House of Corruption (34 page)

Jeané opened the first basket, scooped in a bowl, and scattered grains of rice along the floor. The woman opened the second and cast flakes of dried herbs upon the rice. Jeané opened the third and, with a ladle, sprinkled arcs of water with a wide, sweeping gesture. They did not open the fourth.

“I’m hungry,” the woman said.

“Quiet,” Jeané said.

“She promised.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me,” she said. “Tell me she will keep her promise.”

“I cannot promise anything,” he said.

Grant needed to move, now, to get as far as he could from that evil place. Another set of stairs, rising steeply into the dark, was his only option. He followed them quietly, not knowing, not caring where they took him.

33

Carlovec Manor was a fine example of craftsmanship: walls of mahogany and calcimine trim; knobs and hinges of brass; lamps in etched sconces of rose-tinted glass; multi-paned windows without bubbles. Along the walls hung many portraits, those austere ancestors whose eyes followed in passing.

Time had not been kind. Mildew dappled the wainscoting behind statues or dead plants, stinking, crawling where least observed by sunlight. Stubborn tuffs of mold spread from floor to ceiling, paint and wallpaper rotten with cancerous tuffs. Cobwebs lingered in corners and across chandeliers. The shadows were lengthening, and what sunlight managed through the windows began to die.

Upon their arrival into the guest dining room, Reynard and Kiria dared enter the hallway and cross to the other side, though they had not seen nor heard anyone since the kitchen. Wide corridors stretched into the east and west wings with many doors. To their left, the hallway stretched to a foyer where a central staircase led upstairs and downstairs. They kept a loose eye in that direction.

Reynard drew aside a curtain to glance over the front lawn, the windowpane streaked with frothy rain. A growing crowd of Eng Banka made rude camp all along the grassy hill. They came in twos and fives and more, clustering around campfires protected by rain breaks of stacked logs. Others erected wooden poles twice their height like giant matchsticks. At each pole there was a fire, and with each fire a caretaker, and each caretaker smeared dark fluids across each log. A man began to chant—a large, stout fellow splattered with swirling tattoos from his face to his feet—and his words were joined, man by man, until the entire crowd was singing. This was not a song of hunting or triumph. It may not have been a song at all but a demand, resonating until the glass of the window vibrated.

“This is the wrong time of year,” Kiria said. “This looks like
katang
, but not like this. Not this big.”

“What is it?”

“A sacred rite. Those
belawang
poles...anointed with eggs and animal blood. Raised up each year to drive away evil spirits, but this...” She shook her head. “The singing is much like
tiwah
,” she continued, “a burial ceremony outsiders never see. You may be the first.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“It requires blood sacrifice,” she said, “but I see no bull, no goat.”

Reynard fingered in his pockets. He felt the etched
petahu
stone given to him by Lingood, rolling it between his fingers, then rubbed his hands together and pressed his warm palms against his cheeks. “I wish Arté was here,” he said. “He would know what to do.”

Kiria placed a hand on his shoulder. He turned and looked at her, really
looked
—then licked his thumb and wiped dirt from the end of her nose.

“You’re dirty,” he said.

She smiled. “You have smelled better yourself,
monsieur
.”

He felt it again—a wave of tenderness for the same woman who had come to New Orleans and started this whole affair. Yet she had faced death and terror and still continued by his side, courageous when her memories threatened to break her, willing to risk everything to save another’s life. She could have refused them. She could have abandoned them, yet here she stood. Since their shared intimacy beneath the house, the way she had relied upon him, all his doubts were cast aside. He meant to say something. An apology, perhaps.

Do I love her
?

The sun was gone. Below, the Eng Banka’s fires burned like so many wild stars. Reynard exhaled and his breath came like mist. He shivered. Kiria reached up and touched his cheek, her hand cold against his skin. Light and heat dissipated like smoke, the same chill felt in that blackened cellar below Saint Dismas. He half-expected another skeletal shape standing in the foyer, staring, shouting at him. The thought stabbed a shiver down his spine.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Something,” he said. “Something is
here
.”

She opened her mouth but found no voice. As the dregs of sunset disappeared, the night thickened with a sickly-sweet odor. Darkness slithered through the corridors.

“It’s so cold,” she said.

“Do you feel—?”

...
Renny
...

“Yes?” he asked.

“What?”

“You said my name.”

“Reynard,” Kiria said, shivering. “I said nothing.”

...
See you
...

Cold pulsed up Reynard’s chest and prickled the hair on the back of his neck. A subtle tremor erupted from deep within his gut and pressed into his ribcage.
Stay away,
he commanded.
Stay away, stay away
.

...
See you
...

Laughter, distant.

...
Always see you
...

Stay away
.

An arctic breeze fired up the stairwell. Dead plants leaned and scattered brown husks across the carpet, picture frames rattled, the chandelier pulled to one side and cobwebs dropped like old bandages. The air resounded with tinkling crystal as if the house inhaled a deep breath.

More laughter. Many voices.

...
See you both
...

Reynard felt anger like ants prickling at his flesh. Lasha was in that house. She had to be. If she endured such terrible nights in this place, then he would command the Beast to stay away. He would ignore the house as it tried to grind them under its boot.

He took Kiria’s hand and together they walked down the west corridor. A tide of voices grew louder as they passed door after door. An invisible miasma smothered Reynard’s senses as if the dark gained substance; he gripped Kiria’s hand tighter. He did not know if she could hear them, but he smelled the palatable scent of her fear.

...
Toh joat
...

...
Toh joat sujan
...

When they reached the end of the hall, finding no trace that anyone had been that way in a long time, they doubled back to the foyer. The rain rattled against the windows. There came a distant
boom
and light flashed through the curtain. Another deep clap of thunder rattled the windows, the glass illuminated like a flashbulb. The chandelier shivered. Reynard tried to think; the moment the light died the house was alive, angry, filled to bursting. Outside, the tribal chanting grew louder.

Kiria shivered. “How can it be so cold?”

Reynard plunged his hand into his pocket and, without knowing why, removed the
petahu
stone. He held it up. The air around them coalesced into an ethereal crowd—men and women, transparent, emotion distorting their faces into terrible contortions. Their arms reached, dead mouths gaping. Where Reynard lifted the stone, the ghosts materialized and recoiled. He raised the stone higher; more ethereal bodies flittered back like an electric torch forcing the shadows away. When the stone moved, the nebulous spirits returned in force before disappearing from view.

...
Toh joat sujan!
...

“Evil spirits,” Kiria said.

“Cursed,” Reynard said. “This house...”

Above came a crack and a shower of plaster. The chandelier broke from the ceiling. Reynard clutched Kiria and threw her aside as the chandelier fell with a heavy crash. She shrieked. Wraiths poured over them like oily water; their graveyard stink filling Reynard’s mouth. The
petahu
stone rolled from his fingers.

Kiria!

Thick, smothering darkness came. Reynard could not see the window, the chandelier, anything. Whispers drove into his ears.

Then came light, a pale yellow glow beneath a door at the end of the east corridor. He thought he saw movement—
Kiria?
—and he was on his feet, running for the light. When he arrived at the door he thought he smelled her, felt her wake.

He gripped the knob. Unlocked. He opened it.

Rain smeared the window. Mosquito netting draped a tall four-poster beside a bureau and nightstand. A single candle, melted to its base, struggled to breathe.

A shape huddled on the bed. Clad in a white nightdress, a young woman curled her legs against her chest.

“Lasha?”

“
No more!
” she shouted.

She had lost too much weight, too much light. She was gaunt and pale; clotted bandages wrapped both wrists and ankles. Her pale-gold hair fell in sweaty threads along her neck and shoulders. She reeked of vinegar and dried blood. Reynard felt such happiness and grief all at once that it took effort not to shout.

“Lasha,” he said tenderly. “It is your brother.”

She sat up. Fat, clean tears rolled off her cheeks. He walked toward her and touched her arm. She shook, eyes wild, as if to scream.

He offered a grin. “I am sorry I am so late.”

She burst into sobbing. He drew her in and she wrapped her arms around his neck and wept. He held her tight, the way he did when she was little and only her big brother could make things better.

“Please be real,” she whispered. “
Please.
”

“Blazes, girl, but you are filthy,” he said, holding her at arm’s length. “You would think they’d provide guests a hot bath and clean clothing?”

She rubbed an arm under her nose, sniffed, and managed a laugh. “It
is
you,” she said. She removed a pair of slippers from beneath the bed, put them on, and slid on a woolen robe crumpled at her feet. “I am ready to go,” she said. She pressed into him again as if expecting her hand to pass through. “I cannot believe it, Renny, but I knew you would—”

She stopped, looked past him.

She screamed.

Dull, heavy pain exploded in the back of Reynard’s head. He buckled, his knees turning to water. As he collapsed, spinning to the floor, he turned to see—

—The world turned clockwise—

Kiria?

Lasha knelt to help her fallen brother and a harsh word came from the doorway; she stiffened and the word came again, louder. She recoiled to her bed. Kiria stood there. She looked at Reynard, to Lasha. A candlestick dropped from her fingers.

What
?

Lucinda stood behind her. She entered the room and began to sing, an old Dayak song sung in younger days when Kiria was afraid to sleep. “
Stars winking
,” she sang, “
cast off clouds as spirits gather, rice from hand to baskets filling—
”

“Who are you?” Kiria said.

“...
Rivers run and cry to sleep
...”

Kiria stared at her hands, at Reynard, at the thin line of blood trickling from his head. Tears fell down her cheeks. She knew this song as well as that woman’s black eyes full of rage and shame.

“So it is true,” she said.

“This was the only way to love him,” Lucinda said. “The only way he would love me. It was the only way to save you, my dear.”

“Mother.”

“Yes.”

“I thought you were dead.”

“I
am
dead, my dear. I am damned. The Virgin ignored my prayers. So I pleaded to Them who would listen. They did listen.”

“What have you done?” Kiria asked.

“Tonight your father will be but a man,” Lucinda said, “and we will be free. Already my Eng Banka chant for me, call upon Them, draw up favors I need to see things done. It will be done. Tonight.”

“My mother is
dead!
”

Kiria strained against the whispering between her ears, the smooth, liquid voice commanding her to be silent, to understand those intimate longings born of fear and loneliness and hatred, made sacred by shared understanding. She wanted another song. She wanted to sleep. She knew this was no longer her mother but a foul thing, vomited up from beneath the house, but she could not help but feel such love. A memory came, a dream, of dry bones and dead faces beneath orange light, but the fear was all gone.

Daughters listen to their mothers
.

“Mama.” Kiria opened her arms.

Lucinda embraced her, swallowed her up.

“We will never be apart again,” she said. “My little girl.”

34

Savoy knew it was night. He felt it sink into his flesh, into his bones. He had lost all sense of time yet knew something had changed. He knew behind his eyes, deep under his ribs, a sense of knowing when the whisper of Spirit came calling.

He had waited with what hope he could salvage, praying whenever he felt terror, praying harder when he thought he could no longer breathe. When the well felt to smother him he looked at the water and the vague light—then he imagined Grant’s bloated body, drowned, and he gasped and tried to think of sunlight. His rosary and cross and other implements were gone, lost or destroyed in the belltower, and he had neither mantle nor stole or any other trappings to prove he was anything more than a foolish, apostate old man.

Damn her to hell, but she was right!

She had unearthed his failures with all the skill of a surgeon. Even if he managed to escape, what then? She awaited him. There was also the matter of finding Miss Lasha, eluding the Eng Banka, finding a way back to civilization,
etcetera
. The impossibility gripped him with anguish.

I must not despair
.

Was that not the measure of faith? To remain true in the darkest of hours? Did not Paul the Apostle stand before Caesar? Did not the Lord Himself stand before Pilate, knowing full well the outcome?