Killing Rites

Page 7

Tamblen sat up, chuckling. Carsey’s smile warmed and he made a little bow. Touché. I didn’t know what point I’d scored, but I nodded back.
“He’s with the girl,” Unfortunate Goatee said. “Him and Father Tomás.”
“Out soon,” Tamblen rumbled.
“I didn’t know that the exorcism had already started,” Ex said. “Or that it was going to be so long.”
“This one’s rough,” Miguel said. “But we’ll beat it. She’ll be free by Sunday. We’ve been tracking this demon for months. Its spawn are sent back to Hell. There is only this one left, but it was the source of all the others.”
I had to check my phone to be sure, but it was Wednesday. Miguel and the others had been working, and it looked like around the clock, for three days. They were thinking it would be finished sometime in the next four.
Ex stared at the floor, struggling with something. I’d been with him long enough to understand. He’d brought me here to have a confrontation with his old master, and now it looked like said old mastead a solid reason for putting us off. He didn’t want me to feel like he didn’t have my back, but the second thoughts were building up fast. On the timing if nothing else. I let him off the hook.
“Look, why don’t we head back down for Taos,” I said. “You guys can find us there when—”
Somewhere in the maze of rooms, something banged. A door opening. The sound resonated more than it should have, echoing through the space like we were in a cathedral and not crowded into a tiny kitchen. A girl’s voice screamed, fury and violence. The raw power of it washed over me like heat from a furnace. There was nothing human in the roar. Nothing benign or rational. It was the voice of a rider, deep and thundering and soaked in hatred. A man’s voice rose, opposing it.
“—by whose might Satan was made to fall from heaven like lightning, I humbly call upon your holy name in fear and trembling—“
Unfortunate Goatee blew out a breath. His face had gone pale. Carsey turned to him, nodding, and then back to me.
“Stay a few minutes. Father Chapin’s just coming,” he said. And then to Unfortunate Goatee: “Rise up, my boy. Break’s over.”
From the moment he staggered in, I could tell Father Chapin wasn’t pleased to see us. He went from surprise to disappointment in a flicker. I could see Ex hunch in a little at the old man’s disapproval, like a schoolboy bravely facing his father’s punishment.
Chapin looked like crap. Sweat wet his skin, the veins in his temples and neck were discolored and proud as welts. He looked at Ex and then at me. Carsey and Unfortunate Goatee—I really needed to find out his real name—walked out, heading toward the commotion. The unearthly howling kept roaring for a few seconds. Then a deep, resonant boom like the gates of Hell closing. And then silence. Shift change.
Father Chapin walked to the minifridge, took out a bottle of water, and drank it, squatting there on the floor. Miguel and Tamblen watched him. No one moved, waiting for Daddy to say something.
“We didn’t know you were in the middle of a thing,” I said.
Father Chapin ran a hand over his head and took a long, shuddering breath.
“Come with me,” he said without looking back at us. “We can speak.”
He walked like an older man than he’d been the day before. It was more than just fatigue. The way his hips tried not to move, the care with which he put weight on his knees. He was in pain. He led us to the room with the window that looked out on the courtyard. A crucifix of carved oak bore a Christ dripping with red paint. His crown of thorns was a real crown of thorns. Father Chapin leaned against the wall.
“I assume you have not done as I asked you,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” Ex said, and the distress and embarrassment in his voice reminded me of about half of my own childhood. “I only thought—”
“It’s not Ex. It’s me,” I said. “I’m not going to see a shrink. I don’t have a psychological problem.”
Father Chapin smiled and swung his eyes toward me. A blood vessel in the sclera of his left eye had burst, staining the white red. He looked like he’d been beaten.
“You sound quite certain, Miss Jayné,” he said. “You have murdered. You have compromised the temple of your flesh. You have lost faith in both God and the uncle you most admired. And you tell me you are unscathed, yes?”
“Well, okay, I may have some issues to work through, but I’m not crazy,” I said. And then, “Wait a minute. Compromised my temple? Are you talking about sex?”
“There is a reason for the things I ask of you,” Father Chapin said, leaning against the wall. “There is a process which we must follow. Not only for you, not only now, but for everyone. Every time. We do not cut corners, take the easy way …”
The contempt he shoehorned into the words easy way was pretty impressive. Ex was staring at his own toes, his face pale as the snow outside the window. An odd smell wafted through the room, hot and metallic, like a skillet left on the burner for too long.
“Xavier of all men should have explained this. What we do here,” Chapin said. “It will not heal those wounds. If you are possessed by the minions of Satan, I may be able to help you to redeem yourself. But to be here now is a distraction, and to commit to these rites without need would damage you and degrade these ceremonies.”
I crossed my arms and leaned against the wall next to Jesus. My scowl was etching itself into my skin. The weird smell was getting stronger.
“Well, I don’t want to degrade any ceremonies,” I said. “But whether I feel emotionally at peace with—”
Something detonated. Dark webs cracked the pale stucco, and the crucifix beside me swung like a pendulum. Father Chapin’s mouth was a tiny, surprised O. Ex was the first to recover, but Chapin and I were after him almost as soon as he moved.
The kitchen was in disarray: table toppled and domino tiles scattered on the floor, minifridge door open and its internal light flickering wildly. The others were gone. Someone screamed from the other side of the building. The door Father Chapin had come through stood open. The door Carsey and Unfortunate Goatee had gone out when they were going to take his place in the exorcism. As I paused, I heard other voices—men’s voices—raised and shouting as if from a long way away. And something that was like a girl’s voice and also like a forest fire roaring above them. The air felt tainted. Something unreal brushed against me and blundered away again like a fish in a pond.
“Possessed girl got loose?” I said.
“Yeah,” Ex said.
“Spiffy.”
Chapter 5
Father Chapin limped toward the fight, and we followed, moving through the rooms as quickly as his pained steps could lead us. A black, carved-wood door hung open; the places where its hinges had ripped out of the frame were pale and fresh.
The room beyond had been a chapel or a lecre hall or both. The brick floors were so dark, they seemed to swallow the light. A tiny wooden dais stood across from double doors leading out to the courtyard. Chalked symbols on the floor shimmered like something seen through a heat haze, and the air tasted like hot copper. The priests stood in a circle, holding their palms toward the center or else clutching at black leather Bibles. All of them except for Unfortunate Goatee, who lay unmoving in a corner, limp as yesterday’s laundry.
Between the men, I caught glimpses of something moving low to the floor. Ex took my shoulder and pointed toward the bunch of them, shouting, but I couldn’t make out his words. Father Chapin hurried forward, and I heard his voice, rising with the others, contending with the demon. Ex went to his side, holding out his hands and shouting down the devil with the others. I went to Unfortunate Goatee. He was breathing, but that was the best I could say for him. His eyes were wide and unfocused. A long, deep cut scored him from neck to belly, but the pink, exposed flesh didn’t bleed.
“It’s okay,” I said, taking his hand. “Just hang tight, and we’ll get you to a doctor. Just hold on.”
The demon shrieked, the sound sharp and rough as a bread knife. The priests stumbled back. Carsey lost his footing and dropped to his knees. They seemed to be shouting something in Latin, but I couldn’t be sure. The thing in the middle of the circle leaped up to the ceiling, clinging there like a spider.
It was a girl, no more than eight years old. Her black hair was in mats and tangles. When she opened her mouth, a dim light spilled out past her teeth, and the same dirty brightness leaked through the sores on her body. The chanting men looked up at her, their voices more strident. They were getting desperate. She sat up, then stood, the soles of her feet on the ceiling, gravity reversed for her and her alone. When she tilted her head back to look down at me, I had the sense of something ancient, maybe something that had been beautiful once but was all septic madness now.
I stood. I was aware intellectually of the fear. My heart was racing; the skin at the back of my neck felt like an invisible hand was stroking it just enough to raise gooseflesh. A wind whirled, stirring my hair and making the black overcoat flap around my ankles. I knew where we were headed. I took a deep breath, let it out, and spread my arms in invitation . Come on. Let’s do this. The little girl grinned, took two steps toward me, and dropped.
I didn’t have a violent childhood. There was anger, yes. There was yelling and accusation and a combination of masculine self-righteousness and maternal submission that I would call less than healthy. But my father never raised a hand in anger, and I had a protective big brother who kept school as benign as he could. The first actual fight I’d ever been in came just after my uncle died, and I’d turned into some kind of ninja, spinning dishware through the air, disarming and defeating gun-toting wizards. Since then, I’d won every fight I’d been in. Oh, it had been close. I’d come out bloody. I’d hung on to the edge of a skyscraper by my fingertips. I’d had a voodoo god beat me until I couldn’t stand up. But each time, the sense of being trapped a couple of inches behind my eyes clicked in, and I’d watched my body do things I couldn’t imagine or predict.