the image of the womanâs naked body came to Flamel. He saw tongues of fire caressing her limbs, filling the folds in her flesh, and kneading he r breasts.
He knew the torturer was assailed by the same images: horrible, but also drenched with desire and temptation. Otherwise, how could yo u explainâ¦
He returned to the pitiful scene in th e dungeon.
Flore had started talking again, faster and faster. The return home and her motherâs cure. The woman had put all her faith in Isaac and had finally turned Flore over to the healer, which had certainly pleased th e brother.
And then the wandering.
As she spoke, Flamel wrote. Every word passed through his muscles, his hand, and his plume and came out in a thin flow of ink onto the parchment.
He felt like the womanâs whole body had settl ed in him.
That was when the nightmare tightened around him like a vise. He couldnât move. He tried, but his muscles wouldnât respond. Like the young woman, he was bound to the table of suffering. The visions came to him night after night, and the terror consumed him. They always stopped at the most crucial moment, when the torturer started his purification rite and when Flamel could no longer bear it. Would he ever find pe ace again?
No longer hearing the fire flicker in the hearth, Flamel guessed that daybreak was close enough to get up. He glanced at Lady Perenelle, who was sleeping soundly under the thick duvet. He had nothing to fear. She would no t wake up.
He descended the steps. The blaze in the large stone fireplace had gone out. He threw some kindling into the hearth. Flames shot up, coloring the walls a blood red.
Flamel shuddered. Evil lurked. He jumped up and double-checked the lock on the door. The walls were thick, the shutters barred. Nobody could enter without the Devilâs help. But it was the Devil that Flamel feared. The Devil incarnated in the torturer.
No matter how hard he prayed to the Virgin Mary, as soon as he closed his eyes, the same abominations returned.
He considered confessing, but with pyres going up faster and faster, it was better to remain discreet about the tribulations of his soul. Last Easter, a monk from Spain, where the Inquisition was battling heresy without mercy, had preached at the church. The man had a gleam in his eye as he called on his brothers to see the work of Satan in all things, especially the dreams of wives and daughters. Handsome young incubi were eager to visit girls and women. They would corrupt innocent virgins and turn honest mothers int o wenches.
The Spanish brother captivated his audience with plentiful details regarding the erotic power of these incubi. As the listeners signed themselves, he described every aspect of the demonsâ huge organs and tongues of fire capable of becoming three serpents of metal that penetrated womenâs orifices and possessed them forever.
The brother didnât stop there. He followed with succubi, female demons that haunted menâs sleep. He described their languorous bodies and expert caresses. Vampires of the soul and flesh, they condemned and drained men of their vit al energy.
By this time, the parishioners were beside themselves. Several cried out in pain, while others shouted in anger. In the heat of the moment, Flamel nearly succumbed to self-accusation. The priestâs glowing eyes st opped him.
But what he had heard then couldnât hold a candle to what he was going th rough now.
Flamel added a log to the fire.
He frequently stayed up at night, listening to the sounds of the city. Like all other shopkeepers, he feared the students the most. Lacking any discipline, they roamed the Latin Quarter and occasionally crossed the Seine, looking for trouble in the Marais. They were lawless young men who had no compunctions about attacking honest people. And then there were the apprentice physicians who roamed the neighborhood late at night to gather cadavers from the Holy Innocentsâ
He knew the torturer was assailed by the same images: horrible, but also drenched with desire and temptation. Otherwise, how could yo u explainâ¦
He returned to the pitiful scene in th e dungeon.
Flore had started talking again, faster and faster. The return home and her motherâs cure. The woman had put all her faith in Isaac and had finally turned Flore over to the healer, which had certainly pleased th e brother.
And then the wandering.
As she spoke, Flamel wrote. Every word passed through his muscles, his hand, and his plume and came out in a thin flow of ink onto the parchment.
He felt like the womanâs whole body had settl ed in him.
That was when the nightmare tightened around him like a vise. He couldnât move. He tried, but his muscles wouldnât respond. Like the young woman, he was bound to the table of suffering. The visions came to him night after night, and the terror consumed him. They always stopped at the most crucial moment, when the torturer started his purification rite and when Flamel could no longer bear it. Would he ever find pe ace again?
No longer hearing the fire flicker in the hearth, Flamel guessed that daybreak was close enough to get up. He glanced at Lady Perenelle, who was sleeping soundly under the thick duvet. He had nothing to fear. She would no t wake up.
He descended the steps. The blaze in the large stone fireplace had gone out. He threw some kindling into the hearth. Flames shot up, coloring the walls a blood red.
Flamel shuddered. Evil lurked. He jumped up and double-checked the lock on the door. The walls were thick, the shutters barred. Nobody could enter without the Devilâs help. But it was the Devil that Flamel feared. The Devil incarnated in the torturer.
No matter how hard he prayed to the Virgin Mary, as soon as he closed his eyes, the same abominations returned.
He considered confessing, but with pyres going up faster and faster, it was better to remain discreet about the tribulations of his soul. Last Easter, a monk from Spain, where the Inquisition was battling heresy without mercy, had preached at the church. The man had a gleam in his eye as he called on his brothers to see the work of Satan in all things, especially the dreams of wives and daughters. Handsome young incubi were eager to visit girls and women. They would corrupt innocent virgins and turn honest mothers int o wenches.
The Spanish brother captivated his audience with plentiful details regarding the erotic power of these incubi. As the listeners signed themselves, he described every aspect of the demonsâ huge organs and tongues of fire capable of becoming three serpents of metal that penetrated womenâs orifices and possessed them forever.
The brother didnât stop there. He followed with succubi, female demons that haunted menâs sleep. He described their languorous bodies and expert caresses. Vampires of the soul and flesh, they condemned and drained men of their vit al energy.
By this time, the parishioners were beside themselves. Several cried out in pain, while others shouted in anger. In the heat of the moment, Flamel nearly succumbed to self-accusation. The priestâs glowing eyes st opped him.
But what he had heard then couldnât hold a candle to what he was going th rough now.
Flamel added a log to the fire.
He frequently stayed up at night, listening to the sounds of the city. Like all other shopkeepers, he feared the students the most. Lacking any discipline, they roamed the Latin Quarter and occasionally crossed the Seine, looking for trouble in the Marais. They were lawless young men who had no compunctions about attacking honest people. And then there were the apprentice physicians who roamed the neighborhood late at night to gather cadavers from the Holy Innocentsâ
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