“That’s enough for the first session,” Faust finally says,releasing me. “Return her to the cell, Titus.”
O di immortales. Blessed heaven.
I barely feel the guard’s hands as he carries me back to thePit. Titus places my body on the wooden platform that I use as a bed, to keepme above the rats, and a nurse strips off my wet shift, replacing it with a dryone. Is she old or young? Someone’s mother? Aunt? Her movements are so soft andgentle that it twists my heart, and I long to weep and weep. She drapes me inblankets, tucking them around my toes, and then follows Titus out of the Pit.The heavy lid drops into place with a thud.
My nerve endings grow livid as needles of pain shoot through mymuscles and move upward, pulsing just under the skin. The shivering begins inearnest now. A blurry section of my mind knows this is not good, but I don’tcare. Death would be a welcome release.
And there He is, Sir Death Himself, drifting toward me. I senseHis cool presence, see the tall, dark figure in my psyche and immediately feelthe urge to live.
A swift, dry brush across my brow. It takes me a moment toidentify the sensation. The R-Reaper’s k-kiss? I ask telepathically.
Only a talisman. My brothers will see it and pass you by.Your time is not yet.
Very generous, Sir. But I can’t help wondering why?
The insinuation of a laugh. Are you questioning my judgment,Visionary?
His voice is less substantial in my mind than a whisper.It is neither kind nor cruel, without apology or compassion. I shivernonetheless. Fearing greatly, I suppose, because Death cannot help being whatHe is. Just as I can’t avoid having visions of murder, cursed with the Sight bya fickle Roman goddess.
Death touches my jaw and the pain subsides, a soothingdrowsiness taking its place. Daughter of Rome, I think you’ve learned bynow. There are worse things than me.
I’m surprised, and a little dismayed, when I awaken in thepiercing stillness. Checking over my body, I find breath in my lungs and a steadyheartbeat. That Sir Death lived up to His word and gave me protection surprisesme. It’s splendid. Fortunatus mea. Adversely, my dismay stems from thefact that I am now in the Reaper’s debt, confound it. When will He expectrepayment, I wonder?
Unable to answer myself, I climb down from my makeshift bed andstretch. I circle the Pit several times, stiff and aching, and suddenly drop tothe floor. My skull feels too tight, the bones of my body turn to fire. I holdthe sides of my head and rock back and forth.
Stop! Not strong enough yet. Have mercy…
My prayer for relief goes unanswered, and faces flash throughmy mind. Those I saw in my last vision, the one initiated when the doctor touchedmy skin. Men, women, old, young—they appear and blur a moment later, shiftinginto the next person. All of Faust’s victims are deep-branded inside me. Theyare angry, thinking I’ve neglected them.
Do not forget us, they call out from the grave.
I won’t, I promise them. Upon my life, I won’t.
The fingers of my right hand move apart, coerced by asupernatural power. They form the shape of a V—for Veritas, goddess of Rome.Burning within, like a human torch, I am now a prisoner of a different kind.Not of the asylum, but of the dead. My brain blossoms with the ideas they plantthere, plans to make the guilty doctor pay. Vindicta. Vengeance. Theghosts tell me to find the Book and steal it. Escape the asylum and exposeFaust to the world. Let him answer for every crime, they say, condemned by hisown words.
If only these spirits could be a bit more specific. How exactlydo I escape to do their bidding? Have they any suggestions? But the dead only wailand cry for justice. Blasted ghosts always leave the finer points of the planfor me to figure out.
Annoyed by my hesitation, they cause me to burn hotter. Allright, I reply through my psyche. As you wish, I do so promise. Truthvibrates through the Pit, and the dead finally set my body free. They haveaccepted my vow, for the moment, but might be less forgiving tomorrow if Idon’t take action. I work for a very impatient crowd.
Most people belong to another in some capacity, as a daughteror son, a sister, spouse, or neighbor, but the inmates of this place have beenforgotten. They have no one to speak for them, or to avenge their wrongs. Andso I’m here, dumb and blind, to serve as the mouthpiece of the wretched,whether I like it or not. That brazen hussy Fate does love a paradox.
Ironically, serving the dead gives me a reason to live, to goon breathing each day. It answers Hamlet’s eternal question of whether to be ornot to be with an affirmative.
That is why I crawl about the Pit on my knees, searching for apalm-sized piece of metal. It has been hidden and used many times by theinmates before me. I find the broken iron strip and turn toward the northernwall. The rough surface is covered with spider webs and dirt, but somethingelse as well.
Words.
Hundreds of them have been scratched into the crumbling stonewith this strip of iron. I trace the curves and the straight lines of theletters, as I did with my alphabet stencils at home. Of sound mind, one inmate wrote, neverinsane. Inanother place, I find Hungry, God Sees, and Died Alone.
I scrape the iron against rock. Over and over, until eachletter is formed, perfect and smooth. Wiping the sweat from my brow, I blow thedust away from my masterpiece, my call to arms.
LEX TALIONIS
YOUR DAY OF RECKONING AWAITS, FAUST
1
Arrectis Auribus.
With ears pricked up—Virgil
Three months earlier
Akilling is certain tonight.
I don’t know when or by whom, but it’s a given. This is mad,bad Stonehenge, Colorado, and every other person in residence has a skeleton intheir closet, or at least buried by the shed out back. Death’s just a way oflife here, and it is All Hallows Eve to boot. Quite the busiest season
