He tied his horse in the dense copse above the grounds and crept down from the woods to the walls. In the icy darkness he thrashed through the dried reeds and found the disused door near the riverside. Disused in his day, perhaps, but here, the threshold had been dug away to make the way smooth and the hinges had been newly oiled.
Crispin listened, putting his ear to the door. When he heard nothing he pulled the door ring. Slowly he opened it and peered around its edge. Nothing but the gray passage, though a light shone ahead around the corner.
With the knife comfortably in his hand, Crispin made his way forward. Dusty barrels filled one arch and old beams lay stacked in another. Besides the mildew smell of the river, Crispin detected the slight scent of incense. A strange place for it, but he followed his nose and the light.
Shadows played on the columns and low vaults. Crispin slithered against a column and listened. The echoes played with him and though this place should have been familiar, he thought it had been too long since he had been here and things had changed—
“Don’t move, Guest.”
Hot blood swirled through his veins and he turned. Radulfus nodded the tip of his blade toward Crispin’s chest. He chuckled low. “I do not know why, but I had the strangest feeling you’d be here. Must be the devil whispering in my ear.”
“He’ll be doing more than that soon.” Crispin gripped his dagger until Radulfus glanced at it.
“Drop it,” he said. He poked Crispin with the sword tip. “I said drop it.”
Crispin did. It clanged on the floor and echoed the deed over and over. Crispin backed up, until he was against a column. “Does he have the boy?”
“How the hell did you know—” He shook his head and smiled. “You amaze me. I have often heard Giles speak of you. He told the most atrocious lies. Oh, I never believed him. I can tell a jealous man when I hear one. He always wanted to best you. I suppose, in a way, your degradation should have pleased him no end, but he’s the type of man to want to have done it for himself.”
“And so he bought my manor.”
“Yes. And can barely afford to run it. He’s a fool.”
“Then why do you condemn yourself with him and his doings? Why not flee?”
He smiled. It was the smile of a snake with the cunning of a scorpion. He ran his tongue over his lips. Was it forked or was it just the light? “I . . . enjoy what he does. We share in it. All of it. That boy in there,” he said, nodding with his head to the faint glow too far away from Crispin’s reach. “We shall both partake of him before he is slain. Or perhaps . . . even after.”
Crispin grimaced but Radulfus leered. “He has not told you all, has he? It matters little now since you will be dead.” He gave a great sigh of satisfaction. “Have you ever given much thought to your religion, Guest?”
“Is this your feeble way of telling me to pray my last?”
“No, you misunderstand me. We are baptized, catechized, eat communion bread, do penance, repeat. But where does it lead? Tell me, Guest. How often are your prayers answered?”
Crispin tried to keep his mind on point. It was useless to ponder the man’s words, for in truth, Crispin prayed very little. But this was definitely not the time to consider that!
“I thought not,” the man continued. “But Giles and I have found a better way. A better master. One who does not merely answer prayers on a whim but who grants our deepest desires.”
“More blasphemy? Your souls are already in peril—”
“But our souls are our bargaining chit.” His eyes gleamed in the dimness. Crispin studied him now, wondering how these two had found each other. “I am talking about the other Lord.”
Crispin raised a brow. “The . . . other Lord?”
“The Prince of Darkness. The Devil himself. We have found a way to summon him to our bidding. And in such a way as to indulge our own . . . habits . . . as well.”
“What are you saying? That . . . that the killing of these boys is some sort of unholy mass?” The scent of incense wafted toward him again. It smelled bitter to him now.
“That is precisely it! That wretched Cornelius first proposed it. It was he who had the knowledge of Hebrew, he who first suggested the idea from scrolls he had read. I do not believe his mastery of the language was all he said it was, but that is no matter. He gave us what we needed. But the poor fool had no stomach for the rest of it. He was weak, wanted nought to do with it. His greed kept him close.” A blaze of light from behind painted the vaults with temporary gold. Radulfus smiled. “Giles is preparing. That boy should be incapacitated by now. Unable to move but aware. Tonight, Giles will say the words, the final stroke that will open the Gates of Hell. Riches, power. All of it will be ours.”
Crispin was beyond horrified. “You are both mad.”
Radulfus blinked and slowly nodded. “That is, indeed, a possibility. But it doesn’t matter. Oh the rush of it! With each killing we grow stronger, closer to our Lord!”
Struck speechless with revulsion, Crispin covertly looked about, trying to find a way of escape. But his back was to the room where Giles was and Radulfus stood before him with a sword.
Crispin couldn’t help but look back toward the light as it flared again. “But . . . an innocent life, my lord,” he said, stalling. “These crimes. You cannot expect to escape justice forever.”
“Don’t I? Giles has made quite a study of this. With the help of that dog Cornelius. He needed my help. And my money. But I’ve gotten my money’s worth. I don’t believe I have ever enjoyed myself with a woman as much as I have enjoyed those dear, struggling boys. He’s been doing this for years, you know. Dropping the bodies into a dried-up well on his old estates. He’s been getting a bit sloppy of late, letting those boys turn up so easily along the Thames. But it makes no matter now.”
Crispin gritted his teeth. “It must come to an end.”
“My dear Master Guest, who’s to stop us? You?” And he poked him again with the sword blade to emphasize it.
A hand as wide as a ham lanced out of the darkness. Crispin gasped as it suddenly closed over Radulfus’s face from behind and yanked him back into the gloom, his sword skittering across the stone floor without him.
Crispin jolted back, his heart thundering. Muffled squeals and shuffling of feet went on just a few feet from him in the blackness.
Then silence.
Never taking his eyes from the place Radulfus disappeared, Crispin leaned down and took up his dagger in his trembling hand. “My lord?”
A shuffle. Out of the gloom a large figure, larger than Radulfus, stood at the edge between light and shadow. Its small head nearly touched the low vaulted ceiling.
“Pro-tect,” said the gravelly voice.
“God’s blood,” he whispered, breathless.
“Pro-tect.”
“Yes,” he said, voice steadying. “Protect. Are you here to protect the boy?”
“Protect boy,” it said, before it swung an arm out, slamming Crispin in the head. He whirled and collided with a column. He slid down in a haze of blood and pain. A dark shape lumbered past him, but he heard no steps.
Dizzy, Crispin raised his eyes, searching for the hulking figure but saw nothing move out of the darkness. Where had it gone? Had it been a figment of his imagination?
From behind, the light whooshed again and Golem or no, Crispin knew only that he had to reach that light, had to save Jack, and despite the sweet darkness straining to pull him under, he heaved himself up and staggered toward it.
“Radulfus? Is that you?” came the voice from the light. “Come quickly! We are almost ready!”
Crispin pushed himself from column to column. Everything around him was blurry from the pounding ache in his head. Blood trickled into one of his eyes. But the thought that his knife was still miraculously in his hand spurred him on and he was at a doorway. Carefully, he slid inside and leaned against the arch. Braziers burned brightly against a far wall where strange markings were etched on the stone, much like he had seen on Jacob’s parchments. At the other wall were tables engorged with food and drink, while pillows and furs lay strewn about on the floor, fit for a Saracen. Among the many pillows lay a pale, ginger-haired figure, devoid of shirt, his stocking-covered legs splayed lazily, his head lolling drowsily to the side.