The Second Coming Page 5

  What was eating at her?

  The dagger glinted orange in the firelight and Paine wondered what might happen if he touched it, curious if it would trigger a response. His parents never owned anything made of silver, mostly due to cost. Silver was expensive — the price of defending one’s self against bloodcraft and the dead.

  “Six years,” replied Diarmuid. “She's a great companion and friend. I would be lost without her.”

  Paine settled onto his blanket, letting the warmth from the fire seep into his sore leg muscles.

  “Is she tame?”

  Fang turned her head to glare at him.

  “Tame?” Diarmuid chuckled. “She could leave anytime she wants.” He leaned back further against a small log. Paine moved to avoid the smoke that wafted in his direction, settling himself at Diarmuid's side. The man shuffled closer, his sinewy, iron leg pressed against Paine’s. The fire seemed to emanate more heat.

  “I don’t understand. Then why is she here?”

  “I met up with a pack of her kind one evening. When we met, she chased the others off and remained with me. She’s been with me since.”

  “Why did she leave her pack?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I may never know. I can sense when she’s near, but I cannot communicate with her like Lya. I don't have that talent.”

  Lya remained silent, but poked at the fire with a large stick. Her ears were pricked.

  Diarmuid stared into the flames and then went quiet.

  “Well,” said Paine after a time and feeling enough awkward silence had passed. “It’s been a long day. Perhaps it’s time to retire for the night.”

  Lya rose from where she sat and strode towards the woods. Diarmuid looked at Paine in confusion.

  Paine shook his head. “Let her go.”

  Lya then disappeared into the dark, unchallenged by either.

  Paine figured she was going to dance skyclad with the spirits. Once, he had tracked her into the woods on the night of the new moon and caught her dancing with an unseen apparition. He never followed her again. Not only did women not interest him, but the sight of his sister frolicking naked amongst the trees was almost repulsive.

  Of course, there was that shared night with Billy.

  Paine cloaked himself in his blanket, listening as the sound of his sister’s travels took her further into the night. He looked to the sky. Other than the stars that filled it, it was empty.

  She would definitely be dancing.

  He rolled away from where Lya had disappeared, closed his eyes and slept.

  Chapter 5

  “… delapsus ordo…”

  Paine woke.

  Something whispered in his ear, faint, yet audible enough that he could make out a smattering of words.

  “… tua sum domine…”

  He smelled blood.

  He already knew the presence before he turned his head to see a shadow in the night. Lya knelt at his side, eyes open but rolled back, one hand raised to the air. She was trembling.

  “…te obsecro ...”

  On Paine’s chest was the shard of glass that Diarmuid had found and next to him lay a dead squirrel, its open throat smiling at him.

  He sat up and snatched Lya’s arm. His grip was harsh and there was a faint grin on her face before her eyes returned from their upturned state. She plucked his fingers from her arm, each one removed with deft firmness. She seized the dead squirrel and then departed his side without a further word or glance.

  Paine looked at Diarmuid as she strode into the woods. The man was huddled by the embers of the dying fire, asleep. Fang was nowhere to be seen. So Paine lay there for a time, listening for the sounds of his sister. The forest offered him nothing and so he lay there further, waiting and wallowing in the pain of his sister’s absence as she strode deeper into the woods. And with every step she took, the suffering in his heart worsened.

  ***

  The late morning sun baked Friar John's freckled skin as he trudged along the road. He took a swig of water from the flask that hung about his shoulder, and then poured a small amount on his head. The air was hot and sticky and made walking just slightly worse than uncomfortable.

  A hushed quiet breathed across the land, despite the presence of travelers along the dusty road. He said little to the passersby, mostly mumbled greetings and comments on the weather. John wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and the cardinal. He had departed at an ungodly hour, hastening from the monastery.

  Beside him waddled Miguel, breathing heavily through his bulbous nose, a faint whistle occasionally emanating from his hairy nostrils. Miguel was the cardinal's parting gift — an escort. Pope Esther had not objected.

  The two friars attracted little attention as they traveled through the southern valleys of Iberia, a land once known as Spain. It was not uncommon for their kind to be seen in these parts. He spoke the language fluently, as did Miguel; both were raised on the border of Portugal. His gift for languages was many: Portuguese, Latin, Iberian, and even some Valbain, though he had little opportunity to practice the latter tongue. He had learned a mere handful of words, gleaned from a few members of the Rebellion.

  A single name resonated in John’s mind.

  Liesel.

  The Pope said the members of the Rebellion would recognize it, and would point him in the right direction. He did not know how anyone could help him find his quarry, but he had to start somewhere, and Liesel was it.

  “Can we rest?” panted Miguel.

  John stopped. A small grove of trees waited in the distance, enticing them with its offer of shade. He pointed to it and Miguel nodded his satisfaction. When they reached it, the fat friar dropped to the ground, leaning against the old sycamore fig. He gulped down water and continued to pant. John dropped his pack on the ground. Its contents were heavy.

  “How far did you say it is?” Miguel asked.

  “Five days on horse. The next village should be half a day's journey. We can purchase horses there.” He paused. “I'm sorry you were asked to endure this, brother. If you wish to depart, I would not blame you.”

  Indignation settled into Miguel's thin, pursed lips. He whistled even harder through his nose.

  “I have been given this task and I will see it through, brother. Besides, I am curious as to where this will lead. Can you share with me what we are looking for?”

  “How much do you know?”

  “I know only that we are meant to get to Barcelona.”

  He envied the fat friar his ignorance. John remembered when the visions had come to him, and when the Virgin had shown things that had changed everything. His life was forever altered with that nibble from the Forbidden Fruit, a bite he wished he had never tasted.

  And now they were on a mission to find the very thing he had long hoped to avoid.

  And not just find him, he thought. How in the seven hells am I supposed to get close enough to kill him?

  “Then live with that knowledge for now and give thanks.”

  Miguel shrugged and rose, gripping a low hanging branch for support.

  “I am ready to move on again.”

  John nodded, placed his burden on his clammy back, and the two strode out of the shade.

  ***

  Paine was not an early riser, so dawn was an affair of mumbled curses. He would have slept longer, but his bladder was so full he could almost taste the piss. He groaned, stiff and sore from travel, not to mention a night of restlessness. When Fang had returned from whatever foray she had taken into the thicket, she had spent the remainder of the night kicking him in the chest, ruining any chance of recovering from his encounter with Lya. Paine rubbed his aching ribs.

  The wolf grinned at him, licking him on the face as she rose and then stretched her nimble form. Her tongue reeked of things unmentionable and he wiped it from his face. Lya was already awake, and her dark mood had subsided.

  “Good morning,” she said. Her chipper greeting was feigned.


  “Morning,” he replied, eying her with care. He said nothing about the night, not wanting to appear divisive in front of Diarmuid, and then relieved himself in the shrubs.

  The morning passed without much incident. The travel was light and comfortably quiet by the time they reached the outskirts of the next village. Paine and Lya waited for Diarmuid while the latter went in for supplies. Diarmuid was unsure how far the Confederation’s reach now stretched, and after passing a makeshift gallows and a tree with three sawed off nooses swaying in the breeze, they agreed it would be safer if the two of them weren't seen.

  Fang remained with them.

  Now alone, Paine considered raising his concerns about the previous night but clamped his mouth. It was not worth the battle. He would wait until the moment was right. But he needed to kill time and the tension between them was palpable.

  “Now that Diarmuid's not here, why don't you ask Fang why she left her pack?”

  The wolf’s ears pricked.

  “Why don’t you?” Lya asked. “You seem to have all kinds of hidden talents you haven’t told me about.”

  He paused. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  Paine remained silent.

  Lya walked over to him. There was a forced sureness in her stride, an anger to the click of her boots upon the ground.

  “How did you command seven souls to do your bidding at once?” she asked, circling him. “How did you summon them without blood? And how come that fucking silver cross didn’t stop you?” She poked him in the chest. It hurt. “It stopped my curses, why not your summons? What else have you learned that you haven’t told me?” She was starting to shriek. Her eyes were wild.

  Is that what’s eating at her?

  “You think I’m hiding something from you?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  Paine shook his head. “I was willing to pay the price for the summons and they took nothing from me. I thought I would go mad. Perhaps enough blood had already been spilled, but I won’t risk doing it again.” He clenched his fists and faced her. “You care to share what you were up to last night?”

  “I was dancing.”

  “After that.”

  She hesitated.

  Something was brewing in that mind of hers.

  “Trying to sense if those souls you summoned were still inside you.”

  “That’s all?

  “Yes.”

  Paine said nothing.

  She smiled, again contrived. “I forgive you.” Her voice was now honey and sunshine and she plopped in front of Fang.

  Forgive? Maybe not brewing; more like fermenting.

  Lya held out her hands to let the wolf smell her. She then scratched her behind the ears and leaned into her face. The whole process took time, his sister obviously not wanting to force herself upon something that might tear a piece of flesh from her.

  Paine fidgeted where he sat. He blocked out his concerns of whether Lya had lied to him. He couldn’t deal with that now. He would learn the truth.

  All in time.

  As for Fang, he wondered why a wolf would leave her pack for a human. It didn’t make sense. There had to be a reason. And getting the answer was taking far too long for Paine’s liking.

  Lya told him more than once that conversing with animals worked differently. They communicated in vision, smell and instinct. It would take time. Paine understood, but it was little consolation. His curiosity itched, and he needed to scratch.

  After a time, Fang growled, low at first and then rising in volume. Lya paused.

  “What's going on?” Paine whispered.

  She held up her hand to him, her eyes never leaving the wolf. The snarling became throatier. The wolf turned her head towards Paine and then glared into the forest, her rumbling rising once more. Paine followed Fang’s gaze into the trees.

  He rose.

  Fang fell quiet, watching the dense brush that coated the forest. Lya crouched and edged forward with the wolf. A presence lurked in the trees. Paine could feel it. He could sense it watching them.

  He stepped forward to check, but then, as if nothing had ever been there, Fang stopped. The silence of the forest vanished and the birdsong returned. The presence, or whatever it was, was now gone.

  “What was that?” he asked. He reached for the flask of water at his side. Burning apple edged its way up his gullet.

  “I don't know,” Lya whispered, “but I could sense it. It was studying us.”

  He gargled and spat. “Does Fang know?”

  “I doubt it. And I got nothing from her. It’s like trying to communicate with that stupid cow.”

  They strode over to the brush for a look, Paine holding a heavy stick as a weapon. They inched forward, careful not to move too swiftly. Lya’s dagger was sheathed and she crawled behind Paine on all fours. With care he pulled back the branches and jumped when a small bird flew out of the bush. His heart raced and he nearly screamed. As it fluttered about them and then flew off, Paine paused. In the mud were etched mangled hoofprints. He supposed it was from their own horses because there were no other signs anyone had been there, and they certainly would have seen a person on horseback.

  At least someone on horseback who was still alive.

  That thought made his stomach turn a little.

  Paine broke the silence as they wandered back to where Fang lay in the clearing.

  “I wonder if the Witch Hunters are following us.”

  Lya said nothing, but they sat close to each other, watching the trees for anything. Living or not.

  When Diarmuid returned he examined the vicinity as well, but found nothing to add to their own observations. As a precaution, they kept a closer vigil as they rode.

  They continued north along a road that still favored a westerly tangent; the wind that blew from that direction smelled thick of something cold and unsavory. It worsened with every mile. Eventually they came upon a hamlet, or that’s what Paine thought to call it. It was too small to be anything else; the paltry buildings and homes would hardly have warranted such a grand title as village.

  It seemed abandoned with its doors closed and windows boarded up, yet there was a trickle of life. A few people walked the streets, but their pace was far from casual and their glances were furtive. Those who ventured into the streets would hasten from one building to another, pounding on a reinforced door. It would open a crack, and an arm would yank the person inside before slamming closed.

  Diarmuid inquired about a place to stay.

  His response was swift and without apology — there was nowhere to put them up for the night.

  No room at the inn.

  As they approached one of the buildings, he caught some muttered talk on the other side of a poorly shuttered window.

  “Last night Emma saw a serpent drinking from the cow’s teat,” said a voice.

  “Vile!” responded another.

  They went on to blather about snakes crawling down the mouths of babes, suffocating them in their sleep; the oak trees in the grove bleeding from their stumps; and young women disappearing before their wedding day — some never returning and others being found three days later, naked and branded with the symbol of a goat.

  “Those women, they had no memory left. They didn’t even recognize their own mothers,” shrieked the first voice.

  She was hushed and then talk of the Confederation’s salvation was whispered. Paine slipped from the window’s edge.

  A stalk of a man named Clem was willing to speak with the travelers. He informed them the village elders would be speaking with the Confederation representatives in a week. The three said nothing, trying to draw little attention so they might not be remembered in seven days time. That plan was laid to ruin when an old woman shuffled along the road. She pointed a gnarled finger at Lya.

  “Succubus!” she yelled, gurgling and spitting up. “Succubus!” she screamed again and foamed at the mouth. The she dropped in the street, dead
.

  Paine looked in horror at Lya who shook her head.

  “Not me,” she mouthed. He wasn’t sure if he believed her.

  They departed soon after, leaving the town to gossip behind their bolted doors and battened windows about who had just passed through, and the misfortune that followed in their footsteps.

  Two mornings later Paine rinsed his face in a nearby stream, letting its cold touch wash away what remained of the night's slumber. He swallowed some dried fruit for his morning repast, avoiding the apples. His throat still burned.

  The day passed without much event. There were a few shrines upon the road — mostly crosses with dried flowers to mark where someone had met their end. Paine knew those markers well. There were five along the Fairfax Road back home, all to mark the deaths of young men who tried to drive away the wolfen — crooked and twisted versions of their smaller cousins, with much more cruelty and cunning than should befit any animal.

  Paine visited those shrines often and even summoned one of their souls forth. One man’s specter appeared, but refused to speak; refused to even look at him. It was one of Paine’s first attempts at necromancy and he had failed to command it.

  Stupid ghost. What good was summoning it if it wouldn’t do your bidding?

  In his anger he had cursed the soul back into the netherworld. It spoke then, and screamed its agony as it disappeared from sight.

  Paine cursed it one more time and then adjusted the cross of one of the shrines, straightening it.

  As the end of the day approached, they stood facing the remains of the old world.

  “I'm not sure which city this is,” Diarmuid said.

  Paine found it difficult to remove his gaze from the skeletal ruins. The remnants of mammoth structures stood guard in the distance, stone watchers over a wasteland of broken buildings and lost lives.