Guardian of the Gate (34 page)

Reaching into my knapsack, I remove my dagger. The many-colored jewels on its hilt glimmer, even in the dim light of the cavern. I remember finding it in Alice’s room at Birchwood, wood shavings still clinging to its shimmering blade. Wood shavings from my floor and the spell of protection Alice worked to undo in order to leave me vulnerable to the Souls on the Plane.

This time it will be used for a more noble purpose.

Loosening the marked stone is not easy. For a long while, I scrape away at the dirt, debris, and old mortar, pushing the dagger deeper and deeper into the crevices surrounding the stone on every side. I stop to test my progress every few minutes, frustrated when time and again I can do nothing more than wiggle it back and forth. I lose all track of time until, finally, the stone begins to move more easily, and I believe I might just be able to free it.

Returning the dagger to my knapsack, I push my fingers into the openings around the stone. There is not much room in which to work, but I try to move the stone back and forth in an effort to lift it out of the ground. I push and tug for some time to no avail. The angle is all wrong. There is not enough room to get a good grip, though I try to pull straight
up rather than at an angle. The stone breaks what little is left of my nails, and my fingers bleed with the effort, but soon I begin to feel that there is more room on either side of the stone. Pressing my fingertips deeper into the narrow spaces at the side of the stone, I bite my lip to keep from crying out as the neighboring stones scrape and cut my already tender flesh. Knowing I will not have an unlimited number of opportunities before my hands give out, I grip with every ounce of strength I have.

Then I pull.

The stone is heavier than it looks. My hands shake as I lift it from the ground, and for a moment, I think I will drop it. But I don’t.

By some miracle, I manage to keep a hold of it until it is clear of the abyss revealed by its absence. I do not bother catching my breath. Setting the stone aside, I peer into the seemingly infinite chasm. It is black as pitch. I reach my hand into its dark, moist depths and feel around. Beyond worrying about insects, mold or dirt, I do not even wonder at the strange things my hand bumps up against on its way to the bottom of the hole.

It is far deeper than I expect. My arm is engulfed nearly to the shoulder before I reach the bottom, but when I do, my hand immediately touches upon something softer and warmer than the surrounding stone. I grasp for it and lift my arm, bringing with it a small square of leather.

Putting the stone back in its rightful place, I ensure that everything looks as it did when I arrived. When it does, I rise
to the altar and open the fragment of leather that has been lying in wait far beneath the ground.

The breath catches in my throat as my eyes light on a remnant of thin, crackly paper. Lifting it from the leather, I unfold it gently. It feels as old as time. Even flat, it is still lined with creases, and I smooth it carefully, peering at the words written across its surface.

It is then that I see it is not one, but two pieces of worn paper.

I hold one in each hand, peering first at one and then the other in the dim light of the grotto. It does not take me long to understand.

One piece of paper is an even rectangle with a perfectly smooth edge and words printed carefully in Latin. I recognize the format from the Librum Maleficii et Disordinae — the Book of Chaos found in father’s library at Birchwood Manor nearly a year ago. Latin has never been my strong suit. It was only James’s translation that allowed me to read that first, harrowing glimpse of the prophecy.

Which is why I gasp with relief when I see the second page nestled behind the first. A page clearly torn from something else, for it is not as neat and clean as the page of the book itself. No. This is a small piece of paper. A piece of paper that also holds the words of the prophecy, though this time in cramped and hurried writing.

But that is not the important part.

The important part is that these words, these cramped and hurried words, are in English, translated long ago as if someone
knew I would be the one standing in the crypt at Chartres needing desperately to read the words of the final page of the prophecy.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I tuck the page of the book behind the translation. Then I bend my head to the dim light of the torches.

And I read.

Yet from chaos and madness One will rise,

To lead the Ancient and release the Stone,

Shrouded in the sanctity of the Sisterhood,

Held safe from the Beast, and

Setting free those bound by Prophecy’s

Past and impending doom.

Sacred Stone, released from the temple,

Sliabh na Cailli’,

Portal to the Otherworlds.

Sisters of Chaos

Return to the belly of the Serpent

At the close of Nos Galon-Mai.

There, in the Circle of Fire

Lit by the Stone, bring together

Four Keys, marked by the Dragon

Angel of Chaos, mark and medallion

The Beast, banished only through

Sisterhood at Guardian’s door

With the rite of the Fallen.

Open your arms, Mistress of Chaos

To usher in the havoc of the ages

Or close them and

Deny His thirst for eternity.

Coming to the end of the page, I realize it
is
a page. There are no missing pages of the prophecy. Only one. But even as it is impossible to decipher its meaning here and now, I am sure it is all I need.

I do not have the luxury of taking the page with me. Not while one of the Souls may be waiting for me outside the crypt. So I read. I read until I am positive I have it memorized. Until I know I will be able to recite the words even when I am on my own deathbed, hopefully many years from now.

And then I hold both versions to one of the torches and watch them burn.

“Bonsoir. Puis-je vous aider à trouver quelque chose?” the priest asks.

Good evening. Can I help you find something?

I eye him warily as I approach him in the room leading to and from the crypt. I have just ascended the stairs, though he did not come upon me until I was well away from the entrance to the grotto. As I come closer, I glance at his neck, relieved to see that he bears no mark of the Guard.

“Non, Père. Je me promenais la cathédrale et suis devenu perdu.” I offer him a nervous smile and the excuse of being lost. Then, just to be safe, I assure him that I can find my own way out. “Je peux trouver ma voie en arrière d’ici, merci.”

The priest nods, eyeing my breeches with disdain. I had forgotten all about them and feel an inappropriate urge to laugh aloud. For a brief moment, I forget that I may still be in mortal
danger, and I want nothing more than to share my amusement with Luisa and Sonia. The thought brings a smile to my lips, for I know they would also have to fight to contain their laughter.

I move past the priest toward the door. He stands in the center of the room, eyeing me as if I am a common criminal, though with my disheveled appearance and men’s attire, I suppose I cannot blame him.

Forced to make a move, I open the big door and look up and down the alley, cautiously at first and then more openly as I become surer that no one lingers outside. When I am as certain as possible that the path back to the cathedral is clear, I slide out of the door and hurry down the street. I reach the door of the church with a sigh of relief, but when I try to pull it open, I find that it is locked.

I try again, pulling as hard as I am able, but it does not budge. I am trying to slow the blood racing through my veins when I hear a sound behind me. Turning to see who is there, it is not what I expect. Not at first.

A large, white cat jumps from atop the stone wall that runs along the street. The animal makes its way toward me languidly, and though I would like to be relieved that it is only a cat, something about its manner makes me uneasy. I know what it is a moment later when the cat’s jewel-green eyes find mine just before he shimmers on the ground, becoming in seconds the fair-haired Guard. Changing form seems effortless, and he hardly slows in his movement toward me, a sinister smile taking root on his mouth. The unhurried manner with
which he approaches does nothing to decrease my fear. His very leisure terrifies me, as if he is so sure of his eventual triumph that he need not even rush to make it so.

Sliding along the wall of the church, I inch my way toward the only entrance I know for certain will not be locked — the one at the front where I first entered the cathedral. I do not dare take my eyes from the man. I try to gauge whether I have a better chance of escape if I turn and run or continue playing the game of which he seems to be in charge.

I am still some distance away from the end of the small street when he picks up his pace, his footsteps coming more purposefully. The movement causes his collar to open ever so slightly, and I see the serpent, coiled around his neck like a choker. I feel the pull of it even as fear tightens my stomach.

I do not consciously make the decision to run. I simply do it, instinct screaming it is the only chance for escape from Samael’s Guard and my own dark affection for the snake that is his mark.

The stone is slippery underfoot, and I cannot run as fast as I would like for fear of falling. Even still, the footsteps hurry in their pace behind me. It is not far to the front of the church, though time seems to stretch and twist in the moment of my attempted escape. I think I have made it to safety as I round the corner toward the front of the cathedral. But I underestimate the slickness of the stone and fall hard, slamming into the ground with a force that makes my teeth rattle.

It only takes me seconds to get up and continue running, but it is not fast enough. The stumble has closed my lead, and
as I race up the stairs to the church, the scent of the Guard’s tangy sweat drifts to me on the evening breeze.

Finally reaching the top of the stairs, I lunge for the handle of the great wooden door just as the man lunges for me. This time we both go down, the man holding tightly to my foot while I reach for the door to the church that is my only sanctuary. My bow and knapsack slip from my shoulder, landing some distance away.

“Give… me… the… pages.” His voice is a growl. It slithers toward me until I feel that his words themselves crawl across my skin.

“I don’t have them!” I scream at him in a desperate bid for freedom, hoping it is only the pages he desires and not simply my death as I fear. “Let me go! I don’t have them!”

He does not answer. His utter silence terrifies me more than anything he could say. As he pulls on my leg, drawing me nearer to him, the snake coiled around his neck seems to slither, reaching toward me until I believe I can hear it hiss.

I scan the front of the church for Dimitri or anyone who might help. But this time there will be no salvation. Not from Dimitri. Not from the Sisters. Not from my Otherworldly gifts.

And then I see my knapsack. My arrows stick halfway out of the bag, but it is not this that gives me cause to hope. No. It is Mother’s dagger lying a couple of feet from the bag that stems my despair. It is a reminder that my salvation is up to me.

Me and the strength and will I have gained in this world.

I swing my free leg, landing a ferocious kick to the Guard’s
face. It sends him sprawling backward, though he takes me with him a few inches even as his grip loosens on my other leg. I reach for my knapsack, using my arms to pull me closer to it and dragging the man along with me in the moment before he regains his wits and grabs more tightly onto my leg. This time, as he pulls me back toward him once again, he lets out a guttural howl.

It is primal and pained, and it connects with some lost part of me that remembers my place in the prophecy and my role in fighting the Souls. I kick again, this time with all my might, and my free foot connects once again with the man’s face. The force of it shakes my body to its very core, and I can’t help but feel that I have Aunt Abigail and her adder stone to thank for the slight loosening of the Guard’s hands on my leg. A loosening that allows me to stretch just enough for my fingers to close around the dagger’s hilt.

I cannot say for sure if the heat of the stone imbues me with added strength, or if perhaps it simply makes me feel less alone. As if Aunt Abigail and all her power and wisdom are with me. I suppose it doesn’t matter, for I swing the dagger in an arc toward the Guard’s face, hitting his neck with such force that he lets go of my foot entirely.

Surprise registers in his eyes in the moment before the blood rushes in a spreading stain across his white shirt. The snake around his neck writhes as if alive, licking angrily but ineffectively toward me in the moment before the man’s face morphs into that of the cat in the alleyway, a laborer, a gentleman, and finally, back to his own frighteningly beautiful countenance.
I register dimly that they are all of the forms he has assumed since crossing into my world through some former Gate.

This time, I do not crawl. I run. I scramble to my feet and bolt for the door, barely feeling the weight of it under my hand as I heave it open. Slamming it behind me, I do not stop to catch my breath. I walk backward toward the interior of the church, putting some distance between me and the door without taking my eyes off it. For a long while, I watch, half-expecting the man to come bursting through. Half-expecting him to submit to death in order to follow me into this place that is held sacred from the Souls.

I don’t know how long it takes to be certain he isn’t coming, but after a while I sink to the floor in relief, my back against a wall, my eyes still on the door.

Dimitri will come. I don’t know when, but I know as sure as the sun rises and sets that he will come. I wrap my arms around my knees, whispering the words of the lost page and further committing them to memory.