By Desire Bound Page 26
"We would."
"We shall. There is a walkway to the church. I will take you."
They put on the coats and boots and went out into the swirling snow.
"So white the landscape," the priest murmured. "So black the holy stone. This is," he added, as he pulled
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open a thick wooden door, "the incantation of our holy man. And in a moment, you shall see why."
He led them from the outer passage into the sanctuary, a simple church for a plain people. Stark white walls, wooden pews, a simple altar, a heavy pine wooden cross over it.
And there, to the side of the altar, displayed in an elaborate sarcophagus, was a faceted piece of The Stone of Samael.
"And your holy man, Lazarin, he consecrated this stone to your church?" Con asked, appalled.
"Oh no ... no. Indeed, the stone was blessed to our church. But our holy man—his name is Rasputin."
They were given a guest room on the first floor of the presbytery. Father Vasili did not want them travelling any further.
They had dinner with him, and pleasant conversation, and then he left them alone.
"What are we going to do?" Darcie whispered.
"We have to steal that stone. Sneak in when the priest is sleeping. And then we've got to get to St. Petersburg, and see what we can find there."
"God, I hate this. I was shocked when he said he's always been among them."
"Power of suggestion, enhanced by the stone. They have no idea what's in that sanctuary."
"I have a feeling they don't care."
"I think you're right."
"I hope we can do this," she fretted. "I didn't expect this, did you?"
"I thought he'd be here," Con said. "But nothing has happened the way I thought."
And they waited. The clock in the presbytery parlor tolled midnight. One. Two.
Darcie took the candlestick and got their boots and coats. And then, like ghosts, they slipped out of the side door and into the snowy night.
The sky was as dark as a tomb. Not a star, not the moon, nothing to light their way but one flickering candle.
"God, this is eerie ..." Darcie whispered, cupping the flame to shield it from the wind.
"Keep walking."
Their boots made such a loud crunch in the snow, loud enough to wake the dead. All around them, a matte, flat silence. They pushed forward, in the dark.
"We're almost there."
She held up the candle as they reached the doors.
"They always leave them open."
They slipped inside.
"Don't talk; the sound echoes."
Into the sanctuary, the candle flame casting long ghostly shadows in front of them.
Down the aisle they went and up onto the altar, to the shrine where the sarcophagus was kept, closed at night when supplicants were sleeping.
Darcie stood beside him, holding the candle aloft, as Con eased open the cover of the casket. The stone was nestled there, opaque, pitch black, evil incarnate on a pillow of tapestry depicting a biblical scene.
"Now . . ." He took it in both hands.
It didn't move.
"Oh my God . . ."
He tried to prise it up.
It didn't move.
"Darcie . . ."
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She set the candle down and together they tried to heave it.
It didn't budge.
"Only Lazarin can move it," Darcie whispered. "Just like he couldn't remove The Eye of God. "
"You have it?"
"Yes."
"Take it out."
She saw he was desperate, leeching on to the one thing that had any connection with the stone so far away from its cave of origin.
She tumbled open her coat and pulled open the case. Handed him the wrapped oval of the stone. Grabbed the candle, and then stood back, terrified of what she would see.
He pulled away the protective cotton, and the stone began sparkling all over, radiating like the sun. And then suddenly it shot a fiery lance straight into the heart of the black diamond.
The air crackled above it, lightning bolts shot in the air. Before their horrified eyes, the diamond disintegrated, in the casket, and Con watched, his face impassive, until it was nothing more than a handful of black dust.
"Like a scorch mark," Darcie whispered.
He closed the lid of the sarcophagus. "It is done."
"We should take the casket with us."
He shook his head. "There is no need. Its terrible power is destroyed."
He took one step off of the dais, and stopped. "Who's there?"
Darcie slowly lifted the candle, her heart pounding, her whole body shaking in abject terror.
A shadow loomed menacingly at the door, long, lean.
filling the threshold and the whole of the sanctuary with the odor of corruption.
It raised its hand in conviction. Its voice echoed in the darkness, deep, eerie, otherworldly as it paced toward them.
"In the name of Samael," it thundered, "so shall you be
judged ..."
And then it vanished into a wisp of smoke that trailed the foul stench of walking death.
They laid everything they had out on the bed: the diamond, now wrapped and in its case; the Pengellis stones, of which there were three; the remaining rubles—of which too little would remain once they gave alms to Father Vasili for the church.
"It was Lazarin," Darcie said. "He is everywhere. We'll never outrun him."
"He is in St. Petersburg, cutting up the rest of that damned stone. And we have to get out of here before the good Father discovers our deceit."
"I think that priest knows everything."
"Anything is possible," he muttered, counting the rubles. "We'll need at least one change of horses as we go through—at least till we reach a place I can barter the diamond."
"This is so crazy." She still felt it—the horror, the terror, the panic. Her hands shook; her heart pounded as if she thought he were standing right outside their
door.
Boom boom—at the door—heavy knocking, like doom.
She jumped. Con was more forethinking: he swept their stash into the case with The Eye of God, and thrust it under a pillow.
"Open the door."
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She swallowed her foreboding, and slowly opened the door.
"Good morning, my children."
Father Vasili.
She let out her breath. "Father."
"Breakfast is served. Already it's dawn. I have a feeling you wish to be on your way."
"As soon as we can, Father."
"So it will be," he murmured, and left them.
Darcie closed the door. "That was odd. He can't have discovered it gone already."
Con stared at the door. "Can't he? We've got to get out of here. Come on. "
It took them fifteen minutes to wash, dress and get together their things, and then they joined Father Vasili in the parlor.
"I have had our cook put together some food for you. It's a long journey to St. Petersburg."
That stopped them cold. How did he know? Darcie started to ask, but Con shook his head.
"Thank you, Father. You are indeed perceptive in all things."
They sat at the table and ate: coffee, fresh bread and cheese.
"We are indebted to you for your kindness," Con said, as they donned their coats and boots in the outer room.
"Perhaps it is I who must thank you," Father Vasili said.
Con pressed a handful of rubles in his hand. "For your trouble."
The priest nodded. "So it shall be, my son. Your sled awaits you. I have packed the basket inside."
He walked them out into the sun bright morning,
> and helped Darcie into the seat. Con spread the blankets, and throw and positioned himself beside her.
"Godspeed, my son," Father Vasili said, making a sign over them and Darcie saw his lips move as if in prayer.
In the name of Samael. . . judge of the dead—
No, no—she didn 't see that . . .
Con snapped the whip and the horses took off.
"Con—"
"Shhh ..." He urged the team faster.
She swallowed her words and, her heart pounding wildly, she turned around.
Lazarin stood at the presbytery door, laughing.
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Twenty-one
They were travelling too fast, too long, working the horses beyond endurance, and themselves too. They stopped, first at Nizhne just for the night, and finally, at Tobolsk, the next near-sized city to Omsk.
They had travelled a day and night by then, as fast as if the furies were after them, and they hadn't even touched the basket of food.
Or maybe, Darcie thought, still trembling at the memory of Lazarin watching them depart from the church in Nadyl, they had decided by mute consent, they had better not. That if they opened whatever was packed inside that basket, they might release an unholy host.
"We haven't come nearly far enough," she murmured, as they unhitched the horses in the dooryard of an inn they had come upon just outside the city.
"Far enough for tonight," Con said, heaving up their suitcases, basket of food, and the furs. "We can make one more night on the money we have. Tomorrow, I'll sell whatever I can—even the furs. We won't need them once we reach Samara; we can get the train there."
"It was Lazarin in the presbytery courtyard," Darcie said. "What if he turns up, like that awful Kleist, here?"
"I'll kill him again," Con said, with not a trace of
emotion in his voice. "And as many times as it takes to destroy him."
"And if he never dies?"
"He's still not holy enough to redeem the world."
He was dreaming again, on a deep blue sea. Ships, and storms, and diamonds in the rough, and Lavinia, where she shouldn't be . . .
Conscripted—anonymous . . . how he'd come . . . Three months at sea for a cut of the sell. And then something, at docking swung high and struck. All he. rem,embend—but it was enough . . .
Lazarin, laughing . . . and vision gone—
He jerked awake in the dimly lit room to find himself sleeping on a chair, and Darcie curled up on the bed.
Lazarin—everywhere . . .
He'd had an accident on the docks on some voyage over. He couldn 't remember it, not what, nor where. Only the sense of injury, and his body falling, almost as if they had disposed of him there.
And then what? Madame came calling, looking for prospects?
"Darcie." He shook her awake.
"Umm. What?"
"It was an accident. The blindness. I don't know where or when. But it was an accident. And they left me for dead."
"So glad you remembered," she muttered and turned back to sleep.
It answered some questions at least. And he could infer the rest. The ship had docked in London, for one thing. And he had managed to elude his captors. And he would've gotten home.
Lazarin . . .
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On one side, shrouding the powers of The Stone of Samael. And Lavinia, on the other, so desperate to find The Eye of God she would kill.
Why? Why?
Why?
Lazarin, knowing he was powerless to move The Eye of God.
Lavinia, searching the four corners of the world for it—to learn its secrets, to deplete its power?
And Darcie, in the middle of it all, with a baby that didn 't exist, and Lavinia avid to possess it.
It was as bizarre as anything he'd ever experienced, and he wouldn 't have believed it if he hadn 't seen for himself.
And he knew it wasn 't over yet.
"We're not taking the basket."
Darcie dropped it onto the bed. "We're not. All right. Maybe we should look through it?"
He stared at it, an innocent wooden basket with a towel laid neatly over foodstuffs for a trip, packed by a conscientious peasant cook who worked for the village priest. What could be in there that wasn't blessed? Breads, cheeses, a bottle of milk? Some cold meat, fish, eggs and fruit.
Darcie had seen Lazarin in the dooryard.
"You're right. We should see what's in there."
Darcie pulled away the napkin. The basket was crammed with shapes wrapped in paper and cloth.
In the name of. . .
"I'll do it," Con said. "I'm the one." He took out the first of the shapes and unwrapped it. A loaf of bread. Then, a block of cheese. The next: a bag of apples. Pieces of cold roast chicken. A jug of milk, slightly sour.
And on the bottom, a piece of paper, folded into a
packet and sealed with a wax stamp marked with an indistinguishable sign.
And writing on the back: "Open in Samara," Con translated.
They looked at each other.
"I didn't even know we were going there," Con said slowly. "How did he?"
"Which feef'Darcie murmured, a chill coursing down her spine.
Con rubbed his grizzled face, his tired eyes and made the decision. "All right. We leave everything here."
"Not that," Darcie said slowly. "We have to open that. We have to know what it is."
"Especially that," Con countered. "And I don't want to know."
"I have a better idea. What if we open it on the way?"
"Let's open it now." He held her eyes. "Or do you think for some mystical reason, we have to comply."
He moved to the window without waiting for her reply, and pulled at the seal; the paper ripped and he unfolded it carefully.
She peered over his arm to see what it contained.
A handful of black dust, against the white parchment. Overriding evil, wafting into the air.
"Fold it up!" Darcie cried. "Hurry. Hurry." She grabbed the packet from his hand and threw it into the embers in the fireplace grate.
They flamed up instantly, roaring up the chimney, crackling like a witch's laughter, howling like an animal in pain.
The fire reached out, threatening to consume them.
She grabbed the jar of milk and poured it on. It hissed and spit like a tiger as it burned into the air.
She threw in the bread, the chicken, and it devoured all of that.
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And then she laid on the cheese, and it slowly melted over the popping, snapping flames until they diminished and finally went out.
"We would have brought that with us to Samara," she said, her voice suffused with horror. "We would have unleashed the unspeakable evil of Samael in Samara."
He had no answers. "How did you know what to do?"
"I don't know. I just knew."
They looked at each other. No words needed to be said. She wore The Eye of God, and she was blessed.
Three days later, they were travelling west toward St. Petersburg on the Trans-Siberian railway. Here, as in the pullman cars of the Orient Express, they had a private compartment with pull-down berths, a folding table, a washroom, and closet. Attendants to make up the beds, and a dining car with luncheon served at eleven, tea at four, and light edibles available into the late hours, and even delivered, if you wished, to your car.
It was pure luxury after everything they'd been through, and Darcie sank into it with a hedonistic sigh. There wasn't enough food to fill her, or water to bathe.
There wasn't enough Con either. He sat silent as a grave.
"Come, eat. We're safe for the moment."
"I'm not so sure." He rubbed his eyes wearily. "I don't even know what we can accomplish in St. Petersburg."
"We can find Lazarin.
We can destroy what's left of the stone. Surely that's not so impossible."
He smiled blearily. "It's a huge city, Darcie."
"Someone will know him," she said confidently.
Spoken like the adventuress she was. Nothing was impossible for Darcie. She'd hauled him over continents,
found the diamond, foiled the villains. She was heroine for a pulp novel, just as he'd always thought.
The strange thing was having his sight back and participating in the adventure. He wasn't in the dark any longer. And yet, everything was as blank as could be.
"What will you do when we return to England?" she asked idly as she poured him some coffee.
"I haven't thought that far ahead."
"You must go back to Pengellis-Becarre."
"Must I?" Even he didn't know, and Darcie, watching him, felt a tremor of foreboding. Once they vanquished Lavinia, the story would be over. What would happen to Scheherazade then?
"We don't need to talk about it now . . ." she started to say and he interrupted her.
"Can we talk about any of it? This far from Srinagar and Nadyl, do you believe any of what we've seen?"
"I believe you found the diamond and that Lavinia still wants to kill you," she said gently, worriedly. This kind of thinking wasn't like him; he was usually so sure. "Isn't that real enough?"
Lavinia, he thought. It all came back to Lavinia. All about Lavinia.
And him. He was the source—the connection to everything.
But what was Darcie? Did he truly believe that Lavinia was desperate to get an heir from Darcie? What about that story still didn't fit?
Or was she always meant to be the instrument of The Eye of God?
The questions haunted him as the train bowled down the snow-shrouded tracks, and Darcie set out their afternoon snack just as if she were serving tea at the palace.
That night, they slept on the fur throw on the rolling floor of the car, coupling blindly, heatedly to the rhythm
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of the wheels on the tracks, rocking together on soft radiant waves until they simultaneously climaxed.
And even then, he didn't let her go. He rode her until morning, cradled between her legs, matching the pulse of the wheels, the cadence of the track.