The Darkening Dream (29 page)

She brought out a pocket watch.

“Emily.” Sarah dangled the device in front of her. “I want you to look at the watch. No matter what I say, what I do, or what you see or think, concentrate on the watch. When I put it away, we’re finished, but until then, fix your eyes only on the watch. Can you do that?”

Emily tried to nod. Her head felt loose and wobbly.

“I want you to visualize yourself leaving for church this morning. You’re wearing your blue satin dress. The sun is shining, and you and your parents are walking down the street. Tell me everything that happens. Slowly, and don’t leave out any detail. Keep your eyes on the watch.”

Sarah was chanting something. Emily couldn’t understand a word, but the droning rhythm made her sleepy.

After services, the congregation had filtered out the church doors.

“Mrs. Williams,” the pastor said to her mother. “Would you mind if your daughter helps close up? A number of the young folk are joining in.”

Mommy was fine with it. Matt Lewis tagged along, which was annoying. Inside the church, the pastor opened a cabinet containing seven identical boxes.

“Emily, please take each candlestick from the altar and stow it in one of these. The boxes have numbers that match those on the candlestick bases.”

She packed the candlesticks, which felt like they were made of lead. The pastor was pleased, but she’d swapped number three with number five and he made her fix it.

Matt locked the high windows along the sides. “Pastor, I have to go. My ma’s expecting me for supper.”

“Run along, then.”

The pastor put his hand on Emily’s shoulder. It tingled.

“What about you, Emily? Can you help me next door at my house?”

If she went, she could tell her friends she’d been inside. Mommy and Daddy would never miss her, and luncheon today was at the Cowton’s. Their son’s name stuck on your tongue, Cotner Cowton, and he snorted like a pig.

“I can help.”

The house was right next to the church. Inside it felt old and tiny, only two or three dark rooms. The pastor lit a candle and locked the door behind them.

“Would you like some tea?” She nodded.

The tea was bitter but it made her feel very grown up. He dragged over two large trunks and packed things into a duffle — candles, books, lots of other stuff. He wrapped each item in a different cloth. Everything seemed to have its own cloth.

He didn’t ask her to do anything. She felt kind of dizzy.

“Pastor, can I sit down?”

“Lie over there on that settee across from the fireplace.” He was wrapping a skull.

Why did he have a skull?

Emily woke. She felt all groggy and her bed was hard and lumpy.

She opened her eyes. She wasn’t in her room. The fireplace spilled soft red light from retiring coals. She must have fallen asleep on the settee.

The pastor needed to call the chimney sweep. His hearth drew poorly and smoke filled the room. It smelled like rotten eggs. Emily tried to rise, but her wooziness made her drop back down.

Pastor Parris entered carrying a tray of little bowls and jars, which he placed on a table.

His voice was different, relaxed but cold. Very cold.

“Betty, the vessel is awake. Time to play.”

A raspy female voice spoke from behind Emily. “About time, Toy.”

Emily tried to see the lady, but moving made her feel sick.

“Bring me some hair, then take off the vessel’s shoes and socks.”

He dragged a chair before his tray and poured something thick into one of the bowls.

Emily felt a tug and a sting as the woman yanked out a tuft of hair. The pastor sighed and took the strands.

The woman slid around to stand in front of the hearth. Her face was in shadow, but her eyes blazed. She was dressed in her underwear, just a corset and bloomers. Maybe she was a whore. Oh, God — a thin tail poked from a hole at her waist and snaked up and around like a cat’s.

The woman walked to Emily’s feet and unlaced her boots, pulling them off one at a time. She unrolled the pale blue stockings, too. Her touch was clammy and her nails jagged. Emily wanted to move, to kick, but nothing happened when she tried.

The pastor used scissors to sever a lock of his own hair. He looked to be braiding both the strands, because in the end he held up a single thicker ply. He tied knots in the cord while chanting a weird song:

Three times three I bind thee.

I bind thee from above, I bind thee from below,

I bind thee from in front, I bind thee from behind,

I bind thee from yesterday, I bind thee for tomorrow,

I bind thee in the night, I bind thee in the day,

from birth to death do I bind thee.

He dropped the knotted cord into one of his bowls.

“Betty,” he said, “I’ll need fluid from the vessel. Blood or urine. Don’t make a mess. Some nail clippings, too.”

Emily felt far away, not really here. She should be scared, but it was hard to even care.

The Betty-lady returned to the foot of the couch, and this time she held a knife. Now Emily wanted to scream, but no sound passed her lips. The woman shaved off some bits of toenail.

“Blood is probably easier,” the Betty-lady said. “I don’t see how I can get any pee unless I cut out her bladder.”

“I can pee,” Emily wanted to say, “You don’t need the knife.” But her mouth wouldn’t open.

“Take blood, then,” the pastor said, “just make the cut small, hidden.”

The Betty-lady looked like she would’ve preferred to saw off Emily’s foot. But she placed the edge of the blade between spread toes. The pain itself wasn’t much, not as awful as the touch of the lady’s cold skin. She squeezed Emily’s foot, working some blood onto the knife as she might milk a cow.

“That’s fine.” The pastor took the bloody blade and stirred it into a bowl. He added the nail clippings, stood up, and unbuttoned his pants.

There was a wet splattering noise. He was peeing in his own pot like a horse on the street. The Betty-woman put her hands on her hips and laughed.

“Too timid to use the blade on yourself?”

“Just easier,” he said. “It’ll work the same either way.”

“Toy, what’s the point of all this?” the Betty-lady asked. “I’m getting bored.”

“I’m not concerned with fun. I need to bind her life force. Mr. Nasir has been a gentleman so far, but I have a feeling he isn’t forgiving of failure.”

The woman dipped a finger in the crock, then brought it to her mouth. Emily wanted to gag.

“I warned you,” the whore-lady said. “How’s this going to help?”

“It’s a binding of command, as I promised,” he said, “but I should be able to draw the vessel’s soul from the maquette instead of using my own. This should allow me to pass through that pesky ward without getting fried like Mr. Nasir.”

The pastor added various things to the bowl and kneaded it with his hands. He lifted something lumpy from the container and set it by the fire. Emily didn’t know what the thing was, but it was about six inches long with little arms and legs.

“It has to dry.” He reached into another bowl and retrieved the cord of braided hair. He knelt and tied the bracelet around Emily’s right ankle. His touch was warm and soft.

“All done,” he said.

The lady scowled. “That’s it, Toy? Anticlimactic.”

“It always is, dear.”

He reached out and caressed the bracelet. His touch made Emily warm in the middle. She stretched herself out. If only she could stretch further, it would feel so good.

He stopped. So did the new sensations.

“Touch it again, please,” she wanted to say. “It was almost getting really good.”

“Did you forget something?” The whore-lady offered the pastor a single rose, its petals dead and wilted.

He shook his head.

The Betty-lady gloated. “To commemorate our anniversary, the day your grandmother died. Such a messy end for a woman so obsessed with cleanliness.”

The Betty-lady unbuttoned her corset. “Take me here, Toy. I want the girl to watch.”

Emily felt a blast of warm wetness on her face.

She was back in her bed. Sarah sat between her legs, dangling a pocket watch from a chain.

Sarah sneezed again.

“Gesundheit,” Emily said. “What are you doing here?”

“Emily, where are you?” Sarah asked.

“In my room, silly.”

“Darn. My sneeze must have broken the trance. Do you recall the dark room with the pastor and the lady?”

The younger girl shook her head. “I told you, I can’t remember.”

“That’s probably for the best.”

Thirty-Two:

No Escape

Salem, Massachusetts, Monday before dawn, November 10, 1913

A
BOUT TWO HOURS BEFORE
dawn Parris staggered up the stairs to the railroad platform, his duffle slung over his shoulder. He’d have to wait at least an hour for the train. He didn’t care where it went. Boston, New York, Chicago, as long as it was far away. He’d known invading the mage’s home would be risky, but he hadn’t expected to lose all his hair to the fiery assault of a powerful Kabbalist. Witchcraft and demonology were both powerful arts, but they were indirect, employing various synergies and powers of others. Men like Mr. Engelmann, they stood in good graces with a
deity
.

Parris knew his own relationship with Jesus to be tenuous at best. If he had the grimoire, things would be different. Ancient demons might not be in the same class as God, but they were more willing to swing around the big guns.

A big Negro with white hair crested the platform and turned toward him, as if he knew exactly where to find him.

Parris tried to run, but it was pointless. His skin burned and chaffed, the duffle was heavy, and the Moor moved with super-human speed. The big man caught him by the shoulder, spun him around, and clocked him hard in the jaw.

The pastor staggered. Stars streaked his vision.

The Moor hoisted him above his head, duffle and all, and started back toward the stairs.

“You come,” he said, his accent thick as mud.

Parris hadn’t even known he spoke English.