The Convent of the Pure Read online

  Push! Push! Push!

  She gave an experimental press of her hands against the brickwork. Some of the mortar crumbled away, but nothing else happened.

  “How hard?”

  Hard! Hard! Hard! Push hard! Push hard! Push hard!

  Portia leaned into the wall and dug her bare toes into the floor as much as she could. At first they scrambled for purchase, but finally her foot caught the edge of a stone and she used it to lever her shoulders into the wall. It creaked a little and groaned as old bricks were wont to do, but it did not budge.

  “I can’t do it,” she panted.

  Do it! Do it! Do it! The echo was louder now, almost a voice unto itself. Push hard! Push hard!

  “I haven’t the strength.”

  Strength! Strength! Strength!

  “I will get in there, so help me, if to do nothing more than to tell you to shut the hell up!”

  The echo said nothing in reply.

  Portia blew out her breath and drew in another, and another, feeling as if her lungs would break open. She threw her shoulder against the wall once more and lunged into it. She poured all of her strength into one long and controlled exhale, remembered from long ago days of Gyony training, and slowly the bricks began to give way. At first, the section of wall moved as a unit, one solid piece sliding away from the rest, but the moment the bricks were about halfway through they gave way into a cascade of mortar and stone. Portia collapsed into the pile of falling bricks and instinctively covered her head.

  When the dust settled, she was surprised to find herself entirely unscathed. She shook the debris from her hair and clothes and took stock of her situation. The pile of rubble had spilled into another passageway that was entirely different from the one behind her. The new passage was a shorter hall with a domed ceiling that ended in a very sensible-looking oak door. She chanced one last glance into the endless corridor and saw that the knot of hair she’d left behind had finally fallen and was mostly buried in the detritus of broken bricks and chunks of lichen. She reached through the gaping hole in the wall and plucked it free, not willing to leave little bits of herself behind in the strange darkness.

  The door opened easily, and she stepped through into a plain little room. There was a single round window at the far side, through which shined a light so blindingly bright that she could not see out past it.

  “Is this where you are? Have I found you?”

  The silence was strained. Finally a quiet rustle came from behind the shaft of light.

  “You have found me,” said a voice that rustled and rasped like old paper. “Such as I am, and with what few tricks are left to me.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Funny that you should ask, of all people.”

  Portia moved closer, gliding her feet as noiselessly as possible across the cold marble floor. “Why is that so funny?”

  “Because you are the one who keeps me here. I was brought here for your purpose, yet you dare ask me who I am. You are cruel.”

  “I am not! And I did no such thing! Speak to me, tell me your name!”

  “Name? I have none. Not anymore. No name save Portia. Portia Gyony, Nephilim of the Grigori. Portia, of the Penemue chapter house. Portia, beloved of Imogen. Portia defines me now, Portia describes me. None other, and nothing further. I am a pitiful echo of all that you are, now, Portia.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Ah!” A shadow moved, arms flung outward in frustration. “Has my soul been thus wedded to a creature so daft? I was once something whole and entire, something made of all possibilities. And now I am just a shabby reflection, caught and confined in the soul of a simpleton.”

  She paused, her toenails glinting in the light that spilled in like the glow of a thousand moons. “I do not want to trouble you. I did not bring you here or bid you to stay. If I could let you go, you must know that I would.”

  “Let me go,” the voice laughed dryly. “You could just as easily allow one of your limbs to go free if it grew tired of you. Or one of your eyes. Or the roots of your hair. Such fine hair it is. My memory is treacherous now, but I remember my last moments being separate from you. I remember your hair. Shining like a silver river flecked with starlight. I smelled your blood and knew you were kin to me. You were the offspring of my Brothers, a child of the Daughters of Men and the Sons of God. And I was afraid, because I realized then what was to become of me, what was to become of us.”

  “You are a Nephilim too, then?”

  “No, child, I am not.”

  “A Bene ‘elim, then?”

  “No. The Bene ‘elim are naught but a higher order of Nephilim. They are what your Primacy consists of, what your Imogen is.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Imogen. She is so like you, yet so unlike. She is of purer stock than most, gifted with a higher degree of celestial blood. She is different from the Nephilim, she is Bene ‘elim. You were born a Bene ‘elim as well, a true Nephilim child of the union between a Son of God and a Daughter of Man. While her bloodline is older and more rarified, you are no less her equal. There are so few left. So few that both heaven and earth mourn it. Yet your Grigori takes steps most unnatural to change the courses of fate. Each creature that draws breath upon the earth must live and then die. Even Bene ‘elim will die, though it might take hundreds, maybe thousands, of human years or more. The Nephilim flower far from the trunk, branching outward and ever outward, reaching steadily toward the transience of humanity. Soon, they will be no different from ordinary mortals.”

  “And you? You said you were neither Nephilim nor Bene ‘elim. What does that leave?”

  “Banu ili. I am a Child of God. Not fallen, not dead into mortality like the Nephilim.”

  “You are an angel, then?”

  “I was.”

  “What are you now?”

  The figure rose, silhouetted by the light. As it came toward her, she could see that it was a mirror of her height and body type. Portia stepped into the slanting golden beam to meet it and saw her own eyes, sharp and green, framed by silver lashes and crowned with silver brows. The young woman before her reached out her hands, her own familiar hands, and said in her own familiar voice, “I am you.”

  Spangled darkness became Portia’s world for a moment, but as it cleared she saw that she stood facing the small oaken door at the far side of the room, with the light bathing her from behind. There was no one else with her. And she also saw that she cast no shadow.

  “What do I do now?”

  There was no answer, no echo. Only a surety of knowledge that she must climb out of this place on her own. She reached up for the window and found that it was open. The shaft of golden light seemed almost tangible enough to climb, at least as solid as to give her a boost, anyway. The window was a snug fit. She twisted and wriggled her shoulders through, and then her hips. The strange golden light enveloped her as she hoisted herself out of the darkness behind her and into whatever lay beyond it.

  Pale blue light--not golden--surrounded her body, and tight silk bindings once again covered her eyes and mouth. But this was different.

  Standing upright, she felt the aches and maddening itch of the monitors and diodes hooked into her flesh. She forced her breath to come smoothly through her nose, in deeply and out slowly, one after the other. The silk around her mouth was slick with saliva and her dry lips stuck to it. The division forced between her mind and her body was gone. She reached up, her arms moving easily at her command, and pulled the bandage away from her eyes. Wires snagged and snapped as she did so, and she brushed them away irritably.

  Around her, the room slowly came into focus. The light shining into her own glass case made it difficult to see, but she could make out several of the cases around her, each containing one inanimate Bene ‘elim adolescent. What was more, she could see the auras around each of them. Some were flickering and pale with the look of a creature barely holding onto life, while others were stronger. None of them felt right to her, however. No
ne of these poor children would live very long, and the time they had would be filled with a numb cloud that divorced them from the unrelenting pain of their tortured, mangled bodies. She had to make it stop; the voice within her demanded it.

  She pressed her hands against the glass of her enclosure, knocking and bumping here and there until she found the sliver-thin edge of the door. It fit so seamlessly into the wall that at first she could not see the perimeter. She had no idea how it closed or upon what kind of hinges it opened, but she did not care. She pressed her shoulder to it, just as she had to the craggy bricks of her dream. This wall gave way far more easily and Portia tumbled painfully to the floor in a tangle of tubes and wires and the narrow shift she wore. She tore loose the bindings wrapped around her head and methodically plucked each tiny diode from her skin. It reminded her of the time when, as a child, she’d spent hours picking at the scabs left over from her bout with the varicella pox.

  Portia touched her chest, and below the flesh there she could feel the sigil burning like a brand. But she was shocked to find that her skin was whole and without a single trace of scarring. She thought of Imogen, who wore a symbol on her breastbone as well. But before she could set out to find her, Portia knew there was something she must do.

  She followed the thickly corded electric wires that twined across the floor, leading from each of the specimen cases and converging to a single point at the far side of the room. The cloth-covered wires from the first dormitory also merged into the bundles as they ran down the walls. They all lead to a generator and a master control along the side wall. A tall copper-wrapped column emerged from the top of the turbine casing; it whined and sparked, casting violet-white shadows across the walls.

  The wires came into the metal housing via a clear fused-quartz access port. The turbine cylinder behind the arcing column was similarly encased in the glassy fused quartz. The spinning magnets hummed inside the copper coiling, the electric current safely locked away behind the insulating crystal. The turbine shaft was connected through an opening in the bricks of the wall to a steam engine driven by a coal oven in the next room.

  The control panel attached to the generator was a confusing array of brass and steel dials, buttons, sliders and switches. Not one of them was labeled. On a nearby rolling tray, Portia spied a bone saw. She dropped to her knees and isolated the power cords that lead away to the two nearest specimen cases. She sliced through the thick, rubber-coated wiring. Sparks flew as metal scraped metal and she was thrown back by a singularly large jolt that left her ears ringing and her palms smarting. At the far end of the room, two cases flickered and went dark.

  Then the screaming began.

  The two young men in the cases began to howl and thrash as whatever pain that had been kept at bay crashed down upon them with the force of a tidal wave. The inhuman keening chilled Portia, but she followed the wailing to the nearer case. The adolescent within sported bent and stunted wings of off-white feathers that erupted from large, crusted sores between his shoulder blades. His body trembled violently and she could see his eyes rolling beneath the tight bandage. Frothing spit began to ooze down his chin, leaving his broad chest looking almost innocently snow-flecked. His inhumanly elongated fingers clenched and unclenched, then very calmly he placed his palms against the glass. His quaking slowed and he tilted his head to one side as if listening. The wrenching cries subsided, but the stillness shattered as he slammed his forehead into the glass with as much might as he could muster. Again and again he repeated the gesture, until the sound of bone ringing off of glass was replaced by a hideous, wet noise that Portia was certain would haunt her dreams until the end of her days. Blood soaked the bandages completely and the poor lad’s face was nothing more than a flattened ruin, but on and on he threw his head into the glass. Cracks formed, but the case did not shatter. Finally, after what seemed like hours, he slowly sank to his knees. His scalp had lifted from the bloodied pulp of his face and painted a swath of red on the glass in his wake.

  The second young man stood as still as ever. But when Portia squinted her eyes, she could see his fingers and toes were black and miniscule wisps of smoke curled up from his nails. Electrocution. Portia prayed fervently that he had not suffered as much as his fellow.

  But that left all the others. She could not bring herself to let each one die by some similarly gruesome method. She hunted the control panel for something she knew had to be there. A kill switch. It was not readily apparent, not some dangerous-looking red button nor some switch emblazoned with a skull and crossbones. What she did find was an air-enrichment dial, one that regulated the flow of oxygen into each sealed chamber. Biting her lip, she turned the knob to zero.

  “Saint Julitta, O Honored Matron, you once lost everything you had but held fast to your faith. You looked bravely upon the flames of your death, but God allowed your breath to leave you before you could suffer the pain of burning. Take the breaths of these children, these beloved Bene ‘elim, and give them the peaceful death you were granted. Take their breath and with it, their pain. Escort them to the very gates of Heaven where they may claim their birthright and sing praises to the Most High. Amen. Amen. Amen.”

  One by one, the lights in the specimen cases dimmed and went out. There was no thrashing, no fighting for life. The sedatives in their timed little pumps kept each of the occupants calm and still as they slowly breathed their last and expired.

  A single sob wracked her, but she forced herself to take a deep breath and wipe away her tears. Her heart broke not only for these nameless children, but for Imogen, who not only knew them, but loved them. She would be pleased to know that they suffered no longer. Or at least Portia hoped that she would.

  She left the dark, dead specimen cases behind her.

  The curtains no longer looked eerie and forbidding, lit as they had been with unearthly bluish light. They just hung listless and dusty, like shrouds. Portia passed through them and moved into the dormitory full of comatose children. There did not seem to be a master control in this room. She stood among them, listening to their hushed little breaths, barely audible beneath the click and whirr of the machines that kept them asleep.

  She touched one girl’s exposed forearm, and immediately her vision was flooded with springtime daylight; she could feel the damp crush of clover between her toes and taste the sweetness of air flushed with nectar. When Portia removed her hand, she was faced with the dim, stale dormitory and the dozens of filled beds. She crouched down and gazed into the girl’s pale face. Her shadowed eyelids, webbed with red and blue veins, twitched and fluttered as she dreamed. Besides the mechanically induced rise and fall of her chest, it was her only body movement at all.

  “At least you can dream, little one. I don’t know what else I can do for you, but I wish there was something.”

  “Portia?”

  Her head whipped around to the sound of the voice, so quickly the room spun. “Imogen!”

  “How in the world did you get free?”

  Portia shrugged, “It has something to do with what they did to me. Imogen, we have to get out of here, we need to get back home.”

  Imogen licked her lips nervously and nodded. “Not right now, they do not know you’re not locked up! We must hide. Come with me, I know a good place.” She reached out her hand and Portia took it. For a split second, she saw nothing but dazzling light. The brightness cleared and the world was made up of her and Imogen, a collage of images of their hands clasped, their lips pressed eagerly to one another, their hair mingling across the pillow, silver and gold.

  The breath left her in a rush and she grabbed Imogen and held her tightly. Her body was whole and real once more, every inch familiar and warm.

  “Come, my love, we mustn’t dally here.” She hooked her arm through Portia’s and led her through the dormitory. They slipped through the tiny hall that ran between the kitchen and the dining room and came upon a small, hidden stair beside a water closet. The narrow switchback steps creaked under their weight,
and Portia remembered crisp autumn mornings at Penemue when she and Imogen would climb into the apple larders and steal their breakfast from the fruit.

  “Do you know where they took my Gladstone?”

  “It’s been emptied. The contents are in Lady Analise’s study. I think the bag is there, too.”

  “Did they manage to get all that disgusting incubus blood off of it?”

  Imogen glanced back over her shoulder, her mouth a thin line. “I don’t know. Now hush, or we’ll be caught!”

  They climbed in silence, their footsteps quiet as a whisper on each step. Finally, they emerged in a round cupola overlooking an overgrown field behind the building. Far below them, tombstones seemed to grow among the tall grasses and climbing ivy. They were simple markers made of wood or stone, most in the form of unadorned crosses. These were the graves of the Sisters, Portia realized. The Bene ‘elim children aged so slowly and never took sick--there would be no need for a burial ground for them. But the frail Sisterhood was all too human. She whispered a prayer under her breath for them, thanking them for their good stewardship of the children in their care, especially Imogen. Even though tragedy had befallen those darling charges, they had lived and now dreamed, securely loved. Portia envied them that security just a little. She turned back to Imogen who stood smiling, arms open to embrace her.

  A small divan and a little side table sat beneath ribbons hung with dried herbs and flowers. Crystal prisms and iron keys also dangled from the cobweb-free rafters, spattering the room with glints of colored light. Imogen pulled her toward the divan and sat beside her. “This was my favorite hiding place,” she whispered.

  “I can see why. How long do you think we should stay up here?”

  Imogen shrugged. The light outside was shifting toward late afternoon and drawing long shadows across the landscape. “Until morning at least. We can go just before first light, they won’t expect that.”

  Portia nodded. “I agree.” She smiled coyly, “Whatever shall we do until then?”

  Imogen fluttered her eyelashes and looked a little shy. “I don’t suppose anyone would find us up here, do you?”