“What is that?” he asked while Romain, his nose wrinkled, explored every corner of the musty church.
“It is a symbol of the Son of God’s sacrifice for humanity.”
Genord approached the altar.
“Can you wield its power?” he asked, his back to the monk.
“All God’s servants are blessed with His power when they act in His name. Our faith is the rock upon which we serve.”
He would be no servant. He wheeled to face the monk. “What if the apprentice challenged the master?” He expected shock or outrage, but the monk rose with serene grace.
“That person would surely be evil, for the devil and his minions are the opponents of my Lord. Now come. Your brother is hungry.”
“Tell me how to channel this power,” he said as they walked over grazed grass.
“In time, if you choose to stay and pledge your faith.” The monk opened the door to the hut. At one end, a table, chair, and stool were arranged near the smouldering hearth. Brother Pierre kindled the fire and warmed some stew. When it was heated through, he handed the boys a bowlful each, took the single chair, and indicated the pallet tucked into the opposite corner. As Romain raised a spoonful to his mouth, the monk cleared his throat. Romain froze, mouth open.
“We must give thanks for our meal.”
Genord slurped all through the prayer. He tossed his empty bowl to Romain who washed them without protest.
“Why are we sleeping here?” Romain asked as they fumbled with the straw the monk had instructed them to gather for bedding.
Genord snorted. Sometimes his brother’s stupidity amazed him. He supposed he should spell it out, to see the hurt on his brother’s face if nothing else. “Father kicked us out, and Rouen is likely to stone us for communion with the dead.”
“As I understood it,” the monk said gently, “your brother is not accused of any such misconduct.”
“You mean I can go home?” Romain’s voice was full of longing.
“If you wish,” the monk nodded. He was whittling on a piece of wood.
Romain sucked one cheek as he pondered his choice. Genord fell back upon his pallet and crossed his hands behind his head.
“You’re staying.” Romain frowned, in disapproval of his liberty not his choice.
“I need to learn about the power of the cross. If you recall, you chose to accompany me.”
“You’re my twin,” he said simply.
“So, what do you hope to gain from your hospitality, monk?” Genord demanded.
“This is perhaps your first lesson about the cross, to offer welcome without reward.”
Genord watched Romain examine carved figures on the single shelf, turning each in his hand and naming them in turn as the monk prattled on without divulging a single point of worth.
“Dog, bear, deer. Dragon,” Romain breathed in awe. Picking it up, he pulled a stool to Brother Pierre’s side and watched him work. Genord had never seen his twin sit so still for so long. He moved only to light some candles at Brother Pierre’s direction.
“What do you think?” the brother asked, showing Romain the finished work.
“A lamb.” His brother could not help but reach for it. “It’s perfect.”
“And it’s for you.” Brother Pierre spun round and offered it to Genord.
Genord’s eyes narrowed. The brother’s face might hold no guile, but the monk’s choice of subject was intended to rattle, he was sure of it. “I am not a child in need of toys.”
“Nevertheless, I made it for you.” He set the carving on the table.
Romain’s face fell. Brother Pierre selected another piece of wood and handed it to Romain. “Can you make a hare?”
Romain’s face lit up as he jerked the knife over the wood. Soon he put it down, brows knitted in frustration.
“It looks like a tree root,” Genord laughed.
“Like everything, carving takes practice. Here.” Brother Pierre selected another piece from a basket by the door. “Look at it and visualise what you want to create.” Romain turned the piece of wood. “Where are the legs? Good. And the head? What position is it in? You can see it? Good. Now try again.”
Romain remained engrossed in the task. Before long, he had carved an acceptable hare. Triumphant, he held it out to the monk, who took it and made a show of inspecting his work. Genord glared. He should have been the first person to whom Romain showed his work.
“Its back is humped,” he sniped.
“For a first attempt, it is outstanding,” Brother Pierre praised. “I should very much like to swap you your hare for the dragon.”
Romain’s eyes widened. He nodded and picked up the beast, beginning a game of make believe where the monster flew through the night. Even by candlelight, the detailed carving showed every scale and ridge. The nostrils flared, the open mouth displayed rows of teeth, and the claws spread from curled toes. The figure was by far the best of them all.
Genord coveted it.
ELLA COULDN’T MOVE.
She couldn’t scream. She couldn’t twitch from beneath Romain’s thick hand which was stroking her head. In the distance, a muted roar rattled the window in the chamber outside. Glass shattered. The mason moaned.
“What happened?” It sounded like Danes.
“It just left. Slid under the water,” Rob replied. Glass cracked from the sill.
“You’re breaking in?”
“I sure as hell am.”
She was saved!
“I think we have grounds enough to use a general search warrant.”
“And bloody extenuating circumstances.” Rob’s tone made it clear he was not looking for Danes’ approval. Shards crunched between foot and stone. She wanted to hug him. “Clear.”
“What the hell was it?” Danes asked. She could hear his body scraping over the sill, his feet tapping to the floor. “Rastas, here.” Nails clicked lightly on the stone.
“Ask the zoologist when we find him.”
“What about the other things?”
“Gone. Back to the roof. One scampered right up the wall, just like an overgrown gecko. Ella!” They were moving behind the broken door, picking up the axe so its head clinked on the stone. She could see them.
Here
, she tried to say.
“Ella!” Rob called. “Ella!” He banged on the broken door. She wanted to yell for help, but her throat was stuck. “Open up,” Rob called. “Police. Open up.”
They had heard. She hadn’t thought she made a sound but they were coming for her. Maybe the mason
had
saved her because he was shuffling to meet them, only she could no longer see Rob for his bulk. And was she ever desperate to see him.
“Bats up,” Romain said, sticking his head through the door.
“Open the door.”
Romain stumbled back, knocking his head on the edge of the hole as Rob shouldered through the door and stepped around the cross. He turned his gun barrel to the ceiling as the mason slapped one hand over his sagging cheek and whined.
“Isn’t that . . .” Danes said.
Rastas sat by the mason’s feet and wagged his tail.
“Say it,” Rob said, frowning at the dog.
“A statue of the lion monster that attacked us outside.”
It
is
the monster
, she wanted to scream but it was stone, crouched on the edge of the table with its wings tucked back, and they were looking at it because they couldn’t see her behind Romain, and she was screaming, screaming, screaming without sound. She had to be dying, and they needed to find her because she didn’t want to die here alone with two psychopaths who would dismember her and feed her to a wooden dragon and a hologram that would tear her limb from limb.
Please
, she begged, silent, unheard, as Rob dared to brush the carved bracelet with Cecily’s name. His fingers came away wet with gritty sludge. He wiped them over the ridge of the wing and bent closer when he should have been looking past, to her, where she sat on the floor behind Romain.
“Do you see that?” His face creased with tension, Rob pointed to a circular area on the wing. It was filled with the sludge.
Danes took a sharp breath and exchanged a telling look with Rob. “That’s where I hit the real one.”
It
is
the real one
, she screamed.
“Where’s Ella?” Rob asked Romain as the mason scratched at his cheek. He frowned as Rastas licked the huge, calloused hand. “That dog needs training. Is that a knife?”
“Blood,” Danes stated.
“Not enough to suggest real harm.”
Rastas yapped agreement.
“We’ll bag it and get it analysed just in case.”
By then it would be too late. How could Danes move past her without blinking? Of course his search of the bedroom would be fruitless, she was out here, and the hunchback too, cowering and wringing his hands. She could see how agitated he was, but she wanted him to tell them because she couldn’t understand why they couldn’t see her when she was right there.
“We’re worried about Ella, Romain. Have you seen her?” Rob spoke to the mason as he might a frightened child, but it was she who needed his comfort because the mason had done this to her, only she didn’t know what this was, but she was
right here
.
The hunchback leered. “Safe.” He pointed at her. “Ella there. Ella safe.”
Rastas trotted over and yapped. He sat, tilted his head to Rob, and whimpered.
Good dog!
“The sick bastard is naming his statues after people,” Danes said, coming out of the bedroom.
“The man is obviously mentally ill. He knows something, though. We’ll get a psychiatrist to help find out what, but she’s not here. We’re wasting time.”
They walked out the door. Rastas stayed where he was. His tongue lolled out, and he gave her a wet lick right across the face. Seemed the cat biscuits she had smuggled him had bought her a friend for life.
Bring them back, Rastas
, she tried to say.
“That one is ugly. Looks like a goblin out of my son’s fairy tale book,” Danes said.
“Here,” Rob called from behind the stairs. Broken glass clinked as he tugged on the door to the crypt.
Come back!
They would see though, if they went down there. They would see the shambles of overturned candelabras pooling wax on the stone floor. They would know she had fought so they would search again until they found her because Rob was a first rate detective. He would know the tomb was a trophy. He would know she was in the church if her effigy was there. But what if they walked right past her again?
Through a veil of confusion, she heard Romain’s voice, felt his hands on her shoulder. Warmth began to suffuse her veins. Her muscles twitched. Her joints creaked. Ella reached toward the mason. A sinewy, deformed limb wobbled in front of her, jerking to her command. An alien sound escaped her lips, piercing and distressed and reminiscent of the sound she and Adam had heard when they first explored the church. It took a moment for her to register that she was, in fact, the innocent victim screaming for her life because someone, somehow had mutilated her body.
“Quiet,” Romain drawled. “Ella safe.”
She tried to rise, but her limbs would not obey her. She tried to speak. Only growls escaped her lips.
“Calm. Ella safe.”
True or not, calm was the best state of mind to think. Achieving it took a monumental reminder that Rob would never abandon her. Even then she had to will herself to take ten deep breaths.
“Hmm. Good,” Romain said, as though he was privy to her thoughts. He pointed at the leonine grotesque. The very
alive
grotesque. “You learn.”
The creature cocked its head in curiosity.
Romain nodded. “Cecily teach.”
Ella thought she was going to be sick. The demented mason had called the creature after Adam’s cousin. She tried to convince herself it was the innocent mimicry of a childish mind, but failed. Whatever the creature was, it responded to Romain. She hoped he had it well under control. Nothing Genord could dream up for her would approach the horror of a mauling by that beast.
Can you hear me?
Confused, Ella turned her head to locate the source of the gentle voice reverberating in her head.
Don’t be frightened. You
are
safe, at least for the moment.
Who is it?
Ella tried to ask, but the question emerged as snarls rather than words.
The grotesque held out a paw, showing off a gold bracelet.
My name is Cecily. Don’t try to talk. Just think what you want to say.
Help me
, Ella pleaded, no longer trying to make sense of what was happening.
I have to find Detective Rob Hamlyn.
The grotesque looked at Romain. He scratched his head. “Bitter.”
Ella heard a giggle inside her head.
He thinks you’re too bitter to help. I don’t think so. I’ve seen you here with Adam. You were trying to help.