“No—we’ll still need someone to take the part Sally would have played,” Mary said. “One person for each type of human, each type of strength. I could do it.”
“You couldn’t,” said Trumbull. “You need to be able to focus on the ritual, and on whether our design is doing what it’s supposed to.” I saw Jesse swallow and glance at Audrey—could see him trying to make himself say something before Trumbull continued, “Besides, it would be best to use someone already bound to her.”
It was no surprise, then, when Charlie pulled himself up. “I’ll do it.” Dawson didn’t argue, nor ought she have.
Caleb and Neko walked beside me as we made our way the few blocks to the temple, his arm around my shoulder and hers squeezing my hand. I squeezed back and leaned against him, though I wanted to urge them elsewhere. It was some sort of paradox, to yearn for their presence but also wish them not to see. Grandfather concerned me less, though I knew it would hurt him as well to see me in pain. Perhaps I did think it some sort of expiation.
“You don’t have to watch,” I told Neko, reluctant even as I said it.
“Is this something you’re going to have nightmares about?” she asked.
“Probably.”
“If you’re going to wake me up in the middle of the night about it, then I should be here now.”
CHAPTER 28
Chulzh’th carried Sally again; Jesse walked beside her. As we left the beach, the line of starlight slid shut. The wind picked up, and I lifted my face to the snow. The storm might have lost its momentum, but it hadn’t forgotten itself.
The temple was only two blocks from the dunes. I hated to see it silent and empty, hated more to cross the threshold, where the wooden door hung off its hinges, and smell dust and mildew in place of incense. Audrey’s flashlight found cobwebs, layers of dirt, detritus blown in and pews and lamps scattered and broken. Figures of gods had been toppled, or looted from now-empty pedestals.
Ngalthr found and lit an old-fashioned torch, and led us down narrow stairs into the catacombs, trailing pungent smoke. As a child I’d entered rarely, but the subterranean warren had been a place of adventure. You could get in trouble for exploring the catacombs, but turning a corner might unveil anything from an ill-made statue of Nyarlathotep to a collection of century-old brooms. As the archpriest led us through the winding maze, I realized that even on those sojourns I’d seen little of their extent.
“These chambers were intended to hide all Innsmouth and much of Y’ha-nthlei, if needed,” said Grandfather. “But they did little good when danger actually came.”
“The soldiers attacked the temple first,” said Caleb. “No one could have fled there.”
We stopped at a line of stone platforms, carved with stylized figures of elders and long, sinuous fish. Chulzh’th placed Sally’s body on one. To the side, an archway opened onto a larger room. Ngalthr entered, lit candles still in their sconces, and set the torch in a holder.
The room was made all of black stone, traced with veins of gold. Diagrams and symbols and passages of Enochian etched the walls and floor. In the center stood an altar of the same material. I approached, cautiously, and saw the shallow indentations in the top, carved to hold a human body. Tatters of a cushion rotted at the head, and scraps of leather bonds clung to the iron rings that must have anchored them.
No bonds remained whole to buttress my will. I would simply have to keep still.
Ngalthr felt at the base of the altar and pulled loose a block of stone. When he stood, he held a knife. He offered it to me, and I examined it. The handle was gold, worked in stylized figures of gods and waves. The blade was plain and functional steel, folded so that tiny rivulets glinted across the surface. It was an old technique, one that I had seen only in the work of elders and in a sword belonging to an old man who lived near the Kotos. He’d brought it with him from Japan, and secreted it somewhere prior to the war.
Interesting how such distant cultures had discovered the same way of strengthening metal. And easier to consider the coincidence than to think about what that metal was for.
Trumbull examined the room’s carvings with clinical eyes, discussed necessary additions and alterations with Mary, and decided that the room itself need not be modified. They called me over, along with Charlie and Audrey. Mary pulled pen and ink and a small brush from her bag; after further discussion Trumbull used the brush to paint our faces and arms. I took a deep breath and undressed first. Ngalthr would need me to do that anyway, soon enough, and I didn’t wish to increase our risk by smudging Trumbull’s work. Spector at least would find this uninteresting, I hoped, though he looked away delicately. I looked at Jesse and did not blush or smirk. He met my gaze briefly, then ducked his head.
“Do we, ah, need to…?” asked Charlie. He’d removed his jacket and pushed up his sleeves to make a larger canvas, and was already shivering. I was pleased to find that while I could still feel the crypt’s chill, it was not so deep or distressing as it had been. Then I felt the shame of my comfort.
“Shouldn’t be necessary,” said Trumbull, tracing a long equation down his arm. Focused on her work, her face held a little of the detached quality I’d grown accustomed to. “Though Miss Harris thinks some of the physical effects may carry through the link, so if you’re wearing anything you especially don’t want to bleed on, you might remove it.”
We began.
There is courage, different from that which armors warriors, in lying down before a knife. There is, I think, yet another sort in wielding the knife. Archpriest Ngalthr met my eyes as I lay back on the altar. I was afraid he might apologize, but he didn’t. The stone curved subtly against my bare skin: I found where I was meant to lie easily. The cool solidity sank into me, until I felt no more able to move than the altar itself. My heart beat fast; my breaths came deep and long. Outlined by air and stone, I felt keenly aware of all my body’s surfaces.
Firelight echoed in sparks from the carven walls, from the skin and scales and clothing of those who stood around me. Ngalthr and Mary began chanting: Ngalthr the familiar words of the Inner Sea, Mary something stranger, half in English and half in the jargon she shared with Trumbull. My awareness of the room and my own skin grew sharper—but overlaid on them came Charlie’s skin and Audrey’s, the blood that coursed within each of us, and the energies that bound that blood together. Fainter impressions followed of Caleb and Dawson, and I knew with regret that we would not be able to fully spare them.