"If you're lying"-it said-"if you're trying to squirm your way out of this-"
"I'm not."
"Deliver him alive to us then..."
She wanted to weep with relief.
"...make him confess himself. And maybe we won't tear your soul apart."
ELEVEN
1
Rory stood in the hallway and stared at Julia, his Julia, the woman he had once sworn to have and to hold till death did them part. It had not seemed such a difficult promise to keep at the time. He had idolized her for as long as he could remember, dreaming of her by night and spending the days composing love poems of wild ineptitude to her. But things had changed, and he had learned, as he watched them change, that the greatest torments were often the subtlest. There had been times of late when he would have preferred a death by wild horses to the itch of suspicion that had so degraded his joy.
Now, as he looked at her standing at the bottom of the stairs, it was impossible for him to even remember how good things had once been. All was doubt and dirt.
One thing he was glad of: she looked troubled. Maybe that meant there was a confession in the air, indiscretions that she would pour out and that he would forgive her for in a welter of tears and understanding.
"You look sad," he said.
She hesitated, then said: "It's difficult, Rory."
"What is?"
She seemed to want to give up before she began.
"What is?" he pressed.
"I've so much to tell you."
Her hand, he saw, was grasping the banister so tightly the knuckles burned white. "I'm listening," he said. He would love her again, if she'd just be honest with him. "Tell me," he said.
"I think maybe...maybe it would be easier if I showed you..." she told him, and so saying, led him upstairs.
2
The wind that harried the streets was not warm, to judge by the way the pedestrians drew their collars up and their faces down. But Kirsty didn't feel the chill. Was it her invisible companion who kept the cold from her, cloaking her with that fire the Ancients had conjured to burn sinners in? Either that, or she was too frightened to feel anything.
But then that wasn't how she felt; she wasn't frightened. The feeling in her gut was far more ambiguous. She had opened a door-the same door Rory's brother had opened-and now she was walking with demons. And at the end of her travels, she would have her revenge. She would find the thing that had
torn her and tormented her, and make him feel the powerlessness that she had suffered. She would watch him squirm. More, she would enjoy it. Pain had made a sadist of her.
As she made her way along Lodovico Street, she looked round for a sign of the Cenobite, but he was nowhere to be seen. Undaunted, she approached the house. She had no plan in mind: there were too many variables to be juggled. For one, would Julia be there? And if so, how involved in all of this was she? Impossible to believe that she could be an innocent bystander, but perhaps she had acted out of terror of Frank; the next few minutes might furnish the answers. She rang the bell, and waited.
The door was answered by Julia. In her hand, a length of white lace.
"Kirsty," she said, apparently unfazed by her appearance. "It's late..."
"Where's Rory?" were Kirsty's first words. They hadn't been quite what she'd intended, but they came out unbidden.
"He's here," Julia replied calmly, as if seeking to soothe a manic child. "Is there something wrong?"
"I'd like to see him," Kirsty answered.
"Rory?"
"Yes..."
She stepped over the threshold without waiting for an invitation. Julia made no objection, but closed the door behind her.
Only now did Kirsty feel the chill. She stood in the hallway and shivered.
"You look terrible," said Julia plainly.
"I was here this afternoon," she blurted. "I saw what happened, Julia. I saw. "
"What was there to see?" came the reply; her poise was unassailed.
"You know."
"Truly I don't."
"I want to speak to Rory..."
"Of course," came the reply. "But take care with him, will you? He's not feeling very well."
She led Kirsty through to the dining room. Rory was sitting at the table; there was a glass of spirits at his hand, a bottle beside it. Laid across an adjacent chair was Julia's wedding dress. The sight of it prompted recognition of the lace swath in her hand: it was the bride's veil.
Rory looked much the worse for wear. There was dried blood on his face, and at his hairline. The smile he offered was warm, but fatigued.
"What happened...?" she asked him.
"It's all right now, Kirsty," he said. His voice barely aspired to a whisper. "Julia told me everything...and it's all right."
"No," she said, knowing that he couldn't possibly have the whole story.
"You came here this afternoon."
"That's right."
"That was unfortunate."
"You...you asked me..." She glanced at Julia, who was standing at the door, then back at Rory. "I did what I thought you wanted."
"Yes. I know. I know. I'm only sorry you were dragged into this terrible business."
"You know what your brother's done?" she said. "You know what he summoned?"
"I know enough," Rory replied. "The point is, it's over now."
"What do you mean?"
"Whatever he did to you, I'll make amends-"
"What do you mean, over?"
"He's dead, Kirsty."
("...deliver him alive, and maybe we won't tear your soul apart.')
"Dead?"
"We destroyed him, Julia and I. It wasn't so difficult. He thought he could trust me, you see, thought that blood was thicker than water. Well it isn't. I wouldn't suffer a man like that to live..."
She felt something twitch in her belly. Had the Cenobites got their hooks in her already, snagging the carpet of her bowels?
"You've been so kind, Kirsty. Risking so much, coming back here..."
(There was something at her shoulder. "Give me your souls " it said.)
"I'll go to the authorities, when I feel a little stronger. Try and find a way to make them understand..."
"You killed him?" she said.
"Yes."
"I don't believe it..." she muttered.
"Take her upstairs," Rory said to Julia. "Show her."
"Do you want to see?" Julia inquired.
Kirsty nodded and followed.
It was warmer on the landing than below, and the air greasy and gray, like filthy dishwater. The door to Frank's room was ajar. The thing that lay on the bare boards, in a tangle of torn bandaging, still steamed. His neck was clearly broken, head set askew on his shoulders. He was devoid of skin from head to foot.
Kirsty looked away, nauseated.
"Satisfied?" Julia asked.
Kirsty didn't reply, but left the room and stepped onto the landing. At her shoulder, the air was restless.
("You lost," something said, close by her.
"I know, " she murmured.)
The bell had begun to ring, tolling for her, surely; and a turmoil of wings nearby, a carnival of carrion birds. She hurried down the stairs, praying that she wouldn't be overtaken before she reached the door. If they tore her heart out, let Rory be spared the sight. Let him remember her strong, with laughter on her lips, not pleas.