The Book of Shadows (21 page)

Attendons
. Wait. I will speak of those eyes—I swear it—but just then, as I stood staring into Sebastiana's shape-shifting eyes, I heard those voices—mere steps from the door!—or rather that
single
voice break into a stream of invective and prayer. This I could not conceive; who or what could frighten Sister Claire so? Then, from deep within her cries there rose up two words of Latin:

“Dis Pater,”
said she, repeatedly.
Father of the Night.

She spoke those words not to, but rather
at
someone. The nun was not alone. I heard a man's voice. But whose? I heard the breaking of the chain, the sliding back of the bolt. And the library's primary door was thrown open to show Sister Claire de Sazilly trapped half-naked in the arms of a man.

The largest man I had ever seen. Tall and broad and blond, with thick arms that seemed to wrap twice around the struggling nun. He filled the doorway. Then, as a child lets go a toy top, he spun the nun from his hold and sent her reeling into the library proper, where she landed dizzily on the stone floor at Sebastiana's feet. He stepped through the door behind her—stooping to do so—and running his hand through the curls of gold that hung to his shoulders, he hissed,
“Damnable bitch!”
and kicked the length of broken chain toward the nun. (How he broke the chain, I've no idea.) “She
bit
me!” He pushed up the full sleeve of his white blouse to show the marks on his thick wrist. Sebastiana said nothing, but it seemed the corners of her lips rose ever so slightly. As for Father Louis, he laughed aloud. At that the man slammed shut the library door.

“Quiet!” chided Sebastiana. “They will come soon enough without us drawing them here.”

“Tell that to this screaming…
thing
!” said the man, bending over Sister Claire and taking up a length of broken chain to wind around his fist. All the while he glared at Sister Claire, who continued her litany of curses and prayers. “Yes, yes, prattle on, you scheming, sanctimonious Christ-whore!”

This man was Sebastiana's age, perhaps a bit younger. Remarkably strong, the muscles of his forearms moved like snakes in a sack as he worked that chain. Indeed, it seemed he might pulverize the chain, grind it down to a silver powder. It seemed too that he might at any moment
work
the chain upon Sister Claire. With a single strike of his chain-wrapped fist he could split her head and…But all he did was speak, mocking Sister Claire, in simpering tones: “‘
Dis Pater!
Satan!' Keep on! But be warned: flattery will not save you.” His wide, full mouth was twisted into a sneer, and his squared jaw, covered with some days' growth of beard, was fiercely set. His eyes were a green to rival the blue of Sebastiana's, and they shone out coolly from under his brow.

As I admired him—not knowing I did so, at first—he turned and faced me for the first time. He took me in without comment, without expression. I felt my heart stop. I did not,
could
not draw a breath. Finally, thankfully, he looked away. Turning back to Sebastiana he said, flatly, “Let me kill her. Here and now.” I thought for a moment he meant me, and I—But no. He meant, of course, Sister Claire.

Sebastiana rolled her eyes—those eyes!—and sighed. “Patience, patience.” And then she tried to calm the man with a question: “Besides,” she asked, “won't our plan be more fun than simple,
mere
murder?”

“
Bah!
I want her now!” And with that the man fell to one knee—his black leather boots rose high, over the knee and almost to the thigh; I could not tell where the soft hide ended and his black tights began—and he grabbed Sister Claire by the hair. He cocked his arm, his chain-wrapped fist poised to strike. “Yes,” he said, dreamily, “one blow to the face to break the bones of the cheeks. Or perhaps I should slap her into unconsciousness first. Show that much mercy at least…. Or should I wring her neck till the skull pops from the spine.
Pop!
” He laughed close in Sister Claire's face. Hers was the face of a corpse dead of fright—the fixed expression of fear. Now he leaned even nearer; his lips fairly touched Sister Claire's as he whispered, “I could kill you forever, and in
infinite
ways.” He then let the nun drop back onto the stone—her skull met it with a horrible crack—and he said, “But I won't.”

He stood. A full head taller than me. I could not look away from him. Who was he? Clearly he knew Sebastiana and, I assumed, the specters standing silently in the shadowed corner. How many more saviors would come? Yes, strange as they were I knew now that they'd all come to save me.
You are safe
…. But all thought withered away as I stood admiring the man. Such strength and beauty. Father Louis was a beautiful man, in life and after; but this being was different, more
animal
than man it seemed. His skin was tanned, bronzed by the sun, but still I could see that his excited blood had risen up the sides of his thick neck, risen to the surface of the thin skin under his eyes. He'd been enraged and was only now growing calmer. I was, at once, afraid and awed. He stood over Sister Claire, and his thinking was plain.

“Asmodei, enough.” Sebastiana went to him, placing a hand on his rock-like shoulder to soothe and distract him; it seemed neither the gesture of a sister nor a lover—or was it both at once?—and again I wondered who and what my saviors were, what were they to one another?

“Do you have the case?” asked Sebastiana. “The needles, the things we need?”

The man—Asmodei—nodded; he could not pry his eyes from Sister Claire, who might have succeeded in crawling from him had he not brought his foot down on her ankle just then, pinning her in place. She screamed and he bent to slap her with the chained fist. “No, no,” said Sebastiana. “Behave…. Now, do you have the—”

“Yes, yes, I have it,” he said. “I have the case.” He lifted his shirt and drew from his waistband a thick pouch. A square of black velvet. He handed it to Sebastiana. He looked at her, looked at me (
my heart!
) and, sighing, he walked to the window. “Yes, yes,” said Sebastiana; what she meant was,
Yes, go, calm yourself
.

Though her tormentor had left her, Sister Claire knew better than to move. She lay crying on the floor. Her shift of worn burlap had risen over her hips to reveal her sex and the sets of stitch-like scars on either side of her stomach.

Madeleine warned of passing time. She said that the others were gathering downstairs, that indeed they had heard the struggle between Asmodei and Sister Claire, the rattling chains, the slamming door.
They attribute it to the advent of her devils.

“For once they're right,” opined the priest.

Asmodei turned to look at Madeleine, who moved nearer Father Louis. “So be it,” said he, emphatically. “Let them come to die one by one! All their spilled blood will not sate me!”

“Mon Dieu,”
said Sebastiana, “such drama!” She was busy with the contents of that black pouch. “You send me back to the high days
de l'opéra!
”

Father Louis's laughter incited the man more.

“I won't have
her
,” said Asmodei, pointing at the succubus, “telling me what to do when—”

“Take your ease, friend,” interrupted Father Louis. “All she says is that we must hurry if we are to save the witch.”

Save the witch,
echoed Madeleine. It was a plea, one she repeated twice more. I assumed she meant me.
I
was the witch to be saved. I concluded this not from what Sebastiana had said earlier. Rather,
I
was the one who needed saving. And quickly.

It did not occur to me to wonder how it was Madeleine tracked the goings-on in the convent that morning. I'd later learn that while we'd all watched Asmodei grapple with the nun, she'd slipped away for the first time, unseen, to speed through the halls of the house. Before we even realized she had left, she returned. She would do this time and again, returning to offer her report.

“All right. Let us start,” said Sebastiana.

“Start what?” I asked.

“Hush, dear heart. Do as I say; and ask no questions now.” And so when Sebastiana directed me to lie atop the library table, I did. And it was from there—supine and still—that I watched my saviors set to work.

Father Louis cleared the table around me, piling the
S
-marked books on the windowsill, setting the painted platter and silverware aside and gathering up the torn dress, stained with blood and wine. Madeleine had taken the loaf of hardened black bread; softening it with wine, she fed pieces of it to Maluenda, who seethed audibly at Sister Claire from the library's darkest corner. Indeed, my familiar had returned. (Surely it was she who'd snacked on that rat earlier.) I'd missed her! There she sat now, seemingly fine, her ears cut as they'd been, but she looked no worse for having
flown
from the library's sill. I was so relieved to see that cat again,
so
relieved.

While Sebastiana busied herself with the velvet case and its contents, Asmodei moved to stand over Sister Claire. I watched from where I lay on the long table. I expected him to attack. And judging from Sister Claire's crab-like scampering away at his approach, so too did she. Asmodei, with one lunge, overtook her. He towered over the cowering nun, whose threadbare shift now revealed even more of her body. I saw then the scratches on her neck and face that Maluenda had left; apparently, in the struggle with Asmodei, the clotted wounds had opened and begun to bleed again. She was praying. She wondered aloud why God had shown her Satan, to which Asmodei responded, “You've not seen anything yet,
ma chère
.” And with one quick tug he stripped the nun of her shift, tore it from her. And then he tore from her the hairshirt, the rough-dried animal hide she wore beneath her shift. I saw more scars, those horrible markings of her false faith, the black and infected Xs that ringed her hips; the rose thorns she'd sewn into her shift to sanctify her sleep had scarred her deeply. “So,” mused Asmodei, speaking to no one in particular while looking the nun up and down, “it seems the good sister has a fondness for pain. Interesting.” He knelt, took up that same length of chain again, and leaning into the nun's face, said, “Well, this must be your lucky day, holy one.” He fingered a dark scar at her side; this caused the nun to wince. I turned away, toward the window.

But he didn't beat her. All he did, chain in hand, was lift the naked nun and carry her to the table. He laid her down so that, head-to-head, Sister Claire and I covered the length of the table. I could no longer see her, but I could sense her—too near—and I could of course hear her cries until Madeleine, saying she'd heard enough, tore a strip of pink fabric from the dress and fashioned a gag, which she stuffed in the nun's mouth. And then I heard again the rattling of chains as Asmodei, presumably, secured Sister Claire to the table; perhaps he used those same shackles that had held me, perhaps it was some other lock.

Secured as she was, Sister Claire could do nothing but writhe and rock from side to side on the table. Her muffled screams and prayers, her curses and those rattling chains…she must have exhausted my saviors' patience, for I heard them confer—the men laughed, though it was Madeleine who first mentioned Maluenda—and next thing I knew they'd set the cat on Sister Claire, on her chest. As if to weight her, still her. Sebastiana cautioned the cat against the too liberal use of her claws. “Only if need be,” said she. Sister Claire's cries stopped. Rather, the cries devolved to pleas and more prayer, whimpering, simpering prayer. I could tell she prayed, even though the words themselves tangled in the net of that gag. Yes, her voice was
fraught
with fear. But the cat remained, and the nun lay still beneath it. I wondered if she'd fainted away. I almost pitied her. Almost.

“Are you ready yet?” asked Asmodei.

“Nearly.” Sebastiana, who'd been muttering her own imprecations over whatever it was she drew from the velvet case, came close to tell me, with apologies, that I had to be naked. Before I could wonder why, the priest appeared beside me to peel away the thin blue robe Sebastiana had wrapped around me earlier—a bolt of blue silk, really; unfitted, fine. He unwrapped me, slowly, as though I were a gift he'd been given. He
savored
me, looked me up and down. Admired me. “Amazing,” said he, setting his icy hands on my small breasts, where the rush of blood took fast effect. He took each thickened nub between a forefinger and thumb and pinched, just so, lightly, as he said to Asmodei, “Come see.”…Perhaps I was growing accustomed to the priest's…
attentions
, but as for this Asmodei…

The other man came to stand beside me, just behind Father Louis. “Look,” said the priest, waving his hand over my body. “Have you ever seen the like?” But Asmodei did not answer. His eyes ranged up my body to stop at my eyes; his were the hard green of emeralds, emotionless. He neither ridiculed nor admired me. Mere appraisal, it was; and this I took as a kindness. Then I saw Sebastiana pass him the black velvet case. “It is time,” said she. I saw again the flash of anger, the flush of blood to his cheeks as Asmodei looked behind me to where Sister Claire lay. Then he stepped back and I could no longer see him.

Hurry,
urged the succubus.
The girls are gathered in the Great Hall, waiting only for Sister Claire to descend.
She said too that certain elders and villagers had just arrived.

“Well,” said Asmodei, “I'm afraid they'll have to wait a long while, for their Head, as they call her, is…is distracted at present.” He was teasing Sister Claire, teasing or torturing her; judging by Father Louis's laughter, it would seem both men were engaged in the playing of a game.