pain as he bit back screams.

Ella started, knocking the door closed.

“You will forgive my restraint, but my back is not what it used to be,” Genord’s voice said. “You can see for yourself Miss Jerome is not here.”

The door opened. Romain squeezed back into the stairwell, banging the door behind him. She tugged but the beast held fast until Romain seized her under the arms and hefted her up. He lumbered all the way up to the nave and deposited her in the transept.

“Up or die.”

She waddled for the back of the church, for the foyer and entrance. If she reached the car she could radio for help. The lion grotesque flew over her head, made a dainty landing, and blocked her way with outstretched wings. The only other direction was up. She had to trust Rob would search the rest of the church. With each step her muscles limbered, and movement came more easily.

On the balcony, noise carried with startling clarity into her ears: the sweep of a stiff broom against stone; the regular tap of footsteps on the stairs; the crack of glass beneath soles; Danes’ voice,
They’re gone
; and Rob’s,
That’s not possible
; Romain saying
Bat’s up
; and Rob telling Danes they needed to check nave and roof.

The lion beast nudged her through the bell tower door. On the platform, it pawed the door to the roof, caught the latch, and swung it open. With a shiver of delight, it leapt from the outer steps and winged into position on the inner ledge.

Come, quickly, before we are seen
, the grotesque urged, turning her head to Ella.
Come sit next to me
.

Quuiiick
, Romain drawled inside her head.

Gripped by an attack of nerves, she backed away. Her unnaturally heavy limbs moved awkwardly, and she almost tripped over herself. The precipitous drop to the crypt set the bell tower spinning around her head. Suddenly the starlit expanse of the roof appeared safer than the claustrophobic confines of the belfry. She scrambled outside and onto the ledge. An icy trickle spread through her veins. The chill seeped into her hardening bones. Turning her head to the Cecily beast required such a show of willpower.

It’s okay
, the grotesque beside her said.
You can still talk to me.

Ella fought her rising inertia. The roof was not the haven she had imagined it to be. She had to get to the edge. She had to see if Rob and Danes were okay. She had to tell them she was here.

Don’t. Don’t fight it
. That was a new voice, stronger, deeper than the Cecily beast. A picture of the beaked grotesque with the bloodied wing filled her mind. Too overwhelmed to deal with the situation, Ella strove to cast the voices from her mind.

At last, someone has a body more beastly than mine!

Oh, be quiet Bekka
, Cecily said.
You remember what it was like
.

They just would not stop.
What’s going on?
Ella screamed to nobody in particular. Her entire body was frozen down to her smallest knuckle.

Romain saved you from Genord
. It was the second voice.

What has he done to me?

We thought you’d figured it out
. There was silence. A sigh when Ella offered no thoughts.
He has turned us into grotesques. You feel confused, but it will pass.

This isn’t possible.
She was tottering on the edge of hysteria.

Accept it. We’re the lucky ones. There were three girls. Genord got to them first.

Frightening scenes burst unbidden into Ella’s mind. A trusting girl with wavy brown hair hung on Genord’s arm. He whispered sweet nothings in her ear. Giggling, she tossed a note into the drophole as Romain, heavy pot in hand, lumbered toward the pair. Beside him, paws skittered over the floor. The girl looked up and screamed. It was Alicia Moffat.

Genord held up a hand. A lightning bolt of blue shot out. The grotesque whose eyes Ella had usurped feinted and yelped. The end of its wing drooped and it was pained into shivers. Still it stalked Genord long enough for Romain to grab the girl. She kicked and screamed, slipped out of his grasp, oblivious to where the real danger lay. The frustrated hunchback beat the pot against the wall. The whimpering girl sidled toward Genord. Romain charged her, pinning her against the wall. Wedging the pot against her right shoulder, he smeared a slurry along her arm and began the chant now ingrained in Ella’s brain. Alicia struggled but the mason’s bulk held her fast. The tips of her fingers blanched before becoming hard and brittle. The rot creeped along her arm and seeped into her shoulder.

The grotesque shrieked. Ella’s nausea swelled as bone splintered under Genord’s unnatural attack. Startled, Romain dropped his pot. The screaming girl ran for the exit, but the water in the drop hole churned and the ghostly dragon head emerged. It thrashed through the air, snapping at the grotesque’s heels. Romain formed a cross with his index fingers and held it high. Unperturbed, the beast roared. Romain crossed his arms. The dragon’s wooden neck still rose. Too late, he ran into the path of the dragon. It lunged, grabbed the girl around the waist and snapped her in half, as brutal as a monster of flesh. Genord laughed, the grotesque shrieked, and the ghostly beast slid into the water below. Blood spilled across the floor.

Genord walked to the severed torso, the triumph of a lifetime in the curve of his mouth. A blue spirit was rising from the broken girl. It looked like her. How could it look like her? She was struggling against him though his hands were at his side. She tried to drift into the sky but Genord shot the spirit into her tomb. It crackled and buzzed, trapped for whatever vile purpose he schemed. He turned from the stone, as if what he had done were of no consequence, and watched blood clot beneath the corpse. Lifting it as though it was no weight, he carried it to the hole and dropped it into the water.

“Fool,” he said to Romain. “A creature birthed under a cross cannot be defeated by it. My powers have grown, brother, and I will triumph.”

The scene abruptly changed. Ella was perched on the roof looking down on the grounds as a car pulled into a parking space. A naïve looking girl smiled as she picked up a note and read it. With a love-sick sigh, she entered the church. A grotesque with the face of a goblin and bat-like wings clambered from the ledge and bounded stiffly toward the door to the belfry. Inside, an agitated Romain shifted from foot to foot. He lumbered down the steps as the grotesque dropped down the central void, flapping wings furiously to halt its descent.

From the walkway, the pair looked silently down. Melanie Denham was in Genord’s arms. She was kissing him. His hands explored her body but his eyes travelled to Romain even as the girl rested her head against his chest.

“You really had to see me tonight?” she asked.

“I have a surprise for you,” the caretaker said, loud enough for them to hear. He led her to the steps, locking the grille behind him before the grotesque had winged its way down.

It took some time for Romain to descend to the nave and open the lock. When they reached the crypt, Genord was showing Melanie the tomb with her effigy. She gasped.

“It is only the privileged who are afforded a tomb in churchs, you know.” He stroked her hair and kissed her lips before turning her to face the tomb his body had been blocking.

She frowned. “That looks like —”

“Alicia Moffat. Yes, my dear.”

“Then you, and her?” Her voice cracked with hurt.

“No, my love. Never. There has only ever been you. It is only that her untimely death warrants a memorial. You would not begrudge her that, would you?” Her face lit up when he tucked her hair behind her shoulders. “There is, however, one thing you must do for me to earn the right to be buried here.”

“Anything.”

“I’m so glad to hear it.”

Genord guided Melanie to the gaping hole at the back of the crypt. Romain and the grotesque stole forward. Well aware of their presence, Genord kept the girl turned away from them. Ella sensed that after his failure with Alicia, Romain was reluctant to rush.

“The mystery of the church lies in that hole. You shall be one of the few to witness it. We must have a valid reason to inter your remains in the crypt after all.” She was oblivious to his mocking tone. Genord slid behind Melanie and placed his hands on her arms. “Look down and tell me what you see,” he whispered in her ear.

“There’s only water.”

“Only that?”

Waves lapped against stone. At the sound, the grotesque sprang toward Genord.

“You’re not nearly in time, brother,” he said, and pushed the unsuspecting girl into the hole. She fell with a splash that drowned her cry. She thrashed as Genord began to slide the floor stone back into place. Romain charged his brother while the grotesque pounced to the edge. The terrified girl ducked beneath the water to avoid a swiping arm, the only lifeline the snarling grotesque could offer. Changing tactics, the grotesque leaped toward Genord. The caretaker dodged, allowing Romain to drop an arm into the hole. The mason’s fingers, coated with sludge, brushed the girl’s before she slipped under again. He had barely started the chant, when the water turned red. He howled and howled as the grotesque snarled and clawed Genord. With casual indifference to his bloody scratches, Genord caught the bewildered, sobbing spirit and flung it into the tomb. It fought for release, and for one thrilling moment Ella thought it might break free. A tendril of blue, her young form, her innocent face, blurred out of the tomb. It zapped into the grotesque, which twitched and screeched until Romain slid his cross against its leg.