Page 95
It would be easier, wouldn't it? Just leave the next breath where it is.
My eyes begin to close.
“…the dead! The dead have risen! Bring the fire!”
The prayers above dissolve into terrified shouting, followed by the thunder of footsteps as people flee through the churchyard.
“Fetch the fire!”
“He's come back! Lord preserve us, he's come back!”
“MORE FIRE! BRING MORE FIRE!”
Oh, I’m too tired for this.
I rest my cheek against the stone again, too exhausted to keep fighting for breath, when Gideon’s voice rises from somewhere beyond the crypt.
“No! You shall not go near her!” he bellows, his voice getting louder by the second. “Repent, unclean spirit! Flee this hallowed place, for no servant of Satan shall profane the house of God! The Lord commands you to depart!”
I wince as a tremendous crack echoes through the crypt, followed by the sound of stone breaking loose around the doorway. Mortar tumbles down the steps as the door strains against its hinges, until the timber finally splinters and it bursts inward, scattering broken wood across the floor.
A faint glow from the torches in the passage beyond spills through the opening, illuminating the dust drifting through the crypt as a familiar black figure ducks beneath the low stone archway.
Oh. Iscairn.
He stumbles through the doorway, catching himself on the stone with one bare hand while the other struggles to hold onto something enormous slung over his shoulder.
He tries to take another step, but his knees buckle, and a strangled sound escapes from behind his mask as he braces himself against the wall. The burden slips down his shoulder, and he manages to shove it away before it drags him to the floor, sending it crashing onto the flagstones near my feet.
It groans, and I blink blearily at it.
Oh. Well, that's alive, then.
A scraping sound draws my attention back to Iscairn, who’s somehow ended up on his hands and knees. His hat slips from his head as he struggles towards me, landing beside his arm and spilling a mass of long, black hair across his shoulders. It's damp with sweat, clinging to the sides of his mask and hanging over his face as he lowers his head, the pale tip of his beak dragging against the stone.
“Iscairn?” I whisper, trying to lift my head as he crawls closer. “What's happened to you?”
He doesn't answer, and before I can ask again, Gideon's voice comes thundering down the steps behind him.
“BACK, DEMON! BACK, I SAY! YOU HAVE NO PLACE UPON THIS SACRED GROUND!”
My brother appears in the doorway, stumbling over the broken timber as he hurries down into the crypt, his cassock catching on the splinters. Beside me, something groans miserably, but before I can turn towards it, Iscairn reaches me and braces one hand against the stone beside my face.
Thin wisps of smoke rise from his bare fingers, and when he tries to reach for me, his hand shakes so badly that he nearly collapses.
He's burning. He's in the church, and he's burning.
“I have brought you something,” he rasps, tipping his head towards whatever lies beside me.
“It’s Billy Mercer!” Gideon shouts from behind us. “The Devil has brought Billy back from the dead!”
What?
I squint at the heap of filthy clothing beside me, trying to make sense of the swollen face poking out from amongst it.
Oh. It is Billy Mercer. Or what remains of him, anyway. His face is so swollen I barely recognise him beneath the bruised, stretched skin, and the smell coming off him is dreadful, all stagnant water and rotting filth. His clothes are stiff with mud, his hands swollen and raw, and one leg is bent beneath him at an angle that would make even mine look respectable. His lips keep moving, producing a stream of senseless muttering as a little trail of spittle runs down his chin.
“Iscairn…” The word barely makes it past my teeth, a dry, broken rasp. “...fever’s lying. Not... real.” My chest hitches, rattling hollowly. I can’t lift my chin from the grit. “Broke... the swellings... supposed to get quiet now. Just... sleep.”
