The Labyrinth of the Dead Page 3

  Hesitating, Portia opened the front door a crack and peered outside. The heavy fog had puffed and plumed into tall thunderheads, bruise-purple against the black sky. A hollow wail reverberated between them and a distant roll of thunder answered. Within the shadows of the buildings, darker shapes skittered and writhed. At first there was no discernable pattern to their movements, but they soon seemed to scent her and migrated toward the ramshackle jeweler’s shop. Claire had certainly not mentioned this.

  "Shut the door!" Kanika’s sharp cry jolted Portia into action, and she slammed the heavy oaken door on the approaching gremlins. A pale blue sigil carved into the door flared to life, and she could hear the shadow creatures move away, although the storm broke with ferocity above them. "Didn’t I warn you? Now, come on upstairs, it’s quite comfortable, I assure you."

  The loft above the shop was indeed cozy. A feather mattress lay alongside the least crumbling wall and a wobbly table bore up a chipped pitcher and basin. A small hand-cranked generator connected to a bare light bulb mounted on the wall by way of a thick braid of cords that stretched across the floor.

  "Not so close to the light—the floor there is not sound."

  "That explains what the genny is doing way over there, then. Do you live here?"

  "Just when I need a safe place to sleep at night, which isn’t always, but most of the time." Kanika settled into the bed, rolling the flattened pillow under her neck. "There’s more bedding and some clothes in the trunk," she said, pointing to the battered steamer chest near the foot of the bed.

  "Where does all this stuff come from? How does it get here?"

  "You sure ask a lot of questions! I don’t know how it gets here, only that it stays. I think things fall through the ether, you know? Like when you are missing just one stocking? Or just one earbob? You never find it again, even though you had it just a minute ago and now it’s just gone. It ends up here. And some things get sent here or brought here. Mostly by the necromancer and demonomancer types."

  Portia gazed at the assemblage of books, knick-knacks and bits of familiar technology like a typewriter and an electric tea kettle. "How do you come by it? Do you pay for it?"

  The girl nodded. "With this." She held out her hand, and sitting on her palm was a small, rusty grey disk. It looked like a very old, very weathered copper penny. "This is shadow-gold. And in case you were wondering, it isn’t gold at all! Go on, feel it!"

  She dumped the coin into Portia’s hand and it scalded as it touched her flesh. It fell to the floorboards with a leaden sound, and Portia backed away. "What is that?"

  "In the shadow-side, it is the only thing of any real value. It is made with the scraps and remnants of souls, all bonded and compressed into a single, perfect coin. Everything else here is just frivolous dross." Kanika fetched her coin back and cradled it in her hand. She ran a finger along its edge and cooed, "Imogen? Are you in there? Im-o-gen?" Then bent her ear over as if to listen for a reply.

  Portia was disgusted. "If you don’t mind, my dear, I think I must be going. I will take my chances with the storm."

  "No, no, don’t go! I’m sorry. That was awful of me, wasn’t it?" Kanika stashed the coin away and looked up at Portia with eyes gone wide and weeping. "I get so lonely, and sometimes, well, sometimes my mind thinks things are funny when they really aren’t. I oughtn’t have said that; it was cruel. Please forgive me? Besides, you promised you’d help me!"

  A peal of thunder rocked the building and was answered by a chorus of hungry-sounding howls. "Just don’t do it again. Don’t say anything like that again. Imogen is whole and she is somewhere safe, just like we are."

  "That’s a nice thing to think, there, Portia." Kanika yawned and her misty eyes drifted closed. "Very nice. You are so optimistic to think that."

  "I don’t think, Kanika, I know." Portia absently touched her hand to her breastbone, feeling the throb of the glyph etched there and sensing a far-off echo somewhere in the vastness of this shadow-side world.

  "You are quite optimistic," Kanika repeated as she dozed.

  Portia watched her until she was sure the girl would not easily waken. "And you, dear girl, are quite trusting."

  * * * *

  The dream lingered, haunting Portia’s memory with Nigel’s face. Nigel Aldias, her power-hungry foster brother, looked like he did in life, with steely eyes and jet black hair and a hungry smile. He held Imogen by the hand and pulled her, struggling, down a dim city street. Portia took a step toward them but was caught up short. Her heavy legs would not respond to her commands. She fought to free herself of the dream, shaking the sleepy paralysis that clung to her limbs.

  Portia jerked awake, realizing as she blinked in the dim light that she had dozed off in the corner between the wall and the steamer trunk. Kanika slept soundly with her head pillowed on Portia’s lap, her arms wrapped possessively around Portia’s thigh. She was both touched and repulsed by the girl’s display of affection. She pulled her legs free and laid Kanika’s head gently down onto the feather mattress.

  The shadow-gold coin sat on the steamer trunk, as carelessly laid there as a penny. Gingerly, Portia turned it over in her hands. It was heavy for its size, with deeply grooved edges, an image of chains embossed on one side and a sunburst on the other. It still felt prickly and unsettling to the touch, an aching cold that crept steadily up her arm. She put it back onto the trunk and collected her satchel, checking the contents carefully. Nothing was amiss.

  Portia crept downstairs. The village square was silent with no sign of the violent storm, nor of the shadow creatures that had menaced her. She skirted the fetid pond and headed toward the hulking ruins that loomed above her. The dilapidated shell of the chapter house seemed so hauntingly familiar, yet so very alien.

  The roundabout was pitted and overgrown with weeds. Portia stumbled on the loose cobblestones as she made her way to the front doors, which hung wide open. Inside the foyer she came up short, not expecting to see the interior of the chapter house as she had left it in the living realm. The smooth hardwood floors stretched out before her, and the richly colored stained glass windows flanking the front hall gleamed in the waxed surface. The scent of gaslights and beeswax candles hovered over the smell of books coming from the library. The nostalgia of it struck her with almost physical pain. It made sense, Portia thought, that there could be a conduit between the worlds here, although she was not sure exactly how to cross back over into the Penemue of the living.

  Lord Emile Edulica bustled through, his tawny hair falling unkempt into his eyes. Two of the Bene ‘elim children followed close on his heels, their scrawny arms wrapped around a stack of books each. One of them paused as she passed through the foyer, her eyes seemingly drawn to Portia’s position. Radinka, one of the eldest of the little ones who had been rescued from the convent. Her seawater-pale gaze narrowed and her lips moved.

  I know you, Radinka mouthed. But before Portia could reply, the girl turned her head and answered an unheard summons, quickly leaving the foyer to follow Emile. Portia watched them go up the stairs, toward the students’ quarters. Emile, recently promoted to his full entitlement, was the master of the chapter house in the wake of Lady Hester’s untimely death. He was the quintessential Edulica and poured himself into his duties now that there was a new generation of children needing his guidance and care. She watched them go, wanting very much to step out of the shadows and back into her childhood.

  "What are you doing here?" The voice disturbed her thoughts. A broad-shouldered shape coalesced out of the darkness of the main hall. "You are on the wrong side of the world, Mistress Portia Gyony."

  "Who are you?"

  He bowed gracefully, sending his nut brown queue falling over his impressive shoulders. "Lord Solomon Aldias, at your service."

  "How do you know my name?"

  "I know everything about every child who has ever lived here. I was appointed guardian of this place many years ago, before even Lady Hester was born."

  "Then you
ought to know why I’m here."

  "Following Imogen, are you not?" He shook his head. "This was not a well thought out plan, my dear."

  "Your Lady Claire seemed to think it was feasible."

  He pressed his lips together. "Lady Claire thinks a lot of things; a few are worthy of mention. Let me explain, then, what she did not. You are fully here, body and soul. Dangerous. Our kind do not pass through here when we die. Imogen’s body still lives while her soul is severed from it, and now she wanders lost far from here. I cannot even tell you if she remembers who she is or if she might ever recover that knowledge. It was a traumatic severing, that much I know, the breaking of an old bond. Older even than what Nigel and the others put upon her the night she died at your side. I do not know if she can be retrieved, or if there is even anything left of her worth the search. The passage she has made would be difficult for Nephilim, most particularly her."

  "So, I won’t see Lady Hester here."

  "No. She never came here. Her soul drifted through the doors and vanished into whatever fate awaited her." He glanced through the elegant foyer. "It is a journey I will never take."

  Portia followed his gaze, wishing she could catch a glimpse of her foster mother.

  "She told me to keep an eye on you and what little good it would do me to try. She half expected you to come and see me on this side of the living, either to try to find her or Imogen. She begged me to dissuade you should our paths cross like this. And so here I am to try."

  "I see. If it is so difficult, so dangerous for Nephilim to abide in this place, how, then, did you come to be here?"

  His smile was not inviting. "I chose to be here. I was…a sacrifice."

  Portia took a step away from him.

  "Oh no, I am not about to trick you into taking my place." His chuckle was wry. "On the contrary, it is my pleasure to serve here. I am content in my position. The Aldias have quite a reputation."

  "They certainly do."

  He ignored her tone. "Imogen, if she still lingers, will most likely be found beyond the labyrinth. Getting to her will be treacherous. Given your unusual nature and abilities, you might be able to succeed, but I have my reservations."

  "Of course you do. Why am I not surprised?"

  Solomon’s form darkened. "Fool girl, do you want my help or not?"

  "I’d rather do without any further dealings with the Aldias, if you please. Unless, of course, you mean to be my guide through this place so that I may accomplish what I need to do all the much faster and safer and therefore be assured of success?"

  "I cannot do that."

  "Also not surprising."

  "Mind your tone, child! Strong as you are in this place, I am just as powerful, and I will not be spoken to in such a manner. Had I the ability to set one foot from these premises, I would gladly accompany you."

  Portia bit back a reply. She schooled her features into a calm mask over the storm of her temper and spoke politely. "Would that I had such strong company as yourself to assist me."

  "I am bound to this place, inexorably, by my blood and by my soul." Lord Solomon paced the foyer on eerily silent feet. "I cannot leave, no matter how much I might want to, especially in this case. But I can tell you how to get to where I think she is. The way will be far from easy, but I have the feeling that you might be up to the challenge."

  "I would do anything for Imogen."

  "That is as I suspected. Portia, were it anyone else here before me, I would be far more concerned. But you, you are different."

  "And it was the Aldias who made me so."

  "You were different before that and you know it. You know it well." He pivoted and gazed down at her, his eyes as hard and cold as flint, until Portia looked away. He touched her shoulder, softening. "The willow is the gateway."

  "The willow? The one in the center of town?"

  "The very same."

  Portia sighed, grinding her teeth. "I assume I’ll know what to do when I get there?"

  "You had better, or all of this will have been for naught." He squeezed her with a surprisingly solid grip. "Take care whom you trust here. Nothing is as it seems."

  "Don’t you worry." She shrugged away from Solomon’s hold on her. "I trust no one, my lord, not even you."

  He seemed to weigh her words a moment before speaking. "I understand. Godspeed, then, Mistress Portia Gyony."

  She nodded and sketched the formal bow due his rank and age, then backed slowly out of the foyer. As her feet found cobblestones instead of tiles, something snaked around her arm.

  "I was wondering where you’d got to!" Kanika twined her small fingers into Portia’s hand. "Where are we off to now?"

  "We?"

  "Portia, we need each other. You need information and I need your help."

  "What I need is a guide."

  "I can do that. Where do you need to go?"

  Portia glanced over toward the brackish pond and the grotesque willow that grew from its center.

  "No kidding?" Kanika whistled through her teeth. "You are either the bravest or the stupidest person who has ever come through here! I am not putting my neck out to take a field trip into the under-side! No one has ever gone through and come back, you know."

  "No, I didn’t. And I never said you had to come along. In fact, I don’t recall inviting you, or even asking your opinion. I only said that I needed a guide."

  Kanika pulled her hands away, stung. "Well then, you’re gonna put it like that, are you?" There were tears in her voice. "Then I s’pose you deserve to go alone and never, never come back again. Even though everyone would miss you, especially me."

  "That’s quite sweet of you, Kanika. But I just couldn’t risk bringing you along. If anything happened to you, I would be responsible."

  She nodded, glossy black ringlets bouncing. "No, I get what you’re trying to say. You’re responsible for enough as it is, really." She dabbed at her eyes with her thumbs. "But maybe I can still help you. Maybe we can still help each other."

  "How’s that, then?"

  "I make sure you come back. After I tell you where to find Imogen, you’d have to come back and help me. You’d be honor bound to help me."

  "Besides information, what do you have to offer, Kanika?"

  "A map." She grinned widely, showing all of her very small, very white teeth. "And a weapon."

  "Show me."

  "Promise me, first."

  "I already have."

  "Be more specific! I didn’t like your last promise. You make promises like a gypsy, they sound good but they don’t actually guarantee anything."

  "And like the gypsies, I take such things very seriously and I don’t like to make promises that I can’t keep."

  "I’ll make sure you keep this one. Now, promise me you’ll come back here."

  "That I can do. This is my way home."

  "Good. And promise me that you’ll help me."

  "Kanika, sweetling, I will do what I can."

  She pouted. "I want to know I can trust you."

  "Have I given you reason to doubt me?"

  "Well, no."

  Portia spread her hands. "Then what more can I do?"

  "All right. Sure thing. This way." Kanika struck off toward a row of townhouses about to topple into a sinkhole. Portia followed, heedless of the spectral figure watching them from the deep shadows of the chapter house.

  —4—

  THE WILLOW’S shadow was long and gnarled, stretching ominously across the broken cobblestones. She hefted the bundle Kanika had handed her. Wrapped in a length of disintegrating linen, it was heavy but well-balanced, a dangerous weapon. Portia was loath to remove the wrappings. It had moaned when she touched it, making her shudder and Kanika beam.

  She tucked it awkwardly under her arm as she hitched up her wide trousers. The temperature began to descend as she stepped into the stagnant, shallow pool. Moving toward the twisted tree, Portia felt the prickle of awareness that she was being watched. Ignoring it, she climbed into the arcing r
oot ball, steadying herself with one of the many drooping branches that fanned down all around her. Putrid water oozed through the soaked leather of her boots with every step.

  After all her careful preparations, the blessings and rituals she had performed upon herself, Portia was disappointed that the willow remained still and silent. The branches did not reach out to strangle her; there was no ominous moaning echoing behind the bark. The tree did nothing. Were her ministrations that powerful and protecting, or was there nothing to have feared in the first place? Her temple prickled, sending sparks skittering from her fingertips and a glow emanating from the center of her back. The flesh between her shoulder blades crawled.

  Not yet, she thought to herself, breathing deeply. Control.

  It was a losing battle with the tide of power rising too quickly for Portia to rein in. Sighing, she punched the trunk in frustration, releasing the pent-up energy that felt ready to rupture her flesh, punctuating each word with a blow. "Why does everyone just assume I am going to know what to do?"

  The tree creaked softly.

  She hit it again, ignoring the sharp bite of splinters as they dug through her flesh. The tree began to tremble softly, and a tiny keening could be heard from the place where her blood had touched it.

  She smiled through her angry tears. "Cagey old fool must have guessed I’d lose my temper with this sooner or later. Damn Aldias, they never can just come out and tell you the truth."

  Portia flexed her right hand, pressing her fingers into a tight fist and releasing them until her knuckles ran with a sticky mix of blood and splinters. When she struck the willow again, her hand passed straight through and she toppled forward through a tangle of shadows and screams.

  She fell. For what seemed like an eternity, Portia fell. She clutched her satchel to her body and tried to retain a grip on her cumbersome parcel. The crumbling linen began to shear away as Portia fumbled for a better hold on the thing, her knuckles growing brittle with drying blood. Then her flesh touched the handle of the weapon, brushing against leather that felt disturbingly familiar. It had a nearly magnetic attraction to her palm, lodging itself nicely into the curve of her fingers as if it had been made to fit her.