Prayers to Broken Stone
Chapter 1 - The Cruelest MonthSpringtime in Paris, the cruelest month come and gone, but storms still linger. Tonight rain washes the city, speeding the Seine in its westward rush to the sea. In the Left Bank, it pours from the gutters and drips from curling wrought iron balconies to splash against the cobbles below. Moisture darkens white walls, new paint and plaster over centuries-old bones. Pigeons sleep beneath the eaves, fat on café crumbs, violet-grey wings folded tight against the chill. And in her apartment on the rue du Dragon, Holly sits beside an open window and watches the rain.
A single candle burns against the night, all the light she needs--never a diurnal creature, by nature or habit. A glass of wine warms half-forgotten in her hand. She watches the rain, the dark and narrow street. She waits.
Three years in Paris. Three years of laughter and pleasant company. And if her happiness was sometimes brittle and bitter, at least it was peaceful.
That peace crumbled tonight, at the sight of a familiar shadow trailing her along the banks of the rain-swollen Seine. At least they gave her as long as they did.
The damp breeze stirs the curtains, carrying the purr and growl of traffic. If she listens, she can catch the susurrus of voices from nearby cafes. She envies them, these people who sit with their coffee and pastries, discussing art and fashion and gossip, God and the world and the fate of man, who go home later to their safe houses and lovers and turn their locks against the dark. She's pretended to be one of them for three years; that particular ruse, she guesses, is about to end.
The narrow stair outside her door creaks, so soft the rain nearly hides the sound. She drains the last of her wine and sets the glass beside the chair. Anticipation coils cold in her stomach.
The door is unlocked, but he doesn't try the knob. Shadows thicken in the corner, fold in on themselves. Holly shivers at the draft from that darkness, her arms and nape prickling beneath her coat.
"Mademoiselle Ketenjian." Her father's name, that she hasn't used in years.
She pulls her cigarette case from her coat pocket. "Last I heard, it was still considered polite to knock."
He shrugs, a gaunt shape in the shadows. "I took the open window for an invitation." His voice is low and rough, dusty with disuse. The smell of stone and bone clings to him, unwinding through the room--the smell of catacombs and tombs.
A match cracks with a blossom of marigold light. "What made you think it was yours?" Silly, this fencing, silly and useless, but she does it anyway. Paper and tobacco rasp softly as she drags deep and exhales a breath of smoke.
His bone-china hands rise with another shrug. "You're still here. You could have run."
She watches him through her lashes. "I have nothing to run from, do I, Caliban?" Her stockings hiss as she crosses her legs.
"Only your responsibilities."
She rolls her eyes, and a dragon-jet of smoke snorts through her nose as she laughs. "Please. There's more to life than running and fetching for the priests--you should try it some time."
He glances around the room and she follows his gaze, frowning as she sees her apartment with a stranger's eyes. Everything neat, only her wine glass out of place. Books and prints all tastefully coordinated; the furniture came with the flat. She doesn't often bring company here.
"Anyway," she says, drawing his measuring gaze back to her, "they didn't try to stop me when I left."
"No. But now they want you back."
"Of course they do." She sighs, brushes back her fair hair. "Don't they have anyone else to bait their traps?"
"No one like you." He steps away from the wall, and light teases the pale sharpness of his cheekbones, the narrow arch of his nose. He wears shadows like a second skin; in all the year's she's known him, Holly isn't sure she's ever truly seen his face.
"Have you heard from Adrian?" he asks, stumbling over the name.
She stiffens, shoulders squaring. Only a name, but the air thickens with history, weighs on her skin. A name she's tried not to dwell on for years, with haphazard success. "No. Have you?"
"No one has."
She studies the blue ribbon of smoke uncoiling from her cigarette. "I'm the last person he'd want to talk to. The priests' cast-off whore."
"Not cast off--you left. And no one would call you a whore. A courtesan, perhaps..." A glimpse of long ivory teeth, but his smile dies quickly. He folds his arms over his narrow chest, hands perched like white spiders on his coat-sleeves. "The tunnels are darker without you."
For a moment the only sound is the splash of water against the cobbles. "What do they want now, Cal?" she finally asks.
Resignation is as bitter as smoke in her mouth. "Something stolen? Someone killed?"He swallows. "They want Adrian back. They think you can find him."
She flinches, eyes narrowing as warmth stings her cheeks. "You gravedigging bastards. You tell me I'm not a whore, then ask me to do that?" Her chair jostles as she stands, tipping the wine glass and spilling the last citrine drops onto the carpet. "How many times do you want me to hurt him?"
Caliban retreats, pulling shadows around him like armor. "No one wants anyone to be hurt. But we need Adrian."
"Of course." She turns away, tugs the window open wider to lean into the night. Raindrops scatter cold on her face and hair, goosebumps rippling up her legs. "You need him. But why should I help you? Last time ended badly enough."
"You'll do it because it ended so badly," he says at last. "Because you still care, and you don't want to leave things as they are."
She stiffens under the lash, hands tightening on the iron balcony.
"Holly-- We're weak. We can't go on as we have been. We need everyone--scholars and soldiers, courtesans and spies. We need everyone, and pray it's enough. For what it's worth, I gave you as long as I could."
Silence fills the room. Somewhere in the distance tires squeal on wet pavement. Footsteps splash on the street below, a young couple heedless of the cold and rain. Holly watches them run hand in hand, leaping over puddles, until they turn a corner and vanish. Water drips from her hair, her cheeks.
"Will you come with me?" Caliban asks.
He might beg, if she made him. Maybe they all would, if they need her so badly. Priests and sorcerers, the bitch Sycorax, all baring their throats to her. She wants to spit. Instead she drags on her cigarette one last time and lets it fall. Orange sparks flare as it spirals down and drowns in the rushing gutter.
She breathes deep, tastes rain and salt, the bitterness of damp stone. Then she steps inside and latches the window. "I'll come."
Her bag is waiting under the bed, has been waiting there since she moved in. A change of clothes, a change of passports. Everything else can stay. She's learned not to collect things she can't replace. She snuffs the candle.
"Thank you." His words are a whisper in the dark. "And I'm sorry."
She laughs, short and harsh, but reaches out and takes his spindle-thin hand. Her fingers are cold from the damp; his are always cold.
Caliban reaches into the darkness, rips it open. The hungry chill of the betweens washes over them as they step into nothing. The wound seals itself behind them, leaving an empty apartment, a candle-wick still smoking as the rain washes down on Paris.
Down and down and down. Nothing all around them, echoing and infinite, Caliban's hand the only thing Holly feels, the only thing real. She shuts her eyes against the dark and tries to match his stride.
It feels like minutes passing, but days might slide by above if they're not careful. They're deep inside the world now, past skin and meat and pulsing blood, past all its living parts. Caliban is one of the best navigators, able to keep the world above and the world below in sync while he crosses the betweens.
Then they're through, and the rift folds shut behind them.
Holly gasps, head spinning as her feet touch solid ground again. Stale air fills her lungs, coats her tongue with the taste of stone. No matter how many times she walks these byways and intersections, she never gets used to it. At least she hasn't thrown up in years.
Caliban pries his hand free from her bruising grip, cups her elbow instead to steady her. She straightens and shakes back her hair. Her other hand is white-knuckled on the strap of her bag, leather carving lines into her palm; it aches to let go.
Golden witchlight burns in sconces, glittering on pyrite flecks in the black walls. The temple of the Anubites, heart of all their mysteries, built on the nexus of the betweens. A world without sunlight, without fresh air, without anything beyond these marble halls. Was it any surprise Adrian wanted to leave?
"Well," she says, gathering her composure, "let's see--"
She pauses as Caliban stiffens. He raises his head, nostrils flaring, and his hand tightens on her arm. "Something's wrong."
Shadow-lithe and silent he runs, and Holly follows, her heels echoing on polished stone. Through the twisting maze-turns of the temple halls, spiraling inward till they stop in front of the broad double doors leading to the council chamber.
"What is it?" Her chest hitches with every breath.
"Can't you smell it?"
She sniffs, frowning at the nothing-smell of the tunnels. Only half-breed, but her senses are still keen. There, faint, bittersweet and metallic. Blood.
The doors swing open on silent hinges, and they step from black stone to red as they cross the threshold. Rust-colored marble here, patterned like rain-dappled dust--statued alcoves line the room, and the high vaulted ceiling is lost in shadows.
Fourteen chairs circle the chamber. Fourteen pieces of Osiris scattered into the Nile. Fourteen priests in Khemet who learned the funerary arts from Anubis, and darker arts beyond. The last time Holly was here, only six of those seats were occupied.
The smell worsens, blood and meat and the sewer-stench of ruptured bowel. Caliban lets out a soft keening whine. Then she sees the bodies.
Two of them, sprawled in a welter of gore and linen. The blood dried nearly the same color as the floor, scattered with darker clumps of viscera. Aphros, the oldest member of the council, and Polyhymnia, the youngest. Polyhymnia's dark eyes are open, wide with shock, blood clotted in her lashes. Her spine gleams pale through the ruin of her torso. Aphros is cleaner, only his throat torn out, white robes stained dark and dried in stiff creases.
Holly's stomach fills with ice water, her fingers cold and trembling. Now she's glad of the lack of time--it makes the smell easier to bear.
Who could attack the council in their own halls? Caliban turns her away from the carnage before she can shape the question. His touch is gentle, but a snarl reverberates through his hollow chest.
"We have to find the others," he growls.
And they do. They find Athangelos the historian in his library, viscera spread from wall to book-lined wall. Holly's eyes sting; a friend of her father's, and he was always kind to her when the Anubites took her in.
Seshet, Polyhymnia's lover, fell in the door of the changeling's dormitory. She died with a blade in her hand, her fangs and muzzle coated in black ichor. The smell is worse here, not just blood but something darker, carrion-rot and searing ammonia tang. The acolytes who tried to help her lie nearby, along with reeking puddles--all that's left of the monsters who killed them.
Sycorax's chambers are empty, though the stench is strong there too; black blood and red splatters the stones. Caliban slumps against the wall, knotting clawed fingers in his hair.
"What happened?" Holly asks, taking his arm. "Has it really gotten so much worse?"
His laugh is sharp and bitter. "Things are always getting worse. The paths of the dead are beset, nearly impassable. We lost Thessaly there nearly two years ago. There are worse things than ghosts below." His voice roughens and he bows his head, hair like black spider-silk shrouding his face. "I told you we couldn't go on this way, but I thought we'd have more time."
Holly lights a cigarette; the crack of the match carries through the silent rooms. Her hand shakes, sending wavering light dancing across the walls. "How long were you gone looking for me?" Smoke trails the words.
"A week at most. I may have just missed them."
"Where did they get in?"
He straightens and sniffs, brushing aside a tendril of smoke. "This way."
They pass still more dead. Acolytes, mostly, changeling children. Some fought, some didn't; none of them stood a chance. Holly steps carefully to avoid puddles of gore. The smell strengthens, till even she could follow the trail. Soon it's nearly enough to gag her, and she drags on her cigarette.
It doesn't take long to find it. A hole in the world. At the end of a narrow corridor the stones simply end, give way to howling nothing. Not the quiet blackness of the ghoul paths, or even the cold and shadowed deadlands, which she's only glimpsed once--this is a raging storm of ink and sorrow. The wind stinks of pain and death and fear, and shrieks in a hateful tortured chorus.
Caliban whimpers at the sight of it. Holly turns away. Only a draft from the greater tempest reaches them, but it's enough to leech the warmth from her, leech her will away. Nothing they can fight, nothing they can face. Better to lie down, to curl up and wait for the end...
A sharp biting pain wakes her from the malaise. Her cigarette has burned down to the filter. She drops it, sucks her stinging knuckle. Caliban has fallen to his knees, hiding his face in his hands.
"Get up." She grabs his shoulder, tugs on his coat. "Get up, we can't stay here." She pulls harder, knocking him off balance, and he wraps an arm around her knees for support.
"Holly?"
"Get up!" She catches his hand, hauls him to his feet. "Snap out of it."
"They're all gone. Everything..."
"Not us."
He shudders. "What can we do?"
She gathers her scattered wits. "First, let's get above. We have to check the villa."
Pale eyes blink, focus on her face again. "Of course." They climb the winding porphyry stair that leads to the world above, and the villa that houses the Anubites' more secular operations. Caliban pauses as they reach the door, pale fingers hesitating against pomegranate stone. Holly lays a gentle hand on his back, feels the tension trembling through him.
"We have to see," she whispers.
He tugs the door open. Holly breathes deep as air gusts around them, air that smells of the desert and time. And death.
She closes her eyes as they cross the threshold.
They step into a hallway, white walls and pale tile dusky grey in the darkness. A breeze rushes through the corridor, tugging at her hair. She glances around, hugging the wall, but the house is silent except for the distant sound of crickets.
The smell of blood and rot leads them to the front room, where the door stands ajar and the windows are open to the night. A lamp still glows, spilling soft yellow light over the walls and floor. It was a lovely room once, cool and comfortable, rugs splashing intricate color against the tile, paintings and framed papyrus on the walls. Now all Holly can see are the corpses.
Changelings, mostly, of half-breeds like her. Those without aptitude for the mysteries, who serve in other ways. The desert air spares them the worst--the bodies are already desiccating--but ants and beetles from the garden have been at work. She starts to turn away, then realizes what she's looking at. Frowning, she crouches beside the closest body.
The priests and acolytes below died by fang and claw. The young man sprawled in front of her took a bullet to the head, blood and brains dried in a rusty halo beneath his skull. His own pistol is still in his hand.
She looks around the room again--too long out of the game, and it's made her slow. Bullet holes pockmark the plaster. One punched a hole in a picture frame, spilling glass onto the floor. Another lamp is shattered. The killers policed their brass.
She looks back at the corpse. Three days dead, at a guess. Then the face in front of her becomes more than a collection of evidence.
Tariq. A changeling. Just a boy last time she saw him, a gangly teenager who liked to flirt. Now his brown skin is grey and mottled with livor mortis, and his black eyes have been eaten by insects.
Holly stands, swallowing sour spit. "Two strikes," she whispers. "One above, one below. So no one could run to help the council, and no one could escape this way."
"But who?" Caliban asks, and she can only shake her head. "I'll check the rest of the house--why don't you search the grounds."
She nods, not too proud to take the chance to breathe, to collect herself. She eases Tariq's pistol from his cold hand. A Beretta 9mm, matte black and sinister. It's been a long time since she's used a gun, but she remembers. She thumbs the magazine release; seven bullets left. She hopes the other eight are in whoever killed him. The clack echoes through the room when she slides the clip home.
Holly stares at the gun in her hand, palm tight against the grooved grip. Then she checks the safety and slips it into her coat. Caliban's eyes follow her as she crosses the room and slips out.
Stars burn bright outside, brilliant patterns she's nearly forgotten after so long in the city. The moon is a silver sickle, already sinking in the west. The night is cold, and tastes of sand and spice and sweet water from the fountain. Wind whispers through the garden, rustling palm fronds and mulberry leaves.
The gate is open, cars still parked in the circular drive. If there were foreign tire tracks, days of wind have obscured them. She circles the sprawling whitewashed building, but finds only crickets in the garden and a few scurrying rodents, mice or jerboas. All the carnage is contained inside.
Past the compound walls, she can see the curve of the cliffs that surround Dakhla, rose-colored stone washed grey in the starlight. In the morning muezzins from Al Qasr will carry through the still air.
Tears blur the night silver and black. Holly blinks and wipes her eyes with a wry smile. An hour ago she wouldn't have thought she'd mourn the Anubites.
Caliban meets her outside the door, his shoulders slumped. "All dead, and no trace of the killers."
"What do we do with the bodies? We can't just leave them here." It would be fitting to leave them for the vultures and jackals, but eventually someone from town will come, and a swarm of police won't be any use at all.
"I'll take them below," Caliban says. "They need proper rites..."
"That will have to wait. We need to check the other safehouses, see if there's anyone left." She straightens her shoulders, the gun swaying heavily against her hip. "Come on--we should hurry."
And she follows him back inside the abattoir.