Revenant (43 page)

Quinton was shaking and had turned a terrible shade of pale.
He’d bitten into his lip and a small trail of blood had started from the corner of his mouth. Carlos glanced away from him and kept his eyes on me as the priest stepped down from the vestibule into the chapel.

“What have you found?” the priest asked as he walked toward me.

“I believe I know what the vandals took and why.”

He looked at me, expecting something. I made a gesture at Carlos, which was more by way of passing the ghost off to him. He took the motion as intended and caught the fine tangle of silver and white that I had held, drawing it into his own grip as he had done with Rafa.

“The bones of the infected,” I said, for Carlos’s sake and not the priest’s. I could see Carlos nodding behind him, but the priest only looked confused. I was guessing, based on what Carlos had said Rui would need. This chapel’s bones were unlikely to include those of a thief who’d died in a fire, but according to the priest, many had died of something that would qualify as “a plague that killed thousands.”

“Infected? The cholera?” the priest asked.

Carlos took over the conversation, forcing the priest to turn to him while I went to Quinton’s side. I put my arms around him until he stopped shaking. Then I wiped the blood from his lip, out of sight of both the priest and Carlos.

“Yes,” Carlos continued. “The missing skeleton was that of the man we would now call Patient Zero—the first person to have the disease and spread it.” That had the ring of truth and I supposed Carlos had gotten the information from the ghost in the scant time he’d had so far.

“Cholera comes with dirty water,” the priest said.

“Yes. But it can be passed by contact with the patient. These
thieves may believe—in error—that they can culture the disease from the bones. This is like some of the other cases,” Carlos lied.

Quinton gave me a questioning look as the color began returning to his face. I just nodded. He closed his eyes in relief.

“How did they know . . . ?” the priest asked. “One hundred and twenty of our parish died in a single month of the disease. All of them are laid to rest here.”

“I cannot know how they knew. But . . . I know what God told me.” I wondered if Carlos felt any qualms using the priest’s faith to misdirect him, but necessity is a bitch and the story sounded good. “I don’t know if we’ll be able to recover your skeleton, Father. It may be dust by now.”

The priest sighed. “A pity. And no help in catching the vandals.”

Quinton nodded at me and stepped a little to the side. “I’m OK,” he whispered.

I gave him a worried look but turned back to finish our job. “It’s helped more than you can guess,” I said, using the priest’s shifting attention as cover to withdraw the compulsion I’d created between us. “Thank you for letting us see your chapel.”

“It was my pleasure to help the church,” he said, looking relieved as the thin needles of persuasion dissipated. With luck the feeling would linger and he wouldn’t feel any need to question who had really been in his chapel tonight or why.

We avoided any protracted conversation and hurried off with our ghost in Carlos’s pocket. The necromancer led us to the heights of the castle walls to examine the ghost in the moonlight, but, unable to tell us where its bones had been taken or why, it wasn’t a helpful specter. It only confirmed the details of its death and complained of the pain Rui inflicted on it.

“Carving runes in the bone,” Carlos noted.

“That’s not good,” I said.

“What kind of ‘not good’?” Quinton asked, looking much better now that we’d walked and been in the fresh air for a while.

“The bones must be in tune with the correct spell,” Carlos said. “If the bones were not already in tune, then they must be carved or grafted to match the song of the spell. The only reason for taking on the extra work such bones require is to add an aspect to the drache that is not a normal part of the spell. Whatever survives the fire of the Dragão do Inferno will not live long, but sicken and die, and spread more disease.”

“Oh God . . .” Quinton said.

“Now you pray?”

“No, I’ve been praying since we got here, but the situation just gets worse.”

“And we still do not know where they are or where they will call their drache,” Carlos said.

“Can we do any more tonight?” I asked.

Carlos shook his head. “We had luck here, but there will be no accommodating priests roaming the stairs in Monforte or Évora.”

“I thought you said you’d already been there.”

“I have, but without Rui to guide them the first time, they may have to return.”

“The Capela dos Ossos in Évora has very limited hours—according to their Web site,” Quinton said. “Unless you feel like trying some breaking and entering in a major church in a fairly large city at midnight, we’d probably be better off going there first thing in the morning.”

Carlos’s mouth almost turned up enough to call the expression approval. “I agree. And your suggestion in the chapel was . . .” He paused as if having changed his mind about what he was about to
say, then finished. “It was genius. But we have all expended too much energy today to face any of Rui and Purlis’s company with a hope of emerging unscathed. The morning will be soon enough.”

We returned to the Casa Ribeira. Seeing no one and finding the door unlocked, we headed upstairs to our rooms and retired to our respective beds without further discussion. We’d
talked enough in the car and could sort out any details in the morning. The constant aching and itching of my injured hand was the least of our troupe’s discomforts. Quinton had continued to wince with sudden pains and had grown paler and more sleepy throughout the drive back. Even Carlos looked tired—mortality seemed to wear on him badly.

In the morning, I woke up restive and stiff, too aware that I’d been abusing myself in the Grey, but neglecting any more reasonable physical routine. I knew it wasn’t what most people would do, but I figured it was better to risk pushing myself too fast than to stagnate, stiffen, and chase my own thoughts into useless corners. I left Quinton in bed while I went downstairs for a swim—I’d had little proper exercise and while the stitches in my hand were a problem, I needed to move and let my mind drift without the distractions of desire, worry, regret, or still more conversation about the current problem.

I passed Carlos’s door, seeing it standing an inch ajar, and heard the low rumble of his voice without being able to understand the words or hear them clearly. Portuguese, I assumed. A soft gasp that faded to a small moan followed from someone who was definitely not Carlos. I turned and continued down the stairs, not even wanting to pull the door closed and call attention to the fact they’d been overheard—the whole idea made me shudder.

I went to the kitchen to find some plastic to put over my injured hand and emerged into the courtyard in my borrowed bathing suit to find Eladio skimming invisible leaves from the pool’s surface while
glaring up at the bedroom windows. The wine crate that had so annoyed Nelia was propped on one of the chairs near him, its lid hanging a little askew.

“What is that doing out here?” I asked.

Eladio seemed startled at my presence, as if he hadn’t seen me walk past him. His concentration on the windows of Carlos’s room was so intense that perhaps he hadn’t. He shook himself at my words and blinked as he looked at me.

“
She
gave it to me to take to the storage shed,” he said.

His emphasis on “she” sent a green spark of jealousy arcing from his energy corona, which was a tangled mess of green, red, and orange that sparked pink one moment and sickening olive the next. He had it bad.

“You love her, don’t you?” I asked.

He swallowed a sound of longing and pain, shaking his head. “It is nothing.”

“We won’t be here much longer,” I said.

He just grunted and pulled the skimmer from the pool. He put it away and returned to tuck the box under his arm.
“Bom dia, Senhora Smith.”

He limped away, his right leg and spine slightly twisted, and disappeared around the edge of the house. I hoped I was right about leaving soon—the atmosphere at Casa Ribeira was becoming unhealthy.

I swam for about twenty minutes before I was too winded and aching from the uneven stroke of my arms to do more. As I got out of the pool, Quinton sat waiting on the chair that had lately housed the wine crate. Several ghosts were hanging around the edges of the courtyard as well, but I ignored them in favor of my boyfriend.

“Hey,” he said, smiling at me.

“Hey, yourself,” I said, reaching for my towel.

“You look wonderful when you’re wet.”

“I bet you say that to all the sea life.”

“No, only tall, gorgeous brunettes. And eels.”

“Eels?” I asked, pausing in removing the plastic from my hand.

“Yeah. I figure if I distract them, they may not bite me.”

“Just how many eels do you know?” I asked, getting frustrated with trying to pick the plastic and bandage tape off my hand.

“None, but I like to be prepared.”

I held my hand out to Quinton. “Can you remove this mess?”

“Certainly,” he replied, turning his attention from my body to my mutilated hand.

Carlos walked out onto the terrace. I saw no sign of Nelia.

“And speaking of slithery things that bite . . .” Quinton added under his breath as he freed my hand.

I gave him a hard look—he’d seemed less antagonistic toward Carlos until this moment. Quinton returned a warning shake of his head.

“Coming for a swim?” I asked as Carlos stopped at the pool’s edge.

“No. I may bask in my mortality for a time, but I’m not fool enough to risk it by drowning.”

“You can’t swim?”

“I could when I was younger, but water is rarely kind to such as me. I prefer the wrath of fiery stars—if I miscalculate, at least I shall die warm.”

He’d almost died in a fire once before and I couldn’t see the advantage of one death over the other; but I did notice he’d made a vampire joke, so he was in a good mood—“warm” being the uncomplimentary term some vampires used for normal humans and their state of life.

I finished drying myself off and sat at the edge of Quinton’s chair. He kissed my cheek, but he didn’t pull me into his body and I missed the reassuring affection of his touch.

“So,” I started, “what’s the schedule today?”

Carlos narrowed his eyes at us, as if surprised we were leaving him in charge. He raised an eyebrow, but neither of us made any move to enlighten him—he was decidedly more knowledgeable in this instance than we were.

“I suggest we go to Évora, and then Monforte,” he said. “The city is a much greater risk for us. We’d do best to manage our business there quickly and move on to the less-likely ossuary afterward.”

“I guess we’ll know everything we need to by then,” Quinton said. “There aren’t any untouched ossuaries left in Portugal and if Dad and Company are going to do this on Saint Jerome’s Day, they won’t have time to move their show.”

“No. And your father’s efforts at destabilization have concentrated here in the past week, aimed specifically at the unconscious, cultural beliefs of the Portuguese, their economic desperation, and their unfortunate relations with the European Union. Even with the Spanish border so close, Rui cannot leave Portugal. The plan can only be set in motion here.”

“OK. Then I’ll get dressed and we can leave,” I said, standing to go.

“Hey, one thing,” Quinton said. “I drive.”

Carlos scowled at him and I was equally curious.

“No offense, Carlos, but you’re . . . out of practice at the driving thing.”

Carlos had no reaction at all. “Very well.”

And that settled it.

I ate and dressed hastily and joined the men at the car.

They were standing outside it, having a discussion that came to an abrupt halt as I drew near.

“. . . Some idea of what it’s like,” Quinton was saying.

“A very pale one,” Carlos replied.

Quinton looked dismayed, but he smiled at me and didn’t allude to the conversation again. We drove to Évora in near silence.

If I’d been a scholar of things medieval, Évora might have been a delight, but for me as a Greywalker, the place was a nightmare. The old city sat on a hill, fortified by walls that still enclosed the town, and surrounded by the ubiquitous olive trees and mown fields going to golden stubble in the late-summer sunshine—pastoral and lovely, but the narrow, cobbled streets within were filled with the memory of the misery of generations of slaves, wars, sieges, and plagues. I was gaining an appreciation for living on the West Coast of the United States where the history of humankind’s inhumanity was shorter and more scattered. It was no wonder that other Greywalkers, like Marsden, went insane if they lived in such constant, inescapable knowledge of horror. I thought Carlos was wrong: It was more luck than any quality of my own that kept me from joining them.

But our trip was for nothing—the Kostní Mágové had beaten us to the chapel once again. A docent in the church of Saint Francis informed us that the chapel was still closed due to vandalism and that the child’s skeleton was still missing, but had been joined in its disappearance by the bones of one of the founding monks, which had been stolen from a marble casket beside the chapel altar very early that morning. While we’d been at Casa Ribeira making plans, they’d been here, harvesting the bones of the devout.

Carlos waited until we were outside to mutter something under his breath about the spawn of demons and swine. He’d been restrained while inside the church, as if trying to avoid the eye of God. I’d wondered if it was a lingering effect of being born and raised a Catholic, or the caution of a man who’d withstood the Inquisition. I was surprised to hear him swear at all and more so since we were still in the porch of the church when he did.

“They seem to know what we’ll do. I hadn’t thought Rui knew me so well . . .” he said.

“Maybe we have a spy in our midst?” Quinton suggested.

“Where? How?” Carlos demanded, his annoyance making the words snap and spark in the Grey like firecrackers and leave a sharpness in the air of the normal world that stank of burning sulfur. “We are the only guests at the house, and the family and workers have no time to spare for us.”