The Grotesques (35 page)

“Drop your gun,” the policeman repeated.

“Is everything all right?” the policewoman asked Ella.

“Fine,” Ella said. Unwilling to explain the inexplicable, she slipped the shredded sketch into her jeans’ pocket.

“No,” said Doer. “My son is somewhere in this church.”

“There’s nobody here but us and the caretaker. Now put that gun down,” the policeman said.

“We found it on the roof. Genord shot at me last night. That could be the gun he used. Detective Sergeant Hamlyn has a full report,” Ella said. Wasting valuable time in a police cell while all this got sorted out was not on her agenda. In the mood Roan was in, he might just order Rob to forget about her for a few hours.

“And I suppose you were about to call the police?” the policewoman said.

“I was just getting my mobile out when you arrived, but we couldn’t risk Genord disposing of the evidence.”

“So you picked it up?”

“You should take it in as evidence.”

“Put the weapon down.” The policeman, disturbingly ill at ease, was shifting his weight from foot to foot.

Ella placed a hand on Doer’s extended arm. “You can’t help Brodie from jail,” she muttered through the side of her mouth.

“You didn’t think that gun would be registered to me?” Doer murmured to her.

“You’re smarter than that,” she whispered.

“Yeah, I am.” Eyes on the policeman, Doer lowered his arm and tossed the gun to his feet.

“Up against the wall,” the policeman ordered.

Genord chose that moment to appear at the top of the stairs. “You will excuse my old legs,” he said to the policeman, the younger of the two. “My rheumatic joints prevent me from moving as fast as I’d like.” The caretaker stepped onto the platform. The floorboards seemed to sag beneath their weight. Both officers looked decidedly uncomfortable.

Genord flashed a wicked smile. “I see you have apprehended the intruders. Well, Miss Jerome, it is always a pleasure. I do not believe I have had the honour of making your companion’s acquaintance.” Genord offered Doer his hand. Doer placed his hands on his hips.

“Do you know this woman?” the policewoman asked.

“She’s a reporter. Although, I believe I made plain the consequences of her returning the last time we met.”

Ella swallowed. A bat fluttered around Genord’s head. Romain followed its movement. When it dived down the stairwell, he shuffled to the stairs and went down, peering over the edge for signs of its progress. The young policeman let out a sigh of relief as the floor groaned its approval. Ella itched to follow the mason, but under the circumstances thought she had better stay put.

“You’ll need to accompany us to the station,” the policeman said, his pistol still trained on Doer as the policewoman slapped handcuffs on him.

“I want to know what happened to my son.”

“Perhaps you should assert more control over your teenager,” Genord said. “Now, officers, if you would kindly escort these trespassers off my property.”

The platform creaked in relief as they stepped off, Genord leading, Doer and Ella between the police.

At the last step, a bat swooped past Ella’s face. Throwing her hands up, she spun. The sudden movement unbalanced her. She toppled past the emerging policewoman back into the stairwell. She grabbed at the door. Her hands slashed through the air. The door banged closed.

ELLA RATTLED THE
handle of the door to the balcony.

“I’m afraid it’s an automatic lock,” Genord called from the other side. “A safety precaution, you understand. If you sit tight, I shall fetch the key.”

She yelped as a bat fluttered around her face. “Get me out.” She banged on the door.

“You bastard,” Doer said.

The scrapes and grunts of a scuffle penetrated the thick door.

“Cool it,” the policeman said.

More scuffing. Then the noise dimmed.

“Wait. Please.” They couldn’t just leave her here. Not with Genord just outside.

“We’ll be back in a moment, miss,” the policeman said.

“He’s done something to my son. He’ll kill her too.”

“That’s enough.”

From the continued thumps, Doer was not cooperating.
Idiot,
she wanted to shout. He was forcing both officers to accompany him. Before she could open her mouth, the bat tangled itself in her hair. She started, stepped precariously close to the edge and wobbled over the drop. Her arms flew in erratic circles until she steadied herself enough to ease to the wall. The platform had to be a whole lot safer than this. Wary of more bats, she clambered up on hands and feet; pride was not about to make her fall.

The wooden floor trembled as the door to the church thumped closed. The police had to come back for her. Surely if she didn’t come down, they would. They couldn’t leave her here with whirring wings and scaly feet latching onto her ear. She squealed as she swiped at the cloud dropping from the rafters. Battered from above, she dropped to her knees and covered her head. The swarm tipped her over. Her head dropped into the central chasm. The movement shifted her back, throwing her shoulders free of the platform. Her fingers raked the boards, seeking purchase. She struggled to sit up but the onslaught drove her further over the edge.

LA GARGOUILLE’S APPETITE
burned in Genord. It was an apt name Rouen had tagged to her. Her long slender throat ravaged the town, razing houses to the ground, drowning the cobbled streets down which lads foolish enough to pelt her hide with rocks fled. He watched her winged figure diminish in the distance, heard her bugles carry on the breeze. Her hunger penetrated every bone, its ache weakening her. She skipped over a hag, too shrivelled to provide nourishment, spied a maiden running for cover, young and tender, all alluring curves. Her talons rent the screaming girl’s shoulders as she plucked the lass from the streets, before—

Sickened, Genord wrenched his mind free and went to his bed, unable to blot the crunch of the girl’s broken body, the bloody taste of her raw flesh from his mind.
Alluring curves
. That one thought in the tumult of ideas had been his. That single one. When Gargouille returned, he would tease another fragment of her spirit into the crude carving he had buried in the slope. Such was the secret to his control. The fragmented spirit he could mould to his will, the whole—her power exceeded even his gargantuan mind. He fell asleep envisioning total obedience. And was woken by angry shouts outside his fort.

Shaking tumbled dreams of flight from his mind, he strode to the top of the wall. A rabble of townsfolk, haggard after months of conflict and ransoms, fell silent as he appeared. Arms pushed a reluctant Jeac to the front. The scrawny boy had grown into an athletic man but his cowardice had not diminished for he stammered without speaking a word.

Genord shook his head. “Why come if you lack the confidence to speak?” He started to descend, his mind already on the delights he would convince a maiden to perform.

“Wait.”

He turned. “You may speak.” The corners of his lips twitched. At that moment he was every bit the lord.

Jeac spat. The phlegm did not reach the wall but Genord’s smile died. “You think this is funny! You think this is just? Just what kind of man are you, Genord? We slaved for years to build your fort. We offer our choicest fruit and tenderest meat while our townsfolk starve. We tolerate flood and fire but now you allow your evil monster to take our daughters. You sick, misbegotten son of a demon. We will not stand for this. Do you understand? If we have to quit the town and leave you with nothing to plunder, you will not have our children.” He seized a pear from a cart laden with more bounty than Genord could consume and hurled it. Genord blasted it into mush before it was halfway across. It was a little magic. La Gargouille would barely notice the drain. This rabble, however . . .

He waited until they had wiped their faces of the splattered flesh. Placing hands atop the wall, he leaned forward. “Kneel.”

“Your dragon is not here—”

She did not need to be. Genord seized her lifeforce and drove it at Jake. Spirit talons rent long gouges through his skin. The imbeciles took their lesson, dropping to their knees even as they beseeched him to release their piddling leader.

“Please,” Jeac begged. Genord complied. The coward staggered into an old man, gasping for breath.

“Well?”

Shaking with anger, Jeac went down on his knees. Genord straightened.

“There are limits to even my power, Jeac. You sent mercenaries to attack.” Perched in the cave below, La Gargouille had slain with talon, teeth, and fire. In minutes, she had reduced the twenty to two fleeing cowards. “Flame and flight beget a ferocious appetite. In that famished state there is precious little that will satisfy her. She has tasted human blood. Now nothing else will suffice. Quit the town if you would save every life. But think on this. Where will you run? With La Gargouille acquiescing to my every command, the Frankish Kingdoms will bow before me.” A low trumpet embellished his last words. The dragon, it seemed, agreed. Genord tucked his hands behind his back, well proud of the terror he inspired.

“Damn it, Genord! Even you could not be so callous. Spare us death in the dragon’s belly. That is all we ask.”

Genord looked over the Seine to the skyline of the distant town. “If you wish to spare your daughters, provide her an alternative meal.” He made eye contact with as many men as possible. “A human meal. Once a year, on Samhain, offer her a sacrifice of your choosing. But be warned. If you attack her, she will strike back with no thought for who she injures. And maidens are ever more succulent than their fathers.

“Now Jeac, you will clean every last scrap of that pear from my entrance or I will unleash La Gargouille on your sisters.”

ELLA TEETERED ON
the edge of the stairwell, buried beneath a blanket of bats. The muscles around her hip tore as someone grabbed her leg and wrenched. She whimpered as splinters pierced her back, gasped for breath as her rescuer plucked the bats from her face and threw them against the wall.

A lion rushed past and dropped into the stairwell, wings spread to control her quick descent. Ella squealed before she collected the wits to recall it was Cecily.

The horned grotesque emitted a hopeful sound.

“Adam?” Ella whispered, trying to keep her eyes open.

One taloned hand reached out and stroked her hair, the other took her own. It really was him.

When he sprang away and snarled, wings spread to block the heavy feet labouring up, she could only murmur, “Don’t go.” Reaching for him, her hand brushed the disgusting body of a bat. She snatched it away. Immediate second thoughts had her grab the furred body. Fighting gut-heaving nausea, she hurled it at the approaching figure. In her current state, it wasn’t any surprise it fell well short of its target. She stomached her distaste and fumbled for another.

“Bats dead.” Romain stepped into view. The mason frowned at Adam then scratched his forehead. “How?” he asked.

Adam folded his wings and chattered wildly.

“You like girl. You help girl. Good,” Romain said. He limped to the door, unintentionally kicking several dead bats out of the way.

Ella winced as sunlight poured in. If she had understood Romain, Adam was alive now because he couldn’t bear her to be in danger. She needed to repay the debt. He had to understand. She crawled through the forest of bats. “The police . . . attack . . . grotesques.” The effort cost her. She dropped panting under Adam’s wing. Her blouse, wet and sticky with blood, clung to her.

Romain finally took notice. His lopsided smile reached from ear to ear. “Love. Ella sweet,” he said.

She only had time to hope the bizarre mason was professing Adam’s love and not his own before the echo of a scream sent shivers down her spine.

“The police,” she shrieked. Genord was likely two sacrifices closer to the culmination of his fantastical scheme.

“Oooh. Oooh.” Shaking his hands, Romain hopped from foot to foot.

Adam barked, and the mason sniffed. In one swift motion, Romain scooped her into his arms, a movement which sent stars flying across her vision.

SUDDEN COMMOTION INTERRUPTED
the daily grind of estate. Grateful for the respite, Romain closed the book. Figuring letters remained a struggle. Were it not for the eager tutelage of various kindly monks, he would have given up long ago. He was about to go in search of the disturbance when a young boy, forgetting the charter of order inside the monastery, rushed to his side.

“The king insists you come,” he gushed, his rosy face beaming. He had barely delivered the message before he was off again.

Undergoing a complete change of heart, Romain cast a longing look at the book. He picked up the cross from the table and slung it over his head. Its weight was both a constant burden and a comfort.

He found Clotaire the Second, King of all Franks, entertaining a baron in the great hall. The pair reclined on benches, a half-eaten plate of fruit on a low table between them. The king waved Romain forward. His long locks, already white from the tribulations of his reign, brushed slices of apple as he selected a segment of orange.