Incubi

He opened his hands. Suddenly his eyes showed only white. “I am risen,” he intoned. “Be risen with us.”

Madmen, she thought. Her instincts poured adrenaline into her heart and she rushed forward. She tried to claw at his face, but his hands snapped up her wrists. She bit into his forearm. He didn’t flinch. She bit down harder and felt her teeth grind against bone. He only winced slightly, holding her. Warm blood flowed into her mouth. Even when she bit out a collop of flesh, he barely reacted.

“Don’t hurt me,” he said. “We have a gift for you. It’s a precious gift. Your transposition will show you wonders.”

She fought against his grasp, but his forearms, firm as steel rods, didn’t budge. His grip on her wrist made her hands go numb.

“You cannot hurt me,” he said.

Veronica squealed. Her foot lashed out and caught him directly between the legs. Gilles’ hands snapped open — suddenly he was on his knees.

Veronica leapt over him, scrambled out of the room and down the stairs. Fleeing to Ginny’s car would be pointless; she didn’t have the keys and she didn’t have time to look for them. She yanked on the front door but nothing happened. The dead bolt had no knob, just a keyhole. Locked.

She sensed the shadow that appeared on the landing.

She rushed back into the kitchen. Get a knife! She heard footsteps as she hauled open drawers, spilling their contents in a clang of metal. Her fingers closed around a fileting knife, when she noticed a lower cabinet hanging open. Immediately she noticed what was inside.

A phone.

It was a portable phone. A small whip antenna stood out of its handle, and a big battery pack was screwed into its housing.

A tiny yellow light winked when she turned on the switch, and the buttons glowed. Beeps resounded as she punched in 911.

She listened, panting. Nothing happened.

“Goddamn it!” she squealed. She’d never used one of these. It wasn’t like a cell phone. She fumbled with the receiver, sensing the footfalls coming through the living room. A top button glowed SEND.

Before she could push it, she was screaming, rising, being lifted up by her hair. The heel of Gilles’ bare foot slammed down on the phone and cracked its black plastic housing.

“You don’t understand.” His accented voice was clement, soft. Her scalp barked with pain. She whipped around—

“Veronica, please—”

She brought the knife across Gilles’ face. Its blade sliced cleanly through one cheek and out the other.

He stiffened and let go. In silence he brought his hands to his pouring face and stared at her. The stare seemed to dare her. I can’t hurt you, huh? she thought. Then she lunged again—

“Please, don’t,” he pleaded.

— and planted the knife into Gilles’ left eye.

He stood shuddering. Blood flowed like a cascade down his chest, yet he didn’t fall. His right eye held wide on her while the fileting knife jutted from his left.

And then, with resolute calm, he slowly removed the blade. Clear fluid ran down his cheek. The knife clattered.

“Please, Veronica. I won’t hurt you.”

She screamed again, a high keening sound, as the hand came around and grabbed her throat. Suddenly she was kicking, held fully off her feet.

“He won’t hurt you,” Marzen said very gently. “But I will.”

The grip of the German’s big hand tightened. Veronica gagged. Aloft, she seemed to be running on air, but soon her movements began to grow feeble.

Marzen’s face looked up at her. Blank. Pitiless.

I’m dead, she managed to think.

The hand squeezed off all the blood to her brain, and down she went, into darkness.

Chapter 33

The fog of her thoughts sidetracked her all the way home. She’d read The Synod of the Aorists in its entirety, a tome as black as pitch tar. Its images seemed to peer at her like phantoms in the backseat. When she spotted the green sign, her exit—Historic District, Next Right— she nearly wept with relief.

Jack’s car was not at the house. She drove around Church Circle, trying to listen to the radio. WHFS was playing a group called Strange Boutique. “Never throw away what could be true,” the singer lamented in beautiful sadness. How much have I thrown away? Faye wondered. She did not pursue an answer.

She still felt confused about last night. Had she made Jack feel better or worse? Right now she wondered if she knew anything.

Big Brother Is Watching You, read the Orwellian sign in the bookshop window. Faye parked in the lot behind the Undercroft, unconsciously glancing about. Did she expect devils to be in wait? Black-garbed aorists bearing dolches in red hands? Baalezphon is watching you, she thought. Was there really a devil? Faye didn’t believe in devils, only the ones man made out of his own imperfections. But the aorists were as devoted to truth as the Christians, avoiding the same faith to different gods. Who could say that their acts were any worse than the Crusades butchering in the name of Jesus, the Templar Knights forcing conversion at sword point, and the mindless torture of the Holy Inquisition? Mankind pursued truth without ever really seeing it. Act for act. Evil for evil.

She scurried across the gravel lot. She needed to be around people, around life. Maybe she should get drunk and forget about everything. Relief embraced her the instant she stepped into the ’Croft. People, talk, laughter. Craig was expertly pouring four beers from four different taps at the same time. This transition, from the dark solitude of her research to this crowded reality, made her feel physically light.

“What can I do you for, Faye?” Craig inquired.

“Just water,” she said.

Barkeeps had a knack for insistency. Craig brought her a bottle of the same strong German beer she’d had last night. “I asked for water,” she complained.

“There’s water in that,” he said.

“Oh, well,” she decided. At least if she got drunk she could blame him.

“What’s wrong, Faye? You look like you’ve just seen Death.”

Not Death. Baalzephon. She ignored the comment. “Jack hasn’t been in, has he?”

“Nope, not since last night.”

Could he have used the directions he’d pilfered and gone to find Veronica?

“They’re really giving it to him in the papers,” Craig said.

“I know. It’s disgusting.”

“Why are they calling it the Triangle case?”

“Trines,” she muttered, more to her beer. “It’s a satanic emblem, a triangle with a star at each point. The killers drew them in blood at each murder scene.”

“You’d think something like that could never happen in a town like this.”

“This town is no different from any town in the world in any age,” Faye responded too quickly. “It’s got people. It’s got beliefs. It’s got good and it’s got evil, and that’s all you need.”

Craig gave her a long look. “Any leads?”

“I don’t know. I’m not even working on it anymore.”