The Darkening Dream (31 page)

Alex caught her hand as Sarah headed for the library. He pulled her off to the side so they stood alone on the edge of the schoolyard.

“What do you want?” she said.

“Are you still mad at me?”

She pointed at him. “You were supposed to stick by me.”

He held up his hands, pleading. “I thought a little caution would be wise.”

Hey! She was the one being shoved into graves and disemboweled in her dreams.

“The stakes are too high for caution. I’ve known Emily her whole life.”

“Maybe I’ve a bit more in the game now, too.” Alex glanced down. “This is the first time I’ve ever had to think about anyone other than myself and Grandfather.”

She stepped closer to him. “So who do you have to think about now?”

“I don’t know, maybe just the whole group of us.” But he took her hand again.

This time, she let him hold onto it. She tugged him a little, and he pushed her to the wall and kissed her. Then kissed her again. She stood on her toes and pressed her forehead against his.

“Everything’s more complicated than we thought.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“While we were at the Williamses, Pastor Parris broke into our house. My father gave him a spiritual whupping. It’s weird to think, but he has some serious righteousness on his side. He even taught me a spell.”

His eyes widened and he let her go, stepping back. “What kind of spell?”

“More of a prayer, to God and the archangels for protection. But it works, if you believe.”

He shook his head. “Grandfather warned me your father was a magician.”

“Warned you? How’d he know?” Certainly it had been news to her.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “This is just so much to take in, though I suppose it makes sense. I wish I had more faith in Jesus — then I could protect you, too.”

Sarah laughed. This time she started the kissing. He didn’t seem to object.

“We have to start being careful at night,” she said when they stopped for breath. “Never go out after dark. Never invite anyone in. We need to make the Williams understand, too — it’s going to be hard.”

Alex laid his hand on her side, only inches from her left breast. She could hardly breathe, but she managed to speak.

“And talk to your grandfather. See if he can help with Emily.”

He dropped his hand. “You owe me an explanation — how did you know my grandmother was a redhead?”

Sarah stepped back. “Oh… the dreams.”

He caressed one of her cheeks with his hand. She wanted to just go limp and have him catch her.

“Am I in any of them?” he asked.

She told him about the Charles dream, the bat dream, and finally the banquet dream, leaving out the business of the Horn — that would take forever to explain.

“A ram, a bat, a giant beetle — and a talking wolf?”

“A dung beetle,” Sarah said. “The ancient Egyptians believed Khepri dragged the sun across the sky like a real scarab beetle drags a ball of crap.”

“Do you think it’s possible,” he said, “that your Isabella and Grandfather’s are the same?”

“I’ve been considering that theory. When were they married?”

“I always assumed the 1860s,” Alex said.

“I know it’s awful to think about, but if it’s true and that baby lived, he could’ve been your father.”

Alex’s eyes rolled up into his head. She put her hand on his neck — it was cold and clammy.

“Are you all right?”

“Just a terrible headache.” His color started to return. “I get those sometimes.”

Thirty-Four:

Icons

Salem, Massachusetts, Tuesday evening, November 11, 1913

A
LEX WISHED HE’D WORN
a sweater as he climbed the drafty spiral staircase inside the turret. Up top, Dmitri had planked over all the windows, draped the room in black velvet, and adorned every vertical surface with Grandfather’s precious icon collection. The tiny, austere faces of several hundred saints pondered the imponderable from their golden rectangles. According to Grandfather, the newest icons were several hundred years old, and some well over a thousand.

“Alexandros, glad you could join me.” Grandfather sat in a small wheelchair. He looked the fleshiest Alex had seen him since they left Europe.

“Basil the Confessor.” Grandfather cleared his throat and pointed to one of the icons. “Martyred for preaching the gospel during the reign of Julian the Apostate, in 363. Each day, his executioners made seven belts from strips of his skin. When there was no more to flay, they pierced him with wooden stakes. His relics rest in a monastery on the slopes of Mount Athos, not far from where we lived when you were young.”

Basil glowered — and no wonder. His image held aloft a belt made from his own hide. Alex tried to remember Mount Athos. He was rewarded with images of old trees, crumbling mosaics, and headaches.

Grandfather scanned the walls for another saint, the criteria known only to him. One cruel fate was merely an appetizer, but several made a proper meal.

“Here,” the old man said, pointing a long white finger at an icon depicting a saint conversing with a hideous devil. “This is Theophilus of Adana. He’s said to have summoned a powerful demon and made a pact to secure his election as Archdeacon of Adana. Satan demanded he renounce the Virgin and her Son in a contract signed in his own blood.”

“He won the post?”

“The vote was unanimous.” Grandfather chuckled. “But Theophilus, fearing for his soul — obviously with good reason — repented and prayed to the Virgin. He confessed to another bishop, who burned the unholy contract, and the ill-fated Theophilus instantly expired.”

“Did he go to heaven or hell?”

Grandfather shrugged. “You could go to his tomb and ask him.”

Alex noticed an icon of a tall, thin, regal saint labeled as Constantine XI Palaiologos. One hand held a scroll, the other a cross.

“His name’s almost the same as yours. And he has your narrow face.”

“Of course,” Grandfather said. “We’re descended from the son of his third wife, unknown to history.”

“So if he hadn’t died in May of 1453,” Alex said, “you might be Emperor of the Romans even now?”

“That was a long time ago. Some say a beautiful angel turned him to marble and he rests still in a cave near the Golden Gate, waiting to be reawakened. Others say his body was identified in the streets by his purple boots.”

Alex looked down at the old man’s purple velvet slippers and smiled.

“Is that why you’re so obsessed with our bloodline?”

“It
is
a sacred trust!” The old man’s voice rang with conviction. “The empty throne of God’s Vicegerent on Earth has made our enemies bold.”

“Speaking of enemies, Grandfather. You know my new friends, Sam and Anne?”

“I’ve not met them.” The old man continued to stare at St. Constantine.

“They have a younger sister, Emily. She’s become the victim of a warlock’s curse, and we could use your help.”

“You shouldn’t get involved. Warlocks cannot be trusted. Remember Theophilus of Adana?” Grandfather tapped the icon.

“I’m not interested in treating with warlocks! I’m interested in saving a girl’s life.”

Grandfather’s eyes blazed. “What’s she to me? Now, if it were your friend Sarah… Her, I like. She has—”

“How can you be so damned cold? Emily is
doomed
if we don’t break the spell.”

The older man stroked his white beard. “If but one hair on my beard knew what I was thinking, I would pluck it out.”

The muscles of Alex’s forearms cramped from his clenched fists.

“I didn’t cross the ocean to interfere with some petty warlock’s seduction of a young girl,” Grandfather said. “I came to discover al-Nasir’s purpose and put a stop to it.”

“All you do is wait!” Alex yelled.

He ran to his room, retrieved the lion-shaped rhyton, and climbed back up the spiral stairs.

“Here!” He thrust the gold cup in the old man’s face. “This is action.”

Grandfather examined it. “Interesting. Achaemenid Persian. Royal, judging by its weight in gold.”

“I took it from al-Nasir’s crypt.”

“What?” The old man struggled to rise from his chair. He got about a foot off the seat, then thought better and sat down hard. “I’m surprised you’re still alive!” He shook the cup at Alex. “You know where the Caliph sleeps?”

“I know where he slept. I don’t know what you’ve been doing with your time, but I found him and slew two of his thralls. If you help us with the curse, I’ll tell you what I know.”

Grandfather laughed. “You have the Palaogos fire. You’re courting death or worse, but ancient as I am, I can still admire a young man’s zeal.”

“Al-Nasir is working with this warlock,” Alex said, “the one who cursed Emily.”

Grandfather shuddered and rubbed his arms.

“That changes everything.”

“It does?” Alex said.

“Any friend of the Caliph’s is a foe of mine. Do you know anything about their activities?”

“You were right about Sarah’s father being a practitioner,” Alex said. “The warlock broke into their house. Apparently, Mr. Engelmann banished him with prayer!”

“I see.” Grandfather stroked his beard. Alex crossed his arms over his chest.

“Why is al-Nasir here?”

“If I were a betting man, I’d say your warlock treats with demons.” The old man tapped the icon of Theophilus of Adana a third time. “Al-Nasir has business with one.”

“Christ on the cross!” Could this web get any more tangled?

Grandfather smiled. “No need to be profane. Have Dmitri bring me to my library. If I have a suggestion, I’ll let you know.”

Grandfather woke him in the middle of the night.

“What do you want?” For a moment, Alex wasn’t even sure where he was.

“I think I have a spell to break your curse,” the old man said.

“That was quick.”

“It’s always risky to interfere with the magic of another. We’ll need the energy of several for even a chance of success.”

“But you think you can do it, Grandfather?”

In the light of the candle he held, Alex saw him shake his head.

“I’m far too old for such an endeavor. One of you will have to lead a circle, drawing on the energy of the others. You, your friend Sarah, and the girl’s two siblings. Four should be sufficient.”

“I’ve no idea what to do,” Alex said.

“I’ll show you the appropriate passages,” Grandfather said. “But I’m not sure you’re the ideal choice. Sorcery requires a certain attunement, one I’m not convinced you possess.”

Alex ground his teeth.

“Don’t worry. Our line has other talents. Have Sarah lead the ritual — she might be a mere girl, but I suspect she has the proper faculties.”

“What makes you think that?” Alex asked.

“An old man’s intuition.”

Thirty-Five:

Sickbed

Salem, Massachusetts, Wednesday, November 12, 1913

W
HEN
E
MILY STILL HADN’T
returned to school by Wednesday, Sarah dropped by the Williams house. The light in the bedroom was dim, and in the three days since she was last here, the air had acquired a new smell, so unpleasant that she found herself breathing through her mouth.