The Grotesques (40 page)

“No, you’ll not,” a red-headed woman said, twirling in front of him.

Jeac held her gently. “Now Rosalie, the deed’s got to be done.”

She shook her head. “I’ve lost my father and brother. Don’t think I’m about to lose you too.”

“You won’t, love. We’ll both be back for supper.”

“And what if you’re not? Troops of men have tried and failed and you’re going alone, with a priest who despises fighting and relies on an untried God.” She spun to face Romain, the glint of fury in her eye. “I refuse to become a Christian,” she said, folding her arms. “If you take Jeac, I refuse to be baptised.” Her mouth settled in a defiant pout. A brunette muttered agreement and then all the women stood united in their resistance.

“Rosalie,” Jeac started, cheeks colouring.

Rosalie placed a hand on his chest and pushed him back. Standing on tiptoe she kissed him full on the lips. “You’re staying.” He gazed at her, adoration softening his face.

Romain bowed his head.

The ashen-faced mayor cleared his throat. “We will recruit the prisoners on the death roll.”

Romain spoke gently. “I will take no one who does not volunteer.”

“A pardon to anyone who joins you.”

Excited mention of husbands, lovers, brothers mingled with murmurs of hope a volunteer would appear.

“That riffraff have no reason to court a painful death,” Jeac said, hugging Rosalie to him. They walked toward the jail, the mayor lamenting the town’s demise, Jeac brooding in silence.

“You are troubled,” Romain commented.

“You cannot know. Genord is to be executed.”

He had no answer to that, save to keep moving. Eventually he turned to contemplate the churning waters of the river. “Perhaps my brother shall redeem himself at the last.”

Jeac picked up a stone and tossed it into the waves. “For three months he has endured the gaoler’s fire without a peep of remorse. Come Samhain, he will suffer the fate he has inflicted on so many. I cannot imagine a single man, woman, or child will regret his demise.” He gestured they should walk.

The jail was ripe with the stinging fumes of human waste. Romain walked among the prisoners, giving blessings with watery eyes and burning throat as the mayor cajoled the miserable crowd.

“A pardon’s worthless if you’re mince in the beast’s stomach,” a one-eyed man growled. “I’d rather be torn from horses.”

A scrawny old wretch pressed his bearded face against the bars as Romain passed, grabbing at his robe. “’raps yer God’s ’ready blessed us in ’ere. We’ve lived longer ’an most in the town.”

“Repent and he will forgive all.”

“For killin’ me thieving brother-in-law? Never!” The man cackled and danced away before breaking into a fit of coughing.

At the end of the row, Romain stopped. A thin man sat tall on rotting rushes, eerily calm despite his squalid surrounds. Romain angled the cross through the bars and threw it to his brother’s feet. Genord did not so much as blink.

“Will you put this thing right?” Romain asked, signalling for the gaoler to open the door. He entered the cell, knelt upon the damp stone, and examined his brother’s weeping wounds. Raw flesh festered where blisters had ruptured from shackle and burn. When he had massaged the swollen skin, he rocked onto his heels, the cross at his side.

Without moving, Genord rested his eyes on Romain. “I wish to know the secrets of the cross.”

“Do you volunteer to face the beast?”

“To lead her to her death?”

“Yes.”

Behind them, someone inhaled. Genord’s chest rose and fell. Romain leant very close and spoke so only they could hear. “You will die, brother. They will burn you or worse. Please, Genord, earn your pardon and let us lay old grievances aside.” He made the sign of the cross and sat back.

Genord made the slightest movement of his head. “If I do so, will you entrust me with your secrets?”

“Yes,” Romain answered, forcing himself to misunderstand.

“I will wield the power of the cross.” Genord smiled his tight, supercilious smile.

“If we defeat the dragon, you shall know the power of the cross.” That, at least, was not a lie.

“Pledge this on the name of your God.”

“I solemnly attest by God that it shall be so.”

“Then, twin brother, I will accompany you to the dragon’s lair.”

The mayor looked from Romain to Genord, rising anger flushing his face. “These men are brothers? What conspiracy is born here?”

“I will vouch for the priest. The criminal I would just as soon slay as pardon,” Jeac said, staring the flustered mayor down as he huffed and stuttered his protests. “We have no choice.”

A smith came and cleaved the chains from the wall but left the iron cuffs secure.

Romain frowned as he examined the carvings on the bands. “These are pagan symbols.”

“The town will not chance this man resuming communion with the dragon,” the mayor said.

Romain held out a hand. Was it devilry Genord stood unaided? His brother’s smile was certainly so. Flushing, he bent to retrieve the symbol of his faith.

“Leave the cross, brother. It is surety of your bargain.”

“God’s might is not invested in icons,” Romain assured the murmuring mayor. He turned from his brother’s quivering shoulders.

His heart beat fast to retrace the steps of their youth, west along the marshy Seine. Silence was their companion: he could not voice his tumbling hopes and disappointments to a brother he yet doubted. The empty fort above the cave where the dragon rumbled in slumber was testament to his evil ways. The ghosts of a discarded carving yet haunted that cave and he wondered if he might ever find the heart to work another.

“I will not let her hurt you,” his twin said, misunderstanding his hesitation.

“You are no less vulnerable than I.”

“In body, true. In mind, I am fettered by these sigils.”

Romain nodded, but did not look at Genord’s outstretched hands. The cuffs would remain, however misplaced pagan symbols were in the work of the Lord.

With a shrug, Genord rubbed stones against his sores and threw them into the cave. Five it took before the growling sapphire dragon poked her head from her nest. Wings tucked, talons dislodging rocks, she dived into the river. Before the splash had stilled, she emerged close to the reedy bank, eyes gleaming, head twisting, back arching. Unconcerned, Genord strode toward her, holding out his shackled hands. Whatever his misguided brother had expected, had he not ducked and rolled, the dragon would have roasted him alive. His fingers singed, Genord regained his feet, not a hint of turmoil in his face or stance. Taking a deep breath, Romain stepped past him in time to see the dragon dip her delicate head, slurp water, and blow a stream that bowled the two of them onto the pebbly slope. Even wet and shackled, Genord stood with unnatural grace. Romain struggled to his scraped feet as his twin called La Gargouille’s name. The dragon thrashed her slender neck, slamming her jaw into the rock beside him. A chunk of the cliff rumbled down, sweeping them with it. Above him, the dragon’s nostrils flared as she sniffed the air, excited by the scent of blood.

Romain’s foot slipped on wood as he scrambled up.

Genord presented his hands. “Remove these, else I cannot control her.”

Romain picked up a crude wooden carving of a dragon. La Gargouille brought her head down, baring her fangs despite Genord’s command to halt. Tossing the carving between the dragon’s feet, Romain rushed his brother. The bear hug of their youth flattened Genord. Romain rolled onto his back and formed a cross with his fingers as a weighty foot crushed the carving to splinters. The blue spirits within sparked, burning the reflection of the cross into the looming dragon’s eyes. She froze, her fangs a hand span from a bite. Her head lolled and her muscles relaxed.

Genord rose as though lifted by spirits. He gazed at the dragon, his face again a mask.

“Behold, brother, the power of the cross,” Romain said, finding his feet. He ordered Genord to tear a strip from the bottom of his robe and fashion a leash. With it around the dragon’s neck, he stepped in and drew the symbol upon her breast. As docile as a lamb, she followed them down the path. Fearful peeps from behind charred huts became stares as brave youths stepped into full view and gawped at the dragon tamed. Younger children ran out and waved, then skipped along behind the beast. Men roused the swelling crowd to cheers, grabbed the girls, and danced along the street. It was a merry procession that arrived at the waterfront, where Jeac was throwing wood upon a pyre.

“Wait,” a woman called. Rosalie hurried forward, dragging a branch. The two exchanged a look of hope, then Jeac secured it to the vertical stake. When he stepped down and took Rosalie’s hand, Romain secured the dragon to the cross with the flimsiest of knots. The mayor raised a flaming torch and tossed it onto the pyre. Genord watched without a blink, one brow drawn, one hand working pointlessly over the shackle of the other. His swallow as a column of smoke rose masked an odd, fleeting look of despair. His silence as the wood flamed could not quell the blue tongues licking at the dragon’s hide. The flame grew tall, engulfing her, driving Romain from the searing heat. Around him, the crowd cheered as she crackled and crumbled to ash. When the flames had died, the dragon’s head was all that remained, too well tempered by the heat of her own breath to burn. Jeac seized it by a fin and held it high to the roar of the crowd.

“We shall mount this abomination on the new church, a reminder to all.”

The crowd bellowed. Romain sighed. One soul would not be assisting with that labour. He looked around, but Genord had slipped away. It was not hard to guess where. He entered the gaol, saying little to the gleeful prisoners demanding an account of the celebration.

“Come,” he said to Genord, retrieving the cross from his brother’s feet.

The townsfolk were waiting. Romain waded into the river and called them forth. One by one, he baptised them in the name of the new God. At the last, only Genord remained, a proud silent figure shunned by all. Romain dipped his bowl into the river.

“Will you come, brother? This is the key to the power of the cross, for it is a symbol of love and sacrifice.”

Without a word, Genord turned and walked away.

EVERY PAIR OF
eyes followed their progress through the station. The men formed a protective group around Adam, but he folded his leathery arms, kept his chin up, and glared right back. That degree of confidence was as alien to Ella as a dragon. She would have died of mortification. Still, any person disinclined to believe the tale she aimed to pen need only talk to a detective. There had to be over a dozen witnesses.

“We were never here, people,” Roan said as he turned a doorknob. “Rhymes, in my office.” He immediately drew the blinds on the glass partition and switched on the television. Every station showed a crawl declaring breaking news under footage of a microphone-clutching reporter doing his or her best to report on the commotion at the Port River. Considering the fear oozing from every pore of their body, they were doing a remarkable job in projecting a professional air. Ella almost itched to be back on location. One detail was keeping her here. He was huddling by the desk warning everybody except Romain away with a snarl.

“What the . . . ?” Roan said.

Ella looked at the screen. Bewildered, she blinked. The footage clearly showed snipers aiming at the centre of the spotlights. The wooden dragon body trammelled toward the men. Headless. Not even a flicker of blue topped it.

“But . . .” Ella said.

Roan stared at the screen a moment longer, then turned it off. They were learning nothing they did not already know. “I take it neither of you saw on the television what we saw at the canal?” Ella shook her head. Rob just did not answer. “Then somebody tell me what that dragon was because it sure as hell was not an illusion the way it attacked those men.”

Ella suddenly felt her limbs weigh heavy with exhaustion. “Romain, bring Adam back.” She moved between the mason and grotesque. “We need to know what he’s learned.”

“Can it wait?” Roan asked. He parted the slats on the blind, peeked through, then answered the timid knock. Brendan Rhymes stood there, gawking at Adam like a child. His eyes flicked to the crayon drawing of a pumpkin hanging behind the desk. Then he grinned as if he got the joke.

“Not where we’re going,” she replied. There was a limit to how far she would trust a felon. It fell far short of Adam’s life. “Brendan, will you tell Doer we need a safe place to meet, please?”

Brendan flinched and turned wary eyes on Chief Inspector Roan. He backed out as the chief gave him a scathing look that promised tardy consequences. When Roan turned his appraisal on her, she diverted her gaze. It was far too late for recrimination.

“Please, Romain.”

Adam chirruped at Romain. The mason’s face fell. He looked about to cry.

“Adam back.”

Ella stood on tiptoe and planted a kiss on Romain’s cheek. Adam growled, raising his wings the way Tilly would raise her hackles.