Chapter 34

From the demon-hunters, Baron had pieced together most of what had happened.

Yalilan had led a party to last night's altar, hoping to map out the blood fiend's range of movement and likely escape routes. Instead, at the exact spot where Andre's group had last seen the creature vanish, they found it gnawing on stolen sheep. The fight was brief; Yalilan subdued the fiend with ease. The hunters were ready to execute it on the spot when the creature shifted into human form— the very likeness of the Baroness whom Yalilan had once seen at the manor.

"The Viscountess confronted the Baron, sir," the hunter reported. "We've confirmed the blood fiend was the Baroness in disguise. The Baron himself has been arrested for suspected collusion with fiends and is now locked up in Mondra's jail."

When the hunters departed, Baron remained where he was, brow furrowed. Instinct told him the case had taken a grotesque twist somewhere, yet he could not pinpoint the turn.

Blue-Blood Sect... Lamb-Blood Nunnery... blood fiends... virgins and prostitutes... the penance of farm-wives... the silent deaths of unknown girls... and those cryptic scrawls in the Baron's cellar. The neat theories in Baron's mind collapsed the moment the Baroness revealed herself. Still, the blood fiend had been captured and the Baron imprisoned; even if Baron unearthed further proof, it would only feel like gilding the lily.

Outside, a noisy commotion rose. Baron glanced out and his eyes narrowed. Another crowd had surrounded the little novice nun. Among them, golden-haired Sevi— face wrapped, Iron Thorn badge on his chest— stood out starkly. The Iron Thorn Gang had come for revenge.

Baron needed only a heartbeat to guess their motive. The little nun had stayed with him; when direct vengeance failed, Sevi had turned to anyone connected with Baron. Black anger welled up, a craving to bite and tear.

Kill him... kill him...

He had spared Sevi before partly because he still knew too little about this world, partly to keep Zod and Macquire clear of local grudges. And truth be told, a twenty-first-century everyman had never killed anyone. Yet these people kept coming, again and again...

He thought back to the day he crossed from the Outside— the inexplicable sentencing, the escape, the endless flight— and a sudden rage flared in his chest like black smoke before a volcano erupts.

Damn it, even a decent man will flip the table if you push him hard enough!!

Baron vaulted out the window and, in full view of the demon-hunters, slammed Sevi beneath his boot exactly as before. A few more savage kicks doubled the man up, then the revolver was out and pressed to Sevi's dazed temple. Just as his finger tightened on the trigger, he turned to the little nun. "They didn't hurt you, did they?"

The little nun stared, then stammered, "Mister L... this gentleman never laid a hand on me. He only asked the way out of Mondra."

Baron: "......"

Next time, speak up sooner.

Pinned beneath Baron's boot for the second time, a bewildered Sevi snarled at his men, "Beat that bastard into mush!"

He hesitated, then— perhaps sensing the first order lacked bite— added, "Cut the bastard into eight pieces!"

The henchmen surged.

Baron hoisted the little nun over his shoulder and ran.

Two crossings into different worlds had not only shown him wonders; they had made him an expert at fleeing. Sevi, propped up by his men, roared, "After them!"

"This way, Mister L..."

With the little nun draped over his back, she served as living map, guiding him through Mondra like a slippery eel. Soon Sevi's pursuit was a distant clamor. They reached the edge of town and ran straight into a column of demon-hunters readying horses. Zod and Macquire— still bandaged— waved. Hunters healed fast: yesterday bedridden and spoon-fed by nuns, today lively as crickets.

"What's going on?" Baron asked, eyeing the long line. Looked as though Yalilan was mustering troops.

"The Baroness confessed there's a second blood fiend," Macquire said. "At midnight tonight, Prol will fog over and enter a retrograde day— fiends grow bolder. Lady Yalilan wants to deploy around the town, both to keep the fog out and to bait and trap the other fiend."

Trap another blood fiend?

Baron recalled last night's ritual and the notes he had read that morning: blood drew blood fiends irresistibly... wait. A chill ran down his spine. Last night the creature had lunged straight at Yalilan, been wounded, and fled— yet never once glanced at the dripping altar.

Two blood fiends... if there were two, everything made sense.

Behind them rose the clatter of hooves and voices: Sevi had caught up. Baron bade Zod and Macquire farewell, hoisted the little nun again, and ran.

They ended up outside Mondra, in a small village. The little nun led him through winding lanes to an oak cottage. She and her younger sister Cecy had moved here after that night, leaving Wiesenmoor Village. Cecy was not yet old enough to become a novice, so Sister Theresa had found them this small house— perfect for hiding from Sevi.

The door opened from inside; Cecy was home. Baron leaned against the door, listening until the sound of pursuit faded, then slowly let out a breath and turned to leave.

The little nun glanced at the sky. "It's late, Mister L. Won't you stay for supper?"

Baron shook his head. He still meant to ask the demon-hunters about the blood fiend and the coming fog. Hunger gnawed at him again, but now was not the time.

A small hand tugged his leg. Little Cecy hugged his thigh, soft face upturned, eyes glistening.

Baron sighed, lifted her, smoothed her hair, pinched her cheek. "Why would a god want to destroy such a lovely child?" he murmured. "Just because He can't hear prayers?"

Sister Theresa had told him: Cecy could not speak.

...

After supper, Cecy sat in a corner drawing with a charred stick. Baron glanced over. "She likes to draw?"

"Ever since Grandfather took us in," the little nun said softly. "Sometimes she draws and cries, then falls asleep." She looked at Cecy with gentle pride. "Grandfather says she'll be a great artist one day."

Grandfather... Baron had meant to ask. "Is the village chief really your and your sister's grandfather by blood?"

"No," the little nun said. "Cecy and I aren't related. Grandfather adopted us both."

Not by blood...

Baron rubbed his chin. "Did you become a nun at the Crimson Cathedral because Grandfather mistreated you?"

She shook her head. "Grandfather is very kind. We just didn't want to trouble him."

"Trouble him?"

She hesitated. "People in Wiesenmoor think outsiders are bad luck, especially the village women. They say Cecy is a devil child who will destroy the village when she grows up."

Destroy the village? Had they adopted Godzilla?

Baron caught the odd note in her words. "But you were both adopted. Why do they single Cecy out as a devil?"

"I don't know... maybe because she can't speak and seems strange. But she's a good child. Grandfather said so too."

When she spoke, her face glowed with a happiness he had never seen on someone so young. She looked barely twelve, yet spoke of a girl only a little younger as "the child."

Prol, it seemed, was darker than he had imagined.

"Grandfather said most children hold out their hands for candy. Only Cecy reaches out to wipe away tears."

Olivia smiled. "Cecy isn't a devil. She's an angel."

An angel with the fate of a devil... Baron's heart stirred. He remembered the chocolate coins in his ring. He took two: one for the little nun, who gasped that it was too costly until he assured her it was only chocolate; the other he carried to Cecy, breaking it in half and placing it in her lap.

Then he froze.

Not because Cecy pushed half the chocolate back into his hand, but because of the drawings scrawled on the floor in charcoal— lines writhing like snakes yet forming a clear outline: a human figure with a faint flower-shaped mark on one shoulder.

"That's Cecy's memory of her mother," the little nun said softly. "All she remembers."

Baron said nothing. He had fallen into a murky clarity. Fragments flashed across his mind: blood fiend, ritual, Baron, cellar, scrawls, farm-wives' penance, the girl called a devil, the women returning at dusk with hoes over their shoulders...

Slowly, inexorably, the shards began to fit.

Baron sat with Cecy on his lap, a thought both wondrous and terrifying taking shape in his mind like a series of hanging pictures: cellar, medicine for pregnant women, children raised, virgins slain by devils, blood offered to a nameless god.

He trembled.

A tide of grief, horror, and fury rose in him— the feeling of a condemned man seeing the headsman's axe rise, hearing the enemy's roar, smelling the blood of loved ones on the air.

Betrayal.

Cecy, sensing his mood, babbled and patted his face. Unconsciously, in despair and wrath, he whispered again and again, "God... damn Him."

The little novice nun shuddered, not because of the man's blasphemous words.

What made her blood run cold was the sight of Constantine's eyes after he spoke—a glint of gold flared within his pupils, like a shattered flame dying and then reigniting.

The door burst open. The maid Sheila, panting for breath, blurted out:

"Mister L... I finally found you. The blood fiend's trail has been discovered in a village more than fifty li from Mondra. The Viscountess asked me to inquire whether you will ride with us."

Having delivered the message, she lingered expectantly in the doorway, as though waiting for Baron's answer.

Behind her lurked the boy who once loved to tug her braids—"the rascal Al"—his face now wrapped in bandages. He crept forward on tiptoe, eyes fixed on Baron with a complicated gaze.

"No."

To the surprise of everyone present, Baron declined Yalilan's invitation.

He stroked Cecy's small cheek and said quietly, "I have something important to attend to. Please convey my regrets to Lady Yalilan."