Authors: Marion Zimmer Bradley
Gravelight (27 page)
The direction of his thoughts drove Wycherly from the bed, aching and nauseous. The beast was back, or something like it; a craving that Wycherly would gladly rip out his own heart to assuage. Without even bothering to dress,
he blundered down the stairs, toward the one thing that had never failed him.
he blundered down the stairs, toward the one thing that had never failed him.
Less careful to conceal his traces this time, Wycherly poured a glass full with good Scotch and drank it off as if it were water. The taste made him shudder.
But five ounces of eighty-proof Glenlivet had no more effect on him than if it were water. There was no warm glow of haven in his stomach, and he realized with despair that not even alcohol would sate the beast this time. It wanted something else, and Wycherly didn't know what it was.
But it wanted it very much.
Wycherly threw the bottle across the room. It exploded on the bricks of the hearth with a satisfying impact, spraying glass and liquor over the walls and floor, but that didn't solve anything.
It wasn't what he needed.
Still naked, he padded into the kitchen, searching. The book was upstairs in his shoulder bag, beneath his clothes, but Sinah was sleeping deeply enough that he was willing to leave her alone with it for a few minutes. He turned on the lights in the kitchen, knowing he would not wake her. Now, what was here that he could use ⦠.
It seemed as if the knives were whispering to him in thin steel voices. It was only when he'd opened one of the drawers and was contemplating the neatly racked rows of carving knives that he realized what he was really thinking beneath the surface of his thoughts.
He slammed the drawer with a crash. No. That was not who he was.
Wasn't it? Wouldn't this at least be a quicker deathâa kinder death than the one he'd given to Camilla? The quick flash of the knife, her spilled blood the alchemical potion that would change his earthly substance from dross into to gold. Sinah would be dead, but that was the fate of everyone he'd ever loved. Who'd ever loved him.
Wycherly turned away from the drawer, gagging into the sink until he'd brought up the Scotch he'd just drank. It
was mixed with blood; the dark brown bile had a foul smell. He ran water in the sink to wash it away, rinsing and spitting until the taste of his own blood was gone. When he turned off the water, he leaned back against her refrigerator, shivering with chill. He'd dodged the beast this time, but he hadn't outrun it. It was still in control.
was mixed with blood; the dark brown bile had a foul smell. He ran water in the sink to wash it away, rinsing and spitting until the taste of his own blood was gone. When he turned off the water, he leaned back against her refrigerator, shivering with chill. He'd dodged the beast this time, but he hadn't outrun it. It was still in control.
And he was not.
But now he knew the way to gain controlâone act, simple and easy to perform, that would give him what he wanted: power and peace.
The knives no longer tempted him. It was too early for the knives. What he needed was some clothesline, something long and strong, something he could use to tie Sinah to the altar, the black stone carved with the symbols from
Les Cultes des Goules.
Les Cultes des Goules.
There he would open her body and bathe in her blood. That was it. That was all. A simple act, easy to perform. The hardest part would be getting her to go up there with him, and even that wouldn't be so difficult to accomplish. And he could put the clothesline in his shoulder bag, and the knife. He could even use the clasp-knife he carried; it would do the trick. Human bodies were so soft, so vulnerable â¦
Sinah isn't the only one who's losing her mind,
Wycherly thought with cold despair.
Wycherly thought with cold despair.
He wrenched himself free of his own thoughts, panting as if he'd been running. Sinah Dellon was a sweet girl. He didn't know if he loved her yet, but she'd been kind to him. And now he was standing in her kitchen thinking about the best way to kill herâno, worse than that, to stake her out and butcher her like an animal, and for what?
Because he had bad dreams.
That was all they were, Wycherly told himself. Bad dreams. Not demons. The grimoire was only pretentious snuff-porn, and his visions were only an exciting new version of the d.t.'s.
But he'd really be painting himself into a corner if he murdered someone. His father would bury him in an institution
somewhere until he rottedâlife without parole. There'd be no reprieve for Musgrave's failure son this time.
somewhere until he rottedâlife without parole. There'd be no reprieve for Musgrave's failure son this time.
How could he stop himself?
And how could he be sure he hadn't already done it?
Wycherly ran back up stairs, desperate to hear the sound of Sinah's breathing. When he reached the bed he crawled in beside her and took her in his arms, and though she stirred and muttered at the touch of his icy flesh against hers, she did not wake.
He held her against him until his arms ached, as though by clinging to her he could keep himself from doing anything else. And when he slid over the border of consciousness, Wycherly Musgrave didn't notice.
The Little Heller Creek was one of the many streams that fed the river Astolat. Unlike its cousin the Big Heller it was not very deep, but it was deep enough.
Wycherly crashed down the brush-covered slope that hid the creek from his cabin and took an awkward step into the stream. Only a few inches below the surface the water ran chill, forty degrees colder than the air above. He took one
step out, then another.
step out, then another.
She was waiting for him hereâCamillaâMelusineâthey
were the same woman, the river serpent who dragged men down to drown ⦠.
were the same woman, the river serpent who dragged men down to drown ⦠.
The water was above his thighs now, its cold something that took his breath away. Another step or two and he would reach the steep drop-off that would carry him under, into the deeps where the woman-serpent waited.
He struggled against it, standing there in the river, knowing that he was only delaying the inevitable, putting off the moment in which the white serpent would surge up out of the water to seize him. He managed to take one step back, then two, and then he stood in the shallows of another river, and watched the car headlights come inexorably on.
Even from this distance, it was obvious that the car was in trouble. It slewed from side to side until at last the curve of its arc became too extreme for the road, and it hurtled
off the road and into the river. Its momentum carried it quickly through the shallow water from which escape would have been possible. For a moment the car floated, and then it sank.
off the road and into the river. Its momentum carried it quickly through the shallow water from which escape would have been possible. For a moment the car floated, and then it sank.
From the shore Wycherly watched as the driver fought his way free from the half-submerged car. There was a moment when he could have turned back to rescue his trapped companion before the river submerged the car further, and he didn't. He floundered toward the shore, intent upon his own safety, as the car slid further beneath the water and Camilla Redford drowned.
It began to rain, though dimly Wycherly remembered that the long-ago night had been clear. He could not withdraw his attention from the scene before him enough to question the discrepancy; through the veils of rain he could see across the water to where the car's headlights were a distant, dimming beacon beneath the water. Its driver lay insensible, unconscious upon the muddy gravel of the shore. It would be a long time before another car passed.
Thunder rumbled like far-off anger, and Wycherly, waking from one dream into another, stood chest-deep in a freezing river that had never been that deep before, knowing the river's mistress was waiting for him. Rain sheeted down from the sky, making the air nearly as wet as the river, and chains of lightning danced dangerously across the heavens.
He was going to die.
He was going to drown.
She was going to drown.
The woman lying in drugged sleep as the storm raged outside dreamed, not Sinah Dellon's dreams, but Athanais de Lyon's. Here was the pond, the ducking stool, the judgesâgodly and grave, arrayed in Puritan blackâto examine her. They tied her to the stool ⦠.
The woman lying in drugged sleep as the storm raged outside dreamed, not Sinah Dellon's dreams, but Athanais de Lyon's. Here was the pond, the ducking stool, the judgesâgodly and grave, arrayed in Puritan blackâto examine her. They tied her to the stool ⦠.
The shock of the water was icy, slicing through the fabric of the thin shift she wore as the water closed over her. Water was supposed to reject the witch, as she had rejected the water of her baptism, but this water closed around
Athanais, filling her nose, her mouth, her eyes ⦠.
Athanais, filling her nose, her mouth, her eyes ⦠.
And then they raised her; she stared, wild-eyed and gasping, into the eyes of her inquisitors, and heard their litany: CONFESS, WITCH, CONFESS ⦠.
She shook her head, defiant, and they cast her down once more into that dark and silent world.
And they left her there.
Her lungs begged for air, a roaring grew in her ears, and Athanais came to realize that there would be no further chance for repentance, no chance to escape. They did not mean to hear her confession.
They meant to kill her.
She was Athanais de Lyon.
She was Sinah Dellon.
And she was more, a multitude stretching back across the centuries in service to a blind need that must be slaked. This was the power that Athanais had sought. This was the power to which she had bound her own bloodline so that her avarice and obsession would haunt each one of her descendants. It was darkness and bloodthirst, and it demanded service of its custodians; a child, a lover, some blood-tie-some heart-tie-to feed it.
It was Sinah's turn to feed it, now. She was bound to the burden her ancestress had taken up; the burden whose uncompromising savagery so closely matched Athanais' own nature. There was no escape for her, now that she had returned. The price must be paid.
But Sinah was not the one who would pay it.
Her first perception was that she was wet. The terror of Athanais' nightmare thrust her into consciousness, but she realized that there was no water: only rain dripping onto the skylight above. A summer storm, with its attendant thunder and lightning.
Nothing more.
Beside her Wycherly struggled, cocooned in bedsheets; his groans were what had first wakened her. His terror was
so strong that even without touching him she could feel itâa blind rejection of the stuff of his dream landscape. She put her hands on him and shook himâhard.
so strong that even without touching him she could feel itâa blind rejection of the stuff of his dream landscape. She put her hands on him and shook himâhard.
His amber eyes opened instantly, but she did not feel that he saw her. The sheets and his body beneath them were drenched in an icy sweat, and even in the faint light coming up from the living room below she could see that his lips were pale and bluish.
“Wych? Wycherly? It's meâSinah.”
“ ⦠serpent ⦔
The word hissed from between his half-parted lips, as cold and condemning as the faces of the judges in Athanais' nightmare. Sinah recoiled as if he'd hit her.
Wycherly struggled out of the bed, dragging the sheets from his body.
She was tainted and he knew it.
The ridiculous over-dramatization paralyzed Sinah for a moment. When she looked around, she could already hear the clink of glassware downstairs. She ran to the railing and looked down.
The ridiculous over-dramatization paralyzed Sinah for a moment. When she looked around, she could already hear the clink of glassware downstairs. She ran to the railing and looked down.
Wycherly was standing beside her liquor cabinet. He had a glass in one hand and a bottle in the other, and he was drinking as quickly and methodically as if it would save his life.
GRAVE FAULTS
There's no repentance in the grave.
âISAAC WATTS
THE RAIN HAD DECREASED TO A GENTLE PATTER AS TRUTH, muddy, cold, and exhausted, dragging her bag of working toolsâshe'd lost the canteen somewhere along the wayâfinally reached the place where the camper was parked. Every light was on, and she could see people moving around inside.
This is not going to be fun.
But if Truth Jourdemayne had one defining characteristic, it was stubbornness. Grimly she slogged the rest of the way to the Winnebago and knocked on the door.
But if Truth Jourdemayne had one defining characteristic, it was stubbornness. Grimly she slogged the rest of the way to the Winnebago and knocked on the door.
It was Dylan who yanked it open, staring down at her as if he'd never seen her before.
“Get in here,” he said at last through gritted teeth.
Meekly Truth climbed into the RV, blinking slightly at the light. Rowan and Ninian both stared at her, faces blank with surprise.
“It's one o'clock in the morning,” Dylan said. His voice shook slightly. “We've been looking for you for the last six hours.”
Truth winced inwardly. She'd known this wasn't going to be easy, but she'd never seen Dylan this upset in all the years she'd known him.
“I'm sorry,” she said. “It was stupid of me to go off without telling anybody where I was, butâ”
“Oh, I knew where you probably were,” Dylan said in a deadly flat voice. He turned to the two grad students. “Emergency over, guys. Sorry to put you through all this. Ms. Jourdemayne's fine, so why don't the two of you pack it in?”
“Um ⦠yeah. Sure.” Rowan glanced at Ninian, who ducked his head and mumbled something incomprehensible. Truth stepped back awkwardly as the other two made their way out the door and across the puddled gravel to their tents.
“You're soaked. You'd better get those wet clothes off before you get sick,” Dylan said evenly.
“Dylan, I have to talk to you,” Truth said, not moving from where she stood. Water dripped steadily from her pants and shoes to form a dirty puddle on the plastic mats that covered the rug.
“I'll make you some coffee,” Dylan said.
“Dylan, I was up at the sanatoriumâ”
“Do you think I don't know that?” Dylan burst out, rounding on her. “You were up there chasing your obsession with Quentin Blackburn like an irresponsible childâwhat was I supposed to do when you didn't come back?”
“âChasing my obsession'?
There's an uncontrolled Gate up there, and its keeper is nowhere to be foundâif you want manifestations, that one makes your average haunted house look as dangerous as a wet firecracker. You'll have to help me, Dylan; we've got to find out which family in the Fork is tied to the Gate, andâ”
There's an uncontrolled Gate up there, and its keeper is nowhere to be foundâif you want manifestations, that one makes your average haunted house look as dangerous as a wet firecracker. You'll have to help me, Dylan; we've got to find out which family in the Fork is tied to the Gate, andâ”
“No.” Dylan's voice was very quiet. “Get into some dry things, will you, Truth? I'll drive you to the nearest airport tomorrow, but I don't want to take this thing out on these roads tonight.” He reached into the Winnebago's tiny shower stall and handed her a towel.
Truth took it and wiped her face. Her hands were shaking. For a moment she wanted to go against every ounce of Irene's teaching, and use the power she could summon to lash out against Dylan, even to kill.
No.
The moment of fury passed, leaving her exhausted. She began to unbutton her shirt as Dylan made tea.
The moment of fury passed, leaving her exhausted. She began to unbutton her shirt as Dylan made tea.
“I don't want to go to the airport, Dylan,” she said, peeling off the wet shirt and rubbing herself briskly with the towel. He held out her robe and she took it.
“I think you should,” Dylan said. The anger he was trying to control made his voice flat and grating. “It's going to be hard enough to get anything out of these mountain people over the course of a summer without members of our group acting delusional into the bargain. I've told you before: Occult manifestations are tricky things that love to delude.”
“Do you think I don't know that?” Truth demanded, sitting down to pull off her hiking boots. She set them aside, and quickly pulled off the rest of her clothes before shrugging into the welcoming terrycloth robe.
“Have you forgotten who I am?” she said, although it was a little hard to be impressive when the robe you were wearing had multicolored pastel stripes instead of badges of mystic authority.
“You're Thorne Blackburn's daughter,” Dylan said, “and when I think of all the years I wished you'd come to terms with that, so that we could explore the work that Thorne didâtogetherâ”
“Oh, yeah?” Truth snarled, pushed to the end of her patience. “Then explore this: there's an uncontrolled Gateâa
sidhe
Gate, a
Blackburn
Gateârunning wild up there at the site of Wildwood Sanatorium, and it's at the center of
all
the inexplicable manifestations in Morton's Fork.”
sidhe
Gate, a
Blackburn
Gateârunning wild up there at the site of Wildwood Sanatorium, and it's at the center of
all
the inexplicable manifestations in Morton's Fork.”
“âOh, yeah'?” Dylan echoed nastily. “Prove it.” He handed her the cup of hot coffee. “I'll make you a sandwich.”
“Prove it?” Truth echoed blankly. The cup burned her
fingers, feeling far hotter than it was because she was so cold. “But I've just told youâ”
fingers, feeling far hotter than it was because she was so cold. “But I've just told youâ”
“And I've told you time and again that your opinionâor even mineâisn't proof. Bring me something I can measureâor at least witnesses. You haven't seen yourself the way I have, Truthâever since you turned in that biography of your father, you've just been floundering, looking for something to take the place of researching and writing itâand of hating him. Now you've found thisâand you aren't even stopping to question it. You're just charging straight into it.”
“But it's dangerous!” Truth said. “An uncontrolled Gateâ”
“Wouldn't be that much trouble, from what you've told me about Shadow's Gate. The people in Shadowkill have lived next to one for almost three hundred years without too much trouble.”
“Except for the ones who've died!” Truth burst out. “The Gate demands a blood sacrifice each generation from the keeper's own familyâ”
“And you've just said the family's nowhere to be found,” Dylan finished for her. “So who's going to be sacrificed?”
Truth glared at him in exasperation.
“It isn't that I'm unsympathetic,” Dylan said. “But if you'd just calm down and be reasonable, you'd admit what we both knowâthat one of the biggest dangers in this field is the chance you'll end up like Margaret Murray. She was a respected Egyptologist before she began publishing her flights of fancy about the European Witch-Cult. A reputation's an easy thing to tarnishâwhat about the scientists who backed Geller? Or the Frenchmen who decided they'd found the Holy Grailâand that the Plantagenets were descended from Jesus Christ? The field's full of examples like these. And so I think the best thing for you to do would be to put some distance between yourself and ⦠well, let's just call it temptation.”
He was going to send her away.
Pure cold alarm washed away Truth's every other emotion.
Pure cold alarm washed away Truth's every other emotion.
Of course it wasn't as simple as that. This wasn't the Dark Ages; she wasn't even married to Dylan. While he could cut her off from any association with the Institute's project, she had as much right to be in Morton's Fork as he did. If he drove her to the nearest airport, she could rent a car and race him back here. There was nothing he could do to stop her.
But he could turn the locals against her, even get her barred from the sanatorium grounds if he tried. She could not afford to have Dylan for an enemy.
Her
sidhe
-damned arrogance had set a trap for her once again. She should have been open with Dylan long ago, and told him the whole story of her father's reappearance and strange vanishment, of her own new sense of mission. Dylan had always seemed sympathetic about the things Truth
had
spoken of, and she knew he'd studied Thorne Blackburn, but she'd never before delved into the matter of just how much of a true believer in Thorne's world Dylan was. She hadn't even told him that Thorne's claims of
sidhe
descent were the literal truth.
sidhe
-damned arrogance had set a trap for her once again. She should have been open with Dylan long ago, and told him the whole story of her father's reappearance and strange vanishment, of her own new sense of mission. Dylan had always seemed sympathetic about the things Truth
had
spoken of, and she knew he'd studied Thorne Blackburn, but she'd never before delved into the matter of just how much of a true believer in Thorne's world Dylan was. She hadn't even told him that Thorne's claims of
sidhe
descent were the literal truth.
And now it was too late to ask. She'd misjudged Dylan's willingness to accept the Unseen significantly, and now she must do all she could to repair matters.
“You're right, of course,” Truth said, forcing a smile. “I know everyone was worried about me ⦔ She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. She mustn't lie, but she must tell a truth Dylan would accept from her.
“But when I was up there today, I felt ⦠Well, it seemed a lot to me like what I felt at Shadow's Gate. So I was trying to pinpoint exactly what it was ⦠and I lost all track of time. I never even got much past the front gate, and then I guess I might even have fallen asleep. It was starting to get dark when I started back, and then I got lost. Dylan, I would swear I passed the same bench three times without turning around once!”
Dylan smiled faintly, although he was far from mollified. “Maybe that's what you didâhaunted houses are notorious for getting people turned around, as you know. And I'd be
the last to dismiss out of hand the possibility that there really is a psychic locus up there in the woodsâyour family seems to be attracted to them.
the last to dismiss out of hand the possibility that there really is a psychic locus up there in the woodsâyour family seems to be attracted to them.
“But that doesn't change the fact that you went over the line here today, Truth. You don't belong here. You'll only get yourself in trouble, even if you don't get hurt.”
“Who are you to presume to make my decisions for me?” Truth said, very softly.
The challenge she had not meant to make hung between them in the air, vibrating with a life of its own. She could see Dylan go pale, but he did not retreat.
“I'm someone who loves you, Truth. I don't want to see you hurt,” he said evenly.
Too late, Dylan; too late, my love.
“You can't keep people you love in a bell jar,” Truth said slowly. “You have to let them choose their own paths, no matter how much it hurts. Do you think I
like
my sister Lightâalmost my only familyâchoosing to go off with a man who believes that everything I do is evil? I tell myself that it's her life, that Michael loves herâ”
like
my sister Lightâalmost my only familyâchoosing to go off with a man who believes that everything I do is evil? I tell myself that it's her life, that Michael loves herâ”
“But you don't really believe it,” Dylan finished. Truth shook her head.
“But I don't want to see you hurt,” Dylan repeated. “I still think it would be better if ⦔
He was wavering; Truth silenced him with a kiss. It made her feel almost as if she were betraying him. “I'm sorry,” she whispered against his neck. His body trembled as he held her.
Let him take it for an apology, instead of as an admission she could not give him one. Whatever promises she'd made by implication here tonight were ones she had no intention of keeping, and Dylan would find that out, eventually.
No matter the cost to her human heart, she had to stay here in Morton's Fork, and find someone to close the Wildwood Gate.
No matter the cost.
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