Chapter
10: Those Who Wait
Father had always had an instinctive fear of the dark; as a young man during the endless hours of the Blitz, the enforced, constant night had made him claustrophobic and many years later, in the tunnels, he had kept a small candle burning, regardless of the risks. Several cramped hours as Paracelsus’s prisoner hadn’t helped the feeling and now, as he followed Angela’s light, even steps, he took deep measured breaths and thought of home. The darkness pushed in and he breathed
against it, forcing it away. “You all right?” Quinn murmured (off to his right,
he thought, but it was difficult to tell.)
“Yes,”
he said, as quietly. He found himself wishing for the solidness of Vincent’s
presence, for his son’s unerring awareness. It was difficult to be afraid around
Vincent, though only Father (and Catherine, he supposed) understood just how
much of an act his son’s pose of restrained calm really was.
Quinn
clasped his hand. “You’re really not okay. Your pulse is hammering like a
jackhammer.” A pause, then: “Father, are you claustrophobic?”
It
was a difficult thing to admit, given their usual living conditions. “Yes. No.
Sometimes,” he allowed.
“We
should stop,” Quinn began, but Father cut her off. “No. We need to keep moving,
Quinn. If Lucas and the others should find us—”
Quinn
sighed. “All right. But—”
Angela’s
voice carried a whispered urgency. “Hush. I hear something.”
***
“There’s
someone up ahead,” Vincent murmured as they stopped. He tilted his head
slightly. “Seven people.”
“Not
Father and the others then,” Angus said as quietly. “Scouting party?”
“Perhaps,”
Vincent replied, uneasy. There was very little noise for such a large group and
that alone was reason for concern. If he’d heard seven people, there could
easily be twice as many that he hadn’t heard.
“Can
you see anything?” Angus asked.
The
pathways and corridors around them were cloaked in shades of grey; Vincent knew
this looked like pitch darkness to the others. “No. But they’re not far away.”
He looked around the cavern, trying to find a place where they could hide.
Perhaps in the rocky arch over the left corridor...
A
child’s whimper echoed in the stillness. Vincent glanced at Angus and Mary, saw
they hadn’t heard the noise. “There’s a young child, a baby, with them.”
Mary
shook her head. “That’s no scouting party. Refugees, maybe? Though I don’t know
if---”
Vincent tapped on the rock---pipecode for “silence”---and Mary stopped talking. His sense of Father told him, inexplicably, that Father and the others were coming closer. They’re escaping, he realized, and there are other people
with them.
***
Catherine
stretched and yawned. “That good, is it?” Marisol asked dryly.
Marisol
looked tired, her black hair escaping from the fraying strands of her braid. “I
was about to ask you the same,” Catherine told her. “Everything all right?”
“Sure,”
Marisol said, “if you count a baby who won’t sleep as ‘okay.’” She yawned
hugely. “Miguel is with him now. I have it in mind to take a nap.”
“You
should,” Catherine agreed.
“I
can’t,” Marisol replied. “Miguel has to go into work soon and he can’t drive a
bus half-asleep.”
The
waiting was the hardest, Catherine had heard before in other contexts, but here
was something she could do. “I could take him for a couple of hours at
least,” she said.
Marisol
smiled. “Bless you for offering, and I will take you up on it.”
Catherine rose and followed Marisol to the chamber she shared with Miguel and their infant son, Benjamin. It was slightly larger than most of the chambers she’d seen, but the pale rock walls—evidence of a new chamber carved for Benjamin—accounted for some of that, as did Marisol’s loom, resting against the opposite wall, a brightly colored tapestry half-finished.
Miguel was pacing the interior of the chamber, trying to soothe his fretful son. “Mijo, mijo,” he murmured, but his voice was nearly lost in the boy’s fretful wailing.
“Catherine,
this is Benjamin,” Marisol said dryly. “Miguel, you’re off duty.”
“I
don’t know what’s wrong,” he said. “He’s fed, he’s dry, he’s just—”
“Being
a baby, I think,” Marisol replied over the noise. “Don’t worry. Catherine’s
going to help me get some sleep—why don’t you go get something to eat before
you go to work. I’ll get her filled in on what he needs.”
Benjamin
was passed from his mother to his father and Miguel gave a grateful smile. “Gracias,
Catherine.”
***
At
the whimpering from her youngest son, Angela stopped. “Give him to me,” she
hissed in a whisper.
Rhys
obediently handed the boy over. “What are you— oh,” he said. If it hadn’t been dark
as a tomb, Father was certain he’d have seen the man’s blush light up the
corridors.
Father’s eyes had adjusted somewhat to the darkness but he thought Angela smiled. “What, you had a better idea?”
Rhys shook his head. “No, not at all. I’d have done it myself but the plumbing’s a bit lacking.”
She
might have chuckled. “Use what you got, I always say.” She tilted her head.
“Whoever else is out there, they’re coming closer.”
“Are
they…dangerous?” Father couldn’t keep from asking.
“If
they are, there’s not much we can do,” Angela replied reasonably. “I didn’t
have time to get the guns from the armory. But only a fool would fire into the
dark.”
Father
withheld his opinions of the relative intelligence of Lucas’s group and said
instead, “Very well. What do you suggest? Do we go forward or backtrack or…?”
“Staying
here isn’t an option,” Quinn said. “They’re coming closer.”
***
Vincent
stayed in his listening position—eyes closed, head tilted—for several seconds.
He could feel the concern from the others, the uncertainty arcing through him,
but couldn’t spare the attention to deal with it. There were two groups
approaching, from different directions, and he needed every bit of awareness to
assess the situation. He breathed deeply, unleashing the hunter’s instincts;
Catherine had taught him that his abilities were not something to be feared,
but understood and accepted, and trusting in her counsel, he loosed the reins.
The
hunter, the Other, his hidden self—he knew precisely who was coming. A
group of seven—Father’s group—and another, whose scent and steps he didn’t
recognize. Five men, one woman, and the woman was not…entirely unknown. The
vaguest scent of sulfur, of something evil and grasping…the vile impostor
unmasked…the mask…the mask…the maker of the mask…
There
was more too, the faint heavier metallic smells of gunpowder and unwashed
bodies. They have guns. They are armed. Vincent opened his eyes. “Father
and the others will be here soon. They…are not alone.”
Angus
rolled his eyes. “Of course they aren’t. Why would anything be easy?”
Mary
shook her head. “How many, Vincent?”
“Six. With weapons,” he answered. “There are few places we can retreat to, if they start firing.”
“So
we’re sitting ducks. Great,” Angus put in. “Explain to me why Father doesn’t
allow us actual weapons again?”
It
was obviously a rhetorical question and Vincent didn’t answer. Instead, he
turned to them. “Go. Send a message. Tell the others—”
“No,”
Mary said firmly. “We’re not going. We’re not leaving you alone to face this,
Vincent.” She touched his arm gently and the warm bubbling of her emotions was
soothing. She was the only mother he had ever known. “Not ever again.”
***
Walk.
Turn.
Sway.
Walk.
Turn.
Sway.
Catherine
walked the hall outside Marisol and Miguel’s chamber with Benjamin in her arms,
the baby’s hands clutched in the collar of her blouse. He was still fussy, but
his wailing had died down to an occasional whimper, soothed by the
movement. “Hey Catherine, who’s your new
friend?” Valerie called as she entered the corridor. “Ah, young Benjamin. Good,
I’m glad Marisol finally asked for some help.”
She
came closer and Catherine saw Leah in her patchwork sling, which had clearly
been repurposed from at least one backpack. “How’s your baby doing?” Catherine
asked.
“About
as well as Benjamin is,” Valerie said ruefully. “I finally got her to sleep and
Cullen said to wake him in a couple of hours and he’ll take the rest of the
night.” She yawned. “I’ll let him, too.”
Catherine
chuckled. “I’d imagine so.” One of Benjamin’s hands had clenched in her hair;
wincing, she gently she unwound the hair from his fist. “Has there been any
word at all?”
Valerie
bit her lip. “That’s one of the reasons I was looking for you. Pascal stumbled
into the commons a few minutes ago for the strongest coffee William makes. He
said there was a…ghost of a signal on the pipes, something in an old code we’ve
abandoned, but he thought it came from Lucas’s community.”
“Was
he able to translate the message?”
Valerie
nodded. “Not really. The message broke off but…” She trailed off and Catherine
thought how rare it was to see Valerie broken out of her usual serenity.
“Catherine, are you at all familiar with the concept of signatures in pipe
code?”
“Not
really,” she replied. “Vincent taught me pipe code in Connecticut, but I don’t
think we got that far.”
“You
probably…had other things to keep you busy, I’m sure,” Valerie replied with a
wink. “Basically, everybody knows the same pipe code, but there are subtle
differences. After a while, you get to the point where you can tell who’s
tapping without knowing who sent the message.”
“I
bet Pascal knows everybody,” Catherine said as she tucked the blankets closer
around the baby against the perpetual tunnel drafts.
“You’re
not kidding,” Valerie agreed with a laugh. “Sometimes I think he knows who’s
tapping before they even start the message.” She sobered. “Catherine, Pascal
thinks it may have been sent by somebody who used to be one of Paracelsus’s
followers. Have you heard of…a woman named Tamara?”
Catherine
shook her head. “No. Should I have?”
Valerie
stared down at her daughter and Catherine had the momentary impression that she
didn’t want to meet her eyes. Finally, Valerie spoke. “When Vincent was
recovering from being so ill…”
“Yes?”
“A
bunch of us went to the remnants of Paracelsus’s community.” She met
Catherine’s gaze and there was steel in her hazel eyes which hadn’t been there
before. “I’ll be honest with you. We intended to drive his followers out of
here permanently. By whatever means necessary.”
“I…see,”
Catherine replied, stunned. “I had no idea.”
“You
weren’t supposed to,” Valerie said. “You had enough to worry about. I don’t
think we even told Father, but….he knew when we came back exactly where we’d
been. Never said a word to us.”
“And
you encountered Tamara?” Catherine surmised.
“Yes…and
no. You’ll recall Paracelsus had a particular gift with masks?”
Catherine
shuddered, remembering Winterfest and Lou, and the oh-so-precise imitation of
Father which had driven Vincent over the edge into madness. “Yes. Tamara was
his mask-maker?”
“That’s what we were…told by one of Parcelsus’s cronies,” Valerie said, and Catherine had no doubt of the circumstances of that particular confession. “Tamara was, of course, long gone by the time we were taken to her workshop. She had masks, half-finished, and some which were nearly done, all over the place—on the walls, on stands, everywhere.”
“Did
you…recognize anyone?”
Valerie
snorted. “Who didn’t I recognize? You. Pascal. Cullen. She hadn’t finished theirs, but she was…really close to finishing yours.”
Benjamin
had grown heavy in her arms; Catherine rubbed his back and he made a small
squeaking noise and subsided into sleep. “That’s disturbing, to say the least.
How could she expect to fool anyone with that?”
“You’re
asking me to explain that kind of crazy?” Valerie shook her head. “I have no
idea. But it was plenty scary enough seeing it.”
Catherine
certainly couldn’t disagree. “And now Pascal thinks she’s resurfaced?”
“You
know Pascal. If he says it’s possible, you can believe it. She’s back.”
***
Father
looked askance as Angela stopped. “What is it?”
“We’re
trapped,” she admitted. “There are two groups approaching from opposite
directions, and we can’t go back.” She didn’t bother lowering her voice; there
was, as Father acknowledged, no point if they had no place to hide.
“One
of the groups is likely Vincent’s,” Quinn put in. “That means we outnumber the
other group…right?”
“They
have guns,” Angela reminded them. “Most likely, anyway. It wouldn’t occur to
Lucas and…her…to try and reason without them.”
Her, Father
mused, their so-far nameless phantom. “Who is she, Angela?”
“She wouldn’t tell me her name,” Angela responded. “ ‘Names have power,’ so she says.” She blew out her breath. “My granny on the rez used to say the same thing.”
A
bolt of ice shot up Father’s spine. Paracelsus’s own words, when he’d abandoned
the name of John Pater in what felt like an eternity ago. Someone very close
to Paracelsus, then. “Is she an older woman?”
“Yeah,
I guess so. Of course, I haven’t been
around her much to say.”
Father
glanced at her, at the children listening so raptly, and decided his questions
could wait for another time. Angela seemed to think the same thing and held up
her hand again. There was only the sound of the baby’s soft snoring and the
rustle of clothing as they breathed. “We should move forward,” Angela
announced. “Sitting here waiting isn’t going to accomplish much.”
He
breathed deeply himself, hoping against hope they had not come all this way to
be injured or killed now. “Very well.”
Click here for Chapter 11...
Click here for Chapter 11...
2 comments:
Sounds like we've got a confrontation coming up! I'm so glad Vincent's party is standing by him, rather than taking the easy way out and letting him handle it alone. Vincent needs to stop thinking of himself as the automatic sacrifice when things get dangerous. More please!
Regards, Lindariel
Can't wait for the next chapter!
Post a Comment