Scrivener’s Tale. Fiona McIntosh
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didn’t have this special private place in the core of their being to draw upon, to rely upon. It couldn’t be taught. Couldn’t be bought. Couldn’t be acquired. It simply had to be discovered within. He believed everyone possessed this special ‘force’ and he had encouraged his patients to find it, hunt it down. Many had succeeded, with his help.
He was sure his elders didn’t think he possessed any deep strength; they’d viewed him as a coward for running away from confronting the reality of his life, offering wisdom that, in his grief, he couldn’t stomach hearing.
The accident was a random event. It’s not your fault. Except it was.
You can’t be in control all the time. You can. He shouldn’t have looked away from the road.
You aren’t the enemy. He felt like the enemy.
You can’t save everyone. You’re a psychologist. Not a god.
Or his personal favourite. You have to move on.
He knew they meant well; knew these soothing words worked for some people, but to him they were sickening placations.
And so now as he travelled toward his haven, wondering whether he was dead or alive, he held back the one last part of him that he exercised total control over and no-one else could touch … not even Angelina, with her erotic, irresistible manner. He closed himself around the kernel of his most private self — his soul, as he liked to think of it. He rolled it up tightly, every bit of himself that was truly him — character traits, personality, ideas, memories — and wrapped them in a separate sphere that was no longer connected to his body but hovering invisible within it, and he clung to this sphere … this new embodiment of himself. It was his only link with the reality he knew. The cathedral was a dream. He couldn’t be convinced otherwise but, oh, how he wanted it to be real … to live it, touch it, smell its scented candles, taste on the back of his palate the fragrance of herbs crushed underfoot.
The scape before him was shaping into brilliant colour; he could hear muffled sounds beginning to sharpen, a faint aroma begin to reach him. This had not happened before. The cathedral began to soar before him in all its imposing, soft grey beauty, every aspect of it coming into sharper focus.
He hadn’t been aware of himself as flesh since Angelina kissed him but now he was aware of her body more than his own. And she was pulling away from him in a slow, gentle slump. Her once beautiful dark, smoky greyish eyes gave him a listless gaze in return and he could see the life leaching from them. Her grip around his waist was loosening but all the while the wetness that he recalled feeling, was increasing. It was not his desire … it wasn’t even hers.
It was blood.
He could see its red brightness, gleaming and glistening. He’d been stabbed! Angelina’s blade. She’d stabbed him and his hands were covered in his life’s blood. As he thought this, he became acutely aware of Angelina’s naked body becoming entirely limp as it fell away from him. There was a soft smile playing about her generous lips that had been kissing him so deeply just moments earlier.
And he realised with deeper shock that it was Angelina who was dead. And the knife was in her belly … it was her bright blood, her life taken.
He had killed her, just as she’d asked.
He looked around, desperate for help, the name of Reynard springing to his lips, but he was no longer in his apartment and he was no longer near his cathedral. He was nowhere at all that he recognised.
Reynard burst through the door of Gabe’s apartment with an anxious-looking concierge following hot on his heels and making loud protests. The small man fell instantly silent when they saw what was lying on the bed.
The ghastly scene and the iron smell of freshly spilled blood combined to make the concierge gag and he rushed for Gabe’s kitchen sink, retching helplessly before raising his head, his complexion ashen and expression filled with horror.
‘This is monstrous,’ he wailed. ‘I’m an old man, I shouldn’t have to —’
‘Go downstairs and call the police now!’ Reynard ordered him.
The man obeyed blindly, staggering out of the apartment.
Reynard approached the body of Angelina, her belly ripped open like a macabre smile. Blue-grey ropy intestines spilled in a glistening, gelatinous mess from the gash of the fleshy grin. Her eyes were open, distant, as though looking a long way past the horizon, but they were seeing nothing. He knew that. This was simply the corpse that some poor bastard would have to clean up and he could imagine all the forensics and pathology tests that would now follow. Few questions would be answered. And he would be here for none of it.
Next to her lay the blood-spattered weapon that had inflicted the damage. He nodded, turned away and walked to the French windows. As he moved, his attention was caught and held by the slender box with its navy satin that he’d given Gabe on his birthday. It was open and empty. The quill was removed; he cast a searing gaze around the apartment, but it was nowhere to be seen. Reynard sighed with a relief that felt more like deep sorrow and returned to what he’d set out to do. He pulled the two windows toward him, opening them, and stepped out onto the balcony.
‘It is done,’ he said to the now silent waiting raven.
It watched him, head cocked to one side as Reynard clambered with difficulty up onto the balcony railings and teetered. Reynard gave a last look at the bird that had been his co-conspirator and nodded with a sad smile. ‘Our part is over. I have achieved what I must. I cannot be taken alive by the police. You know what to do.’
The bird leapt at its companion and shoved at his head hard with its feet. It didn’t take any more than that to send Monsieur Reynard toppling from the penthouse floor of the apartment building, muttering a strange incantation as he fell to his death.
The raven blinked at the lifeless shape crumpled below, sad for Reynard, who had been brave to the last, before it leapt into the air, flapping its strong wings and lifting itself high above Gabe’s apartment to fly with purpose toward Notre Dame Cathedral.
It ascended higher still above the sweeping gothic architecture until it was a dark speck in an overcast sky. Only the keenest of sights would have seen the raven bank slightly and pause for a heartbeat before it began a fast descent, shaping itself into an arrow as though shot from a master bowman. Its target was clear, its aim was perfect. Moments later the bird impaled itself soundlessly on the sharp piece of wood it had previously marked out for this very task.
The raven’s last thought, cast toward another world, in the hope that his king would hear him, was a plea to remember the being that was Ravan as a brave member of his flock. And as the bird closed its eyes, its immortal spirit transcended the broken, pierced body of the host and fled.
EIGHT
As Reynard was banging in an apartment door in Paris, Fynch and Cassien had already been travelling north in Morgravia for six hours at a steady clip. Fynch had been determined not to wear out the animals with hard riding, and as much as Cassien urged him to push the beasts to a gallop, Fynch refused.
‘If we cover eighteen miles today, it will be a good journey and our mounts will have time to rest, to eat and be fresh for tomorrow.’
‘Where will we reach by this evening?’
‘By sundown we should crest Vincen’s Saddle.’ At Cassien’s frown Fynch gestured with his hands toward the rise ahead. ‘The path leads us up this hill and then another soon after, and from afar the landscape looks like a horse’s saddle.’
‘From a dragon’s back one could be fanciful about any landscape,’ Cassien suggested in a wry tone.
Fynch smiled and it was full of affection. ‘Indeed.’ But that was all. Cassien decided he would not pry further.
‘And Vincen?’ he said instead.
‘No idea.’ They