Redemption (23 page)

He squeezes my hand and I take comfort in it.

When we arrive at the next Alice’s grave, I read it aloud to him:

Alice Richardson
November 34th, 1912–January 23rd, 1955
Survived by her children.
Sometimes a dove rests in
our lives like a sign of peace.

“I don’t think that’s her, come to think of it. I’m not sure why I put her on my list.”

“I don’t know why you’re dismissing her. It seems promising.”

“Her name is English.”

“And?”

“I’m pretty sure there aren’t any English people in my ancestry … well until Audrée, no one is really sure from that point on … ”

“But you don’t speak French … ”

“I speak French! Just not very well … and I hate it. Audrée changed things … she raised Mom in English.”

I wonder what he thinks of my screwed-up family.

“So we move on then?” he asks.

“Next Alice.” I try to sound enthusiastic.

The next Alice isn’t the right one either. She never had any children. And the next two Alices had children who were all boys.

“Well this is it. What now?” Guillaume asks me.

I’m disappointed. “Well, we might as well check this one last Alice,” I say.

“I thought there were only five.”

“There’s a sixth Alice on my list but I hadn’t bothered to look her up since she’d have been forty when she had Audrée.”

“Might as well check it out.”

Gravel crunches under my feet when I approach the tombstone. Guillaume is still a way behind me and I kneel in.

This is it. I found my great-grandmother. Again, I read aloud:

Alice Lessage
June 30th, 1905–October 23rd, 1955
She is gone to join two husbands
and a daughter.

“She leaves one daughter behind,” I tell him, happy to have found the missing links.

I can’t see his facial expression in the dark, but he rushes to the grave next to it and flashes his light on it. He remains in front of it for a moment before making his way to the grave on the other side of Alice’s. He kneels. And his hand trembles before shining the flashlight on it.

He lets out an exaggerated sigh and rests his forehead on the tomb. Is this the grave of someone he knew? It has to be; I can’t think of any other explanation for his reaction.

“What’s wrong Guillaume?”

Silence, then he answers, “Nothing.” His voice is hoarse as if it hadn’t been used in decades.

Something is wrong, but he won’t tell me what. I wonder what it is about my ancestor that has him so conflicted. I want to ask him about it, but finally change the subject.

“I’m going to take photos of these graves. In case I can find some more info about these people.”

He remains there, still and silent, while I move between the three graves to take photos.

The one on the left reads:

Roger Lessage
March 13th, 1901–March 5th, 1943
Left us to follow a bright flame.

I take a couple of pictures while I wonder about the meaning of the marker. Next is the tombstone on the far right, the one that affected Guillaume so terribly. The reason he is standing behind me so still, so quiet. I flash my light on this one and it says:

Marguerite Lessage
January 23rd, 1925–February 16th, 1943
Survived by her parents Alice
and Roger Lessage.
A bright flame extinguished
much too early.

My heart constricts. I put the pieces together; Marguerite was Roger’s daughter. I did the mental math. He died less than a month after she did; she would have been eighteen when she died. And it all meant something to Guillaume.

“I’m sorry about her death. She shouldn’t have died so young. Do you know what happened?” I ask him without turning. I’m met with nothing but silence.

“You knew her, didn’t you?”

Still more silence.

I turn to where he is standing—where he should be standing. No one is there.

“Guillaume!” I scream out, but the only sounds I hear are the sounds of the night.

The fact that I’m alone in the middle of a large cemetery at night strikes me at once. Isn’t he supposed to be my protector? I don’t know whether I should be mad or scared or just really sad for him.

Is this Marguerite the witch he had lost? Am I a de Rouen witch? What does it mean?

I fumble through the maps, looking for the one that has an overview of the entire cemetery, so I can find the fastest way to Guillaume’s car. We obviously need to talk about this.

I walk between armies of tombstones, standing in rank around me. The cold winter air nips at my cheeks and the wind picks up, rustling the long-dead leaves that are scattered at my feet. The frozen ground crunches under my feet. I tighten the scarf around my neck, any anger I had is dissipating as I make my way to join Guillaume. It isn’t cool that he left me, but I get that he needs time alone in his car to think about it.

Only when I get to where his car should be parked, it isn’t there.

“What the hell!” I curse out loud.

I’m answered by a morbidly familiar sound. I look at the ground and find exactly what I expect to find, exactly where I expect it to be. A dead bird on the pavement of the cemetery road.

I notice the way the road winds along the gravesites on Mont Royal, and take a deep breath. This was not a walk I’d ever want to take, but I’m not left with much choice.

Just as I begin walking, a small rodent crosses the road in front of me. Its tail is crooked and it wobbles instead of walks. My skin crawls. In the past, this creepiness has always been tied to the Terra Cotta man. I speed up to a jog. My body urges me to move to a full run but I resist, knowing that I may need the stamina later.

I jog along the side of the road, while tears spill from my eyes. I see a form emerge from behind a tombstone. I recognize it immediately, though it seems bigger and sturdier than the last time I’ve encountered it. I run then, and when I glance back, he’s still walking slowly toward me, but he’s closer to me, and I don’t understand how he’s catching up to me while walking so slowly.

Honk.

The sound of a car horn makes me jump. I turn around expecting Guillaume and can’t wait to find myself safe inside the car. But instead of his sleek, charcoal, imported car, a huge snot green and faux wood boat of a car sits on the road. The man who waves me over is obscured by night, and I approach cautiously. When I look back, the Terra Cotta man is nowhere in sight.

“Nighttime creeps up so fast this time of year, don’t you think?”

I step well away from the car when I recognize Ramtin’s voice.

“Do you want me to save you or not?” he asks.

“I don’t trust you.”

He smiles. “You shouldn’t trust me. But here is the thing, Aude, you are no use to me dead.”

“What do you need me for anyways? Don’t you already have a witch?”

“I have several. Every member of my band is an essentialist. But one can never have too many witches around. The problem with you, dear Aude, is your power hasn’t really awakened yet. Without it, you’re useless to me. So, are you going to get into the car with me? The Stone Monster won’t come near me, but the moment I drive off, you’re on your own again. You are not irreplaceable.”

I look at him and weigh my options. I have a choice between the Terra Cotta man and a powerful gargoyle who also used to be one of my biggest idols. I don’t trust him; he has his own agenda and I don’t think he’s the least bit concerned about me. At the same time, I do believe what he says. If he leaves, it’s just me and the Terra Cotta man.

I run to the passenger door and let myself in, sliding onto the vinyl bench seat.

“Why the hell are you driving such an ugly car, anyways?”

He shrugs. “First car I came across.”

“So it’s not only ugly but also stolen?”

“Borrowed.”

He drives the winding narrow road that leads out of the cemetery in silence. Once we leave the property he turns to me. “So why did your big bad gargoyle boyfriend ditch you?”

I resist the urge to argue that he’s not my boyfriend. “It’s none of your business.”

“And I thought we were going to be friends,” he says.

“Why is the Terra Cotta man—I mean the Stone Monster—why is it after me?”

“Do you believe in evil, Aude?”

“I guess. I mean, yes. There is a lot of evil in the world.”

“I’m not talking about evil deeds. But the embodiment of evil. Some would call it the devil or Satan.”

“Are you saying the Stone Monster is the devil?”

He laughs. “Not at all. The devil, if he exists, would be a much cleverer creature. I simply asked you if you believed in inherent evil.”

“I don’t know. I think people can make their own choices in life.”

“Fair enough. But those evil thoughts and intentions have to come from somewhere, don’t they? They have to go somewhere.”

Great, I’m stuck in an old car that by all common sense should have fallen apart by now, having a philosophical discussion about good versus evil with a rock god who also happens to be a gargoyle and is probably, himself, evil.

“So evil made the Terra Cotta man?”

“Man, or creature, made the Terra Cotta man. What we’re discussing is what made it
evil.
What its motives are. Do you know how gargoyles are created?”

“A witch is sacrificed.”

“Yes. Exactly. There are three ingredients to creating a gargoyle. We need a container. Something natural and lasting such as stone usually works best. We need a soul. The protector, as some would call him. This is the human who will ultimately become the gargoyle. And we need a witch, who will transfer all of her essence along with the human’s essence into the container.”

“Okay.” I’m not sure where he’s going with this conversation but I’m certainly not feeling any more at ease.

“Creatures like the Stone Monster, or the Terra Cotta man as you call him, have two ingredients. A witch and a container. They are usually created with great suffering and have no soul. It’s really quite interesting to see how they evolve from there.”

“Yes, interesting.” And not comforting at all.

“Where should I drop you off?” He looks at me, and his car swerves a bit into the other lane.

I cringe and clench the seat until my knuckles turn white.

“I’d appreciate a lift to the nearest metro station.”

“Why don’t I just drive you home?”

“I’d rather not tell you where I live.”

“Feisty.” He laughs. “But that’s fine. You don’t need to tell me. I already know.” He stops at a red light and flicks on his turning signal. “You need to understand something. If you become useful to me, there will be nothing stopping me from getting what I want.”

I now understood many ways in which I could be
useful
to Ramtin.

35

Guillaume

I drove around aimlessly at first and then I led myself through a self-guided tour of Marguerite’s Montreal. I drove by all her favorite places, though many no longer existed. All along two images interposed themselves in my mind. The image of Marguerite’s flame-red hair wavering in the wind as she jumped into the St. Lawrence rapids, and that of her tombstone.
A bright flame extinguished much too early.
I should have been prepared for this. All the signs had been right there for me to see.

Eventually a third image added itself to the fray; Aude’s frightened eyes as she watched me transform in the warehouse.

The car in front of me came to a stop and forced me to step on the brakes. I was stuck in traffic. I couldn’t stay still. I had to keep moving. I banged my forehead against my steering wheel several times while gripping it so tightly my knuckles turned white.

I didn’t leave Aude in the cemetery by herself did I? She was a capable girl. She could take care of herself. I bet she was home already. I shouldn’t worry.

I worried.

I would go back and find her. She couldn’t have gone far by now. If she was no longer in the cemetery, I would search the streets between it and the nearest subway station. I would find her. Then, I’d bring her home and introduce her to the others. We would teach her about her family history, which was something we never had to do before. That knowledge had always been passed from grandmother to granddaughter.

The problem wasn’t that I didn’t want Aude to be involved, but, if I was to be completely honest with myself, I had wanted her to be involved on our terms. I wanted to protect her because it was the best thing for everyone involved. Not because I had to. But she was a de Rouen witch, and as soon as she could reach her power, we would be bound to her. Bound to protect her.

I always knew she wasn’t normal. She heard voices in her head and chanted Mohawk incantations. I had known she was brimming with essence. I simply hadn’t realized just how much essence we were talking about or that she had it as her birthright to manipulate it. Then she’d told me her grandmother was an essentialist, and I knew she was even more special.