Night Lost

"You are Legion," he whispered.

The scarred-face one stepped forward, his eyes intent.

"We are from America," the Frenchman was saying.

"I know what you are, and from where you come." Leary backed away. "Demons. Demons from the abyss." He looked around wildly. "This is holy ground. You cannot come here." His voice rose to a shout. "You trespass in the house of God!"

"Be calm, Father," the Frenchman said. "We will not harm you or your church."

Leary turned to run and found the scarred-face giant in front of him. Someone screamed in horror and fear before shouting in Latin—was that his own voice?—and then a heavy hand landed on Leary's neck, and the air grew thick with honeysuckle. He tried again to run, but his body had turned to stone.

The scarred-face man's cool amber eyes moved to look past him. "I have him, master."

Hell-eyed demon. She sent him. Leary began to shake.

The Frenchman came closer. "There is nothing to fear." He placed his hand against Leary's throat.

Heat poured through the priest's body, burning away the honeysuckle that gripped him and the sourness of his own sweat.

Minutes, hours, an eternity later, the hands lifted, taking with them many things. All that had been muddled now had been made clear. The Mother, the Demon King, D'Orio, the order. The solution was so simple that Leary almost wept with relief.

Kill the women. All the women.

He smiled at his savior, the Frenchman. "How can I help you, my lord?"

Nick knew it was ridiculous letting one bad dream get to her, but no matter how hard she tried she couldn't forget what he'd said.

You were there. Come back to me.

He was at the chateau. Or in the village. Or maybe back in Paris. Wherever he was, she'd been there. He knew it. She knew it. She'd felt it.

Or it was wishful thinking, she knew nothing, and the dreams were finally getting to her in the worst way.

Nick made a bargain with herself: She'd go out to the chateau one more time and see what, if anything, the old guy was hiding. If it was nothing, she'd laugh it off and be on her way. If her dream guy was there, being held prisoner, she'd set him free.

Either way she'd blow this village like a bad taco stand tomorrow.

Nick felt certain that after the little lesson she'd taught Bernard, he wouldn't come after her, but she spent the day in her room updating her computer anyway. A few years back she'd scanned and transferred her map onto the system, and now marked off the places she'd been with a software program designed for bikers who enjoyed riding off the beaten path. The flags told her it was time to move on to Provence. After that, she'd probably head back to England and lie low for the winter.

She glanced at the little painting the baker in Paris had given her. Unless I find him, and he turns out to be one of them. Then what do I do ?

Nick switched off the laptop and for a moment pressed the heels of her hands against her dry eyes. "Quit thinking about it and get busy."

As she packed up the tools she thought she might need, she mentally reviewed the first and only trip she'd made out to the chateau. According to the villagers, Father Claudio was living in the cottage at the south corner of the property near the road; she'd do better to come in from the north. That meant riding at least ten miles out of the way, but she could park the bike out of sight in the woods and hike her way in.

Once she was inside the chapel, she'd check out the door behind the altar. It didn't lead into the collapsed side of the house, and the chapel's outer wall on that end was large enough to accommodate only a six-by-six-foot section. Based on her knowledge of old architecture, Nick was betting the door led to either a closet or a stairwell to a basement level.

She watched the sunset from her window before dressing in her newest black T-shirt, jeans, and leather jacket. She carried the tools she'd stowed in her gym bag in one hand and her helmet in the other, and made her way down the back stairs, watching to see that the way was clear before she slipped out through the inn's back door.

She'd left her bike behind the innkeeper's garden shed, where she could get to it easily but where it wouldn't be seen by the locals. As motorcycles went, hers was a mongrel: a twenty-five-year-old stock BMW GS out of which over the years she had torn the rotors, the transmission, and most of the electrical system. Removing all the decals and detailing, and spray-painting black the aluminum panniers, in which she carried her gear, made the bike less flashy and therefore less memorable.

Nick would have preferred invisible, but no one had come up with stealth tech for motorcycles yet.

BMW bike suppliers were sometimes hard to come by, especially in the backwater parts of Europe, so she kept a small stock of replacement parts in one of the rear boxes. The other she used for her clothes and tools; whatever else she carried with her had to fit in her panniers, tank bag, backpack, or in her pockets.

It was a mutt of a bike, too ugly to appeal to thieves, and one that would have made her stepdad, Malcolm, proud. He had been tearing down and rebuilding old motorcycles since his teens; once he had discovered how much Nick loved messing around with tools he had made her his apprentice.

We'll make a proper grease monkey out of you yet, girl.

She unlocked one of the panniers and took out the wallet tucked inside. She carried a dummy wallet she'd stuffed with a handful of euros, some expired credit cards, and a condom. For some reason, the condom always convinced thieves and muggers that it was real.

Her real wallet, concealed in the false bottom of the pannier, contained a roll of traveler's checks, the keys to her caches of money and passports in safety-deposit boxes all over Europe, a card with a list of phone numbers to reliable fences, another ten fake IDs, and a photo of her mom and Malcolm, smiling and happy on their wedding day.

Whenever things got very bad, Nick always reached for the photo first.

After strapping her gym bag to the back of her seat with a stretch cord, she climbed on, started the motor, and listened to it idle. The bike had been running smoothly since she'd left Paris, but the thought of breaking down on the side of a road no one ever used didn't appeal to her. Satisfied by the engine's even chugging, she kicked up the center stand and drove up onto the road behind the inn.

Anyone seeing her leave the village would think she was headed out to ride through the vineyards, not cut through the farm roads to sneak up on the local haunted chateau.

The stars glittered in the clear black sky by the time Nick reached the north edge of St. Valereye. Gnats and mosquitoes rose out of the grass as she wheeled the bike into some woody shrubs, so she kept her gloves on and her helmet visor down.

The only light Nick could see was a faint glow coming from the old man's cottage windows. It was not constant, but flickered, as if it came from fire or candlelight. She resisted the temptation to go over and peek through the windows to see if Father Claudio was up and about; she'd make a racket walking through the grass and weeds. She secured the bike to a tree—habit more than fear of thieves—and carried her bag out to the edge of the tree line. From there she'd have to cross several hundred yards of overgrown weeds to get to the chapel.

Don't run, Nick thought as she trekked across the neglected lawn. Tiny black crickets scattered with every step she took, but their chirps masked some of the crackle and shush of her passage through the grass. Almost there.

The outside doors to the chapel had been chained and padlocked, something they hadn't been the last time she'd come here. She set down her bag to take out her bolt cutters, and neatly clipped one link in the center of the chain, where she could later use a tie wrap to hold it together without it looking obvious. After she glanced back at the cottage and listened for a moment, she slipped the chain off, picked up her bag, and stepped inside.

A dark cloud swallowed her.

It took Nick a minute to register that she was standing in a swarm of flies, not bees or wasps. Thankful for her helmet visor, she closed the door behind her and placed the chain and lock on a pew where she would see it on the way out.

The chapel appeared to be as infested as Father Claudio had claimed, but as Nick moved forward toward the altar area, the flies seemed to disperse. Another, shiny new padlock had been installed on the door at the back, the one she was sure led to a hidden space, Apparently her visit had rattled the old man enough to make him want to lock up the place.

If he'd wanted to keep out tourists, why not install locks in the first place? Why this sudden urge to secure an abandoned ruin that scared everyone within fifty miles of the place?

The sensation of knowing something hidden lay nearby, waiting to be found, became overwhelming. Maybe he's not keeping things out, but keeping them in.

After checking on the flies, which were still swarmed by the entry door, Nick took off her helmet. The odor of dust, mold, and rotting wood made her wrinkle her nose briefly, until she caught a trace of something else. If she hadn't been standing in the middle of the chapel, she'd have sworn she was back out in the trees.

Whatever it was, the sharp, resinous, pungent scent—almost like green wood after it had been cut—seemed to grow stronger as she walked up to the altar space. She breathed in deeply, and snapshots from childhood flashed through her mind. Swags her mother had bundled, decorated, and hung over every door. The big tree Malcolm had hauled home in the Rover every December to set up next to the fireplace.

Evergreen.

Nick employed her bolt cutters again and cut off the padlock. She pocketed the ruined lock and eased open the door. It creaked so loudly that she winced, but then a blast of dusty air came out at her at a strange angle. She took out her flashlight and switched it on.

The world's ricketiest-looking wooden stairs curved down and disappeared into a well of blackness.

Nick listened carefully, but there was no sound coming from below, not so much as a cricket chirp. She angled the flashlight to illuminate the dusty, cobwebbed stone walls before stepping inside.

The scent of Christmas morning drifted up to greet her.

Chapter 8

Dark, silent, and filthy basements were some of Nick's least favorite places to explore. Nothing good was ever left behind in them, and when they weren't regularly cleaned and used, lots of unpleasant things liked to move in and set up house. Snakes. Spiders. Squatters. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">