We Will All Go Down Together (50 page)

Well . . . turns out, I’m stronger than you think
I
am, too. And even if I’m not, it’s
my
call. Not—either—of yours.

Anyhow, he’s always thought you’re the better half, though it’s not like he’ll admit it. So convince him what we want is best; tell him he can do it. Tell him he
will
.

The shadow nodded yet once more, as Jude’s own stare narrowed, flaring:
What you mean “we,”
gweilo
girl?
Then turned sidelong, slipping back behind him—
inside
him. Those two ugly, little purple points dotting Jude’s pupils suddenly winked out: quenched, doused, gone, nothing left behind but a smoothed brow, a lifted mouth-corner, and an almost involuntary sense of peace.

Huh,
Carra thought.
That was . . . surprisingly easy.

“
You
are an
asshole
,” Jude told her with ridiculous dignity, which only made her snort—a genuine half-guffaw, plosive enough to surprise even her.

“Takes one to know one,” she replied. And saw his lips crimp like a cat’s, struggling not to puncture his own insulted pride further by laughing as well.

Footsteps in the hall, followed by a pounding at the door, which broke off when it sprang unexpectedly open. “Carra, you okay?” she heard Sylvester call out, taking a careful step inside, Kim following after. “It’s—just been kind of a while.”

“Fine, Sy,” she answered, letting her hand fall. “Sorry to worry you.”

“No problem,” he lied. “So, is he coming? Jude Hark?”

“Present,” Jude answered, tone surprisingly even; he sat up, shake-snapping all ten fingers at once to disperse the flames as he did. “You’re from the Freihoeven, as I recall. Mister Horse-Breaker.”

“Horse-Kicker.”

“Exactly.” Jude was on his feet now, a whole head shorter than either of his newest guests, though the charisma he was suddenly projecting made that hard to notice. “Carra and I were just catching up; she got distracted, lost track of time. You know how it is.”

Sylvester studied him. “I think so,” he said. “But you never did answer my question.”

Jude contemplated him a minute, Kim too, and seemed to like what he saw. “Depends on who’s doing the driving,” he said, at last.

“Not me,” Carra said.

“Oh, then I’m
definitely
in.”

Before he locked Curia’s doors and brought his car around, Mac Roke had wasted a few precious minutes trying to convince Judy Kiss it was better she not come along, only to get himself roundly laughed at. “Try and stop me,” the girl replied, eventually; he’d just shrugged and held the car door open.

As they drove, Jo tried to get in touch with Carraclough Devize with predictably little luck. Eventually, however, someone connected her to Janis Mol, who spun her a tale almost made Jo believe in destiny.

“Already on her way,” she told Roke and the others, clicking her phone off. “Bound North, headed for Overdeere, to petition the
brugh
. Something about a girl and her child, both stolen away. ”

Ah,
Euwphaim crowed.
See, now. Did I say so, or did I no’?

You did, Nan.

Ye’d do well tae listen, next time.

Now they sat in the car outside the Connaught Trust—back entrance, along with the trash—while Roke did whatever business needed to be done inside. Judy had the passenger seat while Jo took up the back, her two ghost-companions coiled in uncomfortably close beside her.

Quiz
her what she is in truth, hen, while we’ve time,
Euwphaim demanded.

No, Nan.

Whyever not? Ye long t’ know yuirself—dinna bother tae deny it.

Davina blew a plume of no-smoke out the rolled-down window, chuckling.
Jesus Christ, Jo—she always like this or is it a gets-worse-after-death kinda thing? Leave well enough alone, that’s always been
my
fuckin’ motto.

Aye, as I ken
well enow, ye burnt-out end of some true witch’s leavings, content tae steer yuirself through life by hunch and guess alone, so long as ’twould bring ye best advantage. Yet ye could’ve been so much more. . . .

Yap yap yap, not like I never heard
that
pitch before. Thanks for nothin’,
Strega Nonna.

Bloody enough!
Jo snapped.
She’ll tell or she won’t, and that’s an end on it.

Ye’re a wicked, stubborn girl, Jodice Glouwer.

I’m a woman grown, Nan; sold my
own
soul, for all you told me where t’shop it. Long as you need my skill t’ ride safe, you’ll keep a civil tongue or be cast out.

Euwphaim hooted.
Hear her rail! Yet there’s no threat can still
my
mouth, since an ye lose me, yuir leman goes likewise. And what was it all for, then?

“I can hear you, ’case you wondered,” Judy said, without turning. “All of you. If that helps make up your mind, or anything.”

“Fine,” Jo replied, wearily. “You were possessed, the rumour goes.” Judy didn’t bother to nod. “What by?”

“Mmm, well. That’s always the question.”

Was a weird, teasing note slid into her voice as she said it, almost sly; cast a glance back over her shoulder, one pupil already lengthening, catlike in its slant-set Balkan socket.

Explaining: “I don’t know its name, so I call it Nobody—Mister Nobody. But I’ve been checking grimoires for it ever since I realized I can read any language, human or not, which is how I met Mac in the first place.”

“Not one of the Seven, though.”

“The Maskim?
Liber Carne
was one of the first places I looked, so no.” Her yellowing eyes narrowed. “Still,
you
got a connection with those things, I guess . . . you and old Creepy Gramma, back there.”

“Aye, somewhat. But then, I s’pose your man’s told you that half of it, at least.”

“Roke’s not ‘my man.’”

Interesting, Jo thought; he’d been
Mac
, when Judy wasn’t thinking about it.

“Suit yourself,” she said. “So . . . how’ll you know, you
do
find this Mister Nobody of yours?”

“Oh, don’t you worry your head ’bout that, not-so-small medium at large. I’ll know.”

Jo looked away, back at the Connaught. “Must gall you somewhat to be here, though,” she ventured. “So close to holy things.”

Judy shook her head. “Doesn’t work that way. See, I’m
favoured
of God, supposedly, because he chose me to make a point with. Made a walking object lesson of me, just to prove that, when you live inside a universe God created, nothing happens except what God allows to happen.”

If Euwphaim could’ve spat, she would’ve. God
, forbye? I’ll ha’ nae truck wi’ him.

“And yet,” Judy shot back, toneless.

Say on,
Euwphaim demanded.

“Still don’t get it, do you?” Judy replied. “You only exist because God lets you, blasphemy and all—just like the angels,
all
the angels, ones who screwed your million-gone great-greats included. So it must follow he
wanted
a Schism, wanted Nephilim, Himself only knows why. Wanted
you
, Euwphaim Glouwer, with just power enough to hurt yourself trying to hurt Him. Even the fact you can stay angry at Him, that’s something He allows you: free will, the gift that keeps on giving. The angels don’t have that. Which is why they hate us for it, almost as much as we hate ourselves.”

My Black Man loves me, ye mere bag o’ wind.

“Maybe,” Judy agreed. “Never met the gentleman, that I know of. But I’ve knocked a few of his relatives down, in my time—made ’em bleed, too. And I’m pretty sure that was only ’cause God
let
me.”

Ye ne’er.

Another of those smiles, eyes lightening a bit further, pupils even more bent. “Try me.”

Another pause ensued, wrapped in uncomfortable silence.

“So,” Judy asked, at last. “Monster-killing nuns, huh?” To which Jo nodded.

“Aye, that’s right. Your man was their confessor, once.”

“He’s
not
my . . . Yeah, well, guess he is, at that. Christ, this
city
.”

“It’s chockablock with oddity, that’s true enough. But you’ve him to protect you, at the least.”

Judy smiled at that so strangely that Jo wanted to pull back. “From what, Mister Nobody’s leavings? That’s trouble for
other
people, same way a skunk can’t smell its own stink. I’m like a . . . haunted house, one of those suburban bungalows where somebody cooked meth for a year, the kind cleans up really nice, but then you move in and start bleeding from the eyes. I don’t get any worse, even if I don’t get any better. Just stay . . . me.”

“Roke must be truly perfect for you, then.”

“He is, yeah. ’Cause being less than half human, none of the toxic shit I spew out even
touches
him. Making him maybe the one person in this city I can’t hurt, not unintentionally—”

Her eyes dropped, still brown, still human. And Jo felt the unspoke words resound inside her head:
. . . not as much, anyway.

After a second, Euwphaim laughed, a lewd, gloating chuckle.
Ye foolish child
. The door opened, and Roke stepped out, smug as a creamery cat, with a wooden rune-carved box tucked under one arm and a hammer hanging from his other hand: perfectly normal claw-head and a rubber grip, like it came from Home Hardware. The woman striding beside him was tall, dark, and frighteningly lovely, a true warrior-cleric from her close-cut reddish natural hair to her sensible shoes. Sister—no, Mother now—Blandina, Jo’s brain supplied, remembering a spray of photos she’d once seen tossed across Abbott’s desk.

She rolled the window down as they paused a few feet away, curious to hear their conversation.

My pretty Alizoun
, Euwphaim breathed, sounding for the first time halfway impressed.
’Tis she herself reborn, touch o’ the tar or no. Oh, that she might hear me!

The nun didn’t react at all, however—only laid her hand on Roke’s arm, a gesture no one could mistake for tender. Telling him: “You’ll have to leave it in for it to do any good—”

“I know, B.”

“—so if we don’t get it back, I’ll assume you actually
used
it, instead of selling it. Don’t prove me wrong.”

“Now, Mother, would I do that?”

“I find out differently, you’ll answer. And we’ll need the box back, too.”

“Forgive me,” Jo called out. “But what is this we’re talking about, exactly?”

“The Ordo’s secret weapon against the Druirs,” Roke said, flipping the box’s lid up, tilting it for Jo to see—a squarish, rusty metal spike, some six inches long. “Relic nail, cold iron, supposedly used to martyr a saint. . . .”

“Severo,” supplied Blandina, flatly. “Early Christian bishop from Barcelona. Had it driven into his skull by pagans.”

Reminded, Roke looked down at the hammer. “Forgot to ask: this holy, too?”

“Blessed just this morning. By the guy who has your old job.”

“Hmmm, convenient.”

The Ordo’s battle-leader swept her wintery gaze over the car’s occupants, then gave a curt little nod—like she’d won a bet with herself and wished she hadn’t. “Your team, I take it: a witch born from witches, the girl who got Cillian Frye defrocked, whatever’s in the back. Plus you.”

“Two ghosts, one a
much
worse witch’s, and yes. We’re also looking to hook up with Carraclough Devize on the way. You came too, it’d be like we were getting the band back together.”

“Pass.”

“That’s what I thought.” Roke latched the box again. “Now, I owe you, obviously.”

“I’m aware of that.” Blandina glanced at the car again, huffing. “Do this right, Roke. I’ll have the Anchoress pray for you.”

“Since
you’re
not going to?”

“Don’t be so sure. Considering how much you’ll need it, I just might.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Another nod. “Yes,” Blandina replied. And shut the Connaught’s rear entry in his face.

Miles on, the Devize/Hark/Horse-Kicker/Kim Uncomfortable Canadian Road Trip ™ was already a few miles out of the GTA. Jude had his shoes off and his feet up, apparently in some sort of trance—it was the slightly visible Buddhist nimbus of transparent purple flame that gave it away—while Carra studied the fat yet remarkably uninformative file Sylvester had brought along.

A relatively tiny (two miles square) glacier-carved basin with a steep southern drop, the Lake of the North is located up past Gananoque,
Dr. Abbott’s introductory monograph began.
Surviving settlements trace a loose crescent around its rim. These include Sulfa, site of a thriving anti-malaria drug industry, and the twinned former Anabaptist religious colonies of Your Lips and God’s Ear, all within a few hours’ drive of villages like Chaste, Overdeere (its own economy maintained by the Sidderstane family canning factory), and Quarry Argent. The locally infamous “phantom village” of Dourvale, though unoccupied, also remains unaccountably listed on most maps.

Once a residential
development planned around Quarry Argent’s silver mine by poet turned amateur folklore collector Torrance Sidderstane, Dourvale was named after the hereditary holdings of a noble Scots family he claimed to be descended from and had just married back into.

After Torrance’s 1911 conviction for “death by misadventure” in the disappearance of his pregnant bride, however, Sidderstane’s relatives found their plans to remake the mansion he’d built on the lake’s Ice Age esker-rimmed “Dourvale shore” over into a luxury hotel and spa thwarted when the resulting scandal rendered it a socially unsuitable vacation spot.

Dourvale village would have been an adjunct to the spa/hotel combo, a place for workers and their families to live, with a selection of rental cottages left over for the tourist trade. 1911 was also the same year the Quarry Argent silver mine tapped out, however, cutting the area’s workforce in half. Most migrated to other townships or cities (Barrie, in particular), and the project was discontinued.

In 1919, needing a cash injection to fund their permanent relocation to Toronto, the Sidderstanes cut a deal that saw their former home and its grounds turned into a Flu Pandemic hospital-cum-hospice, TB ward, and mass graveyard by the Ontario government. New family head Dacre Dowersby Sidderstane used the overflow to fund another eccentric and ambitious project, that of transporting the former Witch-House at
Eye from Scotland to Canada and rebuilding it in Scarborough, from the foundations up. Today, the so-called Sidderstane Mercy Hall buildings’ ruined remains can be located by hiking through various farms’ uncleared back-lots, which have merged to form one sprawling, near-impenetrable deadfall.