The Convent of the Pure Page 11

  “Nigel, what have you done?”

  “No more shadows,” he answered her. The words were garbled with blood and far too many teeth. “No more hiding. Only power. Only death. When I consume you, my last sacrifice, I will be complete.”

  “I won’t let you.”

  “Then first I make my offspring on you, and after they are eaten, you will be next. You, I savor, my sweet, sweet sister. With your essence, I can wear the world around my neck like a jewel.”

  “No. By the blood and the soul of the Gyony, I will stand in your way.”

  “Gyony,” he spat a curdled glob into the floor. “Typical. Gyony will die first. All Gyony.”

  “No, we will not.” Portia and the Nigel-demon turned toward the voice with equal surprise. Imogen stood in the center of the room. Glyphs and sigils covered every inch of her naked skin, some drawn on in ink, others carved into her flesh and still dripping with fresh ruby blood. She shone with a celestial light and advanced on the demon, her red hair rippling behind her like a cloak.

  She closed her eyes and the same kind of quiet ululation Nigel had made began in her throat. The glyphs on her flesh began to glow brighter, and the beat in Portia’s breastbone quickened.

  “Imogen, no!”

  But her lover was beyond hearing. With arms outstretched, she opened her mouth to let the cries fly free. They filled the room and the demon that once was Nigel cowered a moment before diving into an attack. A sparkling field that surrounded Imogen rebuffed him.

  “Dumah, thousand-eyed angel of death, you who command the silence and the stillness, you who hold the fiery rod of vindication, come unto me! Come with your legions of angels, come to punish this sinner!” Her body changed; her arms and legs grew longer, thicker, and her hair turned jet black. Great arcing wings, red as spilled blood, erupted from her back. In her hands, a flaming stave appeared. “I open my eyes onto you, Nigel Aldias, and to the demon souls in communion with you. I open my eyes and see your way into hell!” Imogen’s voice was lost in the immortal thunder of the angel’s. And as if a thousand radiant piercing eyes had indeed opened, the room filled with an unearthly light that made the hungry tongues of flame dull in comparison. Nigel screamed, straining his vocal cords to bursting.

  Portia buried her face in the crook of her elbow, unable to look into the furious illumination. She could hear Imogen moving--the sound of her bare feet crunching through broken glass and splintered wood made Portia shudder. Chancing a glance upward, she saw Imogen, the stave afire in her hands, her eyes endless chasms of darkness.

  I need to help her, Portia thought.

  Help her, the echo reiterated.

  Are we not one being now? One soul?

  In reply, it whispered, Are we not? I embraced you. But you have been afraid to lose yourself.

  I am.

  Are you willing to let her die again? No one can save her this time.

  What must I do?

  Let me out of the confines you have created. Let me fill you and become you, for I already am you, Portia Gyony.

  “I am Portia Gyony.” She touched the center of her breastbone and dropped every magical defense she had been taught. The onrush of sensation brought her to her knees. The strength and the light that had surged through her when she called on it became the core of her being, indiscernible from her own memories, her own soul. And yet she remained herself, whole. “I am Portia Gyony,” she repeated, and the world bent slightly around the edges.

  She found that she could look directly upon Imogen without pain, without fear. Imogen who was the vessel of Dumah glanced in Portia’s direction and nodded her head.

  “Greetings, sister,” she said, as if the light of death itself did not shine from her very eyes.

  Portia inclined her head, giving deference to the rank she felt instinctively in the very marrow in her bones. Imogen turned back to her task and raised the great rod over her head. Nigel had collapsed to the burning floor, his broad shoulders hunched. He lashed out his clawed hands at Imogen, but his strength was fading. She drove the stave deep into his chest, shattering his breastbone and piercing his heart. Celestial fire burst from the wound and engulfed his body. Nigel howled and choked, his demonic body flailing in a desperate bid to survive.

  Imogen stalwartly walked forward, her aura merging with the demon’s. For a moment, there was nothing but a vast and brilliant corona. The ululation began again, this time higher pitched and faster, an urgent sound. But beneath it, Portia heard something else.

  The faintest echo of her name. Portia.

  She turned within herself for a moment, but the now-familiar presence was gone. No quasi-separate entity shared her body and soul. She felt whole, as if it had never been any other way. The voice whispered again, softly, Portia.

  Within the sphere of light, a struggle and loud, keening wail were cut by the sharp intonations of that strange, lulling ululation.

  Portia, help me.

  She saw the shape of a human hand reaching toward her and she dove into the fray.

  Inside that sphere, the world might as well never have existed. No room burned around them, no broken glass or splintered wood crunched underfoot. There was only light. And profound silence. It took Portia a moment to regain her senses.

  Imogen lay at Portia’s feet, naked and as still as the grave, and beside her was what remained of Nigel. His body was a broken shell, a twisted strip of flesh nearly devoid of bone and riddled with holes. The tattoos and scars were gone, leaving patches of skin that had the look of being scrubbed raw. His face was half gone, torn away by the force of a Blessedwood bolt. One eye was missing and the other stared blindly into nothing. His jaw, broken in several places, moved as if he were trying to speak.

  Portia. The moan sounded ghastly now, grating and nauseating. Portia don’t leave me.

  “There is no you any longer, Nigel. You gave it all away, and for what?”

  He raised his ruined head, but the effort exhausted him and he collapsed. Portia glanced up into the face of the being that stood there. It was the face of death, of the abyss and the eternal silence of a sepulcher. She found that it did not chill her as she expected it might. Dumah stood a few feet away from her with the calm and impassive face of the dead.

  “Take him,” Portia said, nudging Nigel’s broken body with the toe of her boot. “But this one is mine.” She took Imogen in her arms and met Dumah’s gaze, daring the angel to deny her. Dumah nodded and enveloped Nigel with blistered wings. The sphere of light vanished, leaving Portia’s eyes dazzled.

  It took only a moment for her to realize that the bright light was the hot flicker of fire. Flames completely enveloped the room. Portia stood in the center, dumbfounded as the conflagration raged around her and Imogen. She clutched her lover tightly to her. “It is going to be all right, I will get you out of here.” But Imogen did not stir.

  Heat forced Portia back several times before she reached the door. Behind her, the blaze consumed everything it touched. The notes and scrolls and books were nothing but smoldering embers. Portia slung her Gladstone satchel up over shoulder and decided to make a mad dash before the floor gave way beneath them.

  Thick, black smoke choked the corridor, forcing Portia to crawl along the floorboards, dragging Imogen along with her. She made her slow, laborious way to the stairwell, where she could get to her feet once more and descend with Imogen toward the exit. Down, down she climbed, panting and bruised from her ordeal. Finally, she stumbled into the dormitory of the doomed children. The smoke still pervaded the air, but Portia felt they were out of immediate danger.

  She settled Imogen against the wall and dug through her bag, finding the jar of smelling salts. Imogen was roused with a gasp and shudder. Her eyes were wild and unfocused for a long moment before she regained a sense of where she was.

  “Portia,” her voice was as dry as autumn leaves.

  “I’m here, my love.”

  “Am I…? Am I dead?” She ran her hands over her bare flesh in awe.
The glyphs and sigils were entirely gone.

  Laughing, Portia told her, “No more or less than you were this morning.”

  “What’s that smell?”

  “We haven’t much time.”

  “Is that smoke?”

  “Well, yes. There was an accident with a couple of my crossbow bolts.”

  Imogen sat up and tilted her head. Her delicate nostrils flared and she listened. “There is no stopping the fire, is there?”

  Portia shook her head. “I need your help to wake as many of the others as possible.”

  “Wake them?”

  “If we are able. Either that, or we let them asphyxiate and die here.”

  Imogen shakily got to her feet. Portia slipped off her duster and helped Imogen into it. “Thank you,” she murmured, drawing the cotton canvas around her and making her unsteady way to the first bed.

  The electrical short Portia had begun in the specimen room had affected some of the machinery in this one. The smell of scorched wires was prevalent. Many of the children were already gone, drifted away into an endless sleep. Portia offered a prayer to Dumah to take their souls while she tended to the rest with smelling salts.

  Imogen’s beloved Molly and Sinclair slipped away gently into death as soon as they were removed from the strange machinery. Kendrick and Radinka came around, their deeply shadowed eyes squinted against the feeble light.

  Imogen wrapped her arms around them, murmuring and humming, telling them to hurry and rouse the others. From high above, the floors collapsed in a splintering rumble. Portia was only halfway along the second aisle; only eight children stood on weak and wobbling legs. At least a dozen more still slept, and about twenty would never wake again.

  “We have to get out, now.” Portia began to round up the little ones.

  Imogen wavered, swaying on her feet. “But the others…”

  “Either we leave now with what children we have, or we lose them all and our lives as well.”

  “Give me just a moment longer.” Imogen’s tearful gaze paralyzed Portia. “Please, my love. Please. These are my sisters, my brothers.”

  “Go on, save who you can. You know the way out. I will take these little ones and head for the road.” Portia reached her hand out for Imogen, who touched her fingers. They fell into each other’s embrace. “I don’t know if I can live through losing you again.”

  “Portia, you are the strong one, and you always have been. You are a Gyony to the bone: noble, fearless, beautiful.”

  “I’d hardly say that I was fearless,” she laughed bitterly through her tears.

  “Ah, but you’ll agree to noble and beautiful. I love you, Portia.” Imogen kissed her mouth hungrily. “I will be right behind you, I promise.”

  Portia gathered up the eight children, not one of whom appeared to be more than eight years old. But she knew better. Among them, she saw upward-tilting green eyes and silver hair.

  The passage was agonizingly slow as the Bene ‘elim children stumbled on atrophied legs. The large double doors that led from the main hall were painted shut, and Portia was forced to take them through the narrow passage that led to the chapel. She closed her ears to their cries of distress as they moved quickly down the marred center aisle and across the desecrated altar. She saw that her blood still saturated the top of it.

  As she opened the door and began to usher her charges through it into the damp night, a gust of smoke and flying embers billowed into the chapel. The children shrieked and scrambled into the courtyard with Portia hard on their heels.

  “Go toward the gates!”

  Tumbling over one another and their own feet, the children obliged, running more or less for the arched gate. Portia stopped and turned, watching flames the size of great oaks lick through what remained of the roof. The ornate convent was already reduced to ruins. “Imogen.”

  Behind her the children shivered and she turned away to tend to them. They stood in a cluster beneath the rusting arch, waiting. It would be a long walk down to the main road. She gave them a winning smile.

  “Come on, my little ducks.”

  “Where are we going?” A steel-eyed boy with a lisp pulled at the hip of her pantalets. “Where’s Imogen?”

  “My name is Portia. I am Imogen’s best friend and she bade me to keep care of you in her stead. We are going to a beautiful village not far from here called Penemue. It is where I grew up and where Imogen lived for many long and happy years.”

  They were only somewhat mollified, but followed anyway. Beyond the gate, the flagstone path ended abruptly in a patch of scrubby dirt. Lying there in the rocks and weeds was an apple, once a rich gold but now withered and rotten.

  “Portia!” The voice was tremulous and thick with smoke, but she would have known it anywhere.

  “Imogen? Imogen, we’re here!” She ran back through the gate to find her beloved leading four children, all of them covered in ash and blood. The youngsters were so thrilled to see any of their fellows they did not seem to care to ask after the others. But the grieving would come soon enough. First, they would have a good meal and a hot bath in the safety of Penemue. She did not want to think of what waited for them there, whether Emile was safe and alive or if he had been dispatched by the treachery of the Aldias.

  The children gathered where the flagstone path ended, looking anxiously down the hill to where the road, the buildings, and the flora all resumed. They fidgeted and whined.

  Imogen limped toward them all, a broad smile on her sooty face. “I told you I’d be right behind you.” She coughed and clutched her chest.

  Portia slipped an arm around her, bearing her weight easily. “Are you hurt?”

  “I didn’t think so, but…I think something might be wrong.”

  “Wrong? How?”

  “I am afraid… the spell…” Fear thrilled in her voice. She pointed to her bare chest streaked with ash and sweat.

  “What do you m--?” The question died on Portia’s lips. The flesh across Imogen’s breastbone was unmarked.

  “The magic is contained here,” she nodded at the burning convent and glanced uncertainly at the old gates. “I am not sure if I can leave.”

  Portia’s mouth went dry. “No. Not after all of this. I will not lose you again.”

  “Portia, the choice is not yours.”

  She touched Imogen’s chest, searching for the familiar thrum of the arcane symbol stamped onto her. She found it faint and faltering. “No, you are right. The choice is not mine. I can’t make it for you.” She stepped away, joining the waiting children beyond the threshold of the iron gates. She reached out her hand. “Come home, Imogen. We all need you.”

  Imogen stood with her bare toes just behind the line that divided what had once been their home, safe and hidden from the wicked world that needed them to save it. And although she had faced down demons without so much as a flicker of an eyelash, she now stared terror-stricken at an empty swath of earth.

  “I am afraid, Portia.”

  “Your body contained the Great Angel of Death tonight. You faced down Nigel and destroyed him. What else is there to be afraid of?”

  “I don’t want to die. Again. There is no necromancer to catch my soul and ensorcel it back into my body.”

  “You could stay here, I suppose.”

  “No.” Imogen shook her head. “There is too much pain here. And my brothers and sisters will need me in the world beyond these walls.”

  “Then come.” Portia plucked the silver Saint Christopher medallion from between her own breasts. She pressed it into Imogen’s hand and closed her fingers over it. “May you not faint or fall on this day. I beseech you, Christopher, denied Saint, guide Imogen’s steps, and allow her safe travel home again.”

  Imogen nodded and kissed Portia’s hand, still clasped firmly over her own. “Take me home, my love.” She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. “Don’t let go.”

  “Never,” Portia whispered. “Never. I promise.”

  Imogen stepped ac
ross the barrier.

  Don’t miss the exciting sequel THE LABYRINTH OF THE DEAD to continue the adventure of Imogen and Portia!

  Chapter 1

  The Labyrinth of the Dead

  Portia Gyony stood at the threshold. The air crackled in a whirlwind of electrostatic energy and bore the acrid scent of ozone. Although Imogen was right beside her, it was not right. Within the inscribed circle set down in chalk and salt on the scuffed hardwood floor, Portia’s memories were a maelstrom. Imogen lay there, silent and motionless, her hair spread out in a halo of sunset-red curls. For a moment, they were still at the convent with the inferno raging behind them. Portia could taste bitter smoke in her mouth. A scream caught in her throat as she watched Imogen, her sweet, beloved Imogen, collapse the moment she stepped through the gateway that separated the convent from the rest of the world.

  Imogen Gyony had been from that moment a soulless doll. It was not the first time she had been separated from her body, but this time there had been no handy necromancer to catch her spirit as it fled. There was only Portia, and she was determined to go and get it back.

  The treacherous Lady Claire Aldias sat at her small writing desk, jotting a few equations into the margin of her notebook. The metallic scratching of her fountain pen's nib nearly drove Portia to distraction. Since the night in the convent when Lady Analise Aldias had bound her with an angel’s soul, Portia had discovered a host of new abilities. Occasional and often uncontrolled focus of the senses was the latest in a long list of talents, and she trained day after day to learn to control all of them.

  Claire grunted and shifted her glasses higher up on her nose.

  Portia glanced toward Captain Cadmus Gyony, the head of House Gyony, and he cracked his knuckles. “M’lady, we won’t be much pleased if this fails… again.”

  “It is a delicate arrangement, not that I’d expect the likes of you understand.”

  The captain stood alongside Lady Claire, his thickly muscled arms crossed and his waxed moustache twitching with anxiety. If she was intimidated by the Gyony toughs who flanked her, Claire did not show it. She simply ignored them and focused on her machines, stepping between each of the squat generators, tweaking and adjusting, a film of sweat across her face that caused her wire-rimmed glasses to slide down her nose again. Exhaling loudly, she stood up, primly wiping her fingertips on her starched white apron.