House of Corruption (39 page)

“Oh, my husband!” she cried.

A spasm sent her to his knees. Hair burst in beads of scarlet across Wilhem’s cursed body, black and grey like coal-dust as limbs and joints shifted under his skin. When the spine shifted, Lucinda groaned and fell to her face. His shoulders and pelvis slid back and added height, muscles bunched and drew taut. The ragged remains of clothing tore apart like rotten cloth. When she lifted her head she was smiling, astonished at its magnitude, as if she knew not how to stop. It did not seem she wanted to.

“Arté,” Reynard cried. “You must hurry!”

***

Climbing the long stair was hard enough. Carrying Lasha’s limp body was the kicker, Grant thought, as fat beads of sweat poured down his back and neck. So it was to his relief when she stirred. She opened her eyes, coughed. She squealed and hammered her fists into his chest until he set her upon her feet. She would have profaned his mother and the Lord Himself until she realized—

“Mister Grant,” she said.

“That’s right.”

She hugged him around the neck. “Where is my brother?” she asked. “Is he hurt?”

“As well as can be expected.”

“What does that mean?” He continued up the steps and she followed, passing through the hidden door into the hot, oily air of the boiler room. “What does that mean?”

They passed the fat boilers with its many rivets bleeding rust, the air resonating with pressure and hissing steam. They continued to the supply room with its heaps of barrels and crates of supplies. Grant removed as much dynamite as he could find, screwed on blasting caps, tied old fusing together, bundled the sticks into clusters and wired them into a single fuse. He worked without speaking, fluidly, until he noticed Lasha watching him with a strange expression.

“Santa Fe Railroad,” he said.

“What exactly do you intend to do?’ she asked.

He did not answer. It was familiar, if dangerous work, having been hired to blast tunnels during his time in the southwest and the Cascade Mountains. This was much different. There was no plunger, which meant he would have to trust old fusing, and that meant no real way of knowing how long it would take the charge to do its work. If it worked at all.

Packing five crates with gun cotton, he stuffed them with the clusters of explosives, trailing fusing behind each crate. He considered the boiler room’s angle and shape, its foundations and retaining walls, the water that flowed beneath the house. It would have to do.

“Where is Reynard?” Lasha asked.

“Downstairs.”

He placed all five crates against the boilers, the generator—anywhere he guessed would serve. The wall to the right was load bearing, and the main boiler carried enough—

“We must go get him,” she said.

“Grab provisions,” he said as he returned to the supply room, uncoiling rolls of fusing behind him. He tied the five fuses together and started another spool of fusing. He found a leather bag, emptied its contents of screws and wire and shoved it into Lasha’s hands.  “Dried fruit on that shelf. There. Matches...there...a bag of...grab that also.”

“I have no shoes,” she said. He tossed her a pair of old boots. She caught them with disgust. “We
must
get my brother.”

He rubbed the gunpowder between his fingers. Moist. They clearly knew how to store such things, but did the moisture sap the spark from every stick and coil? Perhaps they were duds? Perhaps Mister LaCroix and Savoy were dead, and this was all that stood between them and that unholy place beneath their feet. He trailed fusing out the supply room door, through the chamber of glass coffins, and started up the steps. She followed with her white dress, a full leather bag and old boots on her feet.

“What are we doing?” she asked.

When one spool of fusing ran out he tied it to the next and continued up to the ground floor.

“Mister Grant, I am speaking to you!”

“I suggest you keep your voice down,” he said.

He worked quickly, quietly, down the corridor until he reached the mahogany foyer and its absurd fountain. It was still dark. Outside, the Eng Banka continued their chanting. A steady rain slapped at the windows but, from a faint clarity creeping from the drawing room, the night began to soften. Grant tied the last of the fusing into a knot.

“Where do we go?” she asked with a heavy whisper.

“Match.”

“There are a thousand headhunters on the front lawn.”

“I need a match.”

“What about my
brother
?”

Footsteps echoed and they froze. Jeané emerged with a lantern glowing in his hand. Claudette stood beside him. The two servants stood like wraiths, desiccated, their eyes empty. Jeané’s slack mouth quivered as he looked at Lasha. The lamplight deepened the shadows until the servants seemed but skin and bones. A faint impression marked each of their faces, vague lines where Savoy’s cross had touched their skin.

“What are you doing?” Jeané asked.

“A match,” Grant whispered to Lasha.

“I thought you had them,” Lasha whispered back.

“I asked
you
to get them.”

“You said a lot of things.”

“Mistress was lonely,” Claudette said. “We kept her company. She wanted it that way, but it was not like she promised.” She looked at the fuse trailing into the corridor. “We are damned. This old place is damned.” A terrible need filled their faces, tightened the skin around their eyes and mouth.

Grant placed himself between them and Lasha, wishing he could do more than stand there and die. Jeané raised the lantern high and smashed it to the floor; fire caught the fuse and gunpowder burst into life, hissing and smoking toward the basement, racing down the hallway with splashing sparks.

“Go wherever it suits you,” he said.

Claudette smiled sharp teeth. “We go to hell.”

***

The Thing that was both Wilhem and Lucinda Carlovec stood a head larger than Reynard, inflated with heaped muscle, bristling with fang and claw. It dropped to all fours, licking at the flecks of fluid on its hair. It sniffed deep like a bellows and coughed.

“May this be done...” Savoy toned.

The Thing barked a loud cry. Reynard ran around the pool to intercept it, protect Savoy, mentally commanding the Beast to emerge. He did not want it, not in his bones, but for all he knew it might give him the strength he needed. For all he knew, he would turn and tear Savoy’s throat open. So he faced the creature naked save for an oversized overcoat, his crowbar and pistol lost, nothing but his will to defend himself.

You are a liar
, he thought.
There can never be a cure. You wanted the very thing I cannot accept. To embrace this openly
...

The Thing came at him.

Never again
.

It meant to leap for Savoy and Reynard ran into it, throwing himself into its chest, knocking them both against a standing-stone. The Thing caught him by his shoulders and forced him down, raking with its claws. Reynard fought back with fist and knee, covering his face against its beartrap jaw. He clutched at the creature’s throat and pushed its head up as it snapped, snapped again, saliva splashing.

“And may this be done,” Savoy shouted, “in the name of the Father...!” He paused, watching Reynard’s distress.

“Finish it!” Reynard cried.

He raised his left arm to protect his face and the Thing bit down like a vise. Fangs pierced skin and cracked against bone. Reynard did not scream. He clenched his teeth and stared into those dead, black eyes, swallowing his pain, defying it with his silence. His right hand thrust into the pocket of the overcoat.

“...and of the Son...”

He removed his hand. Firelight gleamed off cloudy silver in his palm.

“...and of the Holy Ghost...”

Reynard shoved his right hand into the Thing’s mouth.

You wanted it!

His fist slid past the Beast’s tongue, his fingers released, and the remains of the silver bullet rolled down its throat.

It’s yours now!

***

Dawn approached, the clouds spent. The valley at the river crossroads was saturated with mud, the once green lawn of Carlovec Manor little more than brown fluid. The Eng Banka danced their dances and cried out their voices, hour after hour after hour, assured their efforts would lead to all of Maligang’s promises.

She had been good to them, had she not?

She and
papa sujan
gathered them from many longhouses, discarded the weak, expanded their strength until village after village, white face and yellow face and black face were all driven away. They had reached the trail of the iron snake but vowed to keep moving, taking their enemies’ heads. So she required blood from some of their women, some of their men, but she was Maligang, She of Countless Heads. What did it matter? They breathed in souls with every victory. They would consume the endless spirits in the Great Longhouse and live forever.

The front door opened. A white man and woman emerged, hand in hand, and sprinted down the driveway. The natives watched, dumbfounded, as the two continued straight down the center of their gathering as fast as they could, aiming for the front gate at the bottom of the hill. Men grabbed spears and slid blades from their belts, shouting a collective cry for fresh blood.

Then the house erupted.

Every window on the bottom floor burst open. Brick and wood and stone gave way to smoke and pressure, and flames leapt up as the boilers each popped
boom, boom, boom, thump
. The glass eyes of the greenhouse darkened and burst and a cough of glass scattered across the back lawn. The kitchens and conservatory and drawing room and Wilhem’s laboratory—all his secrets—fell inward. The ceiling in the main hall gave way and an errant beam, tossed by the blast, beheaded poor Juventas from her perch upon the fountain.

Another massive
thump
, the generator, and the house exploded with a geyser of water and fire and smoke. The east wing sagged, leaned forward, and collapsed. Another blast and the remains of the house burst in half. Smoke rolled over the lawn like a living thing, growing upon itself. Fold after fold of dust and debris buried the natives with darkness. Where fire did not eat at the remains, the river behind the house flooded into its foundations and started down the grassy hill.

Those Eng Banka still on their feet scattered, the cloud of Carlovec Manor’s death rolling at their backs.

***

The Thing gagged.

It fell back onto its rump, scrambling, and when it retched nothing came up; it barked and scratched at its belly, thrashing, clutching at its throat. Reynard lay slashed and bleeding beside the pool, the light fading from the corners of his eyes. The head of the Thing twisted hard to the right. Flesh tore away like wet cloth. It rose off its shoulders, rising, trailing its bloody spine, and the Thing of Wilhem’s transformation dissipated from his discarded body.

The floor moved. Dust and fragments of stone dropped with a massive
thump, thump
and a
pop
above their heads. Another powerful jolt set the floor to shaking and the black pool sloshed from its rim. Another roar came and the grotto vibrated, followed by a hissing, a rushing, growing louder and more violent. Stones fell from the ceiling.

Reynard’s world went black.

Savoy was beside him, kneeling, pulling off his own coat, wrapping it around Reynard’s arm, using his belt to tighten a tourniquet. From both entrances came water—first a stream, then a flood as water cascaded over the tiers. A strange sound like wet breathing, a fluid gasp, made Savoy look—a host of pale shapes wriggled beneath the surface of the black pool. Translucent, blubbery arms, clear as jellyfish and dripping with rotten flesh, scrabbled at the stone rim.

Savoy lifted up his makeshift cross, retrieved from the floor. He spoke loudly at the oncoming flood, his words as clear and clean as glass. They came with absolute assurance.

Water poured over the black pool. The well heaved and out came bones, countless bones, as the pool vomited up centuries of old dead. Above their heads came a cracking. Water poured from the ceiling like silver curtains. Bitter cold rushed over Reynard and he opened his eyes and realized he was underwater. All sound and pain vanished. He did not fear drowning. He felt light as the current swept him along, clean for the first time in his life. He wondered if this was Savoy’s plot all along, to trick him—to baptize him.

Savoy pulled him up out of the water.

Lucinda sat upon a block of stone. She had taken Kiria’s body up again, her white dress soaked with water and blood. She wrapped her arms around her chest and held herself close. When the water rose to her ankles she began to rock, whimpering, stroking her own cheek.

How did she ever fool me
, Reynard wondered as Savoy led him up the steps.
She looks nothing like Kiria
.

She is dead
.

“She is alive,” Lucinda said, as if she heard his thoughts. “Alive. In me.” The water reached her knees. She began to cry, shivering at the growing dark, and she soothed herself with a motherly voice. “
Shhh
. I am here, sweetheart. Mama’s here. I will not leave you. Never leave you.” She held herself tenderly. “
Stars winking
,” she began to sing, “
cast off clouds as spirits gather, rice from hand to baskets filling, rivers run and cry to sleep
...”

Savoy extended his hand. “Lucinda,” he said.

She held herself tighter.

Another powerful wave rushed into the grotto and with it came great chunks of iron and wood and broken stone. Debris struck one of the standing stones and it leaned forward, cracked on its foundation, and fell into the pool. Water snuffed sconce after sconce until darkness swam in, erasing the last sight of that dreadful place.

Savoy and Reynard stumbled up the steps, tier by agonizing tier, fighting the current toward the entrance to the catacombs. At the top, Reynard snagged a bone from a nearby slab, swathed it in a scrap of burial shroud, and dipped its head into the oil of one of the remaining sconces. With a deadman’s torch lighting the way, they passed through the broken gate.