The Gathering Dark (28 page)

The
calle
they strode down now was more of a cobblestoned alley, the buildings laid out in jagged angles to what passed for a road. Unlike the other areas of the Old City, this street seemed in the midst of a renovation that had reached the rest of Ronda years before. Lanterns jutted from high up on the walls. Shops were vacant and for rent or lease and buildings half a millennium old were dilapidated and in need of not merely paint but structural buttressing as well. Some of them had broken and boarded windows, and graffiti on the boards, though most—the ones that were occupied, Nancy guessed—had iron grates over the windows.

“Are you sure this is the way?” Nancy asked.

They approached a three-way junction consisting of a trio of alleys and Paula consulted a sign on the wall, then the map.

“It’s just down here,” Paula assured her, and they continued in the direction they had been walking.

Despite the faded paint and the grime on the cobblestones, the architecture along this
calle
was still lovely. Some of the buildings had high doors not unlike those the sisters had seen in Seville, and there were one or two enclosed second-floor balconies. On the left, Nancy noticed a wooden door perhaps twelve feet high, lined with iron studs and capped with a beautiful piece of woodwork. A stone arch surrounded the door. It seemed almost too well preserved for this particular area of the Old City.

“Weird,” Paula whispered.

Nancy frowned and drew her attention away from the arched door, glancing at her sister. Paula was staring across the alley, at a door almost precisely opposite the one that had drawn Nancy’s attention. Yet this other door seemed its complete opposite, and was set into a building that was so ravaged as to appear almost ready to be condemned.

The windows were not merely shattered, but torn out completely, frame and all. Inside there was crumbled masonry and other debris scattered all over the floor. A balcony that hung above the door was rusted and partially separated from the wall. It was not quite precarious, but Nancy would not have wanted to stand beneath it.

The door, however, was the most disturbing thing about this crumbling edifice. Elsewhere along the street, where buildings were in the midst of renovation or boarded up to await its eventuality, there was at least still evidence that efforts had been made to preserve their general appearance. Here, no such artifice had been employed. At some point the entire threshold of the wooden door frame had been filled with brick, which had then been smoothed over with a layer of concrete. Spanish graffiti had been scrawled all over the concrete when it was still wet.

That would have been unpleasant enough, yet a portion of the concrete and brick obstruction had been removed, knocked out and hauled away, to reveal a much smaller door set into the original frame. This door was steel, painted white and without a single mark of graffiti. A padlock held it tightly closed.

Nancy felt the skin prickle across the back of her neck and a shiver of dread run through her. It made no sense to her that this sight should unnerve her so, but she could not help herself.

Paula stepped closer to her, also staring at the door. She reached out to take Nancy by the elbow, gaze never leaving the hole broken through the concrete and that small steel door.

“Let’s go,” Paula said.

Another moment and Nancy would have followed her, but the furious roar of a small engine interrupted and the sisters stepped aside to let a moped pass. The driver was a handsome teenager with mirrored sunglasses on his face and his beautiful, raven-haired girlfriend clutching tightly to his waist. Both of them wore wild grins that spoke of the exhilaration of speeding along this alleyway.

Nancy found she had been holding her breath. She exhaled and shook her head. Another shiver ran through her but she ignored it, raising the camera that was still slung around her neck.

“Come on, Nance, let’s go,” Paula urged, taking a step away, down toward the Mondragon Palace, if that was indeed where the alley led.

“I just want a couple of pictures. This is freaky. I mean, what were they keeping in that they needed a steel door and a padlock, never mind the concrete?”

“That’s stupid,” Paula snapped. “If you cement up the door, anything inside isn’t going to live very long.”

With a frown Nancy turned to her. The camera was in her hands and she had opened the lens cover but something in her sister’s voice had forced her to look over at Paula.

“You said yourself it was weird,” Nancy reminded her. “And you’re the one in such a rush to get out of here.”

“Well,” Paula protested, rolling her eyes to hide her obvious embarrassment, “it is creepy.”

Nancy sighed as though she were above such feelings, when in truth she agreed wholeheartedly. Just one picture she decided. It really was a strange sight. She raised the camera and looked through the lens.

A thump like the clap of thunder echoed off the alley walls and the door shook in its frame, showering loose fragments of cement to the cobblestones and cracking the concrete around it. A crimp had appeared in the steel.

Not a crimp. A
dent.
That had been made from the inside.

Her fingers mindlessly clutched the camera as her mind tried to process what she had just seen and heard. It was as though the dread within her, the fantastical, horrifying image of what the door’s true purpose might be, had been summoned into being by her thoughts alone. That sort of thing only happened in dreams, of course.

It was nothing more than a single moment of hesitation, a second, no more, in which she considered the possibility that what she was seeing was not really there. Then Nancy began to turn her head toward her sister even as Paula grabbed her more firmly by the arm.

“Paula, what was—”

“I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know, let’s go!” Paula muttered under her breath.

There came another crunch of metal, a new dent in the steel door. Part of the concrete and brick fell away and crashed to the street.

Real
, Nancy thought.
Whatever it is, it’s real.

Before the sisters had taken another step, a third impact snapped the padlock and threw the steel door wide, tumbling more brick and concrete onto the cobblestones. The thing that emerged from the dark recesses of that door was unthinkably horrid, a monstrous beast that scuttled sideways like a crab, its flesh a mottled, bruise-dark substance pitted with holes across its body, inside of which wet, slippery tubes could be seen slithering.

In the darkness behind the creature there were other things, black, skeletal figures that flitted there, Reaper-like, but would not come out into the sun.

Nancy’s mind could not contain the terror that overcame her then. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “No, no, no.” This thing could not be real. Nothing like this could exist in the world she knew.

Paula was screaming her name, screaming at her to run, but it sounded distant and tinny like a radio in another room. Then Nancy saw motion in the corner of her eye, felt her sister’s fingers twine in her hair the way they had when the two women had fought as children. The skittering crab-thing had paused on its spindly legs as if noticing them for the first time and now there came a sound like regurgitation from inside the holes in its skin. The moist green-black tubes erupted from those holes and shot toward the Carling sisters.

In that same instant Paula had grabbed Nancy’s hair, the slick tentacles lashed out at them, there in that grimy, cobblestoned alley. Nancy screamed as her sister yanked her out of the way. Another scream joined her own in terrible harmony and Nancy fell to the ground, skinned her knee, and kept rolling with the momentum of her fall. She stopped herself and looked up quickly, just in time to see those tentacles flay the skin and muscle from her sister’s bones.

Paula’s screams echoed off the faded walls.

When the thing came for her, its pulsing appendages circling her neck in a fatal embrace, her mind was already gone.

Henri Lamontagne kept screaming. The little boy had awoken from a strange catatonia as if from a nightmare, only to be thrust into a scene of genuine terror. His mother Antoinette clutched him tightly to her breast and his father Alain stood to defend them both.

The ronin warrior Kuromaku, once a samurai, now an immortal thing of shadows, watched it unfold with mounting fury. The skeletal, hard-shelled demons whose long slender limbs ended in razor talons, dropped one by one from the rafters of the church. They landed upon the pews and in the aisles—seven of them by Kuromaku’s count—and they slipped silently toward the Lamontagnes and toward Sophie, whom Kuromaku had vowed to protect.

But Kuromaku’s rage was not at the demons, these things the little boy Henri had called Whispers. Rather, he was furious with himself. How long had the creatures been up there in the rafters, lurking, waiting for the proper moment? Despite the absence of anyone in the church, he had still relied upon the religious magick inherent in the structure to keep them safe. Instinct had told him otherwise, but he had not acted soon enough.

He uttered a curse that was already ancient when he was a boy in Japan and reached down to his hip. The katana solidified in his hand, materializing from nothing, and he drew it from its scabbard in a single deft motion even as he leaped into the air. A spinning somersault that spanned nearly twenty feet landed him in front of the Lamontagne family in the instant before a pair of the black-shelled demons would have torn them apart.

“You will not have them!” Kuromaku snarled, his teeth changing unbidden, his rage causing them to elongate into fangs.

The Whispers hissed at him, pointed tongues darting from beneath their skull carapaces. His hands were raised at shoulder level, the katana held sideways, and now Kuromaku spun in a whirlwind circle, each twist taking him closer to the creatures, his blade cracking their shells and cleanly slicing both of them in half.

Behind him, Sophie screamed.

Kuromaku mentally logged the location of the other five demons. Two nearer the rear of the church, still among the pews, crawling across the tops of the wooden benches toward him and the Lamontagnes. One nine feet away in the main aisle, where the priest would have stood to give communion.

Two others pursuing Sophie as she ran up onto the altar, the demons slashing at the air she disturbed in her wake. She grabbed hold of a five-foot iron candle stand and with all her strength swung it in a solid arc. It connected with the closest demon, striking the eerily featureless black shell where its face ought to have been. A crack appeared there and the Whisper staggered back, hissing. The other hesitated, probing the air in front of it with the sharp tendril that protruded from beneath its facial shell.

Kuromaku leaped into the air again even as the demon closest to him turned, its movements no more than a whisper, as were his own. The blade of the katana swept down and the demon fell under the onslaught, carapace shattered. The ronin moved on without hesitation, as though floating over the dead thing.

“Get back, you bastards!” Sophie screamed in French at the two menacing her. She whipped the iron candle stand around again but the demons dodged backward.

There were a thousand thousand ways Kuromaku could have killed them, an endless number of beasts he might have transformed himself into in order to tear them apart, to pry the shells from them like stripping a lobster to reach the flesh. But that sort of indulgence held no interest for him. Samurai trained all their lives to be swift and decisive and efficient; there was no room for theatrics.

He killed them, punching the tip of the katana through the backs of the demons’ skulls, first one and then the other. The Whispers fell dead at his feet there on the altar and Kuromaku froze, staring into Sophie’s sky blue eyes. Her breathing was heavy, the fear and exhilaration emanating off her in waves.

Henri Lamontagne had stopped screaming.

“Damn it!” Kuromaku snapped, turning in time to see the last two of the creatures lunge from the final pew toward Alain Lamontagne, who had only his bare hands to protect his wife and child where they huddled behind him in terror.

Kuromaku bounded off the altar, racing for the Lamontagnes, knowing even as he did so that he was too late. The bare instant that had ticked by as he looked into Sophie’s eyes had cost him a vital moment. Even as he raised his katana, he saw one of the Whispers strike, its right arm scything down, long talons sharp as blades slitting Alain Lamontagne open from throat to pelvis.

The other lunged at Antoinette, who curled herself around her son as though her flesh and bone could act as armor for the child. The demon’s talons punctured her back like daggers and Antoinette screamed in soul-deep agony, knowing that they would tear through her to reach her son.

Rigid with bitter anger that made bile rise in the back of his throat, Kuromaku cut the last two Whispers down, then hacked at the pieces where they lay on the floor, the katana cutting through wood and carpeting. The clack, clack of the blade on wood was the only sound in the church then, echoing back from those same rafters.

The rafters.

The ronin ignored the wounded woman and her son, turned his back on Sophie as she ran to see to them. He gazed up into the rafters, eyes peering into the depths of every shadow, ears attuned to the slightest creak of the wind. The quill-covered behemoth outside had stopped pounding on the door and the winged, carrion creatures that circled above had not even attempted to enter the church, but these things had.

“Watch the shadows,” Kuromaku instructed Sophie, who nodded mutely, her expression revealing a kind of surprise, not at the events that had just unfolded here, but that she had survived them at all.

With that caution, and moving more swiftly than any human could have conceived, Kuromaku raced through the church, searched every darkened nook, and assured himself that each door and window was tightly shut. He investigated the sacristy and the basement and each armoire and closet that he came to.

Only minutes after he had departed, he returned to Sophie’s side. She was sitting with the boy, Henri, who seemed to have fallen again into that strange catatonia. His mother barely acknowledged his presence. Instead, Antoinette Lamontagne knelt by her husband’s corpse, blood spattered on her clothing, whispering to him in angry French. From time to time her voice would rise higher, become shrill, and she would strike the dead body as though it might elicit some response. All her recriminations were for nothing, however. Alain was dead.