The Grotesques (39 page)

“Can you come back to me now?” she asked, because she
was
in love with him.

He climbed onto the wheel and reached a clawed finger to brush stray strands of hair from the wound on her forehead. He was covered in vicious bites. Tearing off a sleeve of her blouse, she cleaned the wounds on his arms and legs, quivering as a dying bat flopped onto her foot.

THE PATHETIC PRISONER
punched his bound hands into a jowly chin and dug an elbow into stomach. A third guard hit him on the back of his neck, kicked him into the dirt, and hauled his screaming hunk of flesh to the river.

The stake driven into the bank was a fitting monument to Genord’s beloved, a perfect, permanent reminder of Rouen’s obligation. How completely La Gargouille agreed, for when she sniffed the scent of fear, she snorted two columns of steam.

Ignoring the prisoner’s hysterical pleas, the guards, almost as pale as their charge, secured his bonds not a moment too soon to evade an impatient tongue of fire. Genord laughed as the prisoner emptied his stinking bowels. Smirked as the craven mayor spewed a breathless stream of a verdict.

“Bernard Lavot, for the crime of murder while looting, having been discovered in the act by the homeowner, you have been sentenced to the penalty of death, to be carried out at the hand of the dragon, La Gargouille. Your life is this day forfeit, the fifth such prisoner to suffer this fate.”

Genord released his dragon. She lunged, seizing her sacrifice about his ample waist. A jerk of her neck tore the stake from the ground. It dangled by a single rope, jangled as she shook her head to free her meal. She was pure beauty when she extended her slender neck to let her sacrifice slide down her gullet.

The dragon had her fill, now Genord needed his. He let his eye rove over the gawking crowd. It was fitting that the only lass not to avert her eyes had hair the colour of flame cascading down her back. She fixed him with a coquettish smile and batted long eyelashes his way. Genord beckoned. She hesitated, then slid up to him and ran a finger along his arm, no longer coy but alluring. Genord inhaled the sweet scent of hay. This peasant’s daughter was no queen to enthral in her husband’s chamber but there was no reason he should be denied a flattering bedfellow until the day of greater bounty. He gripped her wrist, pulled her mouth to his, and kissed her with rough desire. She resisted an instant, succumbed to his brief liberty, then placed a hand on his chest and broke away.

“Will you deliver what you promise?” he asked, eyes narrowed in scrutiny because hers spoke of more innocence than she would have him believe. “I would gift you riches the like of which the Queen has never seen.”

Her mouth twitched. Without a word she scraped the back of her fingers across his chest, skipped out of his reach, and beckoned.

“It’s too close,” she whispered every time he sought to pin her down, and skipped toward the woods.

There was relish in the anticipation. Genord allowed her the leash. It gave him time to imagine the pleasurable ways she might serve. When at last she pulled him into the canopy of a willow, below a slope where a fallen log fronted some bracken and beech grew tall all around, he was tight with lust.

“Do you like it?” she asked, walking backward with a tentative smile.

“I like what you offer.” He pushed her to the ground. She cried out as he climbed on top of her, moulding her soft body to his own. She squirmed as he kissed her, gathered up her faded dress, and worked his hands inside her warm undergarments.

“I want you to touch me,” he said.

She gasped, raised a tentative hand to his face looking every bit as scared as all the other wenches he had forced his desires upon.

“Not there,” he said, taking her hand and dragging it down. She strained against his pull but he had the way of it, laughing because her resistance aroused him to a frenzy he was sure no willing partner could elicit. Grabbing a handful of her hair, he moved his lips to her ear to make the threat that never failed to cow. “You would prefer to play with me than with La Gargouille.” He linked with his dragon, and her bugle drifted to them on the wind.

She went limp. It was a start but she wasn’t weeping yet, and this tease needed to be taught a lesson. He tore open her bodice and fondled her white breasts.

“Now kiss me,” he instructed, “because you will participate in this.”

Her eyes strained to the side but there was no escape from his pleasure.

“Need I call the dragon before you behave?”

On an intake of breath, she gave the tiniest shake of her head, then lifted her head and brushed his lips with her own.

“Not passionate enough.”

He had hardly voiced the thought when a blow to the back of his head knocked him onto the wench. He fought to summon his power, but the splitting pain muddled his thoughts. He heard a gruff voice say, “You did real good, Rosalie.” Then he took another bludgeon to the head, and the world turned black.

ELLA SNAPPED OUT
of the vision to find traffic whizzing past, screeching and swerving as drivers looked through rear view mirrors at the peculiar sight. Impatient, Adam hustled her to the pavement. One wing drooping, Cecily limped to Romain. She sat at his feet and nuzzled his hand. Her wounds looked deeper than Adam’s. Ella bandaged the worst with the other sleeve from her shirt. Romain observed her every move with the air of a protective father while Adam pointed to oozing flesh with worried clucks.

“Can you heal them?” Ella asked the mason.

Romain frowned. “No heal.”

His miraculous gravelly paste was worth a fortune if he cared to patent it. Those wounds could turn septic, but did the grotesques need a doctor or a vet?

“What do we do now?” she asked Rob.

“We get ready to fight.” The detective was looking down the road. A black BMW braked in front of them.

“Who is he?” Ella asked as Osborne climbed out. He was flanked by two suits, who revealed their firearms by brushing their jackets aside as they placed their hands on their hips.

“Someone we’re probably going to regret crossing.”

Cecily and Adam began a heated exchange of chirps and growls.

“One go. One stay,” Romain said.

“You need to make a decision fast,” Ella said.

Adam growled at Osborne and spread his wings. Without warning Cecily pounced on Adam, flattening him. She planted a slobbery lick across his face and sprang into flight.

“Detective, the monsters and the mason, please.”

The stocky trooper aimed and shot at Cecily. She screeched and tumbled. Romain howled. Adam flew at the shooter and grappled with the gun, biting into biceps when the suit refused to let go, twisting so his taller partner did not have a clear shot. When Cecily righted herself and struggled over the shops, Ella let out her breath.

“Igulum,” Romain moaned.

“There are no monsters here,” Rob said. “And the mason is being detained for questioning in an ongoing murder investigation.”

“Igulum.” Romain looked up. Another grotesque was labouring toward them.

Osborne looked down his nose. “What could you possibly learn from the gibberish of a severely disabled man?” He turned to the taller suit, who was attempting to prise Adam off his comrade. “Shoot it.”

“No!” Ella screamed.

A gun fired. The stout suit yelled and collapsed. Her faithful detective had his smoking gun trained on Osborne. Ella stomped on the suit’s arm, kicked the gun from his reach, and looked at Rob in dismay. This time she was going to jail for a very long time.

“Ella, get Adam and Romain out of here.”

“Your career is over, Detective.”

Ella leaped on the gun. Osborne’s men struggled up and moved to take Romain. Thank their lucky stars a withered grotesque not unlike Adam dropped in front of them, swinging his wings and clawing at their torsos. Ella grabbed Adam’s leathery hand and ran, Rob and Romain on her heels.

A gunshot cracked. A plaintive shriek shattered the night. Ella faltered. Romain cried out. Back on the road, Igulum lay crumpled in a pool of blood. A precise lift of the arm had Osborne aiming the gun at the old god’s head. Ella covered her mouth as the grotesque crawled toward the car, his tough hide scraping the bitumen. Grimacing with pain, the tall trooper opened the trunk. His stocky comrade reached for a length of rope. Oblivious, Igulum dug talons into the front tyre. Osborne watched while his man kicked and shoved to prise it free. Holding fast, the grotesque heaved forward and sank fangs through the tread. Air hissed. The heavy stepped back.

“No!” Ella screamed.

Too late.

Osborne shot the grotesque in the head.

A moment of stunned silence answered the explosive shot. It caved into Romain’s sobs and Adam’s distressed roar. It took all Rob and Ella’s strength to prevent the mason running to the dead grotesque.

Osborne gestured their way. As one, the three men approached.

They ran. Adam tumbled over his feet.

A car swerved around Osborne’s vehicle and pulled up beside them. The driver reached over to open the passenger side door.

“Get in,” Chief Inspector Roan said. He ignored the red lights as he sped down Port Road and turned onto West Terrace. Wedged between Adam and Romain, Ella couldn’t reach her seat belt. She gritted her teeth and held onto the seat.

“We need somewhere we can talk. Osborne will have any place he can associate with us covered. Any ideas?” Roan asked as he wove through traffic.

“I might know somewhere,” she said. “But we’ll need Brendan Rhymes to set it up.”

Roan fished a mobile out of his hip pocket and tossed it back. “We’ll pick him up at the station.”

THE HUT WAS
a tangle of collapsed beams and charred wood. Voices echoed through its ruin, the laughter and tears of two young boys mixing with the sorrow of a burdened father.

“You’ll want to be on your way. This town does not welcome strangers.”

Romain let out a nostalgic breath, unsure how long he had been standing there, unsure when the athletic man with the battle axe raised across his chest had arrived. “I am no stranger to this town. Can you tell me where I might find Hubin, the fisherman who lived here?”

The man squinted. “Romain?” he asked, incredulous.

“It is I. And you . . . ?” Haunting memories of a younger face surfaced. “Jeac.” The man gave a tight smile. “What has become of my father?”

“He’s dead. Like half the inhabitants of this cursed town.”

Jeac gestured and they walked along the muddy river, its sombre waters reflecting the dark menace of the clouds. The few boats braving its channels ran a hurried, furtive course. An uncommon number of fishermen worked from the banks, their shoulders drooping over their meagre catch. Romain’s brief blessings did nothing to lighten their cheerless mood. Jeac stopped before they entered the town. His gaze roved over the agitated Seine. “You do not ask how your father died, or what has become of your brother.”

“News has filtered through the kingdoms. I may guess at both.”

Jeac met his eyes with suspicion. “Why have you returned?”

“Would you be rid of this dragon?”

“The infernal beast cannot perish from any wound inflicted by man.”

“By man, no, but God’s hand is stronger than all.”

Jeac’s eyes fell to the cross around Romain’s neck. “You are a man of this Christian God, and so you believe. Our gods have forsaken us. We have no faith to place in another’s religion, nor strength to hope, when we know it will crumble under a single blast of the dragon’s breath.”

Romain took the cross and held it high. “Do you wish to be free of the dragon?” he called. Nothing but sour resentment answered him in the glances of fisherfolk and farmers. “In the name of the Christian God I will rid you of the beast if every last one of you will be baptised into the faith.”

Sunbeams broke through the clouds, gilding the symbol of his faith. Its glow swept aside the morning grey. One by one, the fishermen dropped their nets, the farmers their baskets. They shuffled from every direction to surround Romain, years of joyless existence etched in the premature lines on their faces. Romain laid hands on each in turn, murmuring blessings. When each looked up a spark of life had returned to his eyes. One youngster nudged his way between the press of bodies and tugged upon Romain’s belt.

“Save us,” he said.

Romain allowed him to touch the cross. “Only God may do that.”

Jeac pulled the child back. “Do not make false bargains, Romain. It will mean your death if you do.” His flat voice held defeat, not threat.

“I ask only for one to accompany me,” Romain said.

Hush descended. Faces fell into wariness.

Romain looked around the crowd in dismay. “Will no one volunteer?”

The men refused to meet his eye. The women clung tightly to their beloveds’ arms, their sidelong glares warning him off calling on their man. Jeac, shoulders hunched, took a deep breath and raised his head.