something weird. No point obsessing over it the way they do, right? We’ve had people looking into it but not exactly clocking any overtime. That is, until today.”
Bonaparte opened the tabernacle which sat on the altar. She reached in and drew out a tiny chunk of something black and globby, sealed in a Ziploc bag. Nico crossed himself.
“Those don’t like any communion wafers I’ve ever seen.”
“Jesus Christ,” Price whispered, about as irreverently as those words could be spoken.
He held out a hand.
“May I?”
Without saying a word, Bonaparte let him take the baggie from her and examined it from all angles. Nico wasn’t looking as closely as Price was, but from what he could tell it looked like a shard of metal coated with some kind of black, oily substance.
“This can’t be possible,” Price breathed, “It’s a children’s story. A fairy tale nightcrawlers tell their kids to keep them in line.”
“As someone who’s witnessed about five different kinds of fairy tales crawl out of the Grimm Brothers volume and try to eat me tonight,” Nico said, “may I be the first to suggest that we dispense with all the ‘gee whiz’ bullshit and you just tell me what that is?”
“I really like him,” Bonaparte repeated.
“That, kid,” Price said, shaking the baggie as if by giving it a good shake it would cease to be and the world would begin to make sense again, “Would be the first proof (that I’m aware of) of the existence of The Hunter of the Dead.”
Seven
The Dark Ages…
Brother Pablo swallowed the gasp which threatened to spring from his throat as they ripped the blindfold from his face. The woman who stood before him was entirely missing a solid quarter of her face. A line, more or less, drawn from the bottom of her right ear to the corner of her nose and everything below it was sheared down to the bone.
A ghastly smile began to take shape on the half of her mouth which retained lips. Pablo struggled to coax words from his suddenly desert-dry mouth in his finest liturgical Latin.
“In…in the name of His Holiness, I bring you a message from Rome, Lady Lilith.”
She spoke, surprising him by falling into the vernacular of his Iberian home. “I am no lady. Not in any peerage which you and yours would recognize.”
The two brutish men who stood on her right and left, but a few steps below her on the dais, began to chuckle. Pablo felt worms tighten around his belly and worried he might soil his travelling cloak. The half-faced woman was staring at him expectantly.
“How…how shall I address you, then?”
Her glacial mask softened and he knew that he had chosen the right words. For now at least.
“I am no more and no less than the mother of my household,” she said, and placed a hand atop of the heads of each of her two factotums, “and all who dwell within.”
A chain jangled off to Pablo’s right side, and as hard as he tried to keep his eyes locked forward on her, he couldn’t help but catch a glimpse out of the corner of his vision of the horrors of her throne room. The perimeter was littered with trophies from her favorite victims, in display cases like a museum’s or a library’s.
There was the lute of a famous minstrel, with his hands still attached, locked in place by rigor mortis. The walls were hung with the hides of men. Some were carved with ancient and arcane spells. Others had been inked and colored to form surprisingly complex tapestries. The centerpiece was the member of a famous lothario. She had ordered it dipped in wax while still engorged, then severed, so that it would remain erect for all time.
Chained at regular intervals between the displays were men and damsels – slaves, Pablo realized – kneeling, naked, and shivering.
“Mother Lilith, then,” Pablo said, trying to keep his voice from faltering.
“Lilith sounds so formal. Stiff. My children call me Lily…like the lily of the fields.”
Pablo pressed his lips together.
Bonaparte opened the tabernacle which sat on the altar. She reached in and drew out a tiny chunk of something black and globby, sealed in a Ziploc bag. Nico crossed himself.
“Those don’t like any communion wafers I’ve ever seen.”
“Jesus Christ,” Price whispered, about as irreverently as those words could be spoken.
He held out a hand.
“May I?”
Without saying a word, Bonaparte let him take the baggie from her and examined it from all angles. Nico wasn’t looking as closely as Price was, but from what he could tell it looked like a shard of metal coated with some kind of black, oily substance.
“This can’t be possible,” Price breathed, “It’s a children’s story. A fairy tale nightcrawlers tell their kids to keep them in line.”
“As someone who’s witnessed about five different kinds of fairy tales crawl out of the Grimm Brothers volume and try to eat me tonight,” Nico said, “may I be the first to suggest that we dispense with all the ‘gee whiz’ bullshit and you just tell me what that is?”
“I really like him,” Bonaparte repeated.
“That, kid,” Price said, shaking the baggie as if by giving it a good shake it would cease to be and the world would begin to make sense again, “Would be the first proof (that I’m aware of) of the existence of The Hunter of the Dead.”
Seven
The Dark Ages…
Brother Pablo swallowed the gasp which threatened to spring from his throat as they ripped the blindfold from his face. The woman who stood before him was entirely missing a solid quarter of her face. A line, more or less, drawn from the bottom of her right ear to the corner of her nose and everything below it was sheared down to the bone.
A ghastly smile began to take shape on the half of her mouth which retained lips. Pablo struggled to coax words from his suddenly desert-dry mouth in his finest liturgical Latin.
“In…in the name of His Holiness, I bring you a message from Rome, Lady Lilith.”
She spoke, surprising him by falling into the vernacular of his Iberian home. “I am no lady. Not in any peerage which you and yours would recognize.”
The two brutish men who stood on her right and left, but a few steps below her on the dais, began to chuckle. Pablo felt worms tighten around his belly and worried he might soil his travelling cloak. The half-faced woman was staring at him expectantly.
“How…how shall I address you, then?”
Her glacial mask softened and he knew that he had chosen the right words. For now at least.
“I am no more and no less than the mother of my household,” she said, and placed a hand atop of the heads of each of her two factotums, “and all who dwell within.”
A chain jangled off to Pablo’s right side, and as hard as he tried to keep his eyes locked forward on her, he couldn’t help but catch a glimpse out of the corner of his vision of the horrors of her throne room. The perimeter was littered with trophies from her favorite victims, in display cases like a museum’s or a library’s.
There was the lute of a famous minstrel, with his hands still attached, locked in place by rigor mortis. The walls were hung with the hides of men. Some were carved with ancient and arcane spells. Others had been inked and colored to form surprisingly complex tapestries. The centerpiece was the member of a famous lothario. She had ordered it dipped in wax while still engorged, then severed, so that it would remain erect for all time.
Chained at regular intervals between the displays were men and damsels – slaves, Pablo realized – kneeling, naked, and shivering.
“Mother Lilith, then,” Pablo said, trying to keep his voice from faltering.
“Lilith sounds so formal. Stiff. My children call me Lily…like the lily of the fields.”
Pablo pressed his lips together.
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