The Grotesques (26 page)

Romain studied his feet. He had spent days labouring over every detail until nobody who knew the boys would ever mistake the wrestling figures, one tall and thin, the other stocky with a mop of curly hair.

“Genord!” The plaintive note burst from him. It snapped his brother out of his reverie. “You never play with me anymore.”

“We are no longer children.”

“Just let me talk to you.”

Genord frowned. He reached for the carving and stood it upright. Rising, he said, “Do you wish to witness something truly mighty?”

Romain kept his pout but nodded.

Genord leaned over and whispered in his ear. “You must not tell the monk.” He cocked his head in query.

Romain worried at his cheek with a bitten nail. He tried not to notice the broken bodies of the animals as Genord clambered to the recess at the back of the cave. He kept his eyes on the silver goblets, padded chair, and embroidered quilts and tried not to think they were stolen. He was trying so hard he jumped when a small animal scurried over a rock.

Genord pointed. “Come.”

Romain strangled a cry. The carving of the dragon moved stiffly, a wooden toy incapable of expression, but move it did.

“Turn,” Genord ordered, drawing a circle with his finger. The carving danced around.

“Turn,” Romain mimicked his brother. The little dragon remained still.

Genord moved two fingers. “Back,” he said, intent on his pet. The figure obeyed. He turned his hand palm up. “Roll,” he commanded. The dragon turned belly up. Not quite satisfied, he pursed his lips. A few seconds later, he circled his index finger horizontally. The dragon rolled along the floor.

“Let me.” Romain mimicked the gesture. Nothing happened. His face fell. “Show me how you do that.”

“You don’t have my magic.”

“I have the magic of the cross.”

Genord narrowed his eyes. “Will you show me how to wield it?”

Romain nodded. He hated how Genord smirked.

His brother plucked a crow from one of the rickety cages.

“No!” Romain yelled, lunging at Genord. Too late. The limp bird hung in his hand, its twisted neck lolling against its wing. Genord tossed the bird at his feet. Its spirit quivered above the corpse.

“You wanted to see,” Genord said. His fists curled and an eyebrow lowered. A flick of his eyes whipped the crow spirit to a caged hawk. It pecked through the living bird’s eyes, into its brain, deep into its chest, and through its heart. Genord released the crow and caught the hawk spirit, swept it across the niche to the dragon. The carving chose that moment to totter forward. The spirit missed, bounced off rock and crashed into the toy, sending it reeling as the wood zapped blue. Heartbeats later, the hawk spirit had merged with the tormented souls inside.

Genord turned to him. “Care to try?”

Romain jumped back as a hare clattered past him over rock. He tried to swallow past the lump in his throat while watching it sit and lift paws to wash its twitching nose. It couldn’t mean anything that one hind foot was missing a toe. Just like the botched carving he had worked for Genord. Or that, though furred and fluid of movement, it still held a hint of
wooden.

“It has squirrel in it,” Genord explained, when it scampered up a log inclined against the back wall, like Romain was some scholar requesting the secret to his evil genius. “Three more spirits and I think it will turn fully flesh. At least that is what the spirits whisper. It will be something more than hare.” He frowned as the carving dived off the wall. It hit the rock with the crack of bone, lay on its side, its body broken and flopping. “Perchance pigeon was not the best spirit to add.”

Romain made a gurgling noise. Genord only smiled as the dragon carving tottered over to investigate. Daggers of teeth lined its open maw. In one foul bite, it snapped the hare in two.

“They need flesh to sustain their flesh or they die,” Genord continued, watching the wooden dragon tear hunks of meat from wood. Blood smeared across the snout. A twisted spirit that had once been three rose in front of its fangs. Genord seized it. Sweat formed on his brow as he teased it into a rock. “The only substance that does not take life,” he explained. “I can store the spirits and use them at will.”

Romain picked up the rock. He wanted to smash the abomination his brother had created.

“Drop it,” Genord said.

Romain held tighter.

A fragment of the twisted spirit sparked out of the rock. It buzzed his hand, hot and painful. He let go with a yelp.

Genord was a demon, to turn from his hurt eyes without apology. “Come,” his twin said to the dragon when only splinters remained of the hare.

“You. Kill.”

Genord tossed him another shrug. “How else would I control? I am the Lord of Death.” The dragon stopped at his feet. “Fire,” Genord said, flicking his fingers from a closed fist.

Romain held his breath. Let it out long and slow when the carving remained cold. “Why are you doing this?”

Genord never answered, just kept playing with the spirits he should have delivered to God. Shoulders hunched, Romain shuffled from the cave. As he passed his gift, he kicked it. It bounced out of the cave, down the slope, and into the Seine. He looked back, but his brother never even noticed. Under cover of that stubbornness, he smashed a cage, tucked a whimpering pup into his shirt and climbed down, not even caring he knocked his knees and scraped his elbows against the rock.

When he got back to the church, he let himself in, released the dog, and put his head on a pew. He was glad Brother Pierre was out. He couldn’t bear for the monk to hear him cry, but at least he had the pup. It crouched beside him, licking his ankles. It was small comfort against the howling wind. Brother Pierre might believe this was the day the dead ascended to heaven, but Genord had proven the old beliefs were just as true.

When the sun set on a heavy silence, he wiped his eyes. Then he lit the candles for solace and started praying, to the old gods, to the new God, to anything that might answer him. His only response was a thump of the tail from the pup resting its head on his foot. The way it looked at him with those big, sad eyes, he just knew he needed to protect it from Genord. He scooped it into his arms, laughing as it licked his face. The cross would stand guard over it, of course it would. He stood before it.

As hard as he willed it, nothing changed. Romain let the squirming pup down and watched it sniff around the rock legs of the altar. Brother Pierre had called his faith a rock. Genord’s spirits had bounced from the rock. If only the cross could make the pup rock. No miracle stirred. But there were other powers abroad, on this the night of old Samhain.

Romain threw his senses through the walls of the church and out into the howling wind. He pushed them into rock and ground. The earth elementals flocked to them. To him. And with his prayer the cross began to glow.

A little more will coaxed the pup into the light. It sat and looked up, wagged its tail, yapped its joy. The earth elementals spun around it and over it. Spun so fast Romain faltered at his prayer.

The light died, the elementals fled. Where a flesh puppy had rummaged, a stone statue sat. So engrossed was he that Romain did not sense Brother Pierre enter until the monk bellowed in shock. Romain spun with sunny glee.

“What manner of devilry is this?” The monk’s chest heaved with the effort it took to contain his fury.

Romain lifted the stone pup and shrank into himself. He did not expect Brother Pierre to stride up the aisle, to grip his arms, to shake him hard.

“Such evil befits your brother.”

“No,” he pleaded. “God did this. I prayed and He gave me His light.”

Brother Pierre froze. As if aware he transgressed, he positioned Romain against the front pew. “Leave be, child. This cannot be the work of God.” The monk placed a wooden chalice on the altar and took down the cross.

“No,” Romain whispered as a blue spirit left the stone pup and scampered around his heels. “No,” he squealed as the door flung open and cracked against the wall.

A gust of earthy wind swirled through the church. It ruffled their hair and tickled their skin. “Give me the cross.” The dragon carving pranced at Genord’s feet, stiff, unaware.

“Why do you ask for it?” Brother Pierre said, wide eyes on the dragon.

“I desire its power for my own.” Genord stepped forward. “For two years I’ve listened to your ravings, monk.” He took another step. “You promised I could command the might of that cross.” And one more. “But your teachings drain my power.” He stepped again, a threatening advance. The demon of a dragon kept abreast.

Brother Pierre pointed the cross at the dragon carving. “Your power is rooted in hell.”

Genord laughed. “I don’t believe in your heaven or your hell.”

Romain stepped close to Brother Pierre. The monk was breathing thick but a bright light haloed the cross, pulsing across the church, hounding the shadows. “Dark powers be gone from this object, back to the fires from whence thou camest!”

The dragon padded forward. Demons slithered from beneath its taloned feet, dousing the light, chilling the air. A cold smile of triumph on his face, Genord reached out to seize the cross. He yelped as his hand entered the light, jerked back, fingers splayed. He was panting as hard as Brother Pierre, but his narrowed eyes could have slain an angel.

“You will pay for that.” A curl of his fingers was all it took for the dragon to sink fangs into the monk’s shin.

“Stop it!” Romain cried.

The monk flinched and kicked, but the beast held fast.

“Stop!” Romain pulled the dragon but the wooden beast latched its talons onto the monk’s skin and snapped at his hand, driving him back.

Genord brought finger and thumb together. The dragon bit deep. “Give me the cross.”

“It is yours for the taking.”

“It burns.”

“The love of God is bright.” Brother Pierre’s eyes were closed, his pale face pained. He yet clutched his precious symbol to his chest.

“I have the power to kill you, monk.”

“No!” Romain clapped his hands on the cross and began to pray.

“Traitor.”

Pain ripped through Romain, dropping him to his knees. It mattered not. The dragon had fallen at Brother Pierre’s feet. Fallen into the blood pouring from beneath his habit. And they both still held the cross.

By the altar, his twin stood with eerie calm. “Fetch the cross, Romain.”

“No.” Romain groaned, shaking his head. His hands twisted around the crucifix.

A burst of pain tore him away. He landed on his back, one leg sluicing through the blood, the other kicking the dragon beneath the altar. He sucked in a lungful of air as the hold on him slackened. Trembling, he grabbed the pew and hauled himself up. Brother Pierre was doubled in agony.

“I won’t ask you again, little brother.”

The dragon was paddling on its side. One eye on Brother Pierre, Romain lunged for it. The monk opened his mouth, dropped the cross, and clutched his hands over his heart. His gasps barely raised his ribs as he fell to one knee. Romain abandoned the living carving, held the dying monk behind the elbows and lowered him to the floor.

“Take it,” he yelled, kicking the cross toward Genord. He took Brother Pierre’s hand, mewing at the feeble grip.

Genord put one boot upon the cross. Smoke sizzled from the leather. “Tell me how to master it.”

Brother Pierre raised his head. “You must choose. The life of the cross or the death of the spirits.”

“I’m warning you.” Genord removed his steaming boot and clawed one hand against his chest. Brother Pierre’s mouth opened wide. He croaked but could not draw air.

Tears dribbled down Romain’s cheeks. “Please, Genord. Don’t do this.” It was all he seemed to say to his brother these days, his malicious brother who smiled a half-smile as he snuffed a life.

The monk’s hand squeezed his own. “You . . . are . . . lifeblood of the Church. Spread . . . His . . . Word.”

Genord shook his head as he walked to the altar. “You disgust me. You could have achieved greatness at my side.” He picked up the jerking dragon and threw it on the monk’s chest. Brother Pierre’s eyes widened. He twitched, then lay still. Romain shook the monk’s limp body. Crying out, he hurdled the monk, grabbed the cross, and knocked the lifeless dragon into the wall.

Genord snorted. Romain rounded on him. “You’ve killed him.” He charged, wanting to knock the brutality out Genord. Two punches sent him reeling. He tripped over Brother Pierre’s body and fell against the altar. His hand tightened around the cross. Its light was gone. He raised it but found no solace in a faith that could not save the faithful.

Genord picked up the carving. It was nothing more than a lump of wood. “I need more spirits. That is your fault. I will kill the whole forest if I must. The cross will be mine, Romain. Whether you help me or not.”

Tears streaming down his face, Romain watched Genord stagger into the night.