Prayers to Broken Stone
Chapter 3 - London, UndergroundHolly sits cross-legged on stained threadbare carpet, a candle burning in the bowl in front of her. The window is open to the sluggish night breeze, the smoke detector gutted of its batteries. The room reeks of smoke and wax and magic.
One by one she dangles twists of paper over the flame, letting the heat bite the tips of her fingers. She shivers as each one burns. Strands of gold hair and black sear inside the paper, along with drops of blood, slivers of nail, traces of her favorite perfume. The flame works its alchemy, transmutes everything to smoke and ash the lingering power of the spell.
Smoke flutters around her like moth wings, rides the breeze over the casement and mingles with the London Fog. The wind gathers all these pieces of Holly and Caliban and spreads them into the night. If anyone scries for them, the spells will distract them, send them chasing shadows.
At least she hopes so. When the last twist of spell-smoke wings into the night, Holly sighs and lights a cigarette from the guttering candle flame.
"Do you think it will work?" Caliban asks, slouching in the mustard-colored chair in the corner.
They checked two safehouses. One was empty, and in the other they found the elderly caretaker dead, his throat slit ear to ear. No other sign of the creatures from the betweens.
After that they fled to London and Holly took over. Money, then rooms--not the flat she keeps under one of her names, but this cheap hotel. Tunnel-born ghouls like Caliban might slip unseen through walls and wards and spy on secrets whispered only to the dark, but they aren't so good at functioning in the mortal world.
Holly snuffs the candle and stands, wincing at the sticky-damp carpet under her bare feet; the whole place stinks of stale smoke and mildew lurking inside the walls. She leans against the back of Caliban's chair, threads her fingers through his hair. Tension and grief spill up her arm, shiver at the roots of her teeth. He wants to retreat, to cocoon himself in shadows, and she can't let him do that yet.
"It's all I can do. It's better than nothing." His hair slides baby-fine through her fingers. She touches the tip of one long ear.
"Holly--" He catches her hand, prisons it in cold fingers.
"What now?"
He draws an unsteady breath. "We should find Adrian. That was the plan. If--"
If he's still alive.
He is, Holly tells herself. Of course he is. "I'll find him."
"How?" He twists in the chair, tilts his head to look at her. His eyes are the same pale champagne color as hers, though she usually wears contacts. Half-breeds, both of them; she forgets sometimes. "How will you do it, when all our searching and scrying couldn't?"
She smiles. "Adrian had something the rest of you never seemed interested in cultivating."
"What might that be?"
"Friends."
For all her bravado, tracking down the right people isn't easy. She anticipated a more leisurely search, not a series of phone calls. Too many numbers don't work, too many people are gone, replaced, won't talk to her. She's been out of the game too long.
Finally, in the dead hours before dawn, her luck changes. The ringing stops, and the connection echoes and pops. "Hello?"
A deep dark voice, rich as wine and chocolate, shockingly lovely compared to the ugliness of its owner. Holly grins against the phone.
"Isaac, it's Holly. I need your help."
"Naxos." Caliban paces, keeping to the edges of the lamplight. Or maybe the light pulls away from him. "We searched that area."
Holly closes her eyes, relaxing against the flat pillows. "Not well enough, apparently." The window is shut and the room is stale and stuffy despite the whirring air conditioner. They lost time along the way--some of the paths through the betweens have already fallen to the storm, and more than once they had to take twisting detours to keep from falling into the underworld or running afoul of monsters. Nearly two weeks passed before they emerged in London, spring rolling out and summer threatening.
Caliban snorts and she turns her head to hide a smile. "What now?" he asks.
She yawns and stretches against the scratchy paisley bedspread. Dawn's coming fast, a weight behind her eyes. "Now we sleep and figure things out tomorrow."
She switches off the glaring lamp, slips off her skirt and blouse and slides under the sheets. Silence stretches below the churn of the air conditioner and the sounds of traffic outside. She can feel Caliban standing there, unmoving. Holly sighs.
"Come to bed. I won't bite you."
After a moment he chuckles. "No. I don't imagine you would."
The bed creaks as he lies beside her, on top of the covers. Not touching, only the faintest trace of warmth soaking through the sheets, the steady rasp of his breath to let her know someone else is there.
The sun is a yellow rind around the curtains when his breathing finally deepens. The rough plaster ceiling stares her down as Isaac's voice replays in her head.
"He never mentions you," he said, answering the question she was too proud to ask in front of Caliban. She could imagine his fishy eyes narrowing, the twist of his wide thin-lipped mouth. "But what he doesn't say speaks volumes. Between the conception and creation, between the emotion and response, falls the subtext. And life is never as long as we'd like, even for us. Do you have a pen?"
She didn't mean to fall in love with Adrian. She wasn't meant to. If the priests had realized it might happen they would never have urged her toward his bed. She was meant to be a distraction, another chain to bind him to the tunnels when his restlessness began to worry the council.
It didn't work out quite like that.
She told him the truth in the end, that it had all been a plan, a ploy, a trick. Then she lied, told him she never loved him. She lied to him and broke his heart, and severed the last of the bindings. Freedom was the least he deserved, the least she could give to him.
And now she has to find him again.
His face lingers behind her eyes as she sinks into sleep.
They wake to a desultory rain, daylight fading to a drowned light in the west and dusk bleeding across the wet streets. This is their time--crepuscule, twilight, the in-between hours.
Tea and curry from a vendor's kiosk ease the ache in Holly's stomach, but Caliban only picks at his. The shadow of a shop awning hides his face, but from the slump of his shoulders she guesses he didn't sleep well.
"This isn't what I need," he says at last. "If I'm to take us all the way to Naxos, I have to eat."
Holly scrapes out the last forkful of curry and rice and tosses the dish into a bin. Damp hair clings to the back of her neck and goosebumps prickle her arms. "Then we'll have to visit the tunnels."
"Are you sure we can trust them? They're heretics."
She sighs. "If you haven't noticed by now, I'm rather a heretic myself. And I'm not about to spend the night helping you dig up a bloody grave." She winces to herself; only a few nights in London and her careful accent is already slipping--as if the street-trash teenager she hasn't been in decades is still lurking, waiting to claw her way out.
But the question stands, never mind Caliban's prejudices. Monsters from the underworld didn't kill the changelings in Dakhla, and no few secular warrens--those the Anubites call heretics--have grudges to hold.
"We need all the help we can get," she finally says. "And answers."
As they make their way to Westminster, the back of Holly's neck itches. They move through the shadows, under most people's radar, but the sensation of eyes on her back is unmistakable. For an instant she smells a sour fetid wind over the city-stink and wet asphalt, but it vanishes so quickly she might have imagined it. By the time they reach the Embankment tube station, the feeling is gone. The weight of the gun in her coat pocket isn't much reassurance, but she'll take what she can get. Her bag bounces against her other hip; she'll need another change of clothes soon, or she's going to start looking like a fugitive.
The commuter crowd is thinning for the night and no one looks at them as they descend to the platform. Holly's heels click softly against muddy grey tiles. She adds a change of shoes to her mental shopping list, and a raincoat.
The doors aren't hard to find, if you know where to look. This one is a custodian's closet on the outside, the door-frame scratched in a seemingly random pattern. Holly knocks three times three and waits.
No one answers and she swallows nervous spit, curry spices souring on her tongue. What if the same thing happened here? What if the London tunnels are full of blood and corpses too?
But a moment later the door opens, exhaling a draft that doesn't come from any broom closet. A narrow face appears in the crack, sharp-boned angles draped in colorless blond hair. Thin lips pull back from long teeth, but he doesn't speak.
"Hello, Shrike," Holly finally says. "Are you going to invite us in?"
He glares past her to Caliban. "You've got a lot of nerve coming here, jackal."
She lays a hand on the door, moving her shoulder between the ghouls. "Talk about this inside, Shrike, or send Jericho out here."
Shrike eyes her up and down. "You're wet."
"Yes. It's raining. Are you afraid we'll track mud into your spotless warren?"
He snorts. "That pretty face will let you down one day, Holly. But Jericho's always been stupid for you, so come inside."
Her ears ring as she steps through and she swallows against the hollow rush. Just a short step, this, not so deep between. They step into a grey hall, rough stone walls streaked with damp; Holly shivers as the temperature drops.
Below the bitterness of rock and mildew she smells spices and musk and richer, darker things. No temple, this, just a warren. Other ghouls don't burden themselves with pomp and ritual like the Anubites do. Did.
It was one of the things Adrian railed against most.
They follow Shrike down twisting stairs and sloping halls lit by guttering candles and a few opalescent witchlights. Eyes track them as they pass shadowed alcoves and doorways gleaming yellow and red with animal luminescence.
Someone snarls. Caliban's answering growl rumbles in his chest. Holly reaches back and grabs his arm, pulling him closer. "Why are they angry with you?" she whispers, her lips nearly touching his ear.
"I was here last year to deal with a rogue. A murderer, who consorted with the undead."
She sighs and bites back a reply. The Anubites might have more friends if they didn't take it on themselves to police the underground so often. Shrike doesn't speak, just stalks ahead of them, his shadow capering over the walls, kyphotic spine made exaggerated and grotesque.
The hall widens and they turn into a dim-lit room full of mismatched antique furniture. Paintings hang crooked on rough walls and an oil lamp burns against the gloom, smudging the ceiling with its smoke. The smell of musk is thicker here, like an animal's den. Holly's nose wrinkles, but the stink is familiar, comforting.
A man lounges on the worn velvet sofa. He smiles and rises as he sees her. Tall and broad-shouldered, with a boxer's lean bulk. Dirty blond hair is shaved nearly to his scalp, not quite disguising a receding hairline. Holly smiles back, her tension easing, and lets him pull her into a hug. His hands linger on the small of her back, sliding against her waist as she pulls away. One eyebrow quirks as he brushes the pistol in her pocket.
"Hello, Jericho." Her oldest friend among the ghouls, one of her oldest friends at all. She knew him when she was still a street-brat, before she knew who her father was, or what her yellow eyes meant. He was already grooming her for the London warrens when the Anubites found her and snatched her away.
"Hullo, Holly. Always a delight to see you." Brown eyes narrow. "A pity you didn't come with better company."
Her mouth tightens and she steps back, toward Caliban. "Enough sniping. Have you seen what's happening in the tunnels?"
"Yeah. All manner of nasty shite is loose down there." He glares at Caliban. "Your dogs falling down on the job?"
Caliban's lips curl. "They were slaughtered, you mongrel. Everyone dead, elders and pups alike. My family. We guarded the ways while you slunk and slept and played your games, turned your backs on your heritage, your responsibilities. You sat chewing bones while my order fought and fell, and you have the nerve to blame us?" He spits on the dusty floor. "You're lucky I've had my share of death, or I'd take your throat."
Jericho growls, hands curling at his sides. "Come on then, if you think you're hard enough."
Holly twists between them, hands outstretched, fingers brushing both their chests. "Stop it! You're not animals, or children."
Jericho snorts, but falls back a few inches. After a few heartbeats Caliban does too.
"We won't stay long if we're not welcome," she says. "But Caliban needs to eat. Please, Jericho. We'll be gone soon enough."
"I should throw you out on your ears." He sighs. "But I'm a nice guy. The kitchen's downstairs." He nods toward a doorway at the end of the room. "But don't expect anyone to put on a pageant for you."
Caliban glances at Holly and she nods. "Go on. I'll be here."
"Do you know anything about this?" she asks Jericho when they're alone. He wasn't surprised by what Caliban said.
He shakes his head. "We don't speak with the jackals, unless they're nosing around in our affairs. What are you going to do?"
Too casual, but she doesn't press. She brushes a dusting of fur off the sofa cushions and sinks down; she definitely needs more comfortable shoes. "If there are any Anubites left alive, we need to find them." What would he have told her if she'd come alone? Too late for that now.
He sits beside her, a frown creasing his high forehead. The lines around his eyes have deepened. "You're after that ex of yours, aren't you?" When she doesn't answer he shakes his head. "Holly--" He takes her hand, callused fingers engulfing hers. His knuckles are swollen, scarred with pale keloid stars. "Stay with us instead, love. I'll look after you."
"I look after myself."
"What do you owe the Anubites anymore? Why should you risk anything for them?"
"It isn't them--"
She's spared further explanation as a door slams somewhere in the distance, and a shout echoes down the hall.
"Oi, Jericho!"
He winces. "What now?" he mutters, heading for the stairs. Holly follows, wondering at the reluctance in his shoulders. Her heels echo down the narrow passage.
The stairwell opens into a long low room full of tables and benches. The dining room, from the smell of old meat and spices, the lingering miasma of oil and smoke. A knot of people clusters around a table, leaning over someone. Caliban, she thinks for an instant, but no, he's standing amid the crowd. The press opens for Jericho and Holly sees the woman on the table.
Naked, but so crusted in blood and filth it hardly matters. Long rust-colored hair falls over her face, clotted with gore. All gaunt angles and spindle-sharp bones, ribs jutting beneath small breasts. Claw wounds score her hollow stomach, gouge her arms and legs. Holly isn't sure she's alive until one long hand twitches.
Caliban whimpers, brushes the woman's hair aside with a trembling hand.
"We found her passed out in the tunnels by St. Marylebone," one of Jericho's ghouls says.
Holly moves closer, staring at the woman's bruised face--something very familiar about her. The stench of blood and ammonia crawls up her nose and she swallows bile. The woman stirs, opens brilliant absinthe eyes. Holly draws a sharp breath as recognition finally hits.
Caliban whimpers again and touches the woman's hand. "Mother."
"I fled," Sycorax says later, after her wounds are cleaned and dressed. She lays in a borrowed bed, propped up on pillows, a cup of tea cradled in her taloned hands. Tendrils of steam twine around her face like lazy snakes.
Holly can't remember the last time she saw Sycorax's human face. She wonders if Sycorax can, either. The change leaves indelible marks: curving black claws, fur-tipped ears, sharp teeth. Before the priestess borrowed someone's robe, Holly saw the short pink tail twitching at the base of her spine. The lamplight plays over her finely-sculpted bones, the delicate arch of her nose.
Holly heard stories below of the days when Sycorax was a great beauty, the Anubites' seductress. She'd gone above, once, walked the world to learn its secrets. Holly never really believed them, but by the lamp's warm glow, Sycorax might be human, and lovely.
"I fled," the priestess says again, her voice hard and flat. "After Seshet fell. We were overrun. The fiends chased me into the betweens, but I fought free and lost them in the byways."
Caliban crouches beside the bed, arms draped over his knees. "When I found your blood--"
She chuckles and pats his head carelessly. "Don't underestimate me, child."
"Did anyone else escape?" Holly asks. She leans against her wall, past caring about smudging her last clean blouse. A cup of tea cools in her hand, the sour aftertaste of bergamot coating her teeth. Her eyes and back ache.
"Perhaps some of the acolytes made it out--I didn't bother counting the dead."
"How did you find us?"
"I went back to the temple and caught your scent, but lost the trail when I came to London." Poison-green eyes flicker toward Holly. "A crude bit of witchery, but effective."
"What do we do now?" Caliban asks.
Sycorax sips her tea. "We must gather out strength, if we're to hold the betweens at all. I opposed the council when they voted to retrieve Adrian, but now it seems we have little choice." She glances at Holly again. "Assuming you can really find him, of course."
Holly bares her teeth in a smile. "I already have."
Chapter 2