Indigo(92)
It was a terrifying thought to carry into battle.
She cut looks around and saw the faces of the four women who were going to war with her.
Women. There was as much illusion as truth in that, too.
Selene, Megaira, and Xanthe were spaced out and fanned back, their faces set and grim, eyes searching the woods, weapons in their scarred hands. Sisters of Righteous Slaughter. Betrayed servants of a cunning murder god. And walking apart from them was the construct that wore Shelby’s face, a thing of shadows that embodied another murder god. Slaughter nuns and a murder golem.
“I’m insane and the world is insane and none of this is real,” murmured Nora. But she did not say it loud enough for anyone to hear.
Megaira bent low and ran ahead, taking point as they neared the edge of the forest. She ran for a few hundred yards and then stopped, dropping to one knee and holding a hand up. Everyone froze, and the forest itself held its breath, then Megaira waved them forward and patted the air to indicate that they should crouch beside her.
As Nora reached her, it was clear why the short nun had stopped. The grove ended at the edge of a small service lane that snaked its way south beneath the arthritic arms of ancient oaks. Across the road was a dusty gray stone wall whose sides had been cracked by tenacious creeper vines. Beyond the wall was a haphazard field of gravestones that were so badly weathered that the names were smeared to rumors. Many of the stones had been knocked over or stood broken, while some of the bigger monuments leaned down into the soft, wormy earth under the pull of their own weight. A threadbare crow stood on one headstone, its black eyes filled with madness. It opened its mouth and cawed softly.
Megaira pointed to the left side of an elm tree. At first Nora saw nothing, then a piece of shadow seemed to detach itself from the greater darkness: a man dressed in gray robes.
“Phonoi,” whispered Selene, who crouched beside Nora. “From one of the European clans.”
“He’s one of the Spanish acolytes,” supplied Megaira. “El Clan de Sangre. Very tough.”
Xanthe crept up and studied the man. “That’s one of the Garcia brothers from Madrid. They killed our sister Kaliope. Skinned her alive.”
“God,” said Nora, “why? Was it a blood sacrifice?”
“No,” said Xanthe, her face twisted into a mask of mingled hatred and disgust. “They just enjoy it.”
“We killed one of the brothers,” said Megaira. “Luis. He was the youngest, though. I think this is Miguel. There are two others, Esteban and Diego. They have killed many people for the joy of it. They’re extreme even for the Children of Phonos.”
“Fuck me,” murmured Nora, wondering how she had become the center of this insane war between people who worshipped homicide. Wars within wars within wars.
Selene nodded past Miguel, where a line of gray mausoleums stood in a long row, their granite sides choked with ivy. “The ritual is going to be in one of those.”
“Which one?” asked Nora.
“I don’t know. We’ll have to search them.”
Xanthe touched Nora’s arm. “We’ll have to be quiet about it. If they hear us coming, this will all fall apart.”
Behind them the murder golem snorted. Nora shot it a look. “Did you have a suggestion?… No? Then shut the fuck up.”
Damastes smiled at her through Shelby’s features.
“If there is one Garcia brother around,” cautioned Megaira, “the others will be close. They hunt together like wolves.”
“Like jackals,” sneered Xanthe.
“Whatever,” said Nora. “Can you take him out without giving us away?”
Xanthe and Megaira both looked uncertain, and that scared the hell out of Nora.
She glanced at Selene, who nodded. “The Garcia brothers are strange. I don’t know how they managed it, but they are faster and stronger than ordinary humans. A lot of people have tried to kill them, and from what I’ve heard, they have the walls of the den in their hacienda in Madrid lined with the mounted heads of everyone who’s gone up against them. I even heard that they mounted their younger brother’s head, too.”
“Jesus Christ.” Nora peered through the gloom to study the killer. Miguel Garcia had a face that was so hard and muscular it looked like a leather bag filled with walnuts. Uncompromising dark eyes and a cruel thin mouth. His strong hands rested on the handles of a pair of matched bayonets slung from a thick belt. The distance between them was about twenty yards, and it was mostly open ground. Dry old leaves and bracken were everywhere, which would make a silent approach virtually impossible. And now that Miguel had stepped away from the tree, he stood in a clear patch with no convenient shadows nearby for Indigo to step out of.
“I’m open to suggestions,” she said, but before the slaughter nuns could reply, another snort of disgust came from behind her.
“Amateurs,” complained Damastes, with Shelby’s mouth. “The world will grow old and turn to dust before you cows make up your minds.”
With that the Heykeli bent to snatch up a rock about half the size of a baseball, rose abruptly from the cover of the wall, cocked its arm back, and hurled the stone with incredible speed and force. It flew as straight and true as a cannonball, whipping across the intervening distance faster than Nora’s eyes could follow. Even so, Miguel Garcia must have heard or sensed something because he turned quickly, the blades beginning to slither out of their sheaths.