“Welcome home,” Calesta greeted him.
His fragile hopes expired in an instant, smothered by the power of the demon’s presence; a cold and hungry hate took its place. The transition was so swift that it was physically stunning, and it was a long moment before Andrys could pull himself together enough to close the suite’s door, so that none might hear them. And an even longer moment before he could find his voice.
“What do you want?”
The demon chuckled coldly. “Hardly a suitable welcome for your ally.”
He drew in a deep breath, struggling for control. Trying to recover his image of the girl, his fragile hopes, anything of the last half hour ... but his effort was in vain. Such gentle emotions had no place in Calesta’s presence.
At last he stammered, “Why are you here?”
“You wanted instructions. I came to supply them.”
He dared to look up at the demon, to meet those inhuman eyes head-on. “Why now?” he challenged him. “I’ve called to you often enough. I’ve begged for instruction! Why come to me now, the one night I don’t need you?”
The demon hissed softly; the sound reminded Andrys of a snake about to strike. “You don’t need me?”
The threat behind Calesta’s words chilled him to the core. I could leave you alone forever. Then what would you have? Hurriedly he struggled to explain himself. “I didn’t mean ... it’s just ... tonight....”
The demon laughed; the harsh, grating sound made Andrys quail. “You poor fool! Is it the girl who inspires such courage? You found yourself a single night’s comfort and now the battle is over?” His voice was a jagged thing, that scraped Andrys’ skin like shards of glass. “And what do you think the Hunter will do when he finds out that his mortal enemy has fallen for a woman? Do you think really think he’ll allow you that comfort, once our battle is fully joined? Or any other? You’re a walking death sentence, Andrys Tarrant, and anyone you touch-anyone who touches you-will be felled by it. Or did you think that you could make war on the Hunter without him striking back?”
The room seemed to swirl about him. He reached for a chair and somehow managed to fall into it, heavily. His hands seemed numb; his heart was ice.
“Perhaps you’ve forgotten what manner of creature you’ve sworn to fight.” The demon paused. “Perhaps I should remind you.”
“No—”
Memories swirled about him, horrific images all too familiar. A hundred times more intense than what he had recalled in the restaurant, a thousand times more horrible. The dismembered head of Samiel Tarrant gazed down at him from its grisly throne, a sardonic smile twisting its lips. Dared to dream of love, did you? The bloodsoaked eyes narrowed in amusement. What makes think you’re worthy of loving anyone?
“Make it stop,” he begged. Shutting his eyes, trying to shut out the visions. Samiel staring at him. Betrise. All of them. “Please. Make it stop!”
The visions faded. His hands, white-knuckled, gripped the chair with painful pressure.
“I think we understand each other,” the demon assessed.
Shaken, he whispered hoarsely, “What do you want me to do?”
“You will go to the cathedral in the great square of Jaggonath. You will attend the services of your God. Pray with your fellows as Gerald Tarrant instructed, as if you intended to fulfill his misplaced vision.”
It seemed to Andrys that there must surely be more instructions, but the demon said no more. After a long moment of silence Andrys dared, “And then what?”
“That’s all. For now.”
“I don’t understand,” he protested weakly. “How will that hurt him?”
The demon hissed sharply. “Do you question me now? Or doubt my plans? A thousand elements must all be orchestrated to perfection in order to bring the Hunter down, and you’re just one of them! Go where I tell you. Do what I say. Your own hand will bring about Gerald Tarrant’s downfall, I promise you.” He paused. “Or isn’t that enough for you?”
He lowered his head, lacking the strength-or was it the courage?-to argue. “It’s enough,” he whispered. “I’ll go.”
“Every sabbath. You understand? I want you to be seen there. One of the faithful.”
“I understand.”
The gift came then, inserted into his brain with sure demonic skill, the ultimate reward for obedience: visions of vengeance that flooded his soul, catching him up in a whirlwind of anticipated triumph. He fought it for a moment, clinging to the gentleness of his former mood like a lifeline—and then it swept him away and he was lost in it, lost in a hatred and a blood lust and a hunger for revenge so desperate that he shook as it swept through him. It lasted forever and yet it could not last long enough, and when it was over he collapsed back into the chair, shaking from the sudden withdrawal.
“Someday those dreams will become reality,” the demon promised. “Think of the pleasure of that moment! Worth more than a little sacrifice now, I should think.”
He said nothing. He had no words. The memory of the girl was hazy now, unclear, its outlines obscured by clouds of blood. Had he imagined that he might love? Where was there room for love in this life of his, lived in the Hunter’s shadow?
“There is something else,” the demon warned him.
“What?” he choked out. What more than this?
“He’ll never kill you because you’re the last living Tarrant. That’s what makes you capable of striking back at him; under any other circumstances such a move would be suicidal.” He paused meaningfully. “But what would happen if another Tarrant were born? Maybe not one to whom you gave the name, but one who might, in time, lay claim to it.”
“But I never-” he began.
And then what the demon was saying hit him. It hit him hard.
“I think that you should be careful where you spill your seed, Andrys Tarrant. Because the moment you impregnate a woman-any woman—the Hunter will have no more reason to spare you.” In a chilling tone he added, “And I doubt very much that he would be merciful in killing you, after you so flagrantly defied him.”
Andrys shut his eyes tightly; fear churned coldly in his gut. Dear God in Heaven! how many chances had he already taken, never thinking, never realizing.. .. Oh, he had always been careful, but sex was a gambler’s game and he knew it; sooner or later even the best contraceptive might betray you. And if so ... if so ...
“I see that my meaning is clear,” the demon approved.
Something landed in his lap, startling him; it was a moment before he could muster the physical control to take it up, and even then his fingers seemed numb. A small object, that rattled when it moved. Cool glass, with a rubber stopper. Pills.
“I thought you might need them,” Calesta said dryly. “After all, we have a long battle ahead of us. I would hate to see you lose your nerve.”
The coldness in the room faded; the demon was gone. Andrys gripped the bottle in his hand, feeling hot tears squeeze from his eyes. What color were the pills, what essence was their magic? It didn’t matter. They all brought forgetfulness, one way or another. They were all ways of escaping this world, with its inescapable nightmares. The only escape there was, other than death.
His hand clenched tightly around the bottle, Andrys Tarrant wept.
10
The Patriarch dreamed of war.
... hundreds on the mountainside, maybe thousands, men and women, priests and layfolk, and the energy that arises from them ripples in the air overhead, like heat ...