The Warlock's Curse (53 page)

“Why did you tell me to think of Jenny?” he finally said, bleakly.

“Because I hoped your love would be stronger than your guilt,” said Ben.

At that moment Trahern came back into the room, striding toward them, his face dark with purpose. He dug his fingers into Ben’s jacket coat, pulled him to standing.

“Praise Jesus, the Brother has finally seen the light about you, you smug charlatan.” Trahern gave Ben a hard shake. “I would kill you now, but he doesn’t want the Temple sullied by your unredeemed blood before the Consecration.” He smirked back over his shoulder at the gory trail Ben had left on the floor. “Any
more
of it, anyway.”

Spinning Ben around, Trahern shoved him hard toward the door, following as he stumbled forward. “But just you wait until after the Consecration, Professor. Just you wait and see what kind of fun we’re going to have
then
.”

Trahern did not return for Will until just before midnight. And when he did, he had changed into the long, pristine white robes of an usher. He did not speak, just set to work with gruff efficiency, lashing Will’s hands together before him with a piece of stout white cord. He bound Will’s ankles and gagged him with a piece of red cloth.

Will did not resist any of this. He felt incapable of resisting. He felt incapable of caring. He just lay on the low couch, limp, staring up at the red cross.

He had said nothing as Trahern drew the cords painfully tight. And he said nothing even when Trahern was finished and hissed in Will’s ear:

“You’re going to make this work, understand? Or I will slice her belly open myself. I’ll hurt her as much as you’ve hurt the good Brother. That’s a promise.
An oath
.”

Will let his eyes slide closed. The image of the red cross burned behind his lids. He felt Trahern lifting him, throwing him over his shoulder like a feed sack. And then Trahern carried him to the sanctuary.

The sanctuary was already buzzing with energy and anticipation. While there was no sunlight to illuminate the stained glass, all the electric lights blazed. A team of Teslaphone technicians had set up their equipment in a corner near the front of the great room. They had hung a broadcasting microphone near the enormous electrical organ—where Little Sanctity Snow, in a frothy white dress of silken ruffles and lace, sat poking at the keys ill-temperedly as she waited for the power to be switched on.

Another technician was laying a carpeted runner over the cord of a second microphone, on a slender stand of black iron that had been placed a few feet in front of the altar. Muttering a curt “Beat it!” to the man, Trahern placed Will in a kneeling position behind the microphone stand, facing the crowd.

Bound hands clenched before him, Will stared out into the crowd. Phleger had not just filled the sanctuary, he had packed it. Every pew was crammed to capacity, and the faithful who could not find seats clustered at the edges of the broad aisles. And all of them were eyeing Will with a mixture of fascination and dread, whispering between themselves.

They don’t know what Brother Phleger intends to do to me. And they’re dying to find out.

As Will’s eyes roamed the vastness of the crowd, he saw that Ben had been put into a special seat in the roped-off front row. Ben’s battered face was puffed and purpling, and one eye was swollen shut. He was not bound—but what did it matter? There was nothing he could do to help. Not with Trahern and a hundred of his ushers, all dressed in white robes, having taken up positions along the sanctuary’s walls.

Looking away from Ben, Will caught sight of Atherton Hart—and Jenny.

Just like the petulant child at the organ, Jenny was dressed all in ruffled white. But her dress had a very high neck and very long sleeves, and Jenny sat so rigidly in it that the ruffles seemed chiseled, not draped. Hart sat next to her. He did not sit close, and he did not touch her, but there was something about his presence that encompassed her, enveloped her in his protection.

Hart was not a bad man, Will realized, his heart breaking. He was a fool ... but he was not a bad man.

As if sensing his gaze, Jenny looked at Will. Her blue eyes held his, and he saw the worry in them. But he looked away quickly, lowering his gaze to the deep red carpet. He stared at the carpet for a long time.

Then, suddenly, the organ boomed—one crashing chord, flooding the sanctuary with sound.

Someone had switched on the organ, and Little Sanctity Snow became like one reborn. She fell upon the keys with the eagerness of the starved, tiny fingers flying. There was no sheet music propped up before her; she seemed to play purely from spirit.

The organ music began with a powerful melody, but before long, it settled into a strange looping rhythm. A pulsating cascade of sound that set every member of the congregation swaying. Will couldn’t quite tell when they began singing along with the organ’s boom and storm, raising their voices to ride upon its swelling waves, but soon the song was as loud as the organ itself. But the faithful did not seem to be singing words. Rather they sang a kind of pure unified chaos, the sound both perfectly coherent and perfectly meaningless.

Little Sanctity Snow—“God’s Special Snowflake”—was whipping them into a frenzy.

And when Brother Phleger finally emerged from the vestry, dressed only in a simple black Sunday suit—nothing flashy, no worldly adornments, only a simple red cross worn around his neck—all of the thousands of worshippers rushed as one to meet him. But not a single person actually
moved
. It was their energy that flowed toward him, streams of color and light stronger than any Will had seen around him before. Closing his eyes, Phleger lifted his hands and received the adulation, absorbed it with the calm assurance of the righteous.

He did not speak, did not gesture to Little Sanctity Snow to stop her playing. He probably could not have stopped her playing if he tried. The girl was in a state of holy seizure, standing now to reach the keyboard’s topmost tiers. Her white-blonde ringlets flew around her small screwed-up face. Her eyes were closed tight. It was as if she was playing the organ with her whole Body not just her hands.

Arms still raised, Phleger began a slow processional circuit around the sanctuary. First he walked west, and when he came to the westernmost wall he fell to his knees, flinging himself against the glittering stone, embracing it, kissing it.

The worshippers moaned in unison. Some of them had leapt to their feet, swaying, arms held high; some had clustered around Brother Phleger, and were trying to help him stand. These zealots were hustled roughly back by Trahern’s white-robed ushers. When Phleger finally did stand, he wheeled like a drunk, crossing the sanctuary’s broad expanse along the wide aisle that bisected it. Trahern followed him protectively, fists clenched, menacing any supplicant who came too close.

Phleger seemed barely able to make it to the east wall. He collapsed against it, resting his forehead on the marble, breathing hard. Throwing his head back, he bellowed, beating his fists against the wall with intense, furious passion. Brilliant coruscations of power crackled over the white stone, like lightning seeking ground. Several women fainted. The organ screamed.

Phleger had to crawl along the aisle to reach the huge double doors at the sanctuary’s southern end. Trahern tried to reach down and help him along, but Phleger batted him back. And though the preacher seemed weak as a kitten, his rebuff made Trahern stagger, tumbling backward into the pews. The faithful set him back on his feet, dozens upon dozens of hands caressing him as they did.

When Phleger finally did make it to the huge double doors, he climbed to his feet. It seemed to require a mighty effort. He stood before the doors on trembling legs, lifting his hands.

Thus is this mighty tabernacle Consecrated, in the name of God most holy, justified by our Savior’s all-sufficient Grace, in Jesus Christ alone, for His glory alone, according to Scripture alone.

Phleger did not speak the words. Instead they saturated the air. They were a part of the driving beat of the organ, they formed themselves in the throats of his congregation. He was not speaking
to
them, he was speaking
through
them.

Then Phleger whirled, all his weariness erased in an instant. He was revitalized, resurrected. He seemed ten feet tall. His body was heavy with beneficence and compassion. He proceeded up the broad center aisle toward the altar slowly, bathed in colored light brighter than any that could have streamed through the stained glass on the brightest day, and his feet did not touch the ground. He reached his hands out as he walked, touching and stroking the followers who fell before him. He tenderly cupped a sick man’s cheek and the man collapsed, writhing like one possessed. Phleger lifted a supplicating old woman and pressed a kiss to her forehead, and when he released her she dropped like a stone and did not move again.

When finally he came to where Will was kneeling, Will could feel the heat pouring from his body. His dark suit was soaked with sweat. He came to stand behind Will, and as he lifted his arms to compel him to rise, acrid stink poured from his damp armpits. When Will was standing, Phleger stepped even closer to him, pressing his hot chest against Will’s back. Taking the snuffbox from his pocket, he wrapped his arms around Will’s sides, holding him tight, and holding the snuffbox out before them both. Gently, he nuzzled his chin into Will’s shoulder.

“Witness the power of the Lord Almighty,” he whispered in Will’s ear. “He is our shield and our sword, our ever-ready protector. He will annihilate the devil that possesses you. He will set things to right. You have only to
believe
, dear child. Believe.”

Will shuddered and stiffened as Phleger’s power seized him. As before, his eyes clenched shut, and he was unable to open them—and as before, it was not darkness that greeted him. This time, however, he was in the cold room of snowstorm white with its looming, blazing red cross. The
sanctum sanctorum
. It was not the
real
room, Will knew—rather, it was Phleger himself who was the room, and the sound of the organ was his walls, and the singing of the faithful was his voice.

And Cowdray was there.

In the room that was Phleger, the old warlock appeared as he must have in life—elegant and slim and cruel, decked in jewels and embroidery. Standing with his back to the cross, Cowdray regarded Will curiously, eyes gleaming like a malicious bird’s.

Y
OU HAVE RETURNED.
A
RE YOU VERY BRAVE, MOONCALF
?
O
R JUST VERY STUPID
?

But Will could not answer, only move his lips in unison with Phleger’s voice:

In the name of most holy God, I compel you to my will, demon!

Cowdray cringed, hissing, as if he’d been sprinkled with acid. Wisps of acrid smoke, smelling of burnt flesh, curled up from the folds of his coat. Will’s heart leapt with vengeful joy. Phleger’s power flowed through him—Holy power, the power of the faithful. It was good power, clean and strong.

The Word compels you, spawn of misery!
Phleger spoke again, and the Word became Truth.
You are subject to God’s command now.

N
EVER
! Cowdray shrieked, falling to his knees. Flames flickered around him, blue and orange. Behind him, the red cross pulsed like a beating heart.

Will suddenly saw that the silver box was in his hands. He did not hold it; rather, his hands bracketed it, and it hovered between them. The brilliant light of the snowstorm room bent and wavered around the box, as if it were submerged in very dark, clear water.

You will open the box so that the power can be sanctified.

The flames engulfing Cowdray flared up, and Cowdray shrieked, a sound of agony wrenched from the deepest part of his lost soul. His shrieks filled Will with pure, perfect pleasure—and alongside it, a desperate hunger that was just as visceral. He wanted to hurt Cowdray
more
. He wanted to take everything from him, everything—every iota of his power, every scrap of his self-control.

Once the power in the box was sanctified, Will knew, it would be at his disposal. He could use it to shatter Cowdray’s spirit into a million screaming, smoldering bits.

Open it.
Will’s lips moved with Phleger’s voice, but the words were his own.
Show me how to unlock it.

I
T IS UNLOCKED,
Cowdray whimpered, curled on a ball on the floor. I
T ALWAYS HAS BEEN. OPEN IT YOURSELF.

Will looked at the box more closely. And through eyes opened by the power of the Word, he perceived the reality of it.

It was not a box at all.

It was a door—a door Will recognized.

The door from the Hotel Acheron.

With the urgency of desire, Will reached for the doorknob.

When he touched it, a rush of suffering more intense than any he had ever known burned through him. Despair, black and hopeless, made the white brilliance of the room around him vanish into oblivion. His ears burned with the agonized cries of the souls trapped within that void. Will felt, in a horrible eternal instant, all of the hell that lay behind the door.