Megan gasped, her hand tightening on Nick’s arm. Behind the servants were—demons. Not demons as she’d come to know them, but the demons of legend and nightmare. Red scaly skin peeked out from beneath hooded black capes that dissolved into the smoke. Horns curved into the air over their heads.
Worst of all were the faces, shiny and white, expressionless—masks, she realized. China masks. Some of the features looked familiar.
“Sorry,” Nick whispered. “I should have warned you about the masks.”
She didn’t answer. The blank artificial faces towering over the crowd transfixed her. If they were on stilts—and she imagined they must be—they were obscured by the smoke.
“The masks are ancestors. All the Gretnegs are cast. They attend the funeral, see? To welcome one of their number to death.”
Megan didn’t bother to hide her shiver.
The last one had a “traditional” demon face, with a hooked nose and cruelly twisted lips. His mask seemed to float above his head, gleaming white and pale. Templeton Black’s mask, younger, thinner, but undoubtedly Black.
She glanced at Rocturnus, uncharacteristically silent through this service. His little mouth hung slightly open. “Roc?”
His eyes came back into focus. “Yes?”
“Are you okay?”
“That was beautiful,” he said. “We’ve never done something so elaborate. You don’t even have a mask.”
“Oh God.”
“What? You should have one, I mean, what if—”
“I don’t want to talk about this.”
Would she have a funeral like this one day? Would her body, old and wrinkled—hopefully—be displayed like this? Who would walk behind her?
“Why? We should—”
She shuddered. “Not now, Roc.” Nick was leading her anyway, to join the line of demons following the procession.
“Keep hold of my arm,” he said. A few quiet voices rose around them as her feet fell into the rhythm of the drumbeats. Heat flared from the torches to play over her skin as they made their slow way past. “I think the floor’s going to get pretty rough.”
“Where are we going?”
“Into the catacombs,” he said. “Into the dungeon.”
Ahead of them the darkness seen through the doorway loomed.
Chapter 19
They walked down the ramp forever, it seemed, until the muscles in Megan’s legs started to ache and she had to give up her pride and grip Nick’s arm with both hands to keep from stumbling. At least now she understood why Greyson had chosen him as her escort. She might be embarrassed by their last meeting, but at least she wasn’t clinging to a stranger.
The uneven stone floor gritted under her feet as they walked, still in time to the drumbeat, the parade winding down the tunnel like a snake dancing to a charmer’s flute.
Turn, then turn, then turn again. Down they went, until the torches along the walls no longer put out enough warmth to keep Megan from shivering, until the walls were damp and the air smelled like the inside of a well. She couldn’t even estimate how far down they were, and yet they kept walking, the drumbeat moving them forward as inexorably as if they were an army marching to their death.
“We’re almost there,” Nick murmured. “At least I think we are.”
Megan didn’t reply. They’d hit a particularly sticky patch; she stumbled, grateful for him beside her but feeling like an idiot just the same.
Finally they reached the end of the path. A room opened before them, cavernous and dark, with greenish bracken decorating the walls and a chill Megan couldn’t shake off. From the ceiling dangled the largest chandelier she’d ever seen, its arms stretching like a pale, bony spider twenty feet in each—oh God. It was a bony spider. Human bones, their white long faded to mellow ivory, like old pearls in the flickering light. The center was formed entirely of skulls, stacked on top of each other. More skulls decorated the ends of the arms, each with a fat, glowing candle stuck in the crown.
The catafalque had been placed near what Megan guessed was the back of the room; an enormous golden urn dominated it, so big she could have lain down and gone to sleep inside it had she wanted to. Even if she’d been tired she wouldn’t have.
The rest of the procession stood and watched them enter. Greyson seemed deep in conversation with Templeton’s widow. It struck Megan that the woman was losing everything in this moment, her husband and her position, and her heart ached a little bit. To be a Gretneg was to reach the pinnacle of success. To be the wife of a Gretneg must carry its own advantages, especially if her experience at the mall with Mr. Santo was any indication. What would it feel like to lose all of that? Megan had never cared about such things. Did she still not care? Or had the hierarchy of this underworld somehow become as much a part of her as that second heart that still shivered with every drumbeat?
They assembled in rows, still standing, as Greyson stood expectantly before the giant, gleaming urn. He waited until they were silent to begin speaking.
“Templeton Black ga chrino,” he said. “Alri neshden Templeton Black.”
“Alri neshden Templeton Black,” said the crowd around her.
“Templeton Black is dead, long live Templeton Black,” Roc whispered, but Megan shushed him. She didn’t need the translation. She wanted to let Greyson’s voice wash over her, feeling tears prick behind her eyes when it roughened, letting her lips curve up a little when it lightened. A few times a soft laugh worked its way through the crowd. Even in words she couldn’t understand she could see what an effective speaker he was. What a shame the nature of his business kept him out of the courtroom.
Or not such a shame. She had a feeling he would delight in representing the guilty.
He talked for a while, then relinquished the floor to several other Gretnegs. The chill air seeped through Megan’s skin and into her bones. She grew bored, as horrible as it was to admit. Her feet hurt. She felt particularly conspicuous in her inability to understand what was being said. She was the outsider, the lesbian at the Southern Baptist church service.
Finally things drew to a close. Greyson escorted Templeton’s widow down the center aisle, back to where the body lay. Megan’s eyes grew wet when Mrs. Black climbed on a little stool to give her husband a last kiss.
The woman’s sniffles were the only sound in the room for a moment. The torches dimmed.
Bluish flames exploded around the body, filling the shadowy dungeon with sun-bright light. Megan squinted as the image seared itself into her corneas.
The demons started singing, a low hum at first, then louder as the fire consumed both Templeton and the platform glowing with heat. Smoke drifted toward the ceiling, trickling at first, then turning into a thick black column. It arced over the body and drifted down, spreading through the room, coating Megan’s throat and nostrils with a peculiar acrid, sweet taste. Her second heart sped up. The singing grew louder.
Megan started to feel as if she were floating. Her feet remained firmly on the ground, but her head was full of air, full of that meaty, savory smell. She knew what it was, was a little horrified by the knowledge, but that didn’t stop her from having to swallow as her mouth filled with saliva. It wasn’t just the smell, it was the sensation behind it, of power floating in the air. It was the chorus of words older than any language Megan had ever known, calling to that part of her that was just as old.
Flames filled her vision. Templeton’s soul, or whatever it was he had, was rising now, escaping from the shell it had occupied, and she could rise too if she wanted to—
“Sorry, Megan.” Nick’s words didn’t register in the split second before his shields enclosed her, becoming understandable only when heat flooded through her body. His energy was powered with sex, hardening her nipples, making her back arch slightly. Beneath the sex she felt blood, and anger, something she could connect to and that would bring her back to the real world. Such as it was. His shields protected her, forced her to stay in her body.