Bless the Child (63 page)

Her heart still hammering, Maggie doubled back and tried the door knob, gingerly. Inside, another stairway led upward, and she was surprised to see a sky full of stars above her head where the ceiling should have been.

An observatory! Of course. The perfect place to stash Cody on this star-crossed night.
Oh, please dear God,
she breathed as she tested the stair for creaks,
let her be up there! And don’t let the entire coven be guarding her.

Maggie climbed the stair, her heart in her throat; when she reached the top, she took a deep breath and peered over the edge of the landing. Cody lay on a leather couch, still as Sleeping Beauty on her bier. She was dressed in what looked like a miniature wedding gown. The exquisite white dress trailed a train of lace to the floor, clothing the child in ethereal splendor. Her pale blond hair was fanned out around her cherubic face, and there was a wreath of white flowers encircling her brow. She looked like she was lying in state.

Tears filled Maggie’s eyes at the sight of her; Cody looked so frail, she was nearly see-through. She forced her thudding heart to quiet, and studied the woman, who sat beside the small captive in an armchair, studiously reading a book. Thank God the chair faced Cody, not the stairs.

Stealthy as a cat burglar, Maggie crept inch by inch toward Cody’s guard. A single palm strike to the back of the head knocked the woman unconscious before she knew what had hit her; Maggie tied and gagged her without a pang of conscience and turned to the child on the couch. Cody hadn’t stirred a muscle.

Maggie picked up the beloved child, hugging her, kissing her sweet face, whispering to her urgently, but there was not the faintest flutter of response. Hastily, she pulled the wedding dress off Cody’s comatose body.
Bride of what?
she wondered, glad not to know the answer. She couldn’t be carried in that trailing dress, that was certain, but now there was nothing to clothe her in. Maggie slipped off the fur vest that was part of her costume, and wrapped it around the small body that looked so terrifyingly bloodless.

Trying to keep her wits about her, she examined the observatory windows for escape; the drop was precarious, and she’d have to carry Cody’s weight. Her spirits flagged . . . to get this close and then have no way out was unthinkable. She’d have to get to the second floor and hide until there was a chance to steal down the servants’ stair. Or, maybe the roof was flatter in another part of the house, and she could use that escape route. One thing was certain, she couldn’t stay where she was.

Maggie tried to find a comfortable way to carry the sleeping child, but it was nearly impossible; Cody weighed thirty pounds, all deadweight. Doing the best she could with her burden, she made her way carefully down the observatory stair.

Anxiety escalating, she stole out of the stairwell and made her way toward the main staircase. She managed to reach the second floor without incident; once there, she ducked into an empty bedroom and laid Cody down on a chaise, grateful for the momentary respite. The child’s weight was a serious problem.

Maggie glanced anxiously out the window, and saw that the roof below slanted downward at an impossible angle.
Damnation!
There would be no way out except through the guests or the kitchen help, either of which was hopeless.

Maggie touched the sleeping child’s face, tenderly brushing back a strand of golden hair. There was perspiration on the little brow, and her skin was clammy.
God damn these bastards to Hell for twice eternity, for whatever they’d done to her!
Maggie realized suddenly that she felt as much anger now, as she did fear. Maybe that was a good thing.

She kissed the soft pale cheek and lifted the child again into her arms . . .
“I’ll do the best I can for you, sweetheart,”
she murmured resolutely.
“May God help us both.”
Cody’s head lolled on her shoulder, the small arms hung limp at her sides. Maggie crept out into the corridor, heading inexorably toward the stair.

She could just get outside this horrible house and onto the grounds, the boat wasn’t more than a hundred yards away.

Ghania
was talking to Senator Edmonds on the beach, when suddenly her head came up, and she began to sniff the air like a bloodhound on a scent.

The Messenger was being moved!

By all that was unholy! Someone was trying to remove the child from the house.

She shouted to the guards to attend her, and hurried back toward the brightly lit mansion.

Maggie
glanced down the back stairwell and saw a gaggle of servants at the bottom; one of them was a Vannier maid, who had seen her on two occasions and might recognize her. She ducked back, breathless, trying to decide what to do next. Every minute in that house brought them closer to 11:43.

Maggie made her way back to the central stair, and looked down trepidatiously; to her relief everyone seemed to be gathered in the garden or on the beach, and the room below was clear of guests. Clutching Cody, she started down the stairs, just as Ghania and two men entered the huge foyer from the opposite side of the house.

With no choices left, Maggie frantically cleared the bottom of the steps and made a desperate run through the French doors, sheltering Cody with her own body, as she sprinted across the lawn.

Ghania was shouting, people were running in all directions. A man lunged at Maggie, and she managed a fierce kick to his ribs that sent him staggering, but there was another one, behind him. She couldn’t fight with Cody in her arms, and she couldn’t risk putting her down. Someone hit her from behind and she launched a lethal spinning back kick at him, that must have shattered his jaw. She found there was a bizarre calm that had engulfed her, and everything was happening in slow motion. There was no past or future . . . nothing but the moment and the battle and the child.

Maggie heard the sounds of broken bones, without knowing whose they were. Cody was lying on the ground at her feet, but she didn’t remember putting her there. She crouched above her, on her feet and moving, and she was every woman, anywhere, who has ever fought for a child against the odds. There were people shouting all around her, and arms and legs moving, and blood spurting, and she was a warrior, waiting to die on her feet . . .

And then there was Peter.
Thank God!
In a Dominican’s robe, grappling something in his pocket.

“Stand back!” he was shouting, plucking the wafer from its silver case and thrusting it out before him. “This Host is sanctified!”

A horrified gasp escaped the crowd, and the blood mist cleared before Maggie’s eyes, so she was back in ordinary time, panting, dripping blood and sweat, and still standing over Cody’s body on the grass. She saw Ghania at the edge of the surrounding crowd, a thoughtful expression on the woman’s hateful face, and maybe even a grudging admiration.

All motion seemed magically suspended; no one moved toward them on the grass. With her last reserve of strength, Maggie picked up Cody, one last time; she and Peter began to back their way uneasily toward the water, as the circle of watchers parted like the Red Sea. This was too good; this was too
impossible . . . Where was Ellie?
They had nearly made it through the throng when a large man in the costume of a Renaissance cardinal broke from the crowed and lunged at Peter. To Maggie’s astonishment, he plucked the Host from the priest’s outstretched hand.

“A priest forever . . .” he hissed triumphantly, as he sent Peter to the ground. “Black or White, Father Messenguer, this wafer cannot hold a priest at bay—and a priest I most certainly am. You knew of course that we would have one in attendance for our little ceremony tonight? Permit me to introduce myself. I am Father Dominic Duchesne, currently defrocked by the quaint standards of this archdiocese, but in the eyes of the Assessors of men’s vows, still and always, a priest.”

Peter staggered to his feet, and the man grabbed his habit roughly, yanking him forward. “Allow me to dispose of your unpleasant little arsenal of sacramentals, Father . . . they make our host terribly uncomfortable.” Two large body guards seized Peter’s arms from behind, as the “Cardinal” removed the Holy Oil, Holy Water, and Chrism from Peter’s robe.

Maggie stood with Cody pressed to her heart, in a last desperate embrace; she was totally spent, and finally, beaten. Ghania moved in close, and wrenched the child away with an atavistic smirk, like a hyena over its kill. Maggie turned her face away. She barely noticed her arms were pinned behind her, and she and Peter were being bundled along in a flying wedge of guards. She didn’t know where they were taking her and didn’t really care much anymore.

Ellie
had watched the preparation for the orgy with mounting worry after Maggie left her. An immense circle, fifty feet across, had been staked out behind the cutting garden. Twelve giant black candles made of pitch and sulphur were planted at intervals and the stench of them was making her gag. Inside the circle, long refectory tables had been set with every manner of food and drink, in grotesque abundance. A huge ice sculpture dominated the center of each table—the first one was a giant phallus, the next a Mendes Goat with an immense erection, and so on and on. Intense cold was rising like swamp mist all around her; the satanic priests were obviously calling up all manner of evil emanations to attend them for the coming orgy.

She knew that everything would be done in direct opposition to the Christian ritual of the Mass. They would feast, not fast, groping and drinking until satiated. Indiscriminate sexual excess would be interspersed with the feasting, people breaking away in twos and threes and fours, to rut like animals on the grass, in full view of the other participants.

An imposing man in an ermine-trimmed papal cloak moved in beside her, and casually reached out to touch her breasts with the back of his fingers. Ellie steeled herself to the intrusion, and to the evil she sensed in the toucher. It was quite acceptable to make such sexual overtures before an orgy. She smiled coolly at the man.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked, the arrogance of privilege in his inflection.